There are a number of things I should be doing right now--calling to make various doctor's appointments, for one thing, starting the next batch of editing for another thing, doing a copyediting test for a third, rerere-editing the dissertation proposal for my client for a fourth, and taking a nap, because tonight is Bob and Elvis and I've been fighting off a cold for two days and am tired. That's because so far today I have shlepped to Bed, Bath and Beyond (Brita filters), Walgreen's (contact lens solution and ibuprofen), and Whole Paycheck (frozen veggies and some zinc lozenges)--and, in my case, shlepping means walking or taking the bus to get there, and taking all the crap home on a bus, so it really is a shlep. A visit to the bank was supposed to be in that list, but the bus was crowded (it being morning rush hour) and I had a seat (because i got on at the beginning of the line), so I decided to bail on that but might do it later.
I also went to the courthouse today to file our divorce papers, which involved going down there, finding out what I was still missing, getting something notarized (which involves an elevator from the 8th floor to the 1st floor and another elevator to the 12th floor, because of the way the elevators are arranged), going over to Chuck's office, getting his signature on a bunch of stuff plus getting some copies made, and going back to the courthouse to pay them money ($457) and go to a different counter to get a court date. The websites for the Clerk of the Court, not to mention every bit of advice you can find in a book or online, all suggest that getting a court date could take a couple of months. Our date? Next Monday. Which suits me just fine. I was going to say, "which makes me happy," but there isn't a single goddamned thing about this that makes me happy. We're doing what we need to do, there isn't any doubt in my mind about that, but this is certainly not what either of us had in mind in June 2005, and there isn't anything about it that's happy-making.
I still haven't told you all about the Church of Bruce, but that's going to have to wait. I also want to comment at length on kstyle's post about taking interest, and a few other things i can't remember right now, but I need to take a shower and shlep back downtown. Without a nap.
Monday, October 29, 2007
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Iiiiii don't wanna work . . . .
I wanna bang on the drum all day.
Though for Mickey and company, that IS their work, and a fine job they do, too. For anyone who likes percussion, I strongly recommend the CD (Global Drum Project), which features, in addition to Mickey Hart, Zakir Hussain, Sikiru Adepoju (talking drum) and Giovanni Hidalgo (Latin percussion, the liner notes say--lots of different bongos on stage, and he's got the fastest hands ever). Mickey and Zakir started off by "playing" two gnarly pieces of wood--some old-growth grapevine, and some old-growth redwood--that had been miked somehow. The whole show was pretty fabulous. It was also interesting in that we were sitting in the balcony and could see everything on stage, and, while they use some recorded electronic bits, what it was about was drumming. Simplicity itself--and yet, the music was wonderfully complex.
It made me think of the work that I do, really. Take a baguette, for example. A good one is made from four ingredients: flour, water, salt, yeast. That's it. Or even my croissants--in addition to those four ingredients, add milk, butter (basically two forms of milk fat), sugar, and a pinch of malt. That's not a lot of ingredients, but the result can be spectacular. Today, for example, the croissants were all a thing of beauty, and it almost made it worthwhile for me to look at them and realize the hand I had in their production. (Phil's hand is the other one: I've encouraged him to bake them darker than they had been baked before, and he's listened, so they're even better. If I'd opened my own bakery, I'd've hired him just to bake my croissants. I can tell by looking whether he or the night guy baked them.)
There were some funny things at the concert, too. It was at a local community college arts center, so there were paintings and photos and such in the lobby. (Including, in a glass case, a display called "A Tribute to the Native American." Because there is only one. Either that, or the multitude of tribes that lived here before we showed up were sufficiently similar that they can be lumped together.) There were also paintings, several of which I glimpsed as we went in, and kind of liked. I should note that I know very little--next to nothing--about art. I know names enough to do crossword puzzles, but I know nothing about art history and I don't much like art museums. In any case, the program had info about the various things at the center, not just the evening's concert, and the artist who had created the paintings I'd noticed wrote about her own work as follows:
My work is created in a highly idiosyncratic manner with an obscure darkness lingering beneath the surface. The surreal narratives permeate the intermingling relationships between tangled membranes, pancake brooches, fluffy abstract sea creatures, and floral firecrackers. With radiantly rich pours of paint, it looks at times as though the surface might erupt off the canvas and squirt into space. Decadent and detailed imagery springs from a personal consciousness that effuses rhythm, flowering complexities and decorative disturbances. Attempting to articulate private thought, I play with the language of painting itself; the thick viscosity of paint pours and marbleized drizzles that sometimes relate themselves to tendrils and stems of brilliant hues are contained by thin decorative black ink, similar to ornamental filigree. The ubiquitous scheme of decorative decadence lends itself to a dream like ornate fantasy.
Umm, yeah, okay. It made me snort and poke my friend as I read it to him, and it made my eyes hurt from rolling them. I liked the paintings, but lordy lou, stay away from words, honey; they ain't your medium. It also seems to me that paintings are the kind of thing that sort of have to stand on their own, you know? If it doesn't work visually, if it has to be explained, then does it work AS a painting? I don't know. I tend to think of art in terms of whether I'd like to look at it, which, I know, is pretty shallow, but I don't have any other way to get at it.
It's like the croissants, again. I was looking at them today, and thinking that their essence requires that they be consumed. Yes, they were extraordinarily pretty today, but you can't frame them, you can't keep or preserve them. They only "work" if you consume them. And, really, it's just food. There's artistry involved, yes, but it's food. I sort of feel the same way about other kinds of art. I can admire the artistry, enjoy it in a multitude of ways, depending on what it is, but, as the Indigo Girls sing, it's only life, after all.
Though for Mickey and company, that IS their work, and a fine job they do, too. For anyone who likes percussion, I strongly recommend the CD (Global Drum Project), which features, in addition to Mickey Hart, Zakir Hussain, Sikiru Adepoju (talking drum) and Giovanni Hidalgo (Latin percussion, the liner notes say--lots of different bongos on stage, and he's got the fastest hands ever). Mickey and Zakir started off by "playing" two gnarly pieces of wood--some old-growth grapevine, and some old-growth redwood--that had been miked somehow. The whole show was pretty fabulous. It was also interesting in that we were sitting in the balcony and could see everything on stage, and, while they use some recorded electronic bits, what it was about was drumming. Simplicity itself--and yet, the music was wonderfully complex.
It made me think of the work that I do, really. Take a baguette, for example. A good one is made from four ingredients: flour, water, salt, yeast. That's it. Or even my croissants--in addition to those four ingredients, add milk, butter (basically two forms of milk fat), sugar, and a pinch of malt. That's not a lot of ingredients, but the result can be spectacular. Today, for example, the croissants were all a thing of beauty, and it almost made it worthwhile for me to look at them and realize the hand I had in their production. (Phil's hand is the other one: I've encouraged him to bake them darker than they had been baked before, and he's listened, so they're even better. If I'd opened my own bakery, I'd've hired him just to bake my croissants. I can tell by looking whether he or the night guy baked them.)
There were some funny things at the concert, too. It was at a local community college arts center, so there were paintings and photos and such in the lobby. (Including, in a glass case, a display called "A Tribute to the Native American." Because there is only one. Either that, or the multitude of tribes that lived here before we showed up were sufficiently similar that they can be lumped together.) There were also paintings, several of which I glimpsed as we went in, and kind of liked. I should note that I know very little--next to nothing--about art. I know names enough to do crossword puzzles, but I know nothing about art history and I don't much like art museums. In any case, the program had info about the various things at the center, not just the evening's concert, and the artist who had created the paintings I'd noticed wrote about her own work as follows:
My work is created in a highly idiosyncratic manner with an obscure darkness lingering beneath the surface. The surreal narratives permeate the intermingling relationships between tangled membranes, pancake brooches, fluffy abstract sea creatures, and floral firecrackers. With radiantly rich pours of paint, it looks at times as though the surface might erupt off the canvas and squirt into space. Decadent and detailed imagery springs from a personal consciousness that effuses rhythm, flowering complexities and decorative disturbances. Attempting to articulate private thought, I play with the language of painting itself; the thick viscosity of paint pours and marbleized drizzles that sometimes relate themselves to tendrils and stems of brilliant hues are contained by thin decorative black ink, similar to ornamental filigree. The ubiquitous scheme of decorative decadence lends itself to a dream like ornate fantasy.
