Barrels of Monkeys

Oh yes, there was much fun to be had, and I had as much of it as I possibly could.

We camped for four nights in a state park at the northern end of Kettle Moraine, and the park was quite beautiful. I haven't done a whole lot of camping, and I don't know that I'm particularly well-suited for camping without a few amenities--showers, for example, are nice--but I do like it. I like the replacement of city noises with birds and critters and such, and, thus, the relative quiet; I like seeing stars (I keep forgetting how many there are; I've lived in cities for more than 25 years, and there aren't a lot of stars visible in cities); I like the closeness of the outside, through the thin walls of the tent; I like the small towns that are the only thing near such campgrounds (though I suspect many such small towns wouldn't like me so well).

And the races were extremely entertaining, too--lots of little cars going really, really fast. This particular venue is a road course (rather than an oval), and it's not created from city streets or airports (like some road courses), and there are lots of trees and grass, so there are quite a few different views. We managed to spend time in nearly every turn on the track over Friday and Saturday's practice and qualifying sessions and American Le Mans Series race, and we watched Sunday's races from a hill that is just past the number 13 on this map (PDF), so we could see cars coming into turn 5, going up the hill to turn 6, then coming out of 13 and into 14, and we could see them through the trees, going hell-bent up the straightaway toward the start-finish line.

Sunday night Friend and I decided to stick around for meteor showers, and even though I only saw a half-dozen or so (at 3:30 in the morning), that's a half-dozen more than I've ever seen before, so I was excited. And did I mention that you can see the stars?

I'm tired and a little depressed today--the thought of how much I completely hate my current job situation kept popping into my head over the weekend, whereupon I'd promptly beat it back with a mental mallet, but it served as a reminder. The problem, of course, is that it's not entirely in my hands to change the situation: I have to find the person or people who are willing to take a chance on me, in one way or another, and pay me more than Bossman does, and provide me with paid days off (or the means to earn enough so that I can "buy" my days off). I still don't want to think about all that shit today, however, so I'm going to ignore it resolutely and go make some tea for the week.

O Friday, How You Pain Me

I knew that it would be wrong to eat peanut butter directly from the container; thus, I utilized a bowl of "baby-cut" carrots to transport the peanut butter between the knife and my mouth. ("Baby-cut"? I assume that means the carrots are large--adult?--carrots that have been cut to look like baby carrots, rather than carrots that have been cut by babies.)

Long-ish day at work today. Okay; no "ish." Twelve hours is a long day. It was lengthened by a number of factors, viz.: the walk-in refrigerator wasn't actually refrigerating anything yesterday, because it was too hot on the roof for the compressor. Bossman suggested we make the croissant dough this morning rather than have it grow all over the walk-in overnight. Okay, not necessarily an issue, except, of course, other things had to be mixed, too, so it didn't get made very early, through no fault of the croissant makers. And Fridays are always a challenge, what with preparing for the market on Saturday. Just to give you an idea, today we put out for baking tonight:

* 53 dozen plain
* 12 dozen almond
* 16 dozen chocolate
* 5 dozen ham & cheese
* 84 mini plain
* 84 mini chocolate
* 54 mini raisin
* 126 monkey buns

Obviously, we have to plan ahead; you can't make quite that many croissants in one day, plus the actual putting them on pans takes time, too. But that means the reach-in freezer is full of croissants, plus we always have to stash some in the walk-in freezer by Thursday night, plus we have to move some from the reach-in freezer to the walk-in freezer on Friday morning in order to make room for Friday's dough. I had made some large and small tarts (large and small of the ones with hazelnut frangipane and large and small with raspberry mousse and fresh raspberries and blackberries on top, plus a few small ones with lemon filling and blueberries and meringue, or blueberries and strawberries), and I wanted to finish them and get them in the store before the morning rush. Lole also had to make the dough for the gibassier, and the ham and cheese both needed slicing.

I'm not telling you this to complain, merely to give you an idea of the tasks involved. On top of it all, of course, is the fact that the walk-in is full to the brim, which means we took two racks of croissants BACK down to the walk-in freezer; they went up and down between the floors of the bakery nearly as many times as I did today. The lack of room is hard on everyone, and it costs us in time and energy.

The thing that makes it easier, though, is Lole. We didn't start shaping croissants until after 3:00 today; might even have been closer to 3:30. I said, let's just see if we can crank through these, and avoid having to freeze them and do it tomorrow (he's coming in tomorrow--thus not getting two days off in a row for several weeks running--but I'll come in for him on Monday and he'll come in for me next Saturday, plus be in without me on Friday and a chunk of Thursday). And we did it. He knows what comes next, and we're developing a nice rhythm, such that, for example, one of us will start sheeting out the next piece of dough as the other one finishes rolling and egg-washing the last croissants from the previous piece, finishing just as the new piece is ready for the table. I've been giving him the production list (how many of which kind we're making on a given day) as well as the panning list (the number of each kind that we need to put on pans for baking each night), and he's quickly getting a sense of my systems. On top of all of that--which is quite nice, mind you--I like working next to him. He's funny, and he's thought about things, and he's literate, so we can actually have conversations while we work, which definitely speeds things along. I've been trying very hard to make sure that he learns the croissant production process (which means getting comfortable with all the steps) but also that he has the opportunity to do other shit, too.

