Giving Thanks

Well, folks, here comes Thanksgiving. I know a lot of people who were excited about this holiday, including myself circa 2008. But, without going into too much detail, I'm a little nervous for today's festivities, not to mention less than enthused about driving to New Jersey and back in order to attend two separate feasts (I thought you weren't supposed to have to do that until you got married and fought over which family you were having Thanksgiving with. What gives?) However, in order to pull myself out of a gloomy funk that has been looming for weeks, I am going to make a list. Consider this list equivalent to the playlist I'll probably make for the drive to Jerz - it has pump-you-up capabilities. Sometimes, things like this day are self-fulfilling prophecies, and I believe that if I list all of the things I'm thankful for, maybe I'll be able to look past whatever today is going to bring (or kill inside of me) and think about the bigger picture, about all of the things I am lucky to have.

So here it is, Cupcake [and Turkey] Lovers (except Woo Me With Turkey sounds like something you'd find on Jerry Springer... "My Secret Sex Fantasy is to Eat a Whole Turkey Off a Woman." Nevermind.)

My THANKSGIVING THANKFUL list (in no particular order):

I am thankful for...

1) YOU. This blog is over a year old now (hooray!) and I sort of feel like all of you, my readers, have been right there with me through basically everything I've written about. I am so grateful for every person who comes up to me and says "I read your blog! Is that weird?" or "I read your blog! I like it!" I think that WMWC has certainly evolved in a year, as have I, but I thank you for sticking with it, even if it's just what you do late at night when you're trying not to do productive work. Have a wonderful thanksgiving, stuff your faces!

2) Singing. That's a general one, and a big one, but I think a lot of people I know who are singers go through periods of general disillusionment with the voice. It's such a heavily mental activity, and can be a frustrating one, until you remember that there was a time when you wanted to learn how to sing simply because you liked doing it. And I think I'm definitely in a place right now where I just like doing it... I just love to sing. I don't really know what I'd do if I couldn't. Yesterday, for an experiment in physics class (ew), my professor asked for a volunteer who had a good singing voice. Of course, I didn't volunteer, because I hate physics. BUT, it dawned on me that most of the people in the class probably weren't great singers, or at least confident singers, and it reminded me that singing is what makes me special (besides dashing good looks of course. Kidding!) and I will always have that, no matter where it takes me.

3) Friends who are friends no matter how long it's been. This is a specific one, mostly because I didn't want to be like all the third graders who were also making chicken scratch "I am thankful for..." lists and be like "My Friends" with a backwards E. Although this is something I've been thinking about recently. I have a few friends, many of them from childhood, who I think will always be my friends, regardless of how much time has passed. We have an ease and a rhythm we can slip back into, and not in a bad way so that we feel like we have to be our old high school selves. The friends I have who are like this probably know who they are, but I am grateful for the ability to go months without talking, just to meet up at a bar and remember exactly why we were friends in the first place within the first thirty seconds of chatter.

4) Change. I used to hate change. I think I still do. But you can't stop from changing, especially at this age. Just when I think I've solidified who I am, I change. I look different, or I sound different, or I think in a different way. Change is a necessary evil, an obstacle, something you have to embrace in order to move forward. I don't want to be stagnant - these are the years to let yourself be swept up and taken along for the ride. I am grateful for all of the change that has been forced upon me, as well as the change I have personally forced upon myself. Here's to more.

5) My Family. This is a surprisingly difficult one to write today, on a day that's all about family. Things haven't been particularly easy for my family this year, or in terms of my own role within it. But I love them all, no matter what, because that's what families do. I love my mom, who's downstairs brining the turkey and has already made all of her Thanksgiving desserts, because that's what she does. I love my brother, even though most of what I see from him is grumpy doorslams, because I know that he means well and he's going to experience a lot of exciting things in the next few years, things I just experienced. I love my dad and my stepmom because they've been so supportive of me and genuinely nice, and because they gave me my little brothers, who scream my name and wrap my legs in a big hug every time I come over. I love my grandparents, I love how much both sets of them care about me and shlep themselves out to the city to watch me perform, and I am so grateful they're all healthy and happy. Family definitely isn't perfect, but the beauty of a family is that even when you're slightly annoyed with half of them, you can still write a touching blog post about how much you love them.