Umm, yeah, okay. It made me snort and poke my friend as I read it to him, and it made my eyes hurt from rolling them. I liked the paintings, but lordy lou, stay away from words, honey; they ain't your medium. It also seems to me that paintings are the kind of thing that sort of have to stand on their own, you know? If it doesn't work visually, if it has to be explained, then does it work AS a painting? I don't know. I tend to think of art in terms of whether I'd like to look at it, which, I know, is pretty shallow, but I don't have any other way to get at it.
It's like the croissants, again. I was looking at them today, and thinking that their essence requires that they be consumed. Yes, they were extraordinarily pretty today, but you can't frame them, you can't keep or preserve them. They only "work" if you consume them. And, really, it's just food. There's artistry involved, yes, but it's food. I sort of feel the same way about other kinds of art. I can admire the artistry, enjoy it in a multitude of ways, depending on what it is, but, as the Indigo Girls sing, it's only life, after all.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Bits of Factuality
Oh, where to begin . . .
I don't think I can fit everything into one post, so I think I'll just do a factual recap here and then muse about shit in other posts.
First off, I have heard exactly nothing about the job for which I interviewed two weeks ago today (and for which I sacrificed, oh, $90 of pay). I sent an email that day, saying thanks, and sent another last Friday saying hey, still interested, and I'll be home Monday if you need anything like my references . . . and . . . nothing. I am not encouraged by this, needless to say, but, luckily, I have not permitted myself to think about this job very much. When I do, I want it so badly I can taste it--I begin to dream of a comma in every paycheck, of health care that covers everything and for which I do not have to pay out of pocket, of a job that pays enough such that I don't have to work 70 fucking hours a week. Given the whining that I've done in this space, you can see why I have decided that just not thinking about it, and resigning myself to not getting it, is the best possible strategy. Plus, it encourages me to keep moving toward Plan E, even though I haven't actually DONE anything to implement that plan except recognize that I should, because I've been too busy working and having fun. (That plan, you may remember, involves lining up a few more publishers as copyediting/proofreading clients and just doing that work full time.)
The bakery, well, it's the same. Woody's been the past three days, because we got a new oven on Wednesday and, while helping with it somehow, he apparently injured his wrist. The exact nature of the injury is unclear, along with whether Woody's going to return or, if he is, when. The new oven has been a process rather than an event. First the old oven had to be removed--keep in mind that the oven is about 8 feet high and has a footprint of about 25 square feet, so it's not exactly a small piece of equipment--which was a daylong project Tuesday, and during the end of which Woody got injured. Wednesday the new oven came in, in pieces. It was assembled over Wednesday and Thursday, and today it was in use, but this whole process has meant that Bossman was preoccupied (and doing a lot of the installation work), plus Woody hasn't been seen, so we've been minus two pair of hands. It's been pretty grueling without Lole. Mike helps out with the shaping somewhat--though not today, when I was swamped--and he's been making my dough for me (about which I'm pleased, because that means I don't have to schlep two 50-pound bags of flour at the end of each day), but it's not the same as the excellent arrangement I had with Lole. He and I divvied up the croissant-making tasks each day, sometimes discussing the coming week, and he could do nearly everything that I did. (I did all of the scheduling of production, including figuring out what we'd make on which day, and how much we'd make. He had a vague notion of what I was doing with that, too, and if he hadn't decided to leave, I would have trained him fully on that.) I hate it, though, every fucking day, and I'm trying to reassure myself that I can quit at the end of December. I don't know whether I really can afford to do that--I must implement Plan E and it must actually work for me to do that in a non-foolish manner--but I fear for my mental and physical health if I don't.
The concerts--I have gone to three so far, two Bruce and one Mickey, and they've all been quite spectacular. I have much to say about Bruce, as you might imagine--let me also say that, if you have the opportunity, you should actually go to one of his concerts. Without going into detail about the concerts themselves, I'll tell you a little about my attendance. Sunday night, well, let's just say that I was neither the oldest nor the greyest-haired person in the vicinity, and I'm both oldish and greyish. But the audience rocked as hard as Bruce did--we were standing nearly the whole night. There was a decided lack of the cellphone-mediated experience I noted at the DMB concert at Alpine; an age thing, perhaps? Dunno. My seat had truly excellent sightlines, though I was at the opposite end of the arena; coulda used a new prescription for my glasses, or Friend's binoculars, but made do without either. Getting home was a complete pain in the ass, as the buses don't all run late on Sunday night, but whatever.
Monday Friend was going with me, despite his history of disdain for the Boss (longish not very interesting story there). I had scored two general admission--i.e., floor--tickets, which meant we'd (a) be standing for the whole concert and (b) have an opportunity to stand Really Close to the stage. Bruce does a lottery thing, wherein if you have a GA ticket, you show up day of show with your ticket, get a numbered wristband and a hole punched in your ticket, and come back (if you've left) at 5:00 pm. Around then, the officials in charge draw a number. That number is the wristband number for the first person to be admitted. About the first 500 people get into the "pit," i.e., the front section that's close to the stage. I duly got my wristband, and meanwhile called Friend (who had urged me to try to get into the pit, but who hadn't intended to do so himself, as he was working and we didn't think he could get there in time to get a wristband before they ran out) and said, get your ass over here and get a wristband, because there will be enough for you. He hauled ass in a serious way--walked (or, rather, trotted) a couple of miles, because buses didn't show up--and got his wristband. Twenty minutes later they picked a number. Now, remember that there was a two-hour gap between our wristband-getting endeavors, and, therefore about 150 numbers. Also note that there were about 800 wristbands handed out, but only about 500 people would get into the pit. Short version? Friend ended up dead center, about 6 people back from the stage, and I ended up in the not-in-the-pit part of the general admission roundup.
He kept being semi-apologetic--wanting to somehow transfer his luck/wristbands to me--but I would have none of it. (I think he was kind of excited, too.) The way I figured it, he would be placed such that he could experience the full Power & Glory of Bruce, up close and personal, and I didn't think there was any possible way he could hate it. I've seen Bruce maybe 25+ times at this point, at least twice from very close up (e.g., the third row), and if only one of us could be in the pit, I wanted it to be him. The best would have been if we'd both been that close--and if I'd thought about it at the time, I would have asked the wristband dispensers to cut off my old one and give me a new one closer in number to his, though who knows if they would have done that--but I much preferred that he get the good spot than that I did. I didn't know I'd feel that way, but there you have it.
Anyway, it's late, I'm tired, and I haven't even told you about Mickey yet. Hell, I haven't told you about the Church of Bruce yet, either, or about kstyle's philosophical thoughts, or anything else. But tomorrow I have to shape all the dough I didn't get to shape today, so I must sleep. I'm also having dinner with a pastry school friend, and Sunday I am getting a massage--a long one. Given all of the concert-going and such I probably shouldn't indulge myself, but I'm gonna anyway.
I don't think I can fit everything into one post, so I think I'll just do a factual recap here and then muse about shit in other posts.
