Flotsam

*grumpgrumpgrump* (or, as Friend puts it when I'm complaining even more than usual, Moo, moo, moo) though, really, not everything in this collection is grumpworthy; quite the opposite.

item: The Music Wars at work are getting on my last fucking nerve. Hipster Girl felt compelled to blare the White Stripes yesterday. Artie then blared the holiday music. And so on. My little radio seems to work reasonably well at blocking out objectionable content, and it'll probably get me through the season. HGirl wasn't in today, but Artie nevertheless had the holiday crap on Very Loud, so I politely asked him if he could turn it down a little, and he did, and i thanked him and left it at that. Otherwise, I'm actually a little slow at work (not in the sense of not having anything to do, but definitely in the sense of having about half as much work as I had over the summer), which is fine with me. Cuts into the paycheck, certainly, but it's not as though I'm making huge gobs of money an hour.

item: Menopause can show up ANY TIME now, and it would be fine with me. Certainly it would be an improvement on the cycles that have been the case. Though "cycles" is a misnomer, in that that implies a certain regularity and predictability that have been absent. You know that whole thing about how you're supposed to bleed LESS frequently? My body apparently did not get that email.

item: I did, in fact, get a new laptop (a macbook, if you care), and it showed up Tuesday (yay!). Last night I started setting it up, but managed to fuck things up and get frustrated. And, yes, before I did anything, I did, in fact, RTFM, but the M failed to mention that you Had To Do Everything once you started the process, and I hadn't figured out all the connect-to-the-intertubes bits yet. At one point, you have to choose a picture to represent you, and the computer (which has a built-in camera) automatically offers the option of a snapshot of yourself. Yes, in the middle of my annoyance and disgruntlement, up pops a picture of me with crabbyface on. Needless to say, I did not choose that option, and it did not improve my mood. I will get it figured out eventually, with or without some assistance from Friend, and I'm looking forward to the mobility the laptop will provide, even if I'm still gulping a little at the wad of money I just spent on this.

You may remember that I had a second (or, depending on how you're counting, third) set of interviews on the 19th. I sent an email a week later, i.e., this past Monday (figuring that the holiday in the middle there would make that delay preferable, i.e., not a bunch of crap that needed to be answered right before the holiday), but I have not heard anything at all from anyone. I'm contemplating emailing the original interviewer (the one who thinks I might not have the kind of financial background she thinks she needs) and suggesting I work as a consultant for a few months and then we evaluate. I'll think about that over the weekend.

In relation to this, I'd been sort of fussing in my head lately (yeah, I know) about when to quit the bakery, and what to do in general, and I finally realized I needed an algorithm, or, more likely, several of them, and I've been making some progress on that front. Obviously, an offer for a full-time job trumps everything, but I'm dealing not just with a not-for-profit, but a not-for-profit-with-academics, and that latter provides a multiplicative (rather than merely additive) effect, such that one has the sensation of moving backward. Plus, despite the excellence of the fit, etc., it's certainly possible, perhaps even likely, that they won't actually offer me a job, which is a long-winded way of saying that I'm not counting on it in my plans.

There are a few things I want to do, most notably visit my family, perhaps, and have at least a week, and preferably two, where I can do a lot of nothing around my apartment. That latter actually has a list of chores attached to it, because I have a lot of literal and metaphorical crap rid of which I want to get. When I moved, I was in something of a state, and I didn't sort through my belongings as might perhaps have been useful. This apartment has exceptional amounts of closet space (exceptional especially since the building was built in 1929)--a closet in the living room where the murphy bed used to be, an L-shaped hall closet with two overhead shelves, a built-in set of shelves and drawers (which holds my t-shirts, underwear, socks, athletic gear, winter layers, etc.), and two bedroom closets, one pretty big and both with two overhead shelves. Thus, when I moved in, I unpacked about 90% of my stuff, but that other 10% is just thrown into a closet somewhere. i want to sort through all of that crap, not least because there are a couple of things that I cannot find.

I also want to kind of cleanse myself physically. I eat a lot of sugar and butter and junk at the bakery, despite my efforts in that regard. We make pretty good products, mind you: our puff pastry is made with only butter, none of that greasy fake garbage that Brad used to use, which means the turnovers and palmiers are exceptional. (We had to taste one of each today, and they were quite tasty.) Brad used to claim that customers couldn't tell the difference, but Bossman says that we are selling a lot more turnovers since we switched to all butter, and I believe it. Same with croissants. (Our yellow cake is nasty, IMHO, especially since we changed mixes, but I avoid the yellow cake, so no problem.) The bread rocks and rolls. But there aren't any vegetables in that list, and I find that I can go a couple of days without eating any vegetables at all. Which kind of grosses me out, especially since I used to eat a lot of fruits and, especially, vegetables. I also don't get a lot of fiber or whole grains in there, especially since I stopped eating breakfast.