Meanwhile, I should have done some chore-type things tonight, in preparation for my expedition, but I have opted for teh intertubes, accompanied by carrots, peanut butter, and good beer. Before I leave town Thursday afternoon, I must do laundry, pack, make a pasta salad (to make sure I get some vegetables during this expedition), and go to work, and tomorrow evening I'm seeing Chuck and his son for dinner. (I did send Chuck the papers this week, so who knows whether he'll be a pain tomorrow night or not.)

Where am I going, you ask? You may remember that last September I went to Cheeseland and watched cars go very fast; that same race is being held in August this year, and we're going to go up on Thursday rather than Saturday. (Yes, I'm going with Friend.) We're camping (I think at a nearby state campground, rather than on the grounds where the race is), and I'm actually going to meet at least one, and possibly two, of Friend's friends. And I am going to be away from all work for four-and-a-half days, and away from home for two or three days (we may stay there Sunday night, too; if it looks like it's going to be clear, Friend is bringing a telescope, and it'll be not-a-full-moon, AND it'll be in the middle of the August meteor showers, which I've never seen, so that would be a nice bonus). (The other thing I've never seen and really really want to see is the northern lights, but we're probably a little too far south for that. But maybe not.)

And, get this: when I talked to mom last night I told her I was going away next weekend, with Friend, and his friends, and we were camping and seeing the race and such, and I wasn't sure how she'd react. (I am, after all, technically still married to someone else, and my parents are way more conventional about these matters than my behavior would suggest.) She said: "Good for you; you need some time off." And, in fact, she's correct.

Moving Right Along

Both mom and dad are home from the hospital and hanging in there. I'm the slightest bit more crazed than usual, trying to prepare for next week's days off (four! in a row!).

One Thing or Another

Well, Mom's home from the hospital; they gave her diuretics to address the congestive heart failure issues, and her gut is getting better. But now Dad's in the hospital. He's being treated for bladder cancer, you may remember, and they use live tuberculosis bacteria for that--insert it into the bladder via a catheter. His first batch of treatments was uneventful, but the one he received today basically caused flu-like symptoms, including a fever over 102. Not uncommon--which I reminded my mom when she just called to tell me about dad, and which relieved her a little, because we'd discussed it before--but still.

If it weren't late, and if I weren't tired, I'd probably go on about one thing or another, but I'd rather sleep--tomorrow's the weekly Festival of Plain Croissants, after all.

Vise Grip

Mom update: some things--like her gut--are improving, albeit more slowly than she would like. However, her magnesium and something else are low/off, and, as they're related to kidney function, the doc doesn't want to send her home. On top of that, her congestive heart failure has returned, which I figured out a couple of days ago from the constant cough, and I don't imagine they're going to want to send her home until that's stabilized, too. So, yeah, it could be better. It could be worse, but it could definitely be better.

Lots of running around yesterday: before noon, I had gone to the bank, the post office, and Whole Paycheck and gotten a mammogram (a.k.a. puting my tits in a vise), as well as talked to mom and a couple of friends. (Sunday I talked to mom in the morning, then didn't speak to another human being or even leave my apartment for the rest of the day.) In the afternoon I went for a zen shiatsu session, where the practitioner suggested that liver stagnation could be related to/causing the irregularity of my menstrual cycle. I don't know about the rest of you, but I'd say that a 16-day cycle is a little on the short side. And you know how various sources say that your "entire" menstrual flow is 3 to 4 ounces? I say HAH! and HAH! again to that. It's just tiresome, you know? And I find it completely annoying that the "western" medical websites (a) pathologize it, by calling it "dysfunctional uterine bleeding," and (b) only have hormones to offer--either in the form of HRT or oral contraceptives, which are pretty much the same thing--as a way of addressing it. Nearly every woman is going to go through this, one way or another, and you'd think there'd be better ways of thinking about it and addressing it (and don't get me started on the pink and lilac mooniness of the other extreme; it makes me wanna smack someone, and they still recommend hormones). Seeing as how my insurance won't pay for anything related to it (see the exclusion related to dysfunctional uterine bleeding), I might go ahead and try acupuncture again.

I've also been realizing that some of the mood swinging is hormonally related; I was never one for PMS or moodiness, so this is a little strange. It tends to be an outburst/outbreak of tears, followed within a day or so by bleeding or spotting, which is how I'm getting the notion that it's hormonal. It's a relief to realize it, in the sense that it makes sense of the outbursts, but it's also strange, too, because the moods aren't related to what's going on in my head so much as what's going on in my body--not how we (or I, anyway) normally think of moods. For that matter, it's often not even a "mood," in the sense of a state of mind/being that lasts for a day or more, it's just this sudden outburst. I do think it's exacerbated by my long weeks at work, in that it's most common at the end of one of those.

