The pace of my life has recently moved from a relatively neutral, comfortable position, to a remarkably Talladega-like pace.  It was once my normal speed (which self-diagnosis has labeled “borderline frantic”) but now, following innumerable months of job-searching, volunteering, and accomplishing everything I put on my daily “to-do” list (for example: transplant monkey-grass, wash dog, call so-and-so, mend pants), I find this move into the fast-lane to be wholly uncomfortable.  A once-clean bathroom sits stained and cluttered while I secretly hope that no one will drop by unexpectedly, in need of a tinkle.  Where I once looked at my dear love with wonder and amazement, I now look at him with a sense of urgency and need (as in “please…give me attention!”)  The dog has fleas, the phone-bill is two months past due, we haven’t eaten a truly homemade meal in weeks…all of these things irk me tremendously, and yet I am powerless to remedy any of them given the few, short hours in each day.  By the time I return home in the evenings I am exhausted with work and ready to enjoy drink, a bite to eat, and a snuggle.  I am exhausted with customer-service chatter, my feet ache, and I have not lifted a weight or done a single squat in at least 17 days.

As I sit here contemplating all of the little changes over the past several weeks it dawns on me -  after 34 years I still have no sense of “middle”.  In my mind, “middle” is where you see the dirty dishes in the sink and say to yourself in a perfectly rational way “Oh well, I’m exhausted and they can wait until tomorrow.”  It is most certainly NOT where you gaze upon said dishes and think “Oh my, if I don’t do them now we’ll have roaches by morning.”  You then proceed to wash them, all the while resenting the fact that no one is helping you do them and wondering how your life culminated in such a futile and meaningless effort.  This is an exercise in giving up control…one that has become a theme in recent years.

Then, like magic, I come home to find the toilet has been scrubbed, the phone-bill paid, the puppy bathed in herbal flea-repellent, and even (bonus!) de-wormed.  It is at this point that I gaze upon my sweet love and think “You are amazing”, as if I had forgotten rather than simply buried that fact amongst all of my worries and trivialities.  In these rare and wonderful moments, I finally slow down just long enough to appreciate all that I have, rather than moan about all that I do not. I feel calm, present, aware, and completely at peace with it all.

Lesson learned…at least for the moment.

In my quest to find the “perfect” job, I have often settled for things I was not wholly inclined to do.  Take “Gallery Director” for instance – what I thought might be educational, exciting, and a chance to break into the local art-scene turned out to be sales, sales, sales.  Or how about “Writer/Programmer” – while it seemed like the perfect opportunity to learn HTML and to utilize some creative-writing skills (which it was…and did), it also meant sitting behind a desk for 8 hours a day and countless hours of grammatical edits.  I hate grammar, even if I do know how to spell it.

I took a position with a grocery chain in a role I thought I knew nothing about, because I believed in what they stood for – or rather, what they tell the public they stand for.  If you read my last post about “feeding and inspiring the healthy person inside us all” blah, blah, blah, then you know how excited I was about this job.  What I have come to find is that, where I actually believe in that statement, want to teach people how to live better, eat better, and generally detoxify their lives, my employer uses that “message” to make a lot of money.  I know what you’re thinking, and yes, I am naive.

My first frustrations came as the result of learning that I was making considerably less per hour than my co-workers for doing basically the same job.  In my mind, one should be paid based on performance – you start out kind of low, you prove that you’re an amazing employee, and you are rewarded.  In corporate America, you are hired at the lowest possible cost, worked a ridiculous number of hours, pressured to meet sales-goals and deadlines…then given a 3% “cost-of-living” increase after a year.  This equates to about 24 cents in my case…hardly worth sticking around for.  When it became apparent that I would not be making a living at this (and after spending a few weeks crying and fussing over it), I resigned myself to the knowledge that my employer is exactly like any other corporate entity – profits over people.

So what is one to do in this situation?  I could easily have quit and found another low-paying job for some other corporate entity, but inevitably I would have faced the same frustrations I do now.  I could have whined and complained in hopes of finding an ally willing to come to my aid, but whining and complaining are typically regarded as the disease that breeds amongst co-workers and eventually brings down “the whole ship”.