So I want to change that. I know that trying to change very much while I'm still at the bakery will just be an exercise in frustration. But the job is wrecking me in that way, too. I did get to two yoga classes in the past week, which was good, but my zen shiatsu appointment for yesterday did not occur, as my practitioner has a bad cold. Next week, though. In any case, I'm thinking that a week or two at home, cleaning out my closets and not eating crap, would be a nice transition to whatever else it is I end up doing.

Algorithm-wise, I've decided that I can set a couple of dates: a date to quit the bakery (either the last week in December or the middle of January); a date by which I should assume that things won't work out with the place where I've been interviewing such that I go ahead and start trying to acquire additional clients for the editing work; and a date by which (if that fails or goes too slowly) I try to find temp work. I'll keep applying for full-time work as I see jobs that seem like good prospects, and I may include some financial rules in there (e.g., must apply for temp work if balance drops below $X, no matter what the date is).

Yes, I know, it all seems like it should be obvious, but it hasn't been, at least not to me.

Gobble Gobble Hey

with apologies to the Ramones . . .

So my pumpkin flan is in the oven, turning into custard (we hope), rather than pumpkin soup. Soon I'm going to hunt down a gingerbread cookie recipe, and, once the custard is done, will make some maple pecan praline (pronounced PRAH-li-nay by fancy-ass pastry chef types). The gingerbread cookie needs to be a little crispy, because the plan is to make the cookies sufficiently large to upend a pumpkin flan on top, perhaps a little off-center. I was waffling between gingerbread and ginger cookies, and Bossman noted--and I had thought the same thing--that the cookie would provide some crunch, i.e., a different texture, where gingerbread would just be a different kind of soft.

I'll probably bring some whipped cream, as well, because why not. And the praline will add some crunch. I'm kind of making that one up as I go--I found a recipe for a maple pecan ice cream sauce (on epicurious, which is a great resource, especially if you already have an idea what you want) and I'm going to leave out the cream and spread it on to silpats so it's candy-ish rather than sauce-ish. And then I have some caramel filling that Bossman gave me yesterday (he was filling macarons and had some left over) that I'll probably melt down in the double boiler to incorporate it all and then use that as some swirly bit on the plates. (It was kind of funny: I looked in the bowl where the filling was sitting and said, hmm, didn't incorporate all the caramel (into the butter), eh? and he said, You weren't supposed to see that (while moving a bowl scraper over top of it), and I said, don't worry, I'm probably the only other one here who knows what she's looking at, and I won't tell anyone. But I did scrape that caramel bit into my transporter container as well, figuring I could, as noted, heat the whole thing over a double boiler.) The one concern is that I don't have much sugar. I used the rest of the white sugar I had for the caramel for the flan, and subbed brown sugar for white in the flan itself. The praline uses maple syrup and a little sugar, but I'll presumably still need sugar for the cookies. I suppose I could run out somewhere if I absolutely had to do that, but one of the advantages of being a Professionally Trained Pastry Chef-type person is that you have a better idea of when you can substitute willy-nilly and when not so much.

Yesterday I wore my little radio headphones all day, which solved my problem. I think it caused amusement on the part of my coworkers--Phil and Bossman, in particular--but I don't really care. I cannot, simply cannot, hear fucking Frosty the fucking Snowman four fucking times a day for the next fucking six weeks. Cannot. I tucked the wires inside my shirt and the radio into my pocket, so there aren't dangling bits to catch on things, and I modulated the volume such that I could hear if someone spoke to me. I could still occasionally hear the christmas music, but at least I had an alternative. I'd rather look a little ridiculous than (a) go on a homicidal rampage or (b) be annoyed and stressed all day from the noise.

later
Okay, now I've made the cookie dough--but I ended up using all crystallized ginger, because I didn't have any ground ginger, and using all maple syrup, because I didn't have any molasses. Clearly I need to do a major shopping expedition. I think because I've done so little cooking or, especially, baking at home of late, and because I'm usually sufficiently organized to snag what I need and don't have from the bakery, I hadn't realized what state my supplies had reached. The flan is out of the oven and seems to have flanned.

Now for the praline . . .

Even later than that

The cookies came out almost as I envisioned--crispy, chewy, and VERY gingery. Possibly too, for some people (but not me), but I'm hoping the flan will mellow it out. The praline is quite sweet; maple syrup plus brown sugar plus a little butter plus pecans. It's more of a garnish, though, so, again, the intense sweet shouldn't be too much of an issue.

On the other hand, having tasted everything along the way, I have now had enough sugar, and close to enough food, for the day. My understanding is that dinner will include four snacky bits, and caramelized onion and leek soup, and salmon with a cranberry thyme crust, and potatos, maybe?, I'm sure with something, maybe a salad in there, and two kinds of bread (miche and pumpkin sourdough, both from the bakery), before we even get to dessert. If I weren't such a slug, I'd go take a long walk or something. (Hah! and I say Hah! again.) I suspect I'll manage to enjoy every morsel.

I saw Chuck and CS last night, and we had a really fun dinner. Chuck and I got hysterical remembering a few incidents in our past, and it was a nice moment. They were heading off to feed Chuck's girlfriend's cats and then heading to NearbyCity last night; I loaded them up with baked goods. I suspect Chuck's mother is taken aback, but I don't much care. Chuck is the one who gets to decide what's good for him and for his son.