Despite my best intentions, there were also things I did not do yesterday: I did not send the divorce papers to Chuck (though I sent an email this morning asking if he wanted them), and I did not send any emails to university publishers. In both cases, it's my own fear, of one kind or another, that prevented it; I've got the papers more or less done, and I've got a resume and email text for the publishers, so it really is fear. But I'm okay with that. I know I'll do both things, sooner rather than later, maybe even this week.

Cowbells Ahoy

First off, thank you Orange for your encouraging words; in fact Mom sounded better this morning than she did yesterday. Though she's still suffering from the diarrhea, the cramps have gone away, and they're giving her good bacteria to help repopulate her gut. She's not getting much sleep, of course, and she wants to go home.

In other news, yesterday featured lots and lots of cowbell, as predicted.

I'd told Bossman I'd show up at 6:30, but managed to get there by 5:50--he was just mixing dough, though, and said he had nothing for me because I was early. Fine, I said, I'll pound my butter, which I did, and then I made the rest of the miniature chocolate/fresh fruit tarts (we sold, let's see, nearly 27 of them, in three days, at about four bucks apiece). As I finished those, the grain dough was ready to be cut up--this many at this weight for epis; this many at this weight for something else; and the rest at 3#12 (i.e., 3 pounds, 12 ounces) for rolls, some of which would be torpedos, some of which would be round, and some of which would be "rustic," i.e., square-ish. Each batch of dough goes through several stages: it's mixed, it rests for awhile (which allows the yeast to grow and, depending on how long it rests, a certain amount of fermentation to occur), it gets folded (dumped on the table and literally stretched and folded in on itself; it's similar to the "punching down" you find in regular cookbooks) one or more times. When it's time for shaping, we cut the batch into the appropriate-sized pieces and each piece is rounded into a ball (gently) and put onto a board to rest again for a little while (maybe 20 minutes?). After that rest, it's shaped in some way--put through a shaping machine, or shaped into its final loaf form; some loaves get coated with something by rolling the loaf on a wet towel and then rolled in the coating (sesame seeds; semolina; cracked wheat). It rises for awhile, then gets slashed and baked.

The square rolls are cut up in the Dutchess. Our Dutchess is a cross between the one at the top and the next one down on the left; it's on wheels, so it can live in the basement and come up via the elevator, and it's about 300 years old (okay, probably 30, but it looks older). We only use the 36-press, and we use it for cookies, rolls, and scones. For those of you who haven't worked in a kitchen or bakery, I should point out that batch sizes for many of our products are based on the capacity of one or more of the machines that will be used on it at some point. We also have a Fortuna divider and rounder that looks exactly like the one on that page; it was delivered to the bakery on the day Bossman's older daughter was born. And, as a matter of fact, the rolls that weren't fated for the Duchess were fated for the Fortuna, which creates round rolls, and some would have a trip through a shaper as well (I can't find a picture; basically, it takes a rounded bit of dough and turns it into a torpedo-shaped bit of dough). At one point, the torpedo-shaper got kind of gunked up, and it eventually required a temporary replacement of a belt.

I don't remember the order in which I did everything, but, in addition to cutting up the grain dough, I cut up sourdough for rolls; helped round up the raisin fennel; shaped some sourdough loaves while Bossman fixed the torpedo-shaper; shaped the raisin fennel; cut up the olive dough; cut up the tomato dough; put the grain rolls through the Duchess; put more grain rolls through the Fortuna and then the torpedo shaper; put the sourdough rolls through the Fortuna and torpedo shaper; and put the olive and tomato rolls through the Fortuna. You'll notice "cut up the croissant dough" isn't on that list--which began to worry me, eventually. Luckily, as noted, Lole had agreed to come in even though it was his day off, and we could not have done it without him. He had his own list of things to do, though, until I finally whined enough around 11:00 or 11:30 such that Bossman let him cut up the croissant dough. He eventually laminated, too (at which he's getting steadily better; the plain croissants yesterday were quite beautiful, and that was all his lamination). Luckily we only had six pieces yesterday (about 90 pounds of dough).

After my break (at about 1:00, I think), I eventually started shaping croissants. I didn't have Lole for that, mostly, which was fine with me. I was trying to get him out of there so he could sign a new lease, but his 3:00 departure ended up being delayed until 4:00, in part because a customer complained about the custard cups Lole had made in the morning and he ended up remaking them. (It's not clear that they were as underbaked as the customer claimed, but it was just easier to remake them.) Somewhere along the line I called the Tart's restaurant, because they had not faxed their breakfast pastry order for the coming week (they're supposed to fax it on Friday, or, when they're being particularly considerate, Thursday; their order lets me know how many of their croissants I need to have in the freezer for the weekend); they STILL hadn't faxed it by the time I left, so Bossman and I took pity on them and put out a couple dozen for delivery this morning. I was tempted to not send anything--nothing like a little object lesson to get your point across--but settled for hoping that they needed way more than we sent.

