Feminism gets cooked

The last few weeks have done a lot to turn my ideals on their head. 

I've seen a lot of the homelessness system. I've learned what it's like to live with next to no money. I've learned that there is such a thing as unspoken telephone manners, and many of our callers are not skilled in the art... And I'm becoming more and more convinced with each passing day, that I may never want to have any kids (Sorry, Mom). 

More than anything, I think my feminist mentality has received a sudden shake at its core (And no, before you say it, feminists are NOT men haters... for the last time). Don't get me wrong, I still believe in equal rights for sexes, the root of feminist thought. And I still believe that women are just as capable as the opposite sex, both inside and outside of the household. I'm still not looking forward to my wedding day with all it's patriarchal undertones. I'll gladly burn bras and all that jazz. In other words, all of my feminist professors would still be proud, no matter what age of feminism they would classify themselves in. So then exactly how has my feminist mentality been shaken?

It's the food.

I'm serious. It's the food. Or maybe I should be a little bit more clear by saying that it's the COOKING.

It's no secret that I've never been gifted in the kitchen. Well, that's sugarcoating the truth. 

Let me paint this picture for you. In my past attempts at cooking, I've burned basically every food possible -- even those that aren't capable of burning. As my freshman year roommate can attest to, I developed a particular fondness for burnt foods, probably because it was all that I was capable of making. More impressive is that I've burned myself just as much.

Nope, I am not good at cooking. So I gave up on cooking. I called it quits.

Because I knew I wasn't good at cooking, I used it as a crutch to further support my feminist thoughts. "Women belong in the workplace, not at home in front of the stove," I thought. I wasn't good at cooking, but I didn't like the idea of it anyways, so who cares? 

Therefore, my inability to cook anything edible lent itself well to my simplistic line of thinking. My lack of cooking skill was a sign that I belonged in a setting outside of the home. "I can't cook," I thought, "and I really shouldn't anyways in order to establish my identity as separate from and outside of the household."I wanted to be that woman who brought home the bacon, instead of flipping it in a frying pan in front of the stove every morning. Basically my line of thought was, "I can't cook. Good for me. I'll do something less housewife-y instead." Sucking at cooking was just proof that I was a good feminist. 

Yep, that's exactly how I thought. Down to the "housewife-y" adjective. Pretty simplistic and stupid, right? I'm an idiot and I am now aware of this.

Anyway, I was not excited to have to take up cooking again on a weekly basis as part of JVC. I feared for my own safety (no more burns, please) and for the safety of my housemates. Mostly because I didn't want to poison them (well, at least not yet...).

So it was with fear that I made my first dish. Naturally, it was a pasta, the only thing I actually know how to cook. The good news is that I didn't burn it. The bad news is that it wasn't particularly great either -- and I spent too much money on store brand pasta sauce because I didn't know how to make my own (particular members of my casa were NOT happy with me).

With a less-than-successful first outing, I wasn't thrilled about attempt number two, particularly since I would be trying out a new dish, which I hadn't cooked before. 

Fried rice.

I know, I know. It's fried rice, right? How hard could it be? But believe me, if there's a way to mess up fried rice, I would be the person to do it. 

I approached the stove with apprehension and determination, spatula in hand. "Alright stove, let's dance." (Oh lord, now I'm talking to household appliances?) I was determined to make something that was not only a) edible, but also b) low cost.

I followed a recipe that I found online, which included fresh vegetables, soy sauce, oyster sauce, and eggs. I followed the recipe closely and was surprised to find that I was able to carry it out every step. 


Without burning myself.

Most surprising was when we sat down to eat, it was actually good! (**Note: let the record show that I thought it was good, which was echoed at the dinner table by my housemates. But if you talked to them in person, it's very possible that they would have a different opinion.)

I was hit with the sudden realization that I cooked... and that it was good.

In the next couple of days, I proceeded to make bruschetta based upon Ryan's recipe, which I was not able to duplicate exactly, but turned out alright all the same. 

Then came Monday, the true test. I had scheduled myself to cook gnocchi. However, as I started cooking, I realized that I did not have nearly enough food. So I threw together some cucumber salad, a recipe of my mom/Oma's making and Thanksgiving stuffing. I know this does not sound impressive in the slightest.