Eventually, my decision came down to one simple idea -  I had to adjust my own thinking and re-work my expectations in order to suit the reality of my situation. After all, I still go to work and help people, every day.  I still have the opportunity to learn something new from each person I encounter, and I still get to work amongst like-minded individuals with dreams and passions somewhat akin to my own.  Those are hard things to come by in any job.

There are, of course, days when I still feel like a complete “sell-out”, but then someone comes to me and asks for help with their child’s diet, or for something that will help regulate their blood-sugar without damaging their liver, and I have the opportunity to offer whatever knowledge I have.  When those people return to thank me and to tell me of their success, I am reminded that, on some level, I have fed and inspired them…and that they, in turn, will inspire someone else.

Today, Earth Fare opened it’s first Alabama store right here in Huntsville and for the purposes of full disclosure, yours truly is a proud employee of the Health and Body Care department.  I have a fairly obvious bias, given that I have been a loyal shopper (since 2002) and am now an employee, so I will not say much about our need for this store in our community that hasn’t already been said.  However, I WILL encourage anyone and everyone to go here and read up on this amazing company’s track record for selling only the cleanest, most natural foods the earth can sustainably produce.

As newbies, me and my 100 or so co-workers began training about two weeks ago and have since been preparing the store for opening.  It was during that first day of training (where I immediately revealed my inner-dork by raising my hand to answer EVERY question…and sometimes just blurting the answer out anyway) that we learned the company’s mission statement – you, know, that idyllic statement that companies dream up for use in there marketing literature? Now, I have written mission statements, worked with non-profit steering committees on revising them, and heard some of the most ridiculous things you can imagine, but this one immediately struck me as, well, idyllic.  My job, as an Earth Fare employee, is “to feed and inspire the healthy person inside us all.”

It’s simple.  I like it.

Ok, I have to go get ready for work now, but please come and see me!  I’m immediately recognizable as the geek next to the wall-o-vitamins.  Happy shopping Huntsville!

Why would anyone spend nearly three hours and drive 75 miles, round-trip, for a dozen eggs?  This is exactly the question I spent much of yesterday pondering following an egg-gathering excursion that took me all the way from my cozy little home in Huntsville, to the Caddo community, outside Trinity, Alabama.

I make no secret of the fact that I believe locally produced food to be far better for my health, the economy, and the environment than most of what I can find in a grocery store.   I hold myself to a code of grocery-shopping ethics that most people would probably laugh at.  I scrutinize  local foodways and farmer’s markets, and I constantly seek out the latest publications on food safety and nutrition.  This interest in local food has lately become less of a hobby and more of an obsession, which is exactly how I came to find “Lynn the Egg-Lady” and her flock of abundantly producing hens.

I came across her farm while doing some research on locally produced meat, poultry, and vegetables for a network I hope to organize.  I found that a non-profit site called Local Harvest has already developed an extensive list of farms, markets, and CSAs (that’s Community Supported Agriculture to all you newbies) in the Huntsville area.  Each listing links to a separate page about the farm or market.  There is a brief description, contact information, and a matrix detailing what each farm produces.  Naturally (and because I’m a complete nut), I went through each listing, making note of the ones that seemed promising.

I happened upon one page that advertised eggs for $3.50 per dozen, and mentioned that I should call ahead to check on availability.  The hens are fed soy-free, organic feed and allowed to roam throughout the 20-acre farm where they nibble grass and forage for bugs (a very important source of protein for chickens). The resulting eggs are beautiful, large, pink and brown beauties that are chock full of proteins, vitamins, and omega-3′s.  In fact, organic eggs have more nutrients, less cholesterol, and far better taste and texture than their commercially-produced counterparts.

The description of Lynn’s farm was so appealing that it appeared more like an invitation than an advertisement, so I decided to email the proprietor, hoping (at the very least) to find out where the eggs are available.  Almost immediately I received a reply saying that she had a dozen or so to sell that day.  Lynn indicated that I could meet her husband somewhere or come out and pick them up myself.  Having just as much of an interest in meeting the farmer as eating the eggs, I of course chose to go there and pick them up (and as it turns out, pluck them from beneath her somewhat resistant chickens) myself…thus, the 75-mile designation my eggs would come to acquire.  Driving this distance doesn’t exactly reduce my carbon footprint or minimize the number of “food miles” my eggs had to travel, but I would venture a guess that based on the farm’s environmental practices, they came at a much lower cost than is immediately evident.