I finally got out of there around 5:30, went home, showered, and then went off to meet Lole and Lissa and her husband and drink good beer. I stayed out a little too late--I stuck around for an additional beer after those guys left--and I never did get around to eating anything, and I had an attack of sorrow and sadness on the way home, but it was fun to get out. Next time I go out with those guys I want to hear more from Lissa's husband; we kind of monopolized the conversation with bakery talk.

Long though the day was, it was good, too. Although I still feel like Bossman lowballed me, and I'm still looking for something else, it's not in me to not work hard when hard work is what is needed--and, as I'm sure is clear, I like him personally as well as professionally, and I just plain like the work. He hasn't quite figured out that if he wants to have someone around who can do all the things that I can do (and that Lole either can do or will be able to do soon enough), he's gonna have to pay for that. Not necessarily a whole lot, either--$12 or $13 an hour would be in range, and $15 would seal the deal. Certainly he has to pay the bakers more than he pays the people who work the counter (which, in the case of a couple of counter people, isn't the case now). He gets away with not doing so because the Mexican guys aren't unhappy enough--and wouldn't be sufficiently valued elsewhere--to leave; they also may not realize just how good they are. (If Brad comes back full-time, though, all bets are off; I think the Mexican guys would leave.) Essentially, if he wants someone who can laminate like nobody's business, and mix or cut up dough, and make fancy-ass tarts, and even run the bakery when he's not around, he's going to have to pay for that, or he's going to be constantly retraining people for one or more of those tasks, or he's going to have to do without some of those skills.

I've been pointing out to him for 18 months that he's got a unique situation: for one thing, his location means there's not nearly as much price sensitivity as most other places. Yes, we sell a lot of doughnuts, but we can also sell little fruit tarts for $4 apiece, or big ones for $15, and have no trouble moving them. In addition, in the past year the other artisan bread bakery in the city has gone to hell--we've picked up several of their accounts, including the new one this past week. And we make spectacular bread--some of the best in the country, or possibly in the world. Basically, he can get as big as he wants to get, but he can't do it alone, and he can't do it with just the Mexican guys, wonderful though they are. (He also can't do it without those guys, at this point.) If he wants to do the bread AND the croissants AND the fancy-ass stuff, he needs people around who can do those things. You know what? I'm willing to be a solution for awhile, but I don't have to solve that problem for him.

So what felt good was being able to do the dance. I was comfortable doing whatever needed to be done, without instruction; when Bossman had to fix the shaper, for example, I just went to the other side of the table and started shaping the sourdough loaves he'd had to leave aside. The dance takes place in high-intensity environments; I'm sure working a line in a restaurant is similar in that regard, even if the pacing is different. (I'd love a post from the Tart about that . . . ) When you're working well with someone, or with several people, you just move around and with each other; you anticipate each other's moves, you step in at just the right moment. At the bakery, Bossman has that rhythm, as does Phil, and I'd say that I do, too; Lole will certainly have it (he already has a lot of it with regard to croissants, but he hasn't worked there long enough to know a lot of other products). (Artie doesn't really have it, though; he's always narrowly focused on what he needs to do. I've managed to retrain him a little, because we have to share several machines.) You know what you need to do, but you're also aware of what else is going on, so you can lend (or get) a hand when need be. It really comes into play on days like yesterday, where you're missing a crucial member of the team, or when (also like yesterday) you simply have a lot of stuff to get done. It's exhilarating, really, and makes an interesting contrast to the kind of flow you can get when you're working alone. But that set of musings will have to wait for another post.

What's the Diff

Turns out, my mom has clostridium difficile, also known as C diff, which is mostly a problem for people who are old, have weakened immune systems, have chronic renal failure, etc. And, of course, mom manages to hit several jackpots there. I talked to her a little, and she sounds tired and worn-out, which, given that she hasn't actually eaten anything in five days or so is hardly a surprise. After wandering around the intertubes for a bit, I'm a little more worried about this than anyone else is. It could well respond to the drugs they're giving her, and she could avoid a relapse (though the chances are about 50/50, given her assorted conditions), and so on, but I'd say there's some chance that this could be serious, and possibly life-threatening. I've decided not to share that tidbit with my parents, and probably not with Bro (though that could change, depending on what happens in the next day or two), but it's not like I can forget about it.