First off, I have heard exactly nothing about the job for which I interviewed two weeks ago today (and for which I sacrificed, oh, $90 of pay). I sent an email that day, saying thanks, and sent another last Friday saying hey, still interested, and I'll be home Monday if you need anything like my references . . . and . . . nothing. I am not encouraged by this, needless to say, but, luckily, I have not permitted myself to think about this job very much. When I do, I want it so badly I can taste it--I begin to dream of a comma in every paycheck, of health care that covers everything and for which I do not have to pay out of pocket, of a job that pays enough such that I don't have to work 70 fucking hours a week. Given the whining that I've done in this space, you can see why I have decided that just not thinking about it, and resigning myself to not getting it, is the best possible strategy. Plus, it encourages me to keep moving toward Plan E, even though I haven't actually DONE anything to implement that plan except recognize that I should, because I've been too busy working and having fun. (That plan, you may remember, involves lining up a few more publishers as copyediting/proofreading clients and just doing that work full time.)
The bakery, well, it's the same. Woody's been the past three days, because we got a new oven on Wednesday and, while helping with it somehow, he apparently injured his wrist. The exact nature of the injury is unclear, along with whether Woody's going to return or, if he is, when. The new oven has been a process rather than an event. First the old oven had to be removed--keep in mind that the oven is about 8 feet high and has a footprint of about 25 square feet, so it's not exactly a small piece of equipment--which was a daylong project Tuesday, and during the end of which Woody got injured. Wednesday the new oven came in, in pieces. It was assembled over Wednesday and Thursday, and today it was in use, but this whole process has meant that Bossman was preoccupied (and doing a lot of the installation work), plus Woody hasn't been seen, so we've been minus two pair of hands. It's been pretty grueling without Lole. Mike helps out with the shaping somewhat--though not today, when I was swamped--and he's been making my dough for me (about which I'm pleased, because that means I don't have to schlep two 50-pound bags of flour at the end of each day), but it's not the same as the excellent arrangement I had with Lole. He and I divvied up the croissant-making tasks each day, sometimes discussing the coming week, and he could do nearly everything that I did. (I did all of the scheduling of production, including figuring out what we'd make on which day, and how much we'd make. He had a vague notion of what I was doing with that, too, and if he hadn't decided to leave, I would have trained him fully on that.) I hate it, though, every fucking day, and I'm trying to reassure myself that I can quit at the end of December. I don't know whether I really can afford to do that--I must implement Plan E and it must actually work for me to do that in a non-foolish manner--but I fear for my mental and physical health if I don't.
The concerts--I have gone to three so far, two Bruce and one Mickey, and they've all been quite spectacular. I have much to say about Bruce, as you might imagine--let me also say that, if you have the opportunity, you should actually go to one of his concerts. Without going into detail about the concerts themselves, I'll tell you a little about my attendance. Sunday night, well, let's just say that I was neither the oldest nor the greyest-haired person in the vicinity, and I'm both oldish and greyish. But the audience rocked as hard as Bruce did--we were standing nearly the whole night. There was a decided lack of the cellphone-mediated experience I noted at the DMB concert at Alpine; an age thing, perhaps? Dunno. My seat had truly excellent sightlines, though I was at the opposite end of the arena; coulda used a new prescription for my glasses, or Friend's binoculars, but made do without either. Getting home was a complete pain in the ass, as the buses don't all run late on Sunday night, but whatever.
Monday Friend was going with me, despite his history of disdain for the Boss (longish not very interesting story there). I had scored two general admission--i.e., floor--tickets, which meant we'd (a) be standing for the whole concert and (b) have an opportunity to stand Really Close to the stage. Bruce does a lottery thing, wherein if you have a GA ticket, you show up day of show with your ticket, get a numbered wristband and a hole punched in your ticket, and come back (if you've left) at 5:00 pm. Around then, the officials in charge draw a number. That number is the wristband number for the first person to be admitted. About the first 500 people get into the "pit," i.e., the front section that's close to the stage. I duly got my wristband, and meanwhile called Friend (who had urged me to try to get into the pit, but who hadn't intended to do so himself, as he was working and we didn't think he could get there in time to get a wristband before they ran out) and said, get your ass over here and get a wristband, because there will be enough for you. He hauled ass in a serious way--walked (or, rather, trotted) a couple of miles, because buses didn't show up--and got his wristband. Twenty minutes later they picked a number. Now, remember that there was a two-hour gap between our wristband-getting endeavors, and, therefore about 150 numbers. Also note that there were about 800 wristbands handed out, but only about 500 people would get into the pit. Short version? Friend ended up dead center, about 6 people back from the stage, and I ended up in the not-in-the-pit part of the general admission roundup.
He kept being semi-apologetic--wanting to somehow transfer his luck/wristbands to me--but I would have none of it. (I think he was kind of excited, too.) The way I figured it, he would be placed such that he could experience the full Power & Glory of Bruce, up close and personal, and I didn't think there was any possible way he could hate it. I've seen Bruce maybe 25+ times at this point, at least twice from very close up (e.g., the third row), and if only one of us could be in the pit, I wanted it to be him. The best would have been if we'd both been that close--and if I'd thought about it at the time, I would have asked the wristband dispensers to cut off my old one and give me a new one closer in number to his, though who knows if they would have done that--but I much preferred that he get the good spot than that I did. I didn't know I'd feel that way, but there you have it.
Anyway, it's late, I'm tired, and I haven't even told you about Mickey yet. Hell, I haven't told you about the Church of Bruce yet, either, or about kstyle's philosophical thoughts, or anything else. But tomorrow I have to shape all the dough I didn't get to shape today, so I must sleep. I'm also having dinner with a pastry school friend, and Sunday I am getting a massage--a long one. Given all of the concert-going and such I probably shouldn't indulge myself, but I'm gonna anyway.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Washing U
I was going to say, "The down side to Lole leaving . . .," but there isn't an up side, merely multiple down sides. The most notable one this week is that I'm back to doing somewhere around 90% of the croissant production. Mike, the new guy, has been helping me shape and put stuff on pans, and he's made the dough all week (and done a mighty fine job), and I think I'm going to get him going on the laminating next week, too. And he seems pretty okay on this stuff. He's not quite as entertaining as Lole, but, hey, just having good help is enough for me. As I've been doing all of the lifting again--because I've been doing all of the laminating again--I'm definitely noticing a difference. Turns out that lifting 17 pounds of dough plus sheetpan an additional 48 to 60 times a day makes a difference.
Phil, meanwhile, is quite tired of Woody, I think. Certainly I hear a fair number of complaints, and Phil's not a complainer, at all. Woody can't seem to make the dough well or consistently--as noted, I can tell from across the table who made the sourdough dough. And today Woody had his boxers in a bunch about our dishwasher. We've been inspected by the health department, is where this started. This has happened at least twice before since I've been there, and we've never had serious problems, but this last inspector seemed to think she was at a fine-dining restaurant. I'm sorry if I'm bursting anyone's bubbles here, but (a) we are a 24-hour-a-day operation, which means that any cleaning will become inundated with flour within minutes, (b) we are in an old building (the original bakery part was first used as a bakery in, oh, about 1930, I think?), so there's a certain cumulative effect, (c) we don't use raw meat--in fact, the only meat in the place is the processed ham I use for croissants--or fish or poultry, which is where a lot of contamination arises, and (d), we bake everything at around 400 to 500 degrees. (It's my firm opinion that anything that survives that deserves to live.) Do I think we could be cleaner? Yes, absolutely. Do I think we're going to make anyone sick or kill anyone? Nope, not even a little. But the inspector Was Not Pleased, and was even less pleased (though our score improved) the second time through. She's coming back yet again on Wednesday, so there's a certain amount of tizzy going on.