6) My Boyfriend. I know, weird, I said "My." That just seems blasphemous at this point. But I am thankful for THE Boyfriend, who was in last year's Thanksgiving post wearing converse and drinking wine with my family. This year, he'll be at his own house for dinner, not too far from me (though he'll have some turkey-shaped cookies to remember me by, at least as long as they haven't been eaten.) The one year anniversary of this blog makes me think about how much has happened since last Thanksgiving, especially concerning him, but it's all water under the bridge now. I don't exactly know what to thank him for, since he certainly has done a lot for me, but he makes me so happy, I simply can't NOT thank him. I am thankful for the days when I just lay around while he plays guitar, for when we watch Dexter together and he lets me grab his knee and make comments like "I HATE Lieutenant LaGuerta! She sets women back by decades!" while getting endlessly nervous that Dexter will finally be caught. He is both a 6-year-old boy and a 22-year-old man at the same time, serious when he needs to be and hysterically silly when he wants to be. He's kind of my best friend. But probably not anymore, because he doesn't like when I say nice things about him....

7) The Written Word. This is a weird thing to end this list with, especially because I'm not much of a therapeutic writer and I don't journal or anything. But I love words, I love to write, and I love the fact that I was feeling so down and worried about today until I told myself I should write about what this holiday is really about (besides pilgrims and stuff). Thanks words, for allowing me to express myself in intricate, subtle ways, and for playing a big part in the game Scrabble, because I love that game.

Speaking of Scrabble, I'm apparently supposed to go move the Scrabble set in the living room and help my mom clean the house for Thanksgiving Feast Number Two. Little does she know, all this time I've been sitting in my room writing nice things about her... how sneaky. Cupcake Lovers, I hope you all have beautiful Thanksgivings, that you eat a lot but not too much to make you sick, and that your return to the daily grind next week isn't too jarring or disappointing. Peace, love, and turkey.

The Let-Down Generation

Note: I actually wrote this about a week ago, so the references to the Yankees game are obviously antiquated. But still, it deals with issues that aren't going to go away. Issues that you, WMWC readers, might also be working through.

Just when I thought I couldn't possibly grow up any more, I have. Without going into too many details, all three of my parents (that includes the regular kind and the step kind) are now out of work, the victims of layoffs and cutbacks and other frightening words that invoke strong feelings of being powerless at the chopping block. The Economy, which always seemed like a mythical beast I couldn't quite comprehend -- something out of a Madeleine L'Engle book, perhaps -- is now all too real, too tangible for my tastes.

Empty pockets. What now?

I got home from work last night smelling of buttercream, with bruise-like marks on my arm that were nothing more than smudges of blue frosting, and I collapsed on the couch to watch Game 6 of the Yankees-Phillies World Series. The Yankees were already up (by how many runs I can't remember now) and I stared at the screen in a shock-induced temporary coma as I grappled with the idea that now it was official. The layoffs at Time Inc. I had read about on New York Magazine's blog were not just another news story about the impending death of all print media. I had pictured faceless suits being handed pink slips. In fact, it was my dad. And he probably wasn't wearing a suit, though I'm sure he was more than likely wearing a silly hat.

Onscreen, Andy Pettitte left the game in a torrent of flashbulbs, tipping his cap to the crowds. Andy, with his grecian features and menacing stare, whom I have watched exhibit a killer pickoff move since I was a child. Later, Damaso Marte struck out Chase Utley in a grand display of dominance and soul-crushing (the good kind). And I just watched the spectacle, not even moving to take off my hat or my shoes, transfixed by the display on the screen and the pulsing heartbeat of the new stadium. If I didn't have anything in that moment, I did have this game and these players and the hope that they might win it for New York and, more importantly it seemed, for me.