Grueling day at work, today, too. In answer to kstyle's question following the previous post, yes, this variety would definitely improve my attitude toward the bakery; before Lole showed up, I'd get up every morning and feel like I had to go run a marathon that day. A certain number of croissants had to be produced, and I had to produce them, pretty much single-handedly: a lot of croissant work to do, on a reasonably tight schedule, AND no time to do anything the least bit different or fun. Today there was so much to do--Phil's absence this week, plus a new bread account, plus tomorrow's farmers' markets, put everything into even more overdrive than is usual for a Friday. And, yes, Woody droned on and on and on, and he sticks his commentary into every fucking conversation. For example, I was musing with Lole that brie and strawberries might make an interesting croissant scrap/monkey bun combo, and Woody had to drone on about how brie just melts and you get grease all over everything and this wad of cheese remnants, and HE'D much rather have strawberries and parmesan, he thinks that would rock, blah, blah, blah. I know he means well, but, frankly, I don't trust his palate any more than I trust his dough-making skills.

I made more of the mini chocolate silk tarts today--all six I made yesterday were gone this morning, and most of the ten I made this morning had been sold by the time I left today. At least three of the five hazelnut fruit tarts were gone, too; I'd intended to make more today, but decided to wait until tomorrow. I got stuck making funeral cake today, because Bossman had promised one to a customer. On the other hand, it was nice to be able to be a utility infielder, as that's what was needed today. Even moreso tomorrow, by the sound of it: Bossman said, "I'm making half of everything I know how to make today, and I'm making the other half tomorrow." I'm going to try to get in as early as I can to help out, and we asked Lole to come in, too, even though he's supposed to work only Monday to Friday.

Thus, I need to get some sleep.

The Bad, the Good, the Pretty

The bad news is that my mom is in the hospital. Bro called tonight to tell me that she was (as he so elegantly put it) crapping her brains out for two days, and, given her weakened kidneys--they function at about 15% of normal, and she's waiting for a transplant--her doctor thought that hospitalization was the safer move. It's not one of her "attacks," though. (She's been getting these attacks for, oh, ten years or so, where she suddenly feels bloated, then vomits a few times, then has diarrhea for awhile. Her doctors have never been able to diagnose it, but I'm pretty convinced it's a motility disorder. I think her stomach closes off at the bottom, which makes the food in her stomach start to ferment, basically. She's never been able to figure out what triggers the episodes; they show up pretty randomly, and she can go months and months without one.) Anyway, Bro said he'll call me tomorrow with any updates.

Now for the bitching and whining: Woody is getting on my last nerve. He's the one who used to work at the bakery years ago and is back again; he's young--23? 24?--and went to the same culinary school as our intern and Steve. He means well, but lordy he's a pain in the ass. Because Phil's not around this week, Woody is making a lot of the bread, and the intern is working with him--and he just lectures her constantly, droning on and on about how to do this, how to do that. Which would be okay, sort of, if he didn't fuck up stuff as often as he does. (His sourdough rolls today were a travesty, in my opinion.) And he was complaining about Bardo, the dishwasher, which will always piss me off. Yes, it's true, Bardo is not the sharpest tack in the box, but he tries very hard and he works like a dog, and I have found that, if you try to communicate what you want, he will do his best to do it for you.

The good news, though, is that I actually had the opportunity, yesterday AND today, to be a pastry chef, in that I made stuff other than croissants. I've been letting the new guy do the laminating, mostly so he can get comfortable with it and get good, consistent results. He's not all the way there yet, but I don't expect him to be--it'll take some practice, and he's only been doing it for a week or two. We work together in the afternoon to do the shaping, and having two pair of hands makes it go way more quickly. Plus, he's learning all my little systems (you don't make 4,000 croissants a week, nearly single-handedly, without a buttload of little systems).

So one of the things is this chocolate mousse fruit tart--the chocolate mousse came out beautifully, though I would not recommend it to everyone, given that it has raw eggs in it. I'm going to see if I can find a good alternative. The bakery has used that formula for decades, but I really don't think it's a good idea for people with compromised immune systems, say. I filled some pre-baked shells--full-size as well as 3-inch--with the mousse, then covered the tops with fresh fruit. For the large ones, I put blackberry in the center and around the edge, then filled in the rest with raspberries, and for the small ones, I used blueberries around the edge because they fit better; I used strawberries on one, which I think would fit better, flavor-wise, but which is more likely to fall apart or get knocked apart. (Woody felt compelled to opine that he didn't think blueberries were a good choice for the small ones, flavor-wise. Bossman and I ignored him. He was also about to give me shit for arguing against the raw eggs--"You're not going to eat raw eggs?"--and I said it wasn't me, it was that they're not a good idea for people with compromised immune systems. I should have said I don't like raw eggs so much, either, but I really didn't feel like stabbing him, so I chose the other route.)

The other thing uses a sable crust and a hazelnut frangipane (hazelnut flour, sugar, butter, eggs, lemon zest, a little flour). Fresh fruit (cherries, blueberries, raspberries, blackberries, and strawberries) goes on top of the frangipane and basically sinks into it as it bakes. (Woody's clafouti, on the other hand, ended up with unbaked bottom crust the first time, and floating crust, because he prebaked it, the second time. Don't get me wrong--we all fuck stuff up, even Bossman. It's just that Woody presents himself as such an authority, and with so little reason.) Both these and the chocolate ones got glazed, and these also had a little mound of fresh raspberries and some sucre neige (powdered sugar that won't melt into what it's on) and a couple of chocolate curls.