The reason Woody has his boxers so bunched is that Dishguy does not, let us say, observe every rule in the sanitation handbook. Hell, I doubt he could read it, even if it were in Spanish. And, really, he's not entirely understanding what's being asked of him, health-inspector-wise, but Woody's all het up about it. He informed me today that he's getting "so mad" at him, and I just didn't know what to say. Dishguy is friendly, cheerful, and hardworking--he puts the rest of us to shame. He cleans up after us, and, if you can communicate what you want, or get one of the Hispanic guys to translate, he'll do his best for you. Does he really understand about soaking cleaning cloths in bleach water/sanitizer? No fucking way. He also doesn't quite get why he can't use the usual sink he uses to wash stuff on some days. (We have a big pot sink in the back of the bakery, but you're supposed to use the three-compartment sink to wash dishes, not that one. One compartment is supposed to have hot soapy water, the second is supposed to have rinse water, and the third is supposed to have sanitizer and water. You've likely seen a variation on this arrangement behind every bar you've attended. We have the equipment for that arrangement, but we do not use it. Again, if I thought we were putting anyone in the least bit of danger, I'd be way more concerned.
Hmm. I had quite a bit more, but TextEdit just ate it, for some reason. Whatever.
There was some actual good news this week, too. On Tuesday, Bossman informed me that I have two weeks' vacation coming, and did I want to take off or just take the pay. I'm taking the pay--Friend is trying to convince me to take off and make them cope without me, but I'd rather have the money. I've got to pay for my fun somehow--and, indeed, much fun is scheduled for the coming week. Bruce on Sunday AND Monday--Monday with a general admission ticket, which means if I were motivated and lucky, I could end up in the first 16 rows--and then Mickey Hart and some drummers on Thursday, and then Bob Dylan and Elvis Costello the following Monday. And I'm hoping to file the divorce papers that day, too. And today I got in the mail both a check for some work I did and one of the Bruce tickets--how bad a day can it be when you get that kind of mail?
You'll notice I've made no mention of the job for which I interviewed. That's because (a) I haven't heard anything yet, which, given that they wanted to "move quickly" on this, doesn't bode well, at least not in my head, and (b) I have tried very hard to Not Think About It. I'm going to be crushed when I don't get it, as it is, and thinking about it will only increase the weight of the crushing. Thus, I'm sticking with the current plan--take on as much editing as I possibly can manage, find some additional clients somehow, and quit the bakery, perhaps even by the end of the year. I don't know if I can hold out much longer than that, and even holding out that long will be a struggle; I hate it, every day, even though I manage to maintain a pretty good mood and manage to be entertained most of the day. It's bad enough that I hate it; maintaining a bad mood would only escalate everything.
Phil, meanwhile, is quite tired of Woody, I think. Certainly I hear a fair number of complaints, and Phil's not a complainer, at all. Woody can't seem to make the dough well or consistently--as noted, I can tell from across the table who made the sourdough dough. And today Woody had his boxers in a bunch about our dishwasher. We've been inspected by the health department, is where this started. This has happened at least twice before since I've been there, and we've never had serious problems, but this last inspector seemed to think she was at a fine-dining restaurant. I'm sorry if I'm bursting anyone's bubbles here, but (a) we are a 24-hour-a-day operation, which means that any cleaning will become inundated with flour within minutes, (b) we are in an old building (the original bakery part was first used as a bakery in, oh, about 1930, I think?), so there's a certain cumulative effect, (c) we don't use raw meat--in fact, the only meat in the place is the processed ham I use for croissants--or fish or poultry, which is where a lot of contamination arises, and (d), we bake everything at around 400 to 500 degrees. (It's my firm opinion that anything that survives that deserves to live.) Do I think we could be cleaner? Yes, absolutely. Do I think we're going to make anyone sick or kill anyone? Nope, not even a little. But the inspector Was Not Pleased, and was even less pleased (though our score improved) the second time through. She's coming back yet again on Wednesday, so there's a certain amount of tizzy going on.
The reason Woody has his boxers so bunched is that Dishguy does not, let us say, observe every rule in the sanitation handbook. Hell, I doubt he could read it, even if it were in Spanish. And, really, he's not entirely understanding what's being asked of him, health-inspector-wise, but Woody's all het up about it. He informed me today that he's getting "so mad" at him, and I just didn't know what to say. Dishguy is friendly, cheerful, and hardworking--he puts the rest of us to shame. He cleans up after us, and, if you can communicate what you want, or get one of the Hispanic guys to translate, he'll do his best for you. Does he really understand about soaking cleaning cloths in bleach water/sanitizer? No fucking way. He also doesn't quite get why he can't use the usual sink he uses to wash stuff on some days. (We have a big pot sink in the back of the bakery, but you're supposed to use the three-compartment sink to wash dishes, not that one. One compartment is supposed to have hot soapy water, the second is supposed to have rinse water, and the third is supposed to have sanitizer and water. You've likely seen a variation on this arrangement behind every bar you've attended. We have the equipment for that arrangement, but we do not use it. Again, if I thought we were putting anyone in the least bit of danger, I'd be way more concerned.
Hmm. I had quite a bit more, but TextEdit just ate it, for some reason. Whatever.
There was some actual good news this week, too. On Tuesday, Bossman informed me that I have two weeks' vacation coming, and did I want to take off or just take the pay. I'm taking the pay--Friend is trying to convince me to take off and make them cope without me, but I'd rather have the money. I've got to pay for my fun somehow--and, indeed, much fun is scheduled for the coming week. Bruce on Sunday AND Monday--Monday with a general admission ticket, which means if I were motivated and lucky, I could end up in the first 16 rows--and then Mickey Hart and some drummers on Thursday, and then Bob Dylan and Elvis Costello the following Monday. And I'm hoping to file the divorce papers that day, too. And today I got in the mail both a check for some work I did and one of the Bruce tickets--how bad a day can it be when you get that kind of mail?
You'll notice I've made no mention of the job for which I interviewed. That's because (a) I haven't heard anything yet, which, given that they wanted to "move quickly" on this, doesn't bode well, at least not in my head, and (b) I have tried very hard to Not Think About It. I'm going to be crushed when I don't get it, as it is, and thinking about it will only increase the weight of the crushing. Thus, I'm sticking with the current plan--take on as much editing as I possibly can manage, find some additional clients somehow, and quit the bakery, perhaps even by the end of the year. I don't know if I can hold out much longer than that, and even holding out that long will be a struggle; I hate it, every day, even though I manage to maintain a pretty good mood and manage to be entertained most of the day. It's bad enough that I hate it; maintaining a bad mood would only escalate everything.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Pennies
How I wish--O! so fervently!--that I had an alternative to the Microsoft Office products. Yes, I know there are alternatives out there, but my clients use Office, so I must, too, and I hate it, with the white-hot heat of 10,000 suns. it is so very, very dysfunctional. I consider myself a reasonably expert user--I can use styles, for example, if there's noone else using that document who is going to fuck up the styles--but it just freezes and breaks and wtf. I suspect part of it is that I'm using a Mac, but I've lived in the Windows world, too, and it's just awful. Take yesterday's adventures: I went to mactopia and found the latest update (from January, but whatever) and installed it . . . and then all of my toolbars were broke, plus all of my macros--and I had, oh, 20 or so that I had developed for my copyediting--were gone. Just gone--unrecoverable. Apparently, the newest version of Office for Mac--the one coming out around now?--is changing the macros are handled such that there's no cross-platform compatibility. This isn't necessarily an issue for me, as I don't share, say, workbooks with macros in them, but what a pain in the ass. I'd give up on it entirely if I didn't need to track changes in documents that I'm editing.
The weather here has finally changed. The list of things I have to do when that happens grows a little each year--or, perhaps, it just seems like more. Switching my clothes out isn't that big a deal, not least because I now have an abundance of closet space. I also have to crank up the vaporizer (I woke up at 2:30 am Saturday night, barely able to breathe, so I filled it and I'm better now; it's a little amazing what a huge difference that makes). I have to start slathering my body with lotion after I shower, but, in part because of my job, my fingers still crack sometimes. Getting dressed takes longer--all those layers of clothing; back when I practiced yoga and played handball, that was even more of a pain, because it meant changing several times in a day. The bathroom doesn't have a radiator, so I have to run the shower for awhile so it's not cold in there when I get in the shower. But I can switch back to flannel sheets, which I adore, so it's not all bad. Still, I think I'd trade the flannel sheets for not having to stand on the train platform with cold, damp air swirling around my legs.
