She looked around the apartment . Cat hair settled in every free corner, a newish flat screen tv perched on top of an older model that bulged obscenely against the wall. The couch had been handed down from an old boyfriend- a loose term, as he had seduced, moved in, and left within the span of three months- and was strewn with pillows hand-sewn out of fabric purchased from Jo-Ann years ago when her first roommate in Chicago had decided to make their Ukrainian Village three bedroom apartment more "homey". She had woken up maybe five minutes ago and was intent on drinking coffee immediately, though the heat was already pressing through the windows, the floorboards, everywhere, and her throat was dry and scratchy and desperately needed a deli of water immediately.

The kitchen was actually quite cute, with it's old fashioned stove and old farmhouse sink the landlord had kept intact to lure in hipster renters who prized vintage anything, though due to the low lip, the sink had a tendency to splash water squarely into the crotch of anyone who attempted to do dishes. It really dissuaded whichever industrious soul took a hack at the small pile that seemed forever present.

Shiraz, though a sweet and attentive friend and roommate, had systematically broken each and every last cup, mug, and wineglass with which she had moved into the apartment. To be fair, he had broken all of his as well. Her work in the kitchen at the cafe down the street had guaranteed a steady supply of plastic containers- the quart size called delis, the half quart size coined half delis- gleened from many meals and mis en place squirreled home, and she had begun to organize her mornings around these vessels. One deli of water was enough to flush away the initial dryness of last night's drinks, a half deli of coffee stayed hot til the bottom, and a half deli was also a convenient size from which to eat some oatmeal, which stuck to the ribs in a pleasingly practical way until she got to work, finished her mise, and had a brief break until service picked up.

Calvin mewed at her feet, and she threw a handful of kitten kibble into his bowl. Shiraz had left on tour two days earlier, and having the entire apartment to herself was a luxury she didn't know exactly what to do with quite yet. 30 years old and never had a house to herself.

4 Rice Krispie treats and 2 to go...

Obsessing over money has become my favorite past time, but no more so than in the last five months. In March I took a position as a pastry cook in a great little kitchen at a fantastic seasonal restaurant that is beloved in the city of Chicago. The food is great, the staff is hip, the kitchen has a uniquely laid- back vibe, and the owners are caring and involved. Unfortunately, they also pay you like you're a 16 year-old whose sole financial responsibility is to chip in for a bottle of Bacardi for the weekend rager. And maybe buy some new school shoes. Thus, I have become, at the age of 29, solidly lower class. I scrape by from paycheck to paycheck, dipping into my dwindling savings to pay my meager rent while fantasizing about actually affording to live in my very own adult apartment. I've been trying to train myself to crave a Miller High Life after a long day of work instead of a rose wine or Belgian beer reward. I buy lots of cabbage and accept leftover cheese donations from cocktail party hosts I don't know very well. I'll be honest and tell you that for a full five minutes I thought about the logistics of shoplifting expensive hair products at Ulta last week. 

I knew the financial reality of this job when I took it. I just didn't expect it to make me feel quite so bad about myself. I put a lot of weight on new undertakings, and when they fail to produce the happy results I'm after, I'm usually pretty unreasonably annoyed. But this new poverty as a result of the new undertaking not only annoyed me, it seems to shine a spotlight on all the things I'm not satisfied with in my life, casting its sad gloom on everything. I'll be turning 30 in a few short-VERY short- months, and as of now I live in a rented apartment with a roommate, work a job for a small hourly wage, can't afford health insurance, have no romantic relationship to speak of, and can only boast of a tiny savings account that couldn't even sustain me for a month if need be. I was by no means wealthy in my old job, but at least I could cheer myself up and keep things interesting by shopping for good groceries or planning a weekend trip. 

I went out to dinner for a friends birthday last week, and the whole affair was an exercise in private humiliation. I showed up a bit late and sweaty from a long day at work in the kitchen to meet the four women, who had just come from getting mani-pedis with the birthday girl. I listened to the others talk about their gym memberships, home decorating, and office job salaries. The food was bad and overpriced, and when one woman insisted the birthday girl shouldn't pay and we would cover it, I felt a look of naked panic flash in my eyes. When the meal was over and we stood chatting out front of the restaurant, i sighed and said I wish I didn't have to work the next day. The weather was particularly beautiful that week. 

"Don't go!" chimed in one of my dinner companions, "Call in sick! What's the worst thing that can happen?"

"I won't get paid," I blurted, feeling worse by the minute. This woman is a teacher and is on summer break, currently receiving a paycheck every two weeks for working absolutely zero hours. When I asked at the beginning of dinner when school started up again her curt answer was "I can't even talk about it. We're pretending I'm not going back soon." 

"Ooh, right. I suppose the restaurant industry is the worst for benefits and days off and things like that, huh?"

"Yeah", I replied, "My T.O. is just T.O., not P.T.O. I don't have sick days."

"That's horrifying!" she screeched. 

And there it was, out in the open. I'd been thinking about my life in pretty downcast terms, but I hadn't actually spelled it out so neatly. Thank god this slightly obnoxious friend of a friend had the quick wit and ability to cut to the truth in such an insensitive manner. 

My life has seemed pretty horrifying to me, too. 

This blog is the beginning of me turning things around. I have no sign of better times or any plan laid out to get me to the place I want to be, but I find that writing about it makes me feel better. I figure a year's worth of recording my life will show that it's not so horrifying, and that it's actually quite full and fortunate. So just let me wallow for one night here, maybe eat a small stack of my roommate's Rice Krispie treats and drink a bottle of cheap white, read a good book, then get up tomorrow morning and go to work.