Not Crazy

This week should be a lot more crazy for me than it has been so far. But one of our wholesale customers hasn't paid the bills--to the tune of multiple thousands of dollars--and so we have cut off their croissant supply. Their orders make up about two-thirds of our wholesale croissant sales, so it's a substantial decrease in my production. On top of that, we pretty much expect Friday through Sunday to be slower than usual. On the other hand, of course, we're selling the mini plain croissants as a special in the store, plus Brazen Tart's place wants a whole big bunch for Thursday, plus some people have ordered full-size croissants from the store, so it's not like I don't have to make any. Today I shaped croissants from six pieces I'd put in the freezer Saturday, and tomorrow I'll laminate ten pieces (I think eight will be enough, but I'd rather stash the two extras in the freezer) and make sure there will be enough of everything to last until next Tuesday.

I'll go in Friday and help Phil and dick around some, but I'm not going in on Saturday. I figure, it's going to be slow, and my hours will be short enough this week such that I'm not giving up much overtime, and I can make substantially more per hour by doing the pile of editing that's glaring at me, so better I should do that. Besides, it'll be nice to have off three days in a row, and it'll be nice to have the extra time to do the editing. On top of that, another editing job just came in this week. It's not due until the 7th, but I'd like to at least start it. This one will be interesting and kind of fun, in that part of my job is to make the text longer (the author was apparently a little more terse than would have been desirable; the publisher needs a certain minimum number of pages to put a spine on the book, and it's not clear this manuscript gets there).

I think I'm going to keep doing the freelance work even if I get the other job, and even if that job pays a decent buck. I may not say yes to every single opportunity, but, on the other hand, I want to keep my hand in, and continue to improve, for that matter, and I like the extra income. If I could manage to do that much work while working 50 to 55 hours a week at the bakery, I can't see why I couldn't do it while working 40 hours a week at an office job.

I'm going to need to take drastic action at the bakery, meanwhile: the christmas music started today, and I cannot, simply cannot, listen to it ten hours a day, five days a week, for the next six weeks. I have a little radio with headphones, which I'll try; I hesitate to use the iPod, only because it's getting old and crotchety as it is, and a flour-filled environment (plus the risk of getting banged around) probably isn't the best thing for it. If the radio doesn't work, I'm maybe willing to shell out the bucks for an iPod shuffle; my sanity is worth $80. But nonstop christmas music is just not an option--I found myself gritting my teeth several times today, and I know it was from that.

And, meanwhile, I'm having dinner tomorrow night with Chuck and his son. They're heading to Chuck's family's home, so we can have dinner at our usual spot, and I can hand off some baked goods, and they can head north. Sometimes it feels strange to keep doing what we've been doing--we're divorced; we're not supposed to do this, somehow--but it seems to be working for us, so I don't much care.

So how did it go?

(The interview, I mean.)

On some level, it could not have gone any better. I managed to fire on all cylinders today, and, having thought about the people and place and likely tasks, was able to provide an analysis of what it sounds like they need and how I could provide that. Even better, it was an analysis that (a) was accurate but (b) they hadn't really figured out for themselves yet, so I got to look smart, too. I saw the person from two weeks ago again for a few minutes, as well, and was able to say hey, you know, I don't really need a job description at this point, don't let that hold you up, because if I come in and develop some systems and such, you may discover that you need a different array of people than you thought you did, and perhaps fewer people than you thought you did. Everyone seemed duly impressed and excited, but who knows whether they'll get it together--organization does not seem to be the strong suit of this part of that forest. (Which is why, in my heart of hearts, I wish I could work for the CFO, the woman with whom I originally interviewed.)

A part of me keeps thinking maybe I should get anxious about this--because I am, in fact, going to quit the bakery, no matter whether I have an offer or not, and I therefore will need another source of income. But I can't seemed to get wrapped around the axle about it. If they don't get something going soonish, I can go back to the CFO and talk to her again. I can find some temporary secretarial work while I expand my editing client list and continue to look for a full-time gig. Whatever. Trust me--if I don't have something in place by, oh, the end of January, there will be panic, and shit can always happen. All in all, though, I've had way more anxiety the past few days over the current copyediting job than over the job interview.

Incidentally, a few of you have asked about Friend. Now that I'm no longer married, I'm willing to answer specific questions (up to a point, anyway) if you have them. I'm a little hinky about his privacy, but I'll deal with that as it seems to be an issue.

I don't have anything profound to add. Or, rather, I do have a few things I'd like to go on about, but my energy has dwindled and I'd rather pour a glass of wine and watch either a movie ("Stranger than Fiction" is the one I haven't watched yet) or something lame on television.

Mistakes and Moral Failings

kstyle notes that some people regard mistakes as moral failings, and I find that I have half-promised to dilate on that.