I already have a ticket (and a decent one) for the Sunday Bruce show--but now I'm trying to score a floor ticket for the Monday show, and may even have found one. That means I'm probably going to exceed my entertainment budget for the month, but what's the point of doing all the side work if I can't do things like that once in awhile? In fact, that's precisely why I've been willing to take on all the extra work I can get: so I don't have to count every damned penny. I still do that, insofar as I track what I'm spending, and on what, but it's not the anxiety of looking at the checkbook, and looking at the bills, and wondering how I'm going to get them on the same planet.
I've been in that situation--for more than 10 years, as a matter of fact, from about 1981 until, oh, about 1995--and, as J and I have discussed repeatedly, it wears you down. I can't even imagine what it's like when it's the only circumstance you know, or when you're trying to support your kids, too, or when, say, your kids get sick or hurt. I still have a certain amount of anxiety around it, as you all have seen displayed here, but it has lessened gradually over the past 18 months. I still get a little anxious (okay, more than a little) about what I'm going to do next, how I'm going to get out of the bakery, blah, blah, blah, but I have irons in various fires, and we'll just see what happens first. I think even if I got a day job that only required, say, 40 hours a week for a decent salary plus benefits I would continue to take on editing projects as offered; hell, if I can fit the work in when I'm working 50 to 60 hours a week, I can certainly fit it in when I'm working fewer hours, and that would mean paying off the student loan sooner and maybe increasing retirement savings while I'm at it.
Speaking of your kids getting sick or hurt, Paul Krugman got it exactly right: "I don’t know about you, but I think American children who need medical care should get it, period. Even if you think adults have made bad choices — a baseless smear in the case of the Frosts, but put that on one side — only a truly vicious political movement would respond by punishing their injured children." That's really at the heart of it all. Either we take care of each other, or we don't. Will there be some people who exploit whatever system is in place for their own benefit? Of course; look at all those executives who get exorbitant pay even when their companies have gone into the toilet or when they've had to cut jobs (never their own, of course) or when they get their money on the sweat of the workers. I wouldn't say that those executives don't deserve health care, for example, no matter how many people they've exploited. And everyone else deserves it, too. I've always said that I want the same health care plan as my representatives in Congress, and the same retirement security as well. Seems fair, no?
The weather here has finally changed. The list of things I have to do when that happens grows a little each year--or, perhaps, it just seems like more. Switching my clothes out isn't that big a deal, not least because I now have an abundance of closet space. I also have to crank up the vaporizer (I woke up at 2:30 am Saturday night, barely able to breathe, so I filled it and I'm better now; it's a little amazing what a huge difference that makes). I have to start slathering my body with lotion after I shower, but, in part because of my job, my fingers still crack sometimes. Getting dressed takes longer--all those layers of clothing; back when I practiced yoga and played handball, that was even more of a pain, because it meant changing several times in a day. The bathroom doesn't have a radiator, so I have to run the shower for awhile so it's not cold in there when I get in the shower. But I can switch back to flannel sheets, which I adore, so it's not all bad. Still, I think I'd trade the flannel sheets for not having to stand on the train platform with cold, damp air swirling around my legs.
I already have a ticket (and a decent one) for the Sunday Bruce show--but now I'm trying to score a floor ticket for the Monday show, and may even have found one. That means I'm probably going to exceed my entertainment budget for the month, but what's the point of doing all the side work if I can't do things like that once in awhile? In fact, that's precisely why I've been willing to take on all the extra work I can get: so I don't have to count every damned penny. I still do that, insofar as I track what I'm spending, and on what, but it's not the anxiety of looking at the checkbook, and looking at the bills, and wondering how I'm going to get them on the same planet.
I've been in that situation--for more than 10 years, as a matter of fact, from about 1981 until, oh, about 1995--and, as J and I have discussed repeatedly, it wears you down. I can't even imagine what it's like when it's the only circumstance you know, or when you're trying to support your kids, too, or when, say, your kids get sick or hurt. I still have a certain amount of anxiety around it, as you all have seen displayed here, but it has lessened gradually over the past 18 months. I still get a little anxious (okay, more than a little) about what I'm going to do next, how I'm going to get out of the bakery, blah, blah, blah, but I have irons in various fires, and we'll just see what happens first. I think even if I got a day job that only required, say, 40 hours a week for a decent salary plus benefits I would continue to take on editing projects as offered; hell, if I can fit the work in when I'm working 50 to 60 hours a week, I can certainly fit it in when I'm working fewer hours, and that would mean paying off the student loan sooner and maybe increasing retirement savings while I'm at it.
Speaking of your kids getting sick or hurt, Paul Krugman got it exactly right: "I don’t know about you, but I think American children who need medical care should get it, period. Even if you think adults have made bad choices — a baseless smear in the case of the Frosts, but put that on one side — only a truly vicious political movement would respond by punishing their injured children." That's really at the heart of it all. Either we take care of each other, or we don't. Will there be some people who exploit whatever system is in place for their own benefit? Of course; look at all those executives who get exorbitant pay even when their companies have gone into the toilet or when they've had to cut jobs (never their own, of course) or when they get their money on the sweat of the workers. I wouldn't say that those executives don't deserve health care, for example, no matter how many people they've exploited. And everyone else deserves it, too. I've always said that I want the same health care plan as my representatives in Congress, and the same retirement security as well. Seems fair, no?
Friday, October 12, 2007
In which . . .
the laminatrix has a job interview.
Downtown.
Doing grants and proposal management.
No idea how it Really went, but I gave it my best shot.
It would so rock.
In addition: the cat has died (yesterday), as has my mother's best friend's husband--the latter was a surprise, the former not. (My mother and said friend have been friends for nearly 70 years.) And the woman who was an intern at the bakery this summer dropped by yesterday, asked to talk to me privately, and then told me she had just been diagnosed with leukemia, wanted me to tell Bossman, but didn't want everyone else in the kitchen to know. No, she doesn't have any health insurance.
So it's been a confluence.
So I'm going to bed.
Downtown.
Doing grants and proposal management.
No idea how it Really went, but I gave it my best shot.
It would so rock.
In addition: the cat has died (yesterday), as has my mother's best friend's husband--the latter was a surprise, the former not. (My mother and said friend have been friends for nearly 70 years.) And the woman who was an intern at the bakery this summer dropped by yesterday, asked to talk to me privately, and then told me she had just been diagnosed with leukemia, wanted me to tell Bossman, but didn't want everyone else in the kitchen to know. No, she doesn't have any health insurance.
So it's been a confluence.
So I'm going to bed.
Sunday, October 7, 2007
In Which I Laminate Do Stuff
In which I pay too much attention:
The radio station to which Artie listens (when I'm lucky; he listens to a Lite station when I'm not) advertises itself as the "true" oldies station. Then there are the clothing catalogues that describe the fit of some of their pants as "authentic" or "true." Or how about the television shows that advertise an "all-new" episode? Or the commercial that has the dad announcing that "in this house, noone uses drugs"?
What, pray tell, would a fake oldies station play? And what would an inauthentic fit be, exactly? And are some episodes only partly new? Does an all-new episode include an all-new cast? All-new characters? (It would be entertaining if one of those two things were true--an all-new cast playing the same old characters, or the same old cast playing all new characters.) Does the anti-drug message apply to antibiotics? Antidepressants? Treatments for erectile dysfunction? Sleep aids? Oral contraceptives? Alcohol? No? Then which drugs, exactly? (Actually, i suspect this is a longer rant.)