By now, you are probably asking yourself if they tasted any better than a carton of regular old grocery-store eggs…perhaps making them worth all this trouble.  I can assure you that I have not had such delicious eggs since I was a kid pilfering them from the neighbor’s hens, who resided in our barn.   They were amazing to cook with – the yolks were so thick and creamy that I had to break out my hand-cranked mixer to do the job.  I added a little milk, some salt and pepper, and they scrambled beautifully. Imagine the difference between a fresh, mid-summer, straight-from-the-garden tomato and a mid-winter, grocery-store hydroponic.  There is truly no comparison.  Even my husband (not what you would call an egg “fan”) commented on how light and fluffy they were – a true testament, in my mind, to their superiority.

As my small group of readers surely knows by now, I would encourage anyone and everyone to choose locally produced food whenever it is available.  I will probably not drive 75 miles the next time I need a dozen eggs, but I will keep up the search until I find a producer within a reasonable distance.  I have, after all, been spoiled by this idyllic, truly pastoral experience.  It would also be difficult to convince my taste-buds to return to store-bought varieties after having had “the real deal”.  So the next time you see eggs for sale at your local farmer’s market, give them a try.  I guarantee you will never again think twice about paying $3.50 (or even $4) per dozen.

So…part of the whole “moving  to a new state” thing is establishing residency through such lovely measures as obtaining a new driver’s license and paying state and/or local taxes on your car.  It’s sort of the state government’s equivalent of  “Welcome!  We’re so glad you’ve decided to move here and contribute to our burgeoning economy! Oh…by the way, you have thirty days to do these things before we fine you…but welcome!”

I gathered all of my paperwork and headed down to the DMV on Friday morning.  I had everything from my old passport, to my social security card, to bills showing my new address.  As is customary in such places, I stood in the first line – the “pre-approval” line – so that a polyester-clad police woman could ensure that I had the proper documentation.  I was very quickly informed that yes, my paperwork was fine and oh, by the way, there’s a two-hour wait.  Having already paid visit to the Social Security office and the local health department, I had come prepared with plenty to keep me busy in the meantime, so  I found a comfortable spot next to a nice looking young woman and busied myself.

I think it is safe to assume that anyone who has visited a public department or office for any type of service-related task is familiar with the characters that frequent such places.  There is always the person who sits and mumbles barely audible threats to themselves, often in various third-person voices.  Then there is the woman toting a screaming, bored, and frustrated child who dispenses an untold number of spankings throughout the duration of her wait.  Ah, and let us not forget the person who is more often smelled than seen – the mysterious person whose identity remains unknown only for the fact that there are far too many people crammed into the room to differentiate them by odor.  On this particular trip, my nemesis was a boy named Kurt…not his real name, but on the off chance that “Kurt” has access to and knows how to operate a computer, I don’t want him tracking me down and stalking me.

Kurt came in the front door immediately after I did.  His first words were “This is a long line” to which I laughed, thinking “you have no idea of the two-hour wait ahead of you.”  Once I had been processed through the pre-approval line, I noticed that Kurt sat down one row ahead of me and just a few seats to the right.  I took note mainly because of the way he proceeded to stare at me from his carefully-chosen perch.  He kept his head turned to the side as if to look just ahead of me, but each time I turned my head towards the television located directly in front of him, he took the opportunity to re-focus his gaze at me and smile.  This was not the “hey, how ya’ doin’ smile” but the “hey baby, how YOU doin’” smile of the lonely, unkempt social-outcast.

I tried to avoid looking at the television, I tried talking to the nice young woman to my left, I even tried turning my body slightly so as to avoid Kurt’s unflinching stare…but it was no use.  He was relentless in his objective and my only hope was to wait it out.  Once my two hours had expired, I was directed to another waiting area – one in which everyone was made to sit shoulder to shoulder, in order of the number on their ticket.  I knew my fate almost immediately.  Kurt had come in the front door directly after me.  I was number 70 – he was number 71.  My only hope was that the polyester beauties behind the desk would move quickly enough to get me processed before I had to sit alongside Kurt…but it was no use.