I remember dealing with Chuck's son on this one, and that taught me a lot, actually, because it forced me to articulate my own thoughts in a way that a 7-year-old could understand. What I tried to teach him (and who knows how much stuck) is that everyone makes mistakes. It's going to happen. What matters is what you do when you make a mistake. In my mind, you apologize for it; you try to fix it, if it can be fixed in some way; and you try not to make that particular mistake again. Some kinds of mistakes are going to happen again anyway; as Bossman says, not every day can be a good day. Similarly, although I try very hard not to make mistakes in my proofreading and copyediting, I know that I will. As I discover new (kinds of) mistakes, I try to develop strategies for minimizing or eliminating them, but I know that I will not be perfect.

I tell you all of this to make it clear that I do not, in fact, regard mistakes as moral failings. As Orange could tell you, a frequent crossword puzzle clue is "to be human." The answer? "Err" (as in, to err is human).

But I think that the people 'style mentioned are afraid of this view. All mistakes must be regarded as transgressions, as moral failings, as evidence of one's badness and unfitness to draw a breath. Perhaps it has to do with a notion of the possibility of perfectibility. I think many (but by no means all) religious types regard humans as inherently flawed--Adam's sins and all that. (For an entertaining take on that matter, see this entertaining post by John Scalzi on the Creation Museum; hat tip to mythago.) Humans were perfect; then they fucked up; so all humans are fucked up; except Jesus will save you by washing away those sins.

And, really, that never made sense to me, in either the Protestant or Catholic versions. In some Protestant versions, if one acceptsJesusChristasone'spersonalsavior, then all sins are forgiven; in the Catholic version, one confesses one's transgressions to a priest, who (a) assigns a penance, in the form of prayers and (b) intercedes on one's behalf with one or more members of the holy trinity (I'm a little unclear on that aspect). (Here's a Jewish interpretion of that notion.) Obviously, there are several questions in play:
1. Is it the act that is problematic? Can/should the act be distinguished from the doer of the act? (Hate the sin/love the sinner would be one variation on that theme.)
2. Are humans inherently sinful?
3. Are humans inherently prone to sinful acts? (not quite the same as 2., I think)

And on and on and on.

To me, it seems a lot of blather, but that's where my lifelong atheism comes in. Why not just accept that we're all going to fuck up, and develop strategies for when that happens?

To get back to 'style's original sin question, however, I think we react most strongly to the things we most fear. The person who regards mistakes as moral failings is afraid of being thought of as, or afraid of being, a Bad Person, and s/he secretly or not-so-secretly is convinced that s/he is bad, and, therefore, unlovable.

Or (and this is less charitable): people who are afraid of non-religious transcendence, who are afraid of other-than-religious joy, because they're afraid of the loss of control inherent in joy and transcendence, want there to be rules, damnit! They want to be able to condemn others, and mistakes are an easy way to do that--mistakes being a sign of Original Sin and all that.

Eh; it makes me tired. It seems like a lot of time being spent worrying about other people's houses.

And, you know, I could be completely wrong and/or full of shit. Wouldn't be the first time.

Commitment

I did it.

Not only did I sort-of-in-my-head commit to going to an actual yoga class on Sunday (despite the wads of editing that must be accomplished), I (a) made sure my teacher would be there (she travels a fair amount) and (b) committed to meeting her for a beverage before class. It'll be pitiful, I'm sure, and I'm mildly panicked about taking so much time for it when there's so much editing to be done. I also scheduled some zen shiatsu, though no room for that until the 6th.

Seasonal Affect

This time of year is always so very difficult--or, at least, it always has been, for me, and working in a bakery basically acts as a multiplier. Beginning with Halloween--which is actually a huge bakery day, believe it or not--it's this crescendo, this marathon, this ever-increasing intensity that ends at Christmas. And the holidays themselves; oy. I have, on occasion, been able to carve out some of the spirit of whatever the holiday is, but it's so difficult. I mean, Christmas decorations already! Seriously; in the bakery, but elsewhere as well. That rushing-of-the-season merely adds to the anxiety.

For one thing, it just wears out. The Holidays has a relatively short shelf life, at least in people's spirits, and taking it out of its wrappings this early means that it has gone a little sour by the time the actual date, whatever it is, rolls around. I realize that it's an economic thing, in part, having to do with retail sales, and how crappy the economy is, and what retailers can count as sales, etc., but that makes it worse for those of us who aren't convinced that either capitalism or the (so-called) free market are really paths to happiness.

For another thing, the extra time devoted to it all just makes everyone kind of sick. It becomes this guilt-laden, sugar-laden, crap-you-don't-need-or-want-laden two-month exercise in overload. I do like the winter solstice, mind you; I sometimes think I could be a pagan or wiccan or whatever branch seemed the most entertaining. Those ways of thinking and measuring keep us grounded--quite literally, sometimes--in the world. So much of our lives--central heating and air conditioning; vehicles of various sorts; artificial light--literally and figuratively insulate us from the world. Mind you, I like a lot of that insulation; a couple of years ago, maybe in the fall of 2005, we took Chuck's son to a scouting thing that was basically a pioneer village with some actual pioneer-era buildings around, and the little house made me cold to think of living there. Those people were cold from October to May, every year. And they probably stank, and they didn't have indoor plumbing, and I'd guess there were various bodily parasites around as well. Ew.