You've observed me ranting about sports cliches--have you played "he's-the-kinda-guy-who" lately?--but, on some level, I cut them a little slack. They're calling a game, live, and you have to expect a certain amount of infelicitous phrasing.*
However. Someone thought about the infelicities described above--hell, someone probably paid some marketing firm or person big wads of money to come up with those phrases. And I think that's what makes me a little crazier about them than about the sports cliches. Seriously: what the fuck is an authentic fit? (It's what I throw when I'm really peeved.)
*I also note that (a) they do NOT need to fill every single damned second with babble, (b) they have entirely too many factoids at hand, all of which they feel compelled to share, and (c) the proliferation of factoids promotes the wrong kind of attention, e.g., to bizarre little statistics that don't really enhance my watching or enjoying the game at hand. When MJ was still playing basketball here, I'd typically watch the playoffs with the sound down and the local radio broadcast on--not just for the excitement of the announcer, or because he was a home-team supporter, but because he was trying to paint a picture with words, trying to communicate the action, rather than trying to fill airtime. Similarly, I like a well-broadcast baseball game on the radio.
In which I buy things:
Two new pair of shoes, both on sale. One is yet! another! pair of Keens, a winter boot thing, complete with thermal lining of some kind. I have a pair of LLBean boots, but they're neither warm nor comfortable nor convenient, and the Keens were on sale at Footprints, as were Earth shoes. Yes, I had a pair a million years ago (where million = approx. 30), and they went out of business for awhile, but they're baaack. I got them in part because I can feel my calves tightening up every single day. Yes, I could practice yoga daily, but buying shoes is more fun.
In which I eat things:
A loaf of olive sourdough bread, to be specific, between last night and tonight. It was a smallish loaf, but still. With cheese, mind you--a lovely goat cheese today, and something brie-like-but-not-brie last night. And red wine was involved, but only after editing ceased for the evening. And some chocolate. (There's a list for you: bread, olives, cheese, chocolate, and red wine. And tea and honey. I suppose I should eat a vegetable once in awhile, doncha think?)
In which I read things:
I'm rereading Anthony Trollope's The Eustace Diamonds, and I am once again struck by several things. One is Trollope's point of view: he frequently provides judgments about his characters. In this novel, he often points out how unfamiliar Lizzie Eustace is with Truth. He also makes it difficult to completely despise Lizzie, despicable though he tells and shows you she is. Part of the reason, I think, is that Trollope, like Jane Austen, is well aware of the necessity of marrying someone who can and will support you. It almost doesn't matter whether you're male or female: if you don't have an income of your own, then you'd better find someone who has that. He is especially aware of what not having an income means for women (again, like Austen), in that there are few ways that a gentlewoman can earn her keep. Governess is about it, really. Or companion, like Miss Macnulty in the current work. That in itself is interesting: Lizzie must either have another woman with her (Macnulty) or live with another woman (her aunt, at an earlier point in her life), because it is simply not respectable for a woman to live alone.
Men can work in other occupations--minister (or whatever it's called), schoolteacher, barrister or lawyer, and reporter are the occupations of a few of the men who must earn a living--but women don't have those options, and Trollope doesn't romaticize that. He does allow his heroines to marry for love and to find love, and he clearly values that, but he also recognizes the boundaries within which women must operate. (I seem to remember The Way We Live Now as being particularly strong on that point, but I might be mistaken.) One of the guys with whom I used to play handball was writing a dissertation on Trollope many, many years ago--he never finished it, but we discussed Trollope more than once, after handball, which was entertaining on multiple levels. In any case, his dissertation would have argued that Trollope's novels ended when the characters had reestablished the community--or Community--that had become disrupted in some way by some character(s) or situation(s). Which probably would have been an interesting dissertation.
In any case, I highly recommend Trollope (with the exception of Phineas Finn and The Small House at Allington, both of which bored me to no end; if you're a completist, the way I tend to be, skim them as part of the series in which they appear, but don't spend too much time on them). If you're interested, I'll even recommend specific books or the Barsetshire or Palliser series, and you can go to any bookstore and find cheap editions of many of them.
The radio station to which Artie listens (when I'm lucky; he listens to a Lite station when I'm not) advertises itself as the "true" oldies station. Then there are the clothing catalogues that describe the fit of some of their pants as "authentic" or "true." Or how about the television shows that advertise an "all-new" episode? Or the commercial that has the dad announcing that "in this house, noone uses drugs"?
What, pray tell, would a fake oldies station play? And what would an inauthentic fit be, exactly? And are some episodes only partly new? Does an all-new episode include an all-new cast? All-new characters? (It would be entertaining if one of those two things were true--an all-new cast playing the same old characters, or the same old cast playing all new characters.) Does the anti-drug message apply to antibiotics? Antidepressants? Treatments for erectile dysfunction? Sleep aids? Oral contraceptives? Alcohol? No? Then which drugs, exactly? (Actually, i suspect this is a longer rant.)
You've observed me ranting about sports cliches--have you played "he's-the-kinda-guy-who" lately?--but, on some level, I cut them a little slack. They're calling a game, live, and you have to expect a certain amount of infelicitous phrasing.*
However. Someone thought about the infelicities described above--hell, someone probably paid some marketing firm or person big wads of money to come up with those phrases. And I think that's what makes me a little crazier about them than about the sports cliches. Seriously: what the fuck is an authentic fit? (It's what I throw when I'm really peeved.)
*I also note that (a) they do NOT need to fill every single damned second with babble, (b) they have entirely too many factoids at hand, all of which they feel compelled to share, and (c) the proliferation of factoids promotes the wrong kind of attention, e.g., to bizarre little statistics that don't really enhance my watching or enjoying the game at hand. When MJ was still playing basketball here, I'd typically watch the playoffs with the sound down and the local radio broadcast on--not just for the excitement of the announcer, or because he was a home-team supporter, but because he was trying to paint a picture with words, trying to communicate the action, rather than trying to fill airtime. Similarly, I like a well-broadcast baseball game on the radio.
In which I buy things:
Two new pair of shoes, both on sale. One is yet! another! pair of Keens, a winter boot thing, complete with thermal lining of some kind. I have a pair of LLBean boots, but they're neither warm nor comfortable nor convenient, and the Keens were on sale at Footprints, as were Earth shoes. Yes, I had a pair a million years ago (where million = approx. 30), and they went out of business for awhile, but they're baaack. I got them in part because I can feel my calves tightening up every single day. Yes, I could practice yoga daily, but buying shoes is more fun.
In which I eat things:
A loaf of olive sourdough bread, to be specific, between last night and tonight. It was a smallish loaf, but still. With cheese, mind you--a lovely goat cheese today, and something brie-like-but-not-brie last night. And red wine was involved, but only after editing ceased for the evening. And some chocolate. (There's a list for you: bread, olives, cheese, chocolate, and red wine. And tea and honey. I suppose I should eat a vegetable once in awhile, doncha think?)
In which I read things:
I'm rereading Anthony Trollope's The Eustace Diamonds, and I am once again struck by several things. One is Trollope's point of view: he frequently provides judgments about his characters. In this novel, he often points out how unfamiliar Lizzie Eustace is with Truth. He also makes it difficult to completely despise Lizzie, despicable though he tells and shows you she is. Part of the reason, I think, is that Trollope, like Jane Austen, is well aware of the necessity of marrying someone who can and will support you. It almost doesn't matter whether you're male or female: if you don't have an income of your own, then you'd better find someone who has that. He is especially aware of what not having an income means for women (again, like Austen), in that there are few ways that a gentlewoman can earn her keep. Governess is about it, really. Or companion, like Miss Macnulty in the current work. That in itself is interesting: Lizzie must either have another woman with her (Macnulty) or live with another woman (her aunt, at an earlier point in her life), because it is simply not respectable for a woman to live alone.