I have always said that I want exactly two things out of life: I want to do what I love, and I want to be with people I love. I want love in my life -- the kind that is so powerful it makes you wonder what you would do without the object of your affection, how you would go on living and breathing. And by that, I don't just mean reliance on another person. I mean a passion, something you have found that you can't seem to replicate anywhere else in the world.

I don't need anything else if I can have those two things.

Sadly, they're being threatened. I'm about to graduate in May, which means I'm about to have (or, perhaps, am having) the usual "What Do I Do Now?" quarter-life crisis that every other person my age has. But I'm about to have that crisis amidst the worst job market the country has seen in my lifetime (I may be wrong... I'm not a history major, so don't quote me). I don't have any money saved and my lease on my apartment will be up May 1st. So, essentially, in April of 2009 I need to figure out where I want to go and what I want to do, knowing full well that my family probably can't provide a safety net or monetarily keep me afloat until I land on my feet. This is the first time in my entire life -- and this probably goes for the rest of my generation -- that I DON'T feel generally safe.

I grew up in the suburbs, in Connecticut, where affluence was measured in "play rooms" and swimming pools and yards and labradors. But what we all mostly had in common, regardless of whether we were the wealthiest or the less-wealthy, was a feeling of security and reassurance. We hadn't seen anything really bad. We were going to go to high school, to college, and then things would work out. "You can be anything you want to be," they told me. And I never doubted for a second.

Well, world, I know what I want to be. I know what I want to do and exactly how I want to earn my money. And the only thing that makes me want to give up that dream is the idea that, through the ultimate sacrifice (no, not death...) I might find some sort of economic stability. I could possibly AFFORD an apartment, a haircut, a gym membership, and to shop at Whole Foods if only I abandoned my silly goals and accepted a life outside of this teeming, racing, beautiful city. If I moved back to the suburbs, if I based my life on a 9-5 job. Did people feel entitled to their crazy dreams during the Great Depression? No, they felt lucky if they could feed their family and avoid the breadlines.

Has it gotten to the point where I should no longer feel entitled to my crazy dreams?

It certainly seems that way. It's hard to sleep with the churning knot of fear in my stomach of what happens next? I knew I chose a difficult path when I chose it, but I couldn't have predicted just how much more difficult extenuating circumstances would have made it by the time I was on the brink of really going for it. All these years when I thought it was outrageous to work as an actor for a living, I didn't realize that people were doing it and being successful, just not quite as successful as, say, financiers. Now the financiers aren't making money... imagine how much less the actors must be making.

So I guess what the title of this post refers to is the Great Loss of Security. The economy and the country just don't keep chugging along regardless of what anyone does. The balance of the world is more fragile than I ever thought it was, and the scales could tip at any moment.

I'm not in dire straits -- not yet. The Boyfriend has assured me that he will never let me go homeless, that I can (metaphorically) stay on his couch if it gets to that point, which is a kind gesture. Plus, I don't think I'd look very good as a street urchin. I mean, my bangs are kinda shaggy right now, but if you dumped me on a street with a Dunkin' Donuts cup and told me to sing for my supper (literally) I think the bangs would become the least of my worries. Regardless, I'm at a crossroads with a big decision to make. Follow my practical, rational side and abandon the dreams? Or keep believing, like I always have, that I'll be the exception to the rule.

I'll keep you updated. I'm still working on it.

Worth My Weight In Buttercream

It's only Tuesday, but I'm already beat. Here I am, back in the world of the overworked.

It's a necessity, really. My mom is out of a job, the economy is dismal, and because I decided that I really do enjoy eating and being able to buy myself toothpaste, I got a job. Never mind that NYU offered me work-study money that I will never receive because they're in a hiring freeze. Never mind that I'm a double major with a schedule that reflects as much and a SENIOR RECITAL (in all caps, because that's how it exists in my brain) inching ever closer in my calendar. I had to find some sort of job, and find it fast.

Of course, I turned to cupcakes.