Yesterday I made some joconde sheets for a batch of opera bars (someone else assembled it, which was fine with me; opera does nothing for me). I was a little worried about it, because when most people (coughcough Woody coughcough) make this formula, they get what one of the chefs at school called a cracker--a too-thin, uneven, crisp thing, rather than a thin sheet of a sponge cake. But Bossman complimented my mix several times, and, in fact, it came out quite nicely.

All in all, it was fun. And I think Bossman was pleased, too, and will let me do more. I'd occasionally ask a question about something--is this how this is supposed to look? what's the method for this?--but I really didn't feel like I was constantly running to him, and the things came out well. It was an interesting sensation, actually, in that I felt like I kinda knew what I was doing, and the questions were only coming out of not having done these things before. I'm sure I'll have bad days where I fuck up every last thing, but I'm just glad today wasn't one of them.

Camp Stories

Phil is going on vacation next week with his family, which means we'll be short two people next week (Phil's 15-year-old son has been working at the bakery this summer, and doing a fine job of it). Lole (pronounced "lo-lay," which is the name Phil has picked for my new helper, apparently because he physically resembles someone who worked in the bakery years ago) and Bossman and I were discussing vacations--what the place Phil is visiting is like (essentially, lots of water parks), where we'd gone as kids, how my family never went to the shore when I was a kid because my dad is fair-skinned and would have gotten a bad sunburn, etc.--and Bossman says, "We didn't go on vacation; I went to Camp Stack-a-Cookie." Which put me on the floor.

Today's discovery is that croissant dough scraps can be mixed with shredded parmesan and asiago cheese, and that it's every bit as tasty as the monkey buns (scraps with cinnamon & sugar). Texturally, it needs some work; it kind of blends together into a buttery cheese-bread thing, which isn't bad, mind you, but could be improved. I'm thinking caramelized onions, chopped broccoli, or even spinach (or mushrooms, for those of you who like fungi). In other food news, I also discovered that little sticks of graham cracker make an excellent dipping implement for Ben and Jerry's Strawberry Cream (light!) ice cream.

And you wonder why I've gained so much weight.

This weekend's plans are pretty mellow. I had thought to do laundry tonight, but lost what little ambition I had (I think I left it on the el). I managed to sort it, so I can do it first thing tomorrow morning, and I've swept the floors. Tomorrow I want to vacuum the bedroom (the one room with a rug), clean the bathroom, water the plants, type up the divorce papers, put away random crap that's sitting around, sort the mail and pay bills, possibly meet Chuck and his son for brunch, watch the Tour, possibly meet my friend later . . . just random life stuff.

I even made a trip to the used-book store this evening, where I purchased a three-volume history (Ferdinand Braudel's Civilization and Capitalism, 15th-18th century) and a couple of novels. The thing about the Braudel is that I used to own it. I dragged it around for years, but never seemed to get around to reading it, so I got rid of it; I don't even remember if I sold it or gave it away. In any case, I stumbled across Dorothy Dunnett a few years ago, and, potboilers though they are in many way, the Lymond and Niccolo series are (a) entertaining and (b) set in exactly the time and space that Braudel narrated. After I worked my way through Dunnett, I thought it would have been useful to have read Braudel . . . but, of course, I'd gotten rid of it along the way. It showed up at the bookstore, for $15 for the three volumes, so I snagged it. And this time I'll probably even read it, or, at least, dip into parts of it.

Monday I want to spend some time trying to get more clients, maybe applying for some jobs; neither of my checks this month had a comma. And the weather is supposed to be beautiful, so getting outside is pretty much required.

I'd thought I was going to have a beer tonight. I had some olive sourdough with sheep's milk cheese, and the aforementioned ice cream, and some club soda and dried fruit, but I'm really not up for a beer, and it's not clear that I'll stay awake even until 10. (Though the LOUD partying in the courtyard will help, I suppose.) What I want most is sleep. And exercise. And sleep. And, most of all, not having to get up at the ass-crack of dawn, even more than sleep. I don't need much sleep--never have--and I really am a morning person, but the ass-crack of dawn gets on my nerves.

Also, watch this space for some guest posting. My friend in California--the one who came through a few months ago--said he wants to start posting here, so I sent him an invite. No idea whether he will, but I'll let him introduce himself if he wants to do it.

What I Said

Hi [HiringPerson]--

Thanks so much for your thorough and thoughtful reply to my questions. You definitely have a great operation going there (and the baking kitchen made me long for sunlight in my workspace!). However, despite my desire for change, I'm not willing to take a pay cut to move. Given the extended training period, and the pay rate after that period, it sounds like you're looking for someone with a different skill set than I have.

Nevertheless, I'm attaching my resume so you can keep it on file. Let me also note that I'm expert in Microsoft Office applications and have extensive project management experience, in case you find you need someone with that skill set.