Kurt sat down next to me, immediately turned to me and began talking.  “Hi, I’m Kurt.  What’s your name?” “Katie,”  I muttered almost inaudibly, hoping he would notice the NO TALKING sign posted directly in front of us.  He began a continuous string of questions and comments, occasionally interrupted by an acutely obvious silence, indicating that he was trying very hard to come up with what to say next.  My responses were nothing more than grunts and nods as I berated myself for even giving him my name. I certainly did not want to egg him on, but something about being outright rude doesn’t sit well with me.  So I waited…again…until my “NEXT!” was finally screamed from behind one of the blue photo curtains.

This is where the story gets really good, because as soon as the woman behind desk #2 reviewed my paperwork, she informed me that I did not have what I needed to obtain a new license.  “Oh honey,” she began. “Now, don’t unload on me…just give me a minute to talk with my supervisor.” I could feel the tears welling in my eyes.  “Now honey, I’ll take you to the person you need to unload on…what did she look like…I know who you’re talkin’ about…just hold it all in for a minute…don’t take it out on me…” Of course, I told her that I knew it was not her fault, but did she understand that I had wasted an entire morning waiting for nothing while some creep gave me the googly eye?  She obviously knew I was frustrated, and after the supervisor confirmed the mistake, I left the Huntsville DMV with nothing more than a pile of frustrations and useless paperwork.

Alas…perhaps this is just the result of having had such an easy round at the Social Security Commission and the Public Health Department.  I was due…like some vicious game of roulette.  My number was up and it was number 70! Curses.

Several weeks ago, I went into a popular mega-hardware store in search of a specific type of switch-plate.  Having made my selection of one (yes, one) item, I ventured towards the check out aisles only to find a long line of customers waiting at the only open cash-register.  Adjacent to the line, I noticed several shiny, new machines displaying “self check-out” signs.  Naturally, I decided to give this option a try, rather than wait in the very long line to pay for my $0.67 item.

I approached the machine, certain that I could master such a thing as paying for my purchase unassisted, with little or no effort.  The on-screen instructions prompted me to scan my item, so I located the bar code and did so.  I was then instructed to place my item in a bag.  I tend to take issue with using an entire plastic bag for one item, so I skipped this step and placed the item in my purse instead.  Then, I waited…everything stopped…there were no further prompts and I wondered if it sensed my reluctance to use a bag…I began to feel paranoid: Was I being watched on some sort of self-check-out security system?  Had some person actually intervened in my check-out experience to prevent me from completing the transaction?  Finally, after what seemed an interminable period, a new screen appeared asking if I was ready to check out and which method of payment I would prefer.  I managed to muddle my way through the remainder of the task, muttering obscenities under my breath and wondering why I had chosen to come to the giant-mega-wonder-store to begin with.

For some reason, this experience took root in my brain and gave me cause to consider all of the many ways in which customer service, as a whole, has taken a back seat to “efficiency” (or, more accurately, saving a corporate dime).  How many times have you wandered the aisles of a store in search of someone to help you find something?  Have you ever wished, just once, that you could locate a full-service gas station? When was the last time you phoned a “customer service representative” and were connected with a person for whom English is their native language? Of note, I am not implying that the folks in Bangalore are under-qualified for their positions based on their location or place of birth.  I am simply pointing out that customer service has evolved into something that is now being outsourced with alarming frequency.

This is simply one more reason that I prefer to spend what few dollars I have at locally owned (and operated) businesses. Occasionally, it means paying more, but it is almost always an experience that’s well worth the extra dollar or two.

Fresh Market is not entirely without its merits – I have always met a pleasant face behind the meat counter.  The steaks are far superior to the ones we generally pick up at Costco, but then again, so is the price.  It also seems to be the only place in Huntsville where one can purchase hormone and antibiotic-free meat.  However, there are so many aspects of the store by which I am completely baffled that a good steak hardly makes up the difference.