And sometimes I'd like a little more insulation: I am getting quite tired of standing on a train platform as an icy damp wind cuts through every layer of clothing I'm wearing. I am not going to buy a vehicle, but I will definitely wish for teletransportation devices.

The point is, we insulate ourselves from everything. This is a time of year when we want to hibernate, to sleep, to curl up with a friend or a blanket or a pet (or all three, if we're lucky). Instead, we find ourselves running around to events and parties and work and whatever, and those of us in industries that are affected by the holidays--like bakeries, but I'm sure also like restaurants and party locations--just try to hold on, grimly slogging through another day or week of it all.

Just to make my personal experience more entertaining, Bossman is leaving town tomorrow morning, not returning until Sunday. He is NOT happy to be making this trip, so far as I can tell. Apparently, his kids don't want to come home for Thanksgiving, because it's a lot of travel for a short weekend, so the Wife (I'm guessing) has decided they'll go to the kids (one's still at home, one's in California, one's in Texas). Which, okay, but has she realized that her husband owns a bakery, and this is one of his busiest weeks all fucking year? Then again, perhaps today's conversation will provide you with some enlightenment. Bossman started making our stollen yesterday (and it seriously rocks). Today it was being buttered and rolled in sugar, and then his daughter, who's been working there a couple days a week, was wrapping them and tying them up with a ribbon--and the ribbon is a new one he purchased this year, with the bakery's name and logo on it; the ribbon is quite cool. So Wife came through and he said something about the stollen, and she said, I do not care about that, why are you even telling me about it? (In my head I answered: Because it puts food on your table and clothes on your back? Because it's what your husband loves to do?) He said, yeah, but have you seen the ribbon? And she said, the ribbon I care about. Hey, on one hand, whatever makes you happy, you know? But it also kind of blew me away.

On the other hand, I have people around me who make me smile, who remind me to be truly present, who have more faith in me than I have in myself. I have coworkers who make me laugh, and who have taught me just how much can be communicated even when we're not fluent in the same language. And--at least for another few weeks--I make a damned good croissant. They've been truly beautiful lately--and I make sure to give Phil a bunch of the credit. He's been baking them, at least the ones that go in the store, and he knows I like them a little darker than the night guys bake them, so he's been doing that, and they're fucking beautiful. Today we were selling them all two-for-one, because one of our customers hasn't paid the bills and we didn't send them their order--and they buy about two-thirds of our wholesale croissants, so there were a LOT to be sold. The two-for-one thing worked, though; people know a deal when they see one. The next few days will be difficult--work work work at the bakery, then edit like a madwoman on Sunday and on Monday morning, then job interview Monday afternoon (reinterview, actually; Round 2 with the person from last week). Deep breath, maybe, on Thanksgiving, but more likely more editing, along with dinner with friends in the evening. And so on.

And then there's Anthony Trollope. Here's one line from Barchester Towers:

He is somewhat below middle height, being about five feet four, but he makes up for the inches which he wants byt the dignity with which he carries those which he has.

How can writing like that not improve your day? Seriously: if you're looking for an escape from the season, go find a copy of "The Warden," and read that, and then read "Barchester Towers."

Grains of Sand

I threw shit yesterday--a pan of croissants, to be specific. (I didn't throw them far, but I did throw them, which is rather unusual for me. I'll curse like a motherfucker, but I almost never throw things.) The reach-in freezer, like most of our equipment, has issues; in particular, the shelves are cockeyed, such that when one puts a new pan of croissants into the freezer, even if one is careful, one may stick some of those new croissants to the bottom of the pan on the next shelf up, thereby destroying a significant amount of work. Not that that would be upsetting in any way whatsoever.

Item: The walk-in refrigerator is nearly always full--of the dairy order, and the dough, and the polish (pronounced "poolish") for the ciabatta, and all of our other cold stuff, and pans of crap that Artie hasn't bothered to sort through, and pans of cake, and buckets of crap Artie hasn't consolidated or looked through, and rolling racks (sometimes as many as six or seven)--which makes putting something in or getting something out of there an adventure. And by adventure I mean "long walk with blisters on your feet" rather than "stroll through the forest on a spring day and smell the flowers." (Yesterday morning Bossman was looking for pumpkin mix. He asked Artie, how many buckets do you have? Artie said, "Just one." Bossman rummaged for, oh, 30 seconds in the walk-in and found a second. I observed this and went and grabbed a bucket I had seen on Thursday--a large one that had about two inches of mix in it--and brought it out and set it next to the others without a word. Artie leaves shit all over the place, all the fucking time.)

Item: The slicer I use on Thursdays to slice the ham and cheese for the ham and cheese croissants spits fragments of whatever I am slicing at me. I often end up with shreds of cheese and ham down my shirt or stuck to my face. Bossman has apparently instructed the equipment guy to find a new one, or, at least, rebuild an old one; my threats to send this one sailing over the proofer have had an effect.