Or, really, cupcakes came to me. My mom, who graduated from the Institute of Culinary Education back when it was Peter Kump's (sorry to date you, Mom) received a job posting through ICE for a Sales Associate/Cupcake Froster and passed it along to me because, well, someone who has owned their own restaurant (her) is clearly overqualified for the job. But you know who's not? Me. The 21-year-old student and Cupcake Lover with a big, dimpled smile and a genuinely friendly demeanor.

So I applied. I interviewed. And I got the job on the spot. What can I say? Apparently working for Martha, The Queen of All Things Domestic pretty much qualifies you to hawk cookies and cupcakes behind a counter. Who knew? Although I am not, as it turns out, frosting cupcakes, I am SELLING the cupcakes, and that is fine by me. I also mop the floors when I stay till we close the store, and I almost always accidentally splash mop water on my face. Mmmm nice.

But I'm okay with a faceful of mop water... really. I grew up around this business. After my mom went to cooking school, the kitchen at home became a different sort of environment. We were taught to hold a knife vertically when we walked and to hand it, handle first, to whoever was requesting it. If I ever passed someone whose back was turned (and by someone, I mean my mother, my brother, or possibly the two unsuspecting dogs) I was to say "Behind you!" with enough gusto that they could hear it and know I was, in fact, behind them. We always had massive, industrial-size boxes of saran wrap that put limp, unsticky supermarket wrap to shame. We were told to wash our hands for 26 seconds as we said the alphabet, taught to turn the handles of the pots to the side so that they didn't stick out and endanger anyone, instructed to curl our fingers when chopping anything, so that if we were sliced we didn't lose a fingertip. And in the event that we did, we had finger cots in the medicine cabinet. Don't know what those are? Now you do.

Finger cots: for when you don't want blood to get in the food.

When I was young, I made my mom a book of "Good Chef/Bad Chef" helpful hints. Good chef, of course, brought his meat to temperature and kept his raw chicken far from his mise en place and the other components of his dish. Bad chef didn't wash his hands or know how to keep his souffle from falling. In middle school, I could have told you the symptoms of E. coli and the various ways and reasons you might get it. Later, when I worked in my mom's bakery and after, her restaurant, I learned the ins and outs of counter service and small restaurant work. I am fluent in POS systems. I know just how many crumbs one croissant can make when handled by a small child (Hint: A Lot.) And I also know for a fact that the phrase "If you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen" should not be taken lightly. It is hot and tough on the aptly-named hot line. If you can't take it, maybe you should be a pastry chef. (Ohhhhhh snap.)

Which brings me back to my cupcakes-and-mop-water duties. The place I work is not a bakery -- the baking is done off-premises. The cookies are tasty, but that's not why people spend $75 a pop on twelve -- YES you read that correctly -- twelve sugar cookies shaped like "Designer Handbags." This is more a novelty store than a restaurant. A place where adults' eyes widen just as much as the snot-covered children they bring with them. A place where a vanilla cupcake with vanilla buttercream can look so enticing under the bright lights with the frosting dyed hot pink that a typical New Yorker will sit, munch, and lick their fingers after picking at the crumbs.

And my job is to sell the fantasy. Today, wearing my uniform (a HOT PINK T-shirt, of course) and pigtails under my little hat, I sold my own sugar-coated smile along with the iced cookies. Sure, it's disconcerting to know that one hour of my time is worth approximately three and a half squirrel-shaped cookies (with glittery tails, no less) but I'll take it. You do what you gotta do. And I don't mind it. I like being back in a place where the aprons come back from the laundry wrapped in plastic. I like the feel of bakery tissue between my fingers, the way it feels to wipe down a coffee station with a cloth towel. Sure, I'm tired after sweeping and mopping and generally being around the scent of sugar and butter (tonight I took off my shoes when I got home and found a green sprinkle between my toes) but it's a nice job and I will work hard. Because that's the number one thing I learned growing up around well-worn recipe books and mixers big enough to hold a small child... If it's your job, you do it, and you do it well.