Here's the impressing part. 1. Least impressive: There is not particular recipe for the cucumber salad, it's all based upon taste. 2. Medium impressiveness: As I started boiling the water for the stuffing, I realized that we did not have enough butter, so I needed to improvise. 3. Most impressive: I made my own gnocchi sauce by completely winging ingredients.

Once again, I impressed myself with the results -- perhaps it's because I have such low expectations for myself, any result is better than expected.

However, none of these surprises were life-changing. 

What was life changing house was the discovery that I actually ENJOY cooking -- a lot. I really do. As I was making the gnocchi, I realized that I was having fun. I was in a groove, playing music in the kitchen. I was having fun mixing different ingredients together to see what they would create. Simply put, I really loved it.


And it seemed like my housemates loved it too. (I got a cooking compliment from Greg, which I would consider a monumental achievement) 

Hold up.

According to my feminist thinking, I'm not supposed to enjoy cooking; rather, I'm supposed to enjoy the act of sucking at it. By liking cooking, I was embracing a housewife lifestyle. 


Or was I?

Maybe my feminist professors wouldn't be too proud after all. I had created this simplistic idea of what a feminist was, which didn't leave room for every type of women. It didn't leave room for women who actually enjoyed the act of being homemakers, who found it empowering, despite people like me rambling that it wasn't a worthy "profession."  It didn't leave room for a lot of women I've been working with over the last few weeks -- single moms who are singlehandedly raising three or four kids without any money. Finally, it didn't leave room for me, the lover of cooking.

Man, am I stupid.

I would never betray Caesar

As JVs, we've come to love the simple things in life -- such as Little Caesar and his freakin' delicious cheap pizza.

It's true, Little Caesars knows what's up. They've got a brilliant business plan and they're making a killing off our business alone.

Now hear me out. 

Everybody knows that JVs are poor. We don't make a lot of money and all of us work hard at jobs that are both emotionally and physically draining. And still, at the end of the day, we have to cook. We come home and slave away over a stove (okay, so maybe only ONCE a week do we have to do this by ourselves. But everybody in the house does have to cook on a weekly basis). But for anybody who knows me, cooking is no easy task and one that puts the entire house at danger-- although I will admit I made a kickass fried rice dish last night. Nonetheless, it is nice to go to some outside place that is NOT our kitchen and, understandably, our very limited budget doesn't allow that to happen very often. Unless... that place is Little Caesars.

We've come to know and love the little tyrant. His palace is just down the street from ours and he requests our presence every Friday.

In other words, by Friday, we want a freakin' break, man!

Caesar is one hell of a ruler, I'll tell yah. He's convenient, located right across the intersection where we get off the bus in the afternoon. And he's a cheap date. $5. That's all it takes. We've actually calculated an estimated $50 savings per week for our house, if we chose to each Little Caesar's pizza every night of the week -- if we so choose.

Just $5 and we've got ourselves one large cheese, albeit probably slightly old, pizza. 10 bucks and we've got ourselves a pizza combo -- cheese AND pepperoni. But that's when we really feel like going wild and splurging (don't even get me started on when we get REALLY crazy and decide to buy a 2-liter of Coke at the dollar store...).

Caesar is a friend we've come to know and love. We have even made the conscious choice to leave a professional baseball game early, just to ensure that we would have enough time to make it to Caesar's adobe before he himself shut his doors for the night. 

We've come to greatly appreciate our LCFs -- our Little Caesar Fridays. So much so that at the encouraging of one of Casa Truth's housemates, I've decided to write a little Ode to Caesar. 

**Disclaimer: I make no claims at being any sort of acceptable poet. Read ahead at your own risk. It's freaking hard to find words that rhyme with "Caesar" and "pizza", okay?!**

****

Oh, Caesar, you're my kind of a guy

You come fully loaded, with an entire pizza pie.

Although, I will admit,

It is your price that I most adore

At 5 bucks a pop, I'd gladly have so' more.

You're a cheap, sleazy date

And your sauce is a little plain.

Your cheese is cooked too long,

But you won't hear me complain.

You only speak two words,

but it's just what I need to hear.

My heart gets a fluster,

Every time you come near.

You call "Pizza! Pizza"

And you know it turns me on.

You're so cute in your little orange frock,

Just as sexy in your shiny golden thongs.

I love you more than Romeo loved Juliet.

It's a love they cannot tame.

Pass me the Crazy Bread,

And I too will go insane.