Item: We do not have enough rolling racks. We have many, it is true, but three or four are decrepit (e.g., missing shelves or bent such that inserting a sheet pan is impossible). And on busy nights, which is nearly every night these days, one must rummage around to find enough racks. Plus, Artie has cabinets (which can be used as racks) downstairs that are full of tea cookies, and not just tea cookies we'll eventually use or sell, but also cookies that are old, broken, stale. Did I mention that he leaves shit all over the fucking place?

So, yeah, it's wearing on me. It's the long hours--nearly 55 this week--and the physicality of the work, yes, but even more, it's the fact that nearly every goddamned task takes longer than it needs to take. I went to pound my butter yesterday morning--and couldn't find the butter bat (a longer-than-a-rolling-pin piece of wood with a carved handle bit at one end that a neighbor of Brad's made for us to use to pound butter). After searching for 10 or 15 minutes I spied it on the floor under a rack of sheet pans. Either it fell and noone noticed--which I doubt--or it fell and was ignored. I don't care about the falling--shit falls all the time. But I wasted my time looking for the fucking thing, and that annoys me, and that happens every fucking day, multiple times. I've learned where and how to hide things; I've learned how to bogart spaces in the reach-in freezer; I've learned to leave as small or as large a footprint as I need to leave to accomplish various tasks. I'm sure everyone goes through this, too; it's not as though I'm especially subject to it. But jesuschristonapogostick, it wears me out and annoys the everylasting shit out of me.

Ah well; before enlightenment, chop wood, carry water.

I'm just trying to hang on until the end of the year or until I can find another job, whichever comes first. I've already decided that if it's the latter, I'm giving myself a two-week vacation somehow. If it's the former, I'm going to have to spend some serious time hustling up temp work, or clients, or a full-time job, or whatever I can cobble together, but there will be vacation-esque time in there somewhere.

I have to admit that I am torn between wanting to stick it out until the end of December, not least because it will put Bossman's nuts in the grinder if I leave between Thanksgiving and Christmas, and wanting to stick it to Bossman, because that two bucks an hour he hasn't been paying me--but was paying the store clerk and likely is paying the handyperson/manager guy--would have made my life just that little bit easier this year. Somewhere around $200/month take-home pay easier, which, at my level of operations, is significant.

I don't much like either of those approaches, though. The first one seems to me to be too kindly toward someone who has profited significantly from my abilities but has not shared those profits. The second seems to me to be too vindictive. Thus, I have decided to take no course of action for the time being. I will stay if I have no other offer, but only until after the holidays (the holidays for which I will be paid, I mean).

Tonight I find myself staying up late just because I can. I went to bed at 9:30 last night, intending to get up and start editing by 6:00 am so I could go to the hockey game tonight with Friend. The editing went slowly (O! so slowly! because much reformatting was required as well), and Friend is preparing for his 10 days in the north woods, hunting Bambi, by making vats of gumbo to feed the men with whom he'll be hunting (brother, brother-in-law, uncles, nephews, etc.), so we did not go to the hockey game. Just as well; more editing must be done tomorrow, in vast quantities, seeing as how I only got about halfway through it today, and he will be better suited to having fun on Tuesday if he gets crap done tonight and tomorrow. And there's a stop-smoking group that wants my guest-speakerdom tomorrow, and checks to be gotten from Chuck, and bank visits to make and so on. But I'm still awake, if only because I don't have to get up at 4fucking37 and if only because I can.

Another Placeholder

I'm not really a fan of overheated spaces in the winter; I don't mind wearing an extra layer or two around the house, and I hate the dry air that tends to accompany the heat. However. They're apparently replacing the boiler in the building, so there isn't any heat. It's not wildly uncomfortable yet (though I am wrapped in a blanket over my clothes as I type), but I am not looking forward to tomorrow morning's shower.

I am no longer married, by the way. It was kind of surreal, if you want to know. I showed up in a suit, in preparation for my job interview in the afternoon, so Chuck did likewise. (He has two suits, both of which we/I purchased in preparation for the wedding, but he decided not to wear the suit he wore at the wedding.) We got there on time, but waited around for an hour before the judge finally graced the courtroom with her presence. (Which was annoying: the call sheet had us down for 9:00, and it was more like 10:30 by the time we were called, because, in addition to the lateness of the judge, all the lawyers got to go prior to us pro se folks.) So we sat in the back of the courtroom, having a fine time, making each other laugh, and rolling our eyes at some of the folks around us. We finally went before the judge, who asked a bunch of questions that we'd already noted in the petition and judgment, and she okayed everything, we signed everything and had things stamped and . . . voila. No longer married. We went and had lunch, while we were at it, which means that, except for a trip to his mother's place last April, maybe, that three hours was the longest amount of time we've spent together since he moved out last March.