I did very much enjoy meeting you and seeing the cafe (I'd definitely recommend it to friends in the neighborhood!)--thank you again for your time.

I didn't want to just slam the door--thank you Larry and kStyle--but I really didn't want to get into a stupid negotiation, either. If you want someone to make your cupcakes, scones, and brownies, and do it reliably and reasonably well, okay, no problem; that's probably the right rate for that. If you want someone who's going to bring more to the table, well, I can be that person, but I'm not going to do it for that pay. She noted that they offer "flexibility" in scheduling, but, frankly, I have that now, to some extent. They offer no paid days off, either--hell, I get more than that now, given that the bakery is closed six days/year and I get paid for at least some of them.

My Friend reminds me that I'm getting by with my current situation, and, of course, I am, and the new guy (who's back from Paris as of yesterday) is a huge help, meaning I might even be able to work fewer hours. In short, I can go along like this for awhile, at least while I (a) try to find new clients and/or (b) try to find a job that provides more of what I want. It's still tiring and grueling and blah blah blah, but whatever.

Or Maybe Not

I got an email from the potential new place Tuesday night. They offer a starting rate of $9.50/hour, with a raise to $10.50/hour after a 45-day "training period." Ummm, I really wasn't looking for a cut in pay, thanks so much, and I find it difficult to believe that I'd need a 6-week training period. I'm tempted to just say a polite version of the above and leave the ball in their court. If that's the offer, after the conversation we had, then I'm gonna have to battle for every fucking 50 cents an hour, and you know? I'm already doing that, and not liking it so much. I can't decide whether to try to negotiate or bail as noted above.

And it depressed me. I mean, what the fuck--I'm 49 years old and arguing about 50 cents an hour: twenty bucks a week. When I look at it like that, it just . . . depresses me.

And yesterday, well, Tuesday afternoon the intern forgot to put the yeast in my dough for yesterday, so it had to be fixed. She was mortified--she was more upset than I was. I wasn't exactly thrilled, of course, because it wreaked havoc with my day and my week, but I learned how to fix a different mistake, and she was so concerned and apologetic I didn't have it in me to be actually annoyed.

I'm seeing the finish line of another proofreading project, too--sending the next-to-last bits (all except the glossary, which I haven't received) this morning. Which means I have NOTHING scheduled for Monday, and I'm trying to keep it that way--and which means I can (a) write up the divorce papers and (b) start trolling for more publishers for whom I can do freelance proofreading/copyediting. Of course, the lack of additional work also sends me into a slight panic, but you can't have it both ways.

First Light (sort of)*

What a great birthday weekend!

Friday was nothing much, though it was my actual birthday--I was up late Thursday night doing an event for the bakery (gotta love those 15-hour days . . .), so I basically went to bed at 9:30 on Friday. (I should mention that a Cute Boy brought me cherries and blueberries he'd picked--he is, in fact, cute, and in his early 20s, and if I didn't know any better, I'd think he has a little crush on me, old broad though I am.) Into every life a little rain must fall, and mine (this week, anyway) has taken the form of a clogged toilet (again!!) and a post-birthday nastygram from Chuck. Apparently this is a new tradition on his part, and I could live without it. The main points were: (1) I have no right to ask him about the woman he's been seeing since last August (truly, I'm just making conversation, and, since he has (a) called to ask how to cook this or that for her, (b) told me about her and her doings without prompting, and (c) told me about his sex life with her, again without prompting, it didn't occur to me that I couldn't ask questions); (2) he doesn't know how much longer he can continue to let me see his son, because it upsets Chuck too much; he dreamed that I called him and wanted to get back together with him, so I am now responsible for his dreams; and (3) a previous lover--from years ago--was not, in fact, the love of his life; apparently I hold that position, and he still loves me and is hurt and angry and confused about what happened a year ago. Apparently lying to me, taking my money, moving out, and telling me he was falling for someone else, all while not doing any of the things I asked him to do, were not sufficient reasons for me to not want to be married to him any longer. I got this email just before I left work Saturday, so I decided to dismiss it from my mind (as much as possible), and I managed to do that reasonably well. I'm trying to decide whether to answer it, and determine whether I can answer it with the compassion I've set for myself. The jury is still out.

Saturday after work my friend met me at the grocery store with his vehicle, so I bought all kinds of heavy and bulky things; it was very exciting to buy soap AND the huge pack of toilet paper AND bleach AND milk AND cereal AND so on. We went back to my place and unloaded groceries, then I showered and he took me to dinner (about which more in a minute). We'd planned to drink champagne after dinner, but we were both wiped out, so we just went to sleep. Sunday morning we watched the Tour de France coverage then went to crunchy-granola restaurant to hang with our peeps and get some breakfast. I grabbed my crap and we headed to his place, where I got the first pass of the proofreading done and he watered his garden and got in a bike ride. We went to find food, and succeeded. Back at his place, we opened the champagne AND he got out his telescope, because he's promised to do that for me (I've never looked through a telescope) and he was hoping to see a comet. I saw Arcturus and Jupiter (and three of the moons), and it was a lovely night.