Men can work in other occupations--minister (or whatever it's called), schoolteacher, barrister or lawyer, and reporter are the occupations of a few of the men who must earn a living--but women don't have those options, and Trollope doesn't romaticize that. He does allow his heroines to marry for love and to find love, and he clearly values that, but he also recognizes the boundaries within which women must operate. (I seem to remember The Way We Live Now as being particularly strong on that point, but I might be mistaken.) One of the guys with whom I used to play handball was writing a dissertation on Trollope many, many years ago--he never finished it, but we discussed Trollope more than once, after handball, which was entertaining on multiple levels. In any case, his dissertation would have argued that Trollope's novels ended when the characters had reestablished the community--or Community--that had become disrupted in some way by some character(s) or situation(s). Which probably would have been an interesting dissertation.
In any case, I highly recommend Trollope (with the exception of Phineas Finn and The Small House at Allington, both of which bored me to no end; if you're a completist, the way I tend to be, skim them as part of the series in which they appear, but don't spend too much time on them). If you're interested, I'll even recommend specific books or the Barsetshire or Palliser series, and you can go to any bookstore and find cheap editions of many of them.
Saturday, October 6, 2007
It's Laminated Dead, Jim
Another Woody story: Thursday he asked if I'd ever lived in NY; I said no. Mike asked Woody if he'd ever been there; Woody says no. Then Woody declares that the "food culture" and the fine dining in this city are better than New York. I could not keep my mouth shut and said, "You've never been there! How can you say that?" According to Woody? He reads up on things, reads lots and lots of reviews, knows who's who and what's what in the fine-dining world, so he can tell. Gotcha.
Prior to getting my hair trimmed the other night, I stopped in to the building where I used to live, and found out that my friend the doorman died in August. (Remember that i was on the list to pull the plug on him if necessary?) Which would explain why he wasn't answering the phone at the front desk during what I thought would be his shifts. He was a sweetheart, especially because he liked me; he never thought the marriage would last, though, and he was right. I won't tell Chuck that, of course, and Chuck will be sad to hear the news. I'd thought to tell Chuck on Monday when we went to file our divorce papers, but it turns out that everything's closed Monday for Columbus Day, so the marriage will exist, at least on paper, a little longer.
Apparently the Cubs lost today and the city is in mourning; I haven't been paying attention. As for the Phillies, well, it's unclear whether their postseason run will last the night. Having dropped the two games at home, they're in front of a loud Colorado crowd tonight, so we might be writing an obituary for their season, too.
No need to write the obituary for my iPod just yet, though. I loaded up the new Bruce the other morning, which always makes the iPod cranky; I think there are some hidden incompatibilities, in part because I have such an old iPod and an old iMac. Relatively speaking, anyway. The new Bruce rocks, and I'm looking forward to the concert at the end of the month.
Speaking of obituaries, Friend's cat is dying. Cat has been with Friend's mom since May, because Cat was Displeased that Friend went back to work last year, and was displaying his displeasure in unfortunate and stressful ways. Cat was happy with Mom, who could provide lots of attention, but Mom called this week and said that Cat is failing--skinny, unsteady on his feet, not eating much, etc. Friend zipped up there yesterday and brought Cat back today, so Cat can, perhaps, die at home. Friend didn't really want to take Cat straight from Mom's to the vet for offing, in part because Cat hates the vet, but also, I think, because he wanted to have some time with Cat, and Cat does not appear to be in pain. Can't really eat, and drinking appears difficult, perhaps from strokes?, but not really in pain. So they're hanging out tonight, and, with any luck, Cat will go peacefully in his sleep in the next day or so, and Friend can put the body in the freezer until he can take it to the spot he's picked out. He'd planned on heading back to that location anyway next weekend, and I suspect a visit to the vet will occur if Cat doesn't die on his own. But they'll have had a chance to say goodbye to each other, which, especially given that Cat is 17 or 18 years old, is important. Friend didn't want me to come over, because he doesn't want anyone to see Cat in his current condition, and, I suspect, because he just wants to be with Cat, which is fitting. Cat predates--and outlived--his last/second marriage, for example, and used to go to work with Friend when he was tiny.
I managed to get most of the proofreading done--some of it tonight, even!--such that some (the part that I didn't know was sitting downstairs in the office for a week) will be a little late, but some (the part that is due next Friday) will be early. I'll be able to ship the whole thing off Monday (so long as FedEx doesn't care about Columbus), and I'll have plenty of time tomorrow and Monday to do the copyediting I have. With any luck, I'll get that done by Monday, too, which will enable me to do the OTHER proofreading and finish the copyediting that goes with the Sunday/Monday copyediting. (Got that? That's why I have a calendar.) I've been extraordinarily lucky lately (in general, actually, but especially lately), in that I've been getting a lot of work, but it's been spaced in ways that enable me to do it relatively easily, which means I can actually accept the work. Yes, I'm still working something like 60 or 70 hours a week, but it could be a lot worse.
One way or another, I have to get out of the bakery, as I keep saying, and the work I've been getting is crucial to one version of that plan. That is, getting some cash in the bank will make it easier to leave. I've decided, at least tentatively, to leave at the end of December, at the latest, though the thought of another season of "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" and "Frosty the Snowman" four times a day may send me right over the edge before that. Even though Lole will be around for the next week while Bossman is cruising in the Caribbean somewhere, I can feel my stress levels beginning to rise again already.
I also have decided that I am not doing anything other than croissants if I can possibly help it. Someone else is going to have to assemble orders for mini pastries. Someone else (or, more likely, no one) is going to have to make the little tarts that I've been making for the store. Someone else will have to make the macaroons that Lole makes, and the pastry cream, and the custard cups, and the bread pudding, and the doughs and fillings and such. I'll still help out Phil, when I can, but that's about it. (Speaking of which, Phil thinks very little of Woody's skills--and I can tell in a second whether Woody or Phil made the dough for the little sourdough rolls we send to the Tart, which amuses Phil no end.) Woody has already appropriated Mike (who was originally hired to help Johnnie decorate cakes, but he sucked at it and, I heard today, Johnnie apparently half-threatened to quit). Bossman had suggested that Mike would help me out, but Woody seems to have taken care of that. It will be interesting to see what Bossman does when it comes down to it.
That is, he was used to me doing what needed to be done, and, with Lole around this summer, even though we were producing nearly 4,000 croissants per week (each one shaped by hand, mind you), I was happy to do other things. So now that the croissants are all back on me, and only me? Nope. Same as the not-going-in tomorrow or Monday to do the orders. I used to be willing to do that, but not getting paid for Labor Day pissed me off. Don't want to pay me for Monday holidays? No problem--but I'm not going in on Monday while you're off somewhere, either, especially not when I can make twice as much per hour for editing, and not have to transport myself on my own dime/time while I'm at it. I'm trying very hard to not get vindictive about this, or bitter, but nevertheless hold the line. It's an interesting balance, but one that's useful for my self-preservation. (Friend noted that my stress levels dropped noticeably once Lole came on board full-time, for example, and I'd rather they not rise again.)
The thing is, I really don't like doing things this way. I like being in a position where I can put forth a full effort and be compensated appropriately for it. The bakery isn't such a position, however. Bossman doesn't want to pay people any more than he has to, and he expects everyone wants to work the hours he works (even though Bossman's Wife is constantly shrieking about how he needs to work less, and he works too much, and so on, but don't even get me started on her), and I can look forward to being exploited, basically, for his personal profit, if I put forth that effort. What he hasn't yet figured out--and may not ever figure out, but it's not my job to educate him--is that if he wants to offer the higher-end stuff we've been doing, and wants to offer it regularly, then he has to have someone around other than/in addition to him who can make it. And someone who has that level of skill is either going to be able to get substantially (for this business) more/better compensation in, say, a hotel restaurant, or is only going to stick around for a year or so, meaning a whole new round of training/learning will have to occur, and he's going to have to do it, especially now that Brad's gone and (though he doesn't know it) I'm leaving.