And what makes it more difficult, of course--and we talked about this--is that when we see each other now, we're on our best behavior, so all of our best qualities are on display. But I've thought about it, a lot, and I've realized that the relationship that would have resulted if we had tried to reconcile would have been toxic, for both of us. I would not have trusted him--with good reason, if the past is any guide--and would have been torn between feeling like I needed to watch over everything and feeling intrusive and feeling resentful that I could not trust him. He would have resented such oversight. He might even have lied to me again at some point, because it would have seemed easier than telling the truth. I've come to understand even more deeply how his lying was connected to his feelings of self-loathing, to his insecurities and feelings of unworthiness, and I'm not convinced he could have made the progress that he has made if he had moved back in with me somehow. He doesn't see any of this yet, and may never; it's clear from what he says that, on some level, he does not realize that HE is the one who left. He talks about how his mother and sister wish I had given him another chance, but it's not clear to me how, exactly, that was supposed to be accomplished.

Ah, well. We did have some good times, and we acknowledged that the other day. He said he hoped I wouldn't look back on this as a big horrible mistake in my life, and I reassured him that I would not (and most days that's true). And I'm supposed to have dinner with him and his son tomorrow night.

The interview seemed to go okay; I'm likely going back to meet more people on the 19th. Not quitting the bakery is a daily challenge, I should add; today was particularly difficult. I had 150 or so pounds of dough to laminate today (12 pieces @ approximately 12 pounds), and that's a bit more than I've been doing, but I'm not laminating tomorrow so I can spend the day helping Phil. I'll have to laminate on Saturday, too, which I've been able to avoid for the past number of weeks, but whatever. I'm hoping to get out of there expeditiously on Saturday so I can come home and get some editing done. What I don't finish on Saturday I'd like to finish Sunday, because the current plan is for Friend to stop by on his way home from his weekend jaunt so we can head to his place and then perhaps to a hockey game (Blackhawks/Redwings, which is a long-time rivalry). He won't be here until mid-afternoon, most likely, so it should be fine.

Okay, your other task is to send good thoughts out to my brother tomorrow. You may remember that my sister-in-law had her knee replaced about six weeks ago? Well, this past Sunday my brother tore a ligament or tendon or something in his bicep and is getting it repaired surgically tomorrow and then will be out of work for a minimum of four weeks. Luckily he's independently wealthy; he only works as an auto mechanic for fun. And, luckily--and truthfully--he had upped his short-term disability insurance last year, so he actually should be okay financially. Not great, of course, but okay. But as I was telling Bossman this saga yesterday, I said, remember how you asked how people become homeless? This is how. And he understood, I think.

One last thing: for today's musical selections, Hipstergirl chose the Clash, the Ramones, and AC/DC, the latter at an appropriately (but annoyingly) headbanging volume. Mike loved it all, too, but I think the Hispanic guys are really kind of tired of it. Phil even suggested, later this afternoon, that I grab the radio by the dishwasher and put it on the table between him and me so we could listen to that. He also offered to buy me a Coke (from the store), which I thought was kind of sweet, but I turned him down (I still had tea). And this was before he realized that I really AM working for him tomorrow. I had explained it yesterday, by way of explaining that I wouldn't be able to help him today, but it kind of didn't sink in until he told Mike to go ahead and make my croissant dough for tomorrow and I said I wouldn't need any, that I wasn't doing any tomorrow so I could help him. I will have some frozen pieces to shape, because I didn't get to everything today, but not a lot. It should be interesting.

Still! More! Excitement!

Lordy, I leave you people for a week, and look what happens! Oh. Wait. I'm the one who's been not blogging about all the crap going on in my life. Let's see if we can fix that.

I got home Wednesday to find (a) a message on my answering machine from someone else at the place where I interviewed three weeks ago, saying she had been passed my resume by the president of the joint, and did I want to come in for an interview, and (b) an email from the woman who interviewed me, which said that my lack of financial experience was a concern for her, even though they hadn't filled the position, but she thought there would be a place for me at their institute and she was passing my resume along. So tomorrow I'm getting divorced in the morning and going for a job interview in the afternoon. Once again, I cannot allow myself to think about this, because that makes working at the bakery nearly unbearable, and that is not a useful place to be.

Today I'm feeling both virtuous and frustrated: virtuous because I've done the laundry, made a big pot of chicken stock, cleaned the bathroom, and generally tidied things up around here (and I'll do the mail and bills in a little while), but frustrated because I'd intended to do the latest editing project today as well, and it has problems, one of those things where I don't want to proceed without talking with the production editor, and where Word is, once again, making things unnecessarily difficult. If I'd already purchased my laptop, I could take it with me tomorrow and work on the stuff between the divorce and the job interview, not to mention discuss it with the editor while having the work in front of me. Well, it'll work out fine, I'm sure. I only have the first six chapters, anyway, so I shouldn't have any trouble finishing the stuff by next Monday's deadline.

