mizChartreuse! redefining success

As I drove through the west side ghettos and into the bourgie Oak Park neighborhoods, I was becoming anxious–but realized I’d probably only be about five minutes late, which still sucks. Anyone who knows me knows I am not the most punctual individual, but I haven’t been late to any of my morning classes so far.

Driving up to the campus, there was ONE open parking spot on the street for me, right in front of the building I had to be in. It was 9:56 when I parallel parked, and 9:58 when I walked into Lewis Hall. Right by the front door was a stack of Red Eye papers, and I KNEW there would be an article I could use for class in it. I ran up the three flights of stairs and was in class at 10:00 on the dot.

How that was possible is beyond me, considering I departed late and had to get gas. But I love when things work out so nicely.

The rest of the evening was great too. I got home and Angelique decided to join me on the acoustic show excursion–Treaty of Paris was playing their entire new record, Sweet Dreams, Sucker, at Rolling Stone, unplugged. We didn’t leave her house on the south side until about 6:40, and I was worried we’d miss them (because we ALWAYS used to miss shows when we were younger), but as we walked in, the band was just taking the stage. Perfecto!

It was so good to be at an acoustic show with her, drinking spiked lemonade out of a water bottle, because that’s what we used to do all the time and it was just fitting.

Hearing the gorgeous acoustic guitars brought back memories of when we used to play guitar all day and night. We tried to figure out what kind Danny was playing because it sounded so pretty, and it looked like it said Gallagher on the headstock but we couldn’t tell. Anyway, the show was fun, Ange reunited with Chad and Scott, and Estelle’s afterward with Lorene Drive and everyone else was a blast. Gotta love $2 Blue Moons!

‘Twas a good day and a good night, although I thought it was off to a bad start.

A wise old man once told me, “Things always work out for the best, even if it seems far from it now.”

We made the most pimp-ass dinner tonight. This also was very easy, so I will share this made-up recipe as well. Young Ben was my chef partner in crime.

De-shell the shrimp. Don’t forget to pull out the mud veins! Unless you want to eat shrimp poop. This is probably the most time-consuming part, but fresh shrimp tastes better. While de-mud-veining, boil enough water for however much spaghetti (or pasta of your choice) you can eat.

In a separate saucepan, saute shrimp in the other tablespoon of butter (or olive oil) until they turn that delectable white/pink color. You can probably add the spaghetti to the boiling water now.

Ignore the vodka, bloody mary mix, and Captain Morgan’s bottles. We’re not alcoholics, I swear. Although Ben and I were drinking wine while cooking.

Use a medium pot to heat up the pimp sauce; toss in the vegetable mix and cooked shrimp. Stir until simmering. Flick off the camera while your fellow cook tries to document the process.

Shit our stovetop is disgusting. Those boys need to scrub it!

Drain the spaghetti, put in serving dish, and elegantly throw the pimp sauce on top. Yes, you can elegantly throw things; I did!

Sprinkle with oregano.

Voila.

This is a very easy dish to make, although Ben DID lose his index finger in the making of this dinner.

Flavor country!

For some, work is an obligation for basic survival: an after-school responsibility at a restaurant or a retail shop where they punch in at a timeclock, wear a name badge and some sort of uniform, receive hourly pay and/or tips, and use their earnings to pay for rent, bills, and food.

For others, work is a more than a job, it’s a career. It could be for a big corporate company, or it could be self-employment in one’s small business. It could be entertaining crowds or writing screenplays, or it could be managing others at a restaurant or retail store.

Yet for others, work is simply a part-time chore, endured only for money to buy booze on the weekends and supplement parental support. Bitches.

Some people work because it’s their passion. Others work to take care of basic necessities. To survive and thrive in this capitalist economy that is the United States, one must have some sort of income, and that generally comes from working. The bottom line is: work = m.. survival.

Many people start off working menial jobs for minimum wage when in their mid to late teen years. Sometimes it’s by choice, other times it’s by pressure from the parental units.

My first job was at 15 at a place called Lakeshore Learning Store, a teacher supply shop that was across the street from where I lived in Palatine. I didn’t choose to work there because I was interested in the behind-the-scenes of classroom decoration, nor was I enticed by the Kidz Bop and Sugar Beats CDs that were in constant rotation. I started working because I was tired of begging my parents for money—and I could walk there!

After that three-month stint, my other money-making endeavors included a cashier gig at Jewel, the customer service desk hottie girl at Sam Ash Music, and serving and bartending in countless restaurants, bars, and sports stadiums, in addition to modeling.

Several people my age have similar work histories on their resumes as well. Working crap jobs is a part of life. They pay the bills when you move away from home and into the mean world of city stickers, ORD citations, car insurance, and [insert utility here] bills.

I’m not gonna lie: I am beyond ready to stop making $4.20 per hour + tips and move on to my career path of choice, and I’m sure many students would agree. But until I achieve that wonderful piece of paper that says, “Charlotte has shelled out thousands of dollars, gotten into tons of debt, written countless papers, and spent 4+ years learning how to report and write well” (in so many words), dealing with drunken imbeciles, poor tippers, and a neurotic writer will have to do.

I envy people that have careers, or what I would call “cool jobs.” I do currently have a pretty interesting job working with an author (in addition to my three other sources of random income), which is somewhat a good step in the direction of my desired career (although my roommate Ben said, “No. NO! It’s NOT the right direction!” He obviously knows nothing). At least she pays pretty well!

I get to write, edit, research, accompany her to Whole Foods and the car wash, and listen to her family drama. In addition, her fear of flying is a lucrative road trip/vacation opportunity for me, as I drive across the country with her and she pays for my plane ticket back home.

From this interesting woman, I have learned that I can definitely write and publish books in the future, and that writers are neurotic…probably myself included.

Sometimes work is what one does to make ends meet, other times work entails getting paid to do what one loves. It could be a combination of both, or somewhere in the middle.

I wanna be like Piebald when I grow up. Travis, the singer, is a teacher, but still has a pretty sweet gig.

I mean, had. Piebald is no more. =(