Until pizza Friday, I'll count down the day.

For when the clock chimes 5:00, I'll surely be on my way.

Unlike your scamming senators, Caesar,

You, I would never betray.

Becky spots the promised land

Cold front in Phoenix

Important news alert: it is currently 79 degrees in Phoenix, Arizona. And I'm breaking out the blankets and down jackets. Brrrrrrrrrr

Okay, so I'm a smartass. But today IS the monumental first day since we've been here that the temperature is NOT expected to climb into the 100s. That's right, we're looking at a balmy 96 degrees today and tomorrow, and 99 on Saturday. Rough. But, you know, just in case you're worried, we'll safely return to the 100s just in time for work next week. Rest assured.

I know it's been a week since I last posted, but nothing particularly exciting has occurred since that time. I'm trying to think of something cheeky to post, so that my blog doesn't really turn into a "oh, I did this today list." But I'm afraid that's what it might end up becoming. Any suggestions?

Work is more steadily starting to kick my butt. Since I now have a very minimal idea of what the hell I'm doing, Stephanie and Mike decided I was fit and ready to take on my first client. Personally, I think they both have very obvious poor judgment. 

Because this is week 4, I'm at the end of my "training" program and was supposed to conduct 2 Intakes under   Stephanie's careful supervision. In Case Management 101, an Intake is when a new client that has been admitted into the shelter comes in to meet with their case manager for the first time. We enter a lot of their personal information into HMIS for government tracking. In other words, my Oma would freak out with the amount of personal information we collect from our clients. But no, Oma, we actually DON'T ask for their bank account numbers and current account balances. At least not yet. 

Anyway, during intake I also go over the client's case plan for his/her stay, which basically outlines the goals we have for them over the next 90 days. Finally, we make initial referrals for them to go to food banks, thrift stores, and to even get haircuts. We basically get them started with whatever assistance they need right from the get go. From the Case Manager's perspective, there's a bunch of little things you have to remember to do in that one little meeting -- a lot of details to keep track of. But at the end of it, it's worth it because you know your client is all settled in.

I did my first supervised intake last week for my first client and to say that it was a mess, would be an understatement. Of course, Stephanie was there next to me to cover my butt every single time I messed something up. And my second and third intakes were scheduled for yesterday. Stephanie was going to sit in on the first one, while Mike sat in on the afternoon. Per Murphy's Law, Crazy Shi*t really started to hit the fan and both Stephanie and Mike wound up occupied. 

I was on my own.

It's easy to describe the first intake yesterday: catastrophe, chaos, disaster, madness, failure, major-whoops-moments. At one point, I looked down at my desk and both file drawers were open; for the life of me, I couldn't remember why I had opened either one of them or what form I was trying to retrieve. I was finally able to give my client the information s/he needed, it just wasn't done in the most graceful manner. 2 hours later, I was done with my first Intake... exhausted just in time to start round two.

Luckily, round two went much more smoothly. And while I was completely thrown off my game not to have Stephanie and Mike there in to pitch relief, I'm ultimately glad they weren't. I learned a lot yesterday during those 4 hours (oh yeah, Intakes take a lonnnnng time, in case you couldn't tell). I'm sure I learned more doing it alone than I would have with Stephanie or Mike holding my hand. Protective mothers, take note. 

In other news: is it Friday yet?

Why is it that short weeks always feel so much longer than regular 5-day ones?

Speaking of short weeks, Labor Day weekend was spent the way it was intended -- without work, and with BBQ and beer in hand. Friday night we went over to a JV's house who lives here in Phoenix with his parents. Matt is going to be a JV in Peru, but doesn't leave until November. Surprise, surprise, he's also a Brophy graduate (oh heyyyyyy, Brophy!). The night was a lot of fun, topped off with a swim in their backyard pool and bbqed lamb chops. As JVs, it could be a very long time before we have such fine dining as lamb again.

20 seconds or less description of Saturday: 6 hours of The Office, Little Caesar's Pizza, ice cream, girl's night. That's all you have to know.

Sunday was once again spent at the pool, this time a family friend of Becky's. I'll be honest, this pool rocked. Not only did it have a diving board, but it also had a water slide and was owned by the sweetest old lady I've ever met.

And of course there was Monday, Labor Day. Monday was spent mostly catching up with everything else we DIDN'T do earlier in the weekend. But it was topped off by our very own BBQ in the backyard with Eddie Cullen. You know you're jealous.