Meanwhile, at the bakery, the music wars have broken out again. Artie had bought a new CD/radio a few weeks ago, because the one he'd been using had pretty much died. (Keep in mind that there are three other radio-enabled objects in the bakery, a newish one back by the dish machine that was purchased and is used by Bossman's brother-in-law, who comes in at night and packs orders; an older one that one of the Hispanic night guys uses and that is invariably tuned to a Spanish-music station and, when it's in use, sits in the middle of the work table; and another one up in the cake room that Johnnie uses.) Partly by using some positive reinforcement, I got Artie to pretty much stick to an oldies station. It's an oldies station with a very short playlist, mind you, but it is still a dramatic improvement over the Spanish station and the "lite FM" station, the latter of which makes me crazy. (When I'm slicing ham and cheese, I use the newish one by the dish machine, and, occasionally, I'll bring that one over to the sheeter and listen to that--not so loudly that Artie can't hear his, despite the smallish size of the space, though he sometimes turns his off anyway.)

Hipstergirl observed that Artie's device plays CDs, so she brings some in. Unfortunately, she plays the same four or five over and over and over and over. Nearly every day, I've heard John Fogerty, a Beatles compilation, a David Bowie compilation (really old Bowie--makes me feel like I'm back in 1975), Lou Reed, and the Doors--one day she played the Doors CD at least three, possibly four times. (She also put the Clash on one day, but that didn't last long--Artie turned that off pretty quickly.) Some days, Artie turns off the CD and puts on the radio . . . and she turns off the radio and puts on another CD. I'm amused by it, on some level, and a little appalled that she has so little tact. I mean, it IS Artie's radio, first of all, and, second, she's an intern, while he's a long-time employee, and you'd think she tread a little more carefully.

Her skills seem pretty good, all in all, but she seems a little tone deaf to the atmosphere of the place. For example, one day last week she wore the snug threadbare yellow t-shirt again, with a black-lace-trimmed red bra. I know the bra details because I could see them clearly through the t-shirt. I haven't been able to sort through my objections completely: On one hand, the patriarchy certainly wants to control women, and what they wear, and so on. On the other, I'd be just as taken aback if the guys were wearing something similarly revealing--it doesn't seem appropriate. I'm not really a fan of anyone wandering around with their junk on display, unless it's, say, a nudist beach. I guess that's the principle here: while I certainly don't think women should be subject to more restrictive clothing requirements than men (for example, it annoys me no end that women have to cover their breasts or risk arrest), in general I think everyone in a given environment should dress similarly. Lots of room for interpretation there, of course, and that's imprecise at best, and I don't really give a damn about her tits or her bra, but my eyes do roll a little bit. It seems to be of a piece with her musical antics. Has it occurred to her that others may not want to hear the same four CDs every day? Or that the radio isn't hers and she's new, and maybe she could defer to Artie a little? Apparently not. This is all relatively good-natured grousing, however; she's not nearly as irritating as Woody (who has not reappeared and who, I believe, will not reappear).

I keep thinking I should be thinking more about tomorrow morning somehow. Mostly, though, I'm glad that Chuck has been maintaining a reasonable approach. I don't really know how else to characterize it. He's not being sullen or mean, which is what I had been expecting, and he has even given me the first check on the money he owes me. I think that he will regret his actions both more and less as time passes--I know that, in many many ways, he truly did (and perhaps does) love me dearly, and, you know, I loved him, too. He keeps asking me if I'm "happier" without him. I didn't have an answer for that, despite him asking me several times over the past 18 months, and I think I've figured out what the issue is there.

My "happiness," such as it is, isn't dependent on him. I've had bad times, I've had good times; I've been happy without him, and with him, and, again, without him. He and I used to mock the notion of someone "completing" someone else--and yet, in some ways, the are-you-happier question is a species of that notion, I think. I did not expect him to provide my all or my everything; I'm too old, and I lived alone for too long, and I'm not of the temperament for that set of expectations. As such, I was willing to deal with less-than-perfect aspects of him and of our relationship, figuring that the long-term intimacy we'd developed, and certain kinds of accommodations, would help both of us. What we did not or could not get from each other, perhaps we could get elsewhere, and we could meanwhile support each other, literally and figuratively, and provide a little safe harbor for each other. I don't think people can offer each other a whole lot more than that--but I think that's actually quite a bit.

I truly do not know what would have happened if . . . I had a whole list there, which I've deleted. The counterfactuals aren't useful in these cases; we do what we can with the circumstances in which we find ourselves, or, anyway, i do. And the short version, for me, is that, even though I believe, in some ways and on some levels, that he is sorry, and that he loves me, and that he (says he) wouldn't lie to me again, I have no reason to believe any of those things. I know him, I know what he wants to be true, but I cannot realistically believe that, if he were in a tight spot, he wouldn't lie to me again. And I do not want to be married to someone about whom that is true.

Ah, well. We're meeting tomorrow about a half an hour before the court time, to get the promissory note signed and whatever; it'll be a little strange being so cordial in a situation where many people are not, but I want to continue that if we can. Oddly enough, I still think, sometimes, that we could be friends, and I certainly hope that he continues to let me see his son. And then I meet a friend for coffee, and then I go interview for another job. Good thing I'm used to this kind of craziness.