And here's another thing. I basically run the business for him when he goes away, whether it's for three days or a week or whatever. In addition, even when he's there, he just expects me to check in deliveries and such when they occur (because for awhile I was the only person other than him fluent in English), no matter what I happen to be doing. He has never once thanked me or told me I've done a good job or anything like that. It doesn't exactly increase my motivation, you know? Luckily, I'm an adult, and I like him personally, so I'm doing my best to let it slide off my back, rather than getting all wrapped up in it. Flip side, though, he gets two weeks' notice from me, no more, and if he's lucky, that will occur after Christmas. If I'm lucky, it'll occur before that.
Prior to getting my hair trimmed the other night, I stopped in to the building where I used to live, and found out that my friend the doorman died in August. (Remember that i was on the list to pull the plug on him if necessary?) Which would explain why he wasn't answering the phone at the front desk during what I thought would be his shifts. He was a sweetheart, especially because he liked me; he never thought the marriage would last, though, and he was right. I won't tell Chuck that, of course, and Chuck will be sad to hear the news. I'd thought to tell Chuck on Monday when we went to file our divorce papers, but it turns out that everything's closed Monday for Columbus Day, so the marriage will exist, at least on paper, a little longer.
Apparently the Cubs lost today and the city is in mourning; I haven't been paying attention. As for the Phillies, well, it's unclear whether their postseason run will last the night. Having dropped the two games at home, they're in front of a loud Colorado crowd tonight, so we might be writing an obituary for their season, too.
No need to write the obituary for my iPod just yet, though. I loaded up the new Bruce the other morning, which always makes the iPod cranky; I think there are some hidden incompatibilities, in part because I have such an old iPod and an old iMac. Relatively speaking, anyway. The new Bruce rocks, and I'm looking forward to the concert at the end of the month.
Speaking of obituaries, Friend's cat is dying. Cat has been with Friend's mom since May, because Cat was Displeased that Friend went back to work last year, and was displaying his displeasure in unfortunate and stressful ways. Cat was happy with Mom, who could provide lots of attention, but Mom called this week and said that Cat is failing--skinny, unsteady on his feet, not eating much, etc. Friend zipped up there yesterday and brought Cat back today, so Cat can, perhaps, die at home. Friend didn't really want to take Cat straight from Mom's to the vet for offing, in part because Cat hates the vet, but also, I think, because he wanted to have some time with Cat, and Cat does not appear to be in pain. Can't really eat, and drinking appears difficult, perhaps from strokes?, but not really in pain. So they're hanging out tonight, and, with any luck, Cat will go peacefully in his sleep in the next day or so, and Friend can put the body in the freezer until he can take it to the spot he's picked out. He'd planned on heading back to that location anyway next weekend, and I suspect a visit to the vet will occur if Cat doesn't die on his own. But they'll have had a chance to say goodbye to each other, which, especially given that Cat is 17 or 18 years old, is important. Friend didn't want me to come over, because he doesn't want anyone to see Cat in his current condition, and, I suspect, because he just wants to be with Cat, which is fitting. Cat predates--and outlived--his last/second marriage, for example, and used to go to work with Friend when he was tiny.
I managed to get most of the proofreading done--some of it tonight, even!--such that some (the part that I didn't know was sitting downstairs in the office for a week) will be a little late, but some (the part that is due next Friday) will be early. I'll be able to ship the whole thing off Monday (so long as FedEx doesn't care about Columbus), and I'll have plenty of time tomorrow and Monday to do the copyediting I have. With any luck, I'll get that done by Monday, too, which will enable me to do the OTHER proofreading and finish the copyediting that goes with the Sunday/Monday copyediting. (Got that? That's why I have a calendar.) I've been extraordinarily lucky lately (in general, actually, but especially lately), in that I've been getting a lot of work, but it's been spaced in ways that enable me to do it relatively easily, which means I can actually accept the work. Yes, I'm still working something like 60 or 70 hours a week, but it could be a lot worse.
One way or another, I have to get out of the bakery, as I keep saying, and the work I've been getting is crucial to one version of that plan. That is, getting some cash in the bank will make it easier to leave. I've decided, at least tentatively, to leave at the end of December, at the latest, though the thought of another season of "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" and "Frosty the Snowman" four times a day may send me right over the edge before that. Even though Lole will be around for the next week while Bossman is cruising in the Caribbean somewhere, I can feel my stress levels beginning to rise again already.
I also have decided that I am not doing anything other than croissants if I can possibly help it. Someone else is going to have to assemble orders for mini pastries. Someone else (or, more likely, no one) is going to have to make the little tarts that I've been making for the store. Someone else will have to make the macaroons that Lole makes, and the pastry cream, and the custard cups, and the bread pudding, and the doughs and fillings and such. I'll still help out Phil, when I can, but that's about it. (Speaking of which, Phil thinks very little of Woody's skills--and I can tell in a second whether Woody or Phil made the dough for the little sourdough rolls we send to the Tart, which amuses Phil no end.) Woody has already appropriated Mike (who was originally hired to help Johnnie decorate cakes, but he sucked at it and, I heard today, Johnnie apparently half-threatened to quit). Bossman had suggested that Mike would help me out, but Woody seems to have taken care of that. It will be interesting to see what Bossman does when it comes down to it.
That is, he was used to me doing what needed to be done, and, with Lole around this summer, even though we were producing nearly 4,000 croissants per week (each one shaped by hand, mind you), I was happy to do other things. So now that the croissants are all back on me, and only me? Nope. Same as the not-going-in tomorrow or Monday to do the orders. I used to be willing to do that, but not getting paid for Labor Day pissed me off. Don't want to pay me for Monday holidays? No problem--but I'm not going in on Monday while you're off somewhere, either, especially not when I can make twice as much per hour for editing, and not have to transport myself on my own dime/time while I'm at it. I'm trying very hard to not get vindictive about this, or bitter, but nevertheless hold the line. It's an interesting balance, but one that's useful for my self-preservation. (Friend noted that my stress levels dropped noticeably once Lole came on board full-time, for example, and I'd rather they not rise again.)
The thing is, I really don't like doing things this way. I like being in a position where I can put forth a full effort and be compensated appropriately for it. The bakery isn't such a position, however. Bossman doesn't want to pay people any more than he has to, and he expects everyone wants to work the hours he works (even though Bossman's Wife is constantly shrieking about how he needs to work less, and he works too much, and so on, but don't even get me started on her), and I can look forward to being exploited, basically, for his personal profit, if I put forth that effort. What he hasn't yet figured out--and may not ever figure out, but it's not my job to educate him--is that if he wants to offer the higher-end stuff we've been doing, and wants to offer it regularly, then he has to have someone around other than/in addition to him who can make it. And someone who has that level of skill is either going to be able to get substantially (for this business) more/better compensation in, say, a hotel restaurant, or is only going to stick around for a year or so, meaning a whole new round of training/learning will have to occur, and he's going to have to do it, especially now that Brad's gone and (though he doesn't know it) I'm leaving.
And here's another thing. I basically run the business for him when he goes away, whether it's for three days or a week or whatever. In addition, even when he's there, he just expects me to check in deliveries and such when they occur (because for awhile I was the only person other than him fluent in English), no matter what I happen to be doing. He has never once thanked me or told me I've done a good job or anything like that. It doesn't exactly increase my motivation, you know? Luckily, I'm an adult, and I like him personally, so I'm doing my best to let it slide off my back, rather than getting all wrapped up in it. Flip side, though, he gets two weeks' notice from me, no more, and if he's lucky, that will occur after Christmas. If I'm lucky, it'll occur before that.
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