Now it's my turn to cook tonight. So keep my housemates in your prayers tonight -- just to make sure that I don't kill them with food poisoning or set the house on fire.

In 1,000 words or less

I'm a criminal.

I stole pictures. But maybe that's a good thing.

Casa Truth's Becky graciously uploaded photos to Facebook and I stole them for my own devices. Well, I stole them so that I could share them on my blog... So maybe my intentions were noble?

Anyway, you'll find them under the Picasa Photostream on the right of the page. If you click on one photo, it should take you to the Picasa album. I'll get around to posting pictures from my OWN camera sometime this weekend or early next week. So if you're a believer that a picture is worth a thousand words, you should be bombarded with symbolic words -- keep your eyes peeled for new photos.

Also, I did my first Intake today, which means I am officially a working Case Manager with my own clients. Heyo!

My ode to Phoenix (Brophy)

This week is flying by (Brophy). Monday was without a doubt the busiest day I've had at work thus far. The phone was ringing off the hook for the entire day and everything was complete chaos. (Heyyyyyyyy, Brophy!) I felt a little bit like my mother -- not eating lunch until after 2:30 p.m. although I easily could have worked through my lunch break.

Usually we'll each get about 10-15 phone calls a day from families who are seeking shelter ( Brophy is the best school ever!). We can tell all of them to come in for a screening and only 2 or 3 will actually step foot into the wait area. Not Monday. I got 25 phone calls alone and screened 7 families myself.

Keep in mind that a screening takes about an hour, depending on the size of the family. (Brophy football! 2007 State Champs!)

I work from 8-5. So it's no stretch to say that I was doing screenings all day long. And it was exhausting. (Go Brophy Broncos!)

I also had to leave a cautionary Post It note on Mike's desk as I left on Monday afternoon. Mike, who had left early in the day for an appointment, left me and Stephanie to our own devices. 8 total screenings later, this is the note I left him. "I give you permission to fire me for the horrendous size of the wait list after today." (John McCain's kids are cool and go to Brophy!)

Without getting too technical on ya, every client who wants to enter the shelter has to go through the screening process before we put them on the wait list. We usually keep our wait list to about 3-5 families so that it doesn't become too long (Wooooo! Brophy!). That way, we can guarantee anybody who gets on the list a spot before the end of the week.

Monday morning, there were only 2 families on said list.

By Monday afternoon there were 10 families on the wait list. Britty fail.(Let's go Brophy! Let's go!)

It was almost a gift that I didn't have to come into the office Tuesday morning to deal with the repercussions of the previous day -- which was primarily my fault, since I kept telling people over the phone to come in for a screening. (Fact: Brophy's school colors are modeled off of Santa Clara University's red and white) I never expected ALL of them to be knocking on our door.

Alas, Tuesday, I didn't have to hear Mike's screams when he looked at the list (according to tradition, Brophy's mascot of a Bronco is also borrowed from Santa Clara). Instead, I was stuck in a computer room all day long getting trained on Homeless Management Information System, or HMIS. (The nation's fastest runner of the 100, is currently a sophomore at Brophy and is predicted to be an Olympic competitor) I was doing some screaming of my own, but mine was only to myself and kept silently to myself. Janice, the technology guru, is a wonderful person. But it still wasn't the most exciting event to ever occur.(Brophy football on the otherhand...)

Today, I'm back at work. I have been "awarded"-- if that's the right word for it -- my first ever clients. I have two families, both are single parents. My first client was supposed to come in for his Intake this morning, but had to cancel due to an eye appointment. So I've spent the majority of the day further practicing on HMIS, before I'm thrown to the lions tomorrow...

(I wish I was a boy, so that I could go to Brophy!)

*NOTICE-- it has come to my attention that any person who has a Google Alerts account is routed to my blog IF it contains any of the keywords they are currently searching for. Some Google Alerts users even receive alerts to their phone, so if I put up any post with the keyword within it, they receive an immediate notification email. Now, for all of those who might be technologically unsavvy, Google Alerts are email updates based on your choice of query or topic. In other words, if somebody is signed up for a Google Alert pertaining to anything regarding, say, Brophy College Preparatory, they might be directed here purely for this sentence.

Alright, meow. Brophy, this one's for you.**