There’s Always Fucking Laundry
8/10/20265 min read
So I'm working a lot.
Probably around the same amount as anyone else who has a job. Maybe a little more, considering I'm currently in the middle of what is shaping up to be a 60-hour work week. But some people have two jobs and don't complain.
Or they do complain, but they still do it. So I can complain too, right?
Some days I complain a ridiculous amount. Like my life depends on it, even. Sometimes I complain to people I probably shouldn't complain to. The other day I found a higher-up at work and informed her that I think my body is asymmetrical.
It was a legitimate complaint. Another complaint: summer is basically over. My friends went to the beach on Sunday, and where was I? DING-DING-DING. Yes, I was at work. Thanks for asking.
One of the things I liked about this job when I accepted it was the hours. I was supposed to open twice a week and get out by 5 p.m., close twice a week, meaning I wouldn't have to be there until later in the day, and then have one normal-ish shift somewhere in between.
In my head, this meant I would still have entire chunks of my days to myself. That has not exactly been the case. And I know. Before anyone starts feeling sorry for me, I just had a four-month-long summer traveling around the world. I spent months swimming in seas and pools and generally not having a job. But I expected another summer.
I guess expecting two very long summers as an adult is kind of crazy on my part. I usually actually set my expectations lower than they should be, so this one's on me.
The screenplay I wrote while traveling got selected for Broad Humor Film Festival in LA, and I decided to attend. See the vibes. Meet the people. What not. And it really is exciting.
When I quit my previous job to travel and get back into writing, I kind of did it on a whim. I took a chance. I hadn't really written anything substantial in about two years. Sure, I'd journal. Write a short scene here and there. Have approximately seventeen thousand ideas that I would do absolutely nothing with.
Then I quit my job, started traveling, and wrote an entire feature screenplay in less than two months. And now it's taking me back to LA. So apparently the whole quitting-my-job-and-fucking-off-to-the-other-side-of-the-world thing worked. The problem is that now I have another job.
And I cannot figure out what my ideal writing schedule is supposed to look like. Because part of me actually likes having a chaotic schedule and squeezing writing into whatever space I can find. I like being busy. I like having somewhere to go. I like being around people.
But then I get two days off. One is for laundry. There's always fucking laundry.
And on the other one, I'll go to a coffee shop near my apartment, write some stream-of-consciousness nonsense for an hour, and suddenly something clicks. Then I'll spend the next seven hours writing really good pages.
And then the day is over.
The next morning, I'll wake up early and start writing again before work. And without fail, this is when I become convinced I should quit my job. Because I'll finally be back in it. The scene is working. I know where I'm going next. I'm excited.
Then my alarm goes off telling me I have to leave for work. And I know I probably won't get properly back into that zone for another five days. So I walk to work thinking, That's it. I'm quitting.
Then I get there. I see people I've started to like. People I joke with. People I care about. Some people I do not care about. Don't get me wrong. I am not Mother Teresa. Not that she cared about everyone either. Maybe she did. Good for her. Anyways. I walk in and remember that I actually like my job.
I think I spent the first month trying very hard not to like it. I imagined I wouldn't last very long. Instead, I'm still there. I know everyone now. I'm good at it. I enjoy a lot of it. It's been both a blessing and a hell.
The balance just doesn't make any fucking sense.
But maybe the job is also part of the writing. The other day, an older woman ordered a cappuccino and then demanded an explanation as to why there was caffeine in it.
“Because it's coffee” was apparently not sufficient. She felt she should've been specifically asked whether she wanted decaf because she was older and it was 5 p.m. I apologized. Obviously. I told her it was our mistake, got everything fixed, made sure she left happy. But also... You ordered a cappuccino.
This is the kind of thing that happens to me at work constantly. And lately I've realized that my job is accidentally providing me with an enormous amount of material for the TV show I'm starting to write.
The guests. My coworkers. The weird little politics of hospitality. The conversations I overhear. Sometimes something happens and I quickly type it into my Notes app while walking through the restaurant so I don't forget it.
That cappuccino story is absolutely making it into a script. Which creates a slightly annoying problem. The thing I keep complaining is preventing me from writing is also giving me things to write about.
Maybe I wouldn't actually be happier sitting alone in my apartment eight hours a day with unlimited time to be creative. I've had unlimited time before.
I mostly found other things to do.
I don't actually have 50 best friends. I don't think.
But she's not entirely wrong. I do require acknowledgment, apparently. And I have a lot of people I care about and want to keep up with. Friendships are work too — you get out of them what you put into them.
So maybe that's part of the problem. I want to work, write, travel, see my friends, know what's happening with everyone, and apparently have two summers a year.
Broad Humor is about a month away now, which means I should probably start preparing for that too. I want to work on my website, write more, start another script and see what comes out of this whole LA thing.
Maybe I don't need more free time. Maybe I need more panic.