Bulk foods, such as the variety of grains and legumes one might find at a Whole Foods Market are non-existent.  The aisles of prepared foods offer a very similar selection to larger grocery chains, but with far fewer choices overall.  While I don’t necessarily need the rows and rows of sugar-coated cereals or factory “fresh” white bread, there seem to be a number of staple items entirely missing from the Fresh Market repertoire. The only things I have found in “bulk” at Fresh Market are coffee (yum!) and an astounding variety of candy (yum…).  Fresh Market seems to be overly concerned with maintaining their image as an earth-friendly, healthy alternative to conventional supermarkets.  It doesn’t take much digging (or any, really) to see that this is simply not the case.

In my (albeit, unconventional) opinion, anything that is produced locally should automatically trump “organic.”  For example, the organic, California peaches will lose, hands-down to those grown just up the road in Athens.  I could not justify my dislike of pesticides knowing that a truck had to drive hundreds of miles, wasting gallons of fuel to bring me a chemical-free peach.  Not only does it take money away from the local economy, it puts money in the hands of the Saudis…’nuf said.

So…where do I go from here?  Short of willing a Whole Foods to open in Huntsville, I must visit a variety of stores to find the things I need.  Publix (as promised!) has a growing number of organic foods.  While they do qualify as “industrial organic” – meaning that they are mass-produced on the same scale as their conventional bretheren – in many cases, it beats the heck out of the alternative.  It is, by far, the best bet for hormone and antibiotic-free dairy products.

There are several great farmer’s markets here in town.  The county market is up and running at semi-full speed, with all the summer fruits and veggies one might expect.  An alternative break-away, Ayers Farm Market (located at Governor’s and Memorial) has fantastic, locally-grown veggies as well as Amish “imports.”  They also have a darned good homemade salsa and peach preserves.

For bulk items and produce in one shot, Garden Cove is an excellent choice.  They carry a lot of things that seem to be missing from the aisles of Fresh Market, without the hefty price tag.  I always feel like the folks at Garden Cove have it right – they just want to make it easy for people to eat well.  Make note however, they are Adventists, so don’t try and get your shopping done on a Saturday!

In conclusion, it’s just not a simple task to buy your groceries anymore, especially given increasingly new information on food safety combined with present economic conditions.  Rather than hitting the big-box stores, why not try supporting your local farmers and retailers?  You’ll almost always get more for your money, and should this not always be the case, a clear conscience and the thanks you’ll receive will far outweigh the savings.

In the words of Michael Polan (author or The Omnivore’s Dilemma): “Eat food…not too much…mostly vegetables.”

After an interminable search for parking that ended at the Holiday Inn lot across the street from the convention center, I made my way (along with hundreds…no, thousands of other desperately unemployed people) to the South Hall of the VBC.  Upon entering the facility, I inquired with someone presumably knowledgeable in the day’s proceedings as to which of the lines I should wait in.  After making it clear that I do not possess a degree (4-year or otherwise) in engineering, nor was I interested in anything remotely related to engineering, I was directed to the “general inquiries” or “longer than two city blocks”  line.

There I stood, with the aforementioned and equally perplexed individuals for two full hours, patiently trying to make my way to the doorway, behind which there was surely a perfectly suited and well-paid job awaiting each and every eager participant. Once through the doorway, my small group of line-buddies and I watched as the hundred or so people left in front of us snaked along a narrow, roped-off section in the center of the hall.   There, at the end of our journey, sat precisely four “booths”.  Having already ruled out fast-food and the military, I was left with the choice of a certain cable company and a certain newspaper (don’t strain your noggin tooo much on this one…)

Needless to say, I was extraordinarily ticked off, as were my line-buddies.  We all left, feeling slightly more dejected than we had two hours prior.  I vowed to return home and start the new blog I have been meaning to write and make this my very first entry.

Now, because I am somewhat skilled in search engine optimization (which no one here seems to need in an employee) I am going to use the next few lines to “beef up” my SEO a bit, in hopes that someone else who wasted their time on this event will actually find it. So…VBC, Career Expo, Job Fair, Huntsville, Alabama, Times, Engineering, crappy, crappy, crappy event…