Today, I met with my dissertating client, then talked to a cafe/restaurant person about a new job doing their baking. It's a smallish casual restaurant, a very small gourmet grocery store, and a counter with baked goods, candy, etc.--and their bakers have all left and they're looking for someone new. I have to think about it some more, but it sounds like the right move: they've been in business for four years, and the business is growing; they make good products with good ingredients; they're open to me instituting systems and doing some new products; and I'd work (probably) a maximum of 40 hours/week, which would give me time to expand the copyediting/proofreading business. I think I'm going to do it. I'll sleep on it tonight, but I think it's the way to go. I'm going to have to get going in terms of trying to find additional publishers with whom to work, so there will be some lag time there that might freak me out a little bit, but I think I can do it. I also had a wonderful zen shiatsu massage today.

I can't think of a good reason not to do it. The current situation has its good parts, of course--most notably the people, and the satisfaction that comes from making the best croissants in the city--but I'm tired of the crazy, and I'm tired of being underappreciated, and I'm tired of doing only one thing, and I'm really really tired of the long hours and low pay. Another buck or two an hour would be nice, even if reduced hours basically means I'd make less at that job. Still, an extra two or three hours a day for editing--or just living, or practicing yoga, or whatever--would be nice.

As for dinner Saturday, we started by sharing calamari in a spicy balsamic vinegar sauce, with spinach and something else, that was really quite spectacular. He had the special manicotti of the day (several kinds of cheese, roasted chicken, something else?) and I had duck tortellone with spinach, sun-dried tomatos, cheese, fresh tomatos, and a wine/cognac sauce. We shared a great bottle of wine, then with dessert (dessert canneloni with orange mascarpone cheese and fresh fruit) he had a glass of port and I had a glass of dessert wine. We both ended up with lots of leftovers; the place is famous for that. I just had mine a little while ago, as I made my tea for the week.

So I have to sleep on the new job possibility, and find out what they're willing to pay me, and so on, but it could happen.
---------
*"First light" typically refers to the first time a telescope is used, rather than the first time a person uses a telescope, but whatever.

What I Read for Lunch Today

I keep forgetting to include my book reviews . . .

About two months ago I reread Marilyn French's The Women's Room. I remember reading this in college and regarding it as not so much a revelation as a confirmation that I wasn't, in fact, crazy. Even all these years later, I found that it's still pretty damned powerful and that it details, in wrenching specificity, the small ways and the larger ways that patriarchy overwhelms us, permeates our lives, and oppresses us. i won't go on about it here, unless more of you have read it and have something to say. (And if you haven't read it, i strongly recommend that you do.)

Right now, though, I'm reading The Mists of Avalon, by Marion Zimmer Bradley, and I'm wondering how I missed reading this one. I think I never realized it was about the Arthur myths (from the perspective of the women and Druids and godess-worshipppers in said stories) and thought it was just witches and fairies and magick, for which I usually have little patience (Ursula LeGuin's Earthsea books being a notable exception). And, may I say, I'm REALLY loving this book, not least because it attempts to tell a story about how christianity roots out people who believe otherwise. Bradley noted, in an introduction added later, that she hadn't intended to disrespect christianity, per se, but, boy howdy, there ain't a lot of tolerance going around among the christians. It's particularly powerful in telling a story about how christianity taught men and women that women are sinful, that bodies are sinful, etc.

Yeah, work at the bakery is grueling, still, though the break in the heat helps. Tomorrow will be a 15-hour day, or so, because after a full day's work, I'm working the foodie event in the evening. The upside is that I'll get to eat, for free, from the offerings of some of the best restaurants in the city. But still a long day.

Also also wik, I'm enjoying the Tour de France; any of you following it at all?

More Lunch

Social, social Narya!

First, breakfast with the Brazen one (don't bother clicking--she's busy with skydiving and having fun, as well as working grueling hours at the Schmancy Restaurant, so writing blogposts isn't on her top-ten list) and another pastry school friend, then immediately went to meet the Orange one for tea (we had to change venues, as the original choice was closed, either for the day or permanently). After all the fun and socializing, I came home to slog through the rest of the proofreading, and, indeed, I finished it, which made me happy. I had negotiated a due date of next week at the latest, in anticipation of this week's craziness, but managed to get it done this week instead, which is what I'd hoped--freeing me up for the weekend. I've also taken on a dissertating client; I'm trying to help her get a proposal written and passed by her committee, which I think we can manage. My next Major Task is writing up the divorce papers: I saw Chuck and his son on Friday, and everyone behaved and had a good time. The rest of the weekend was spent working (Saturday), vegetating, breakfasting with Friend, watching races with said Friend, coaxing Friend into a walk in the woods, then making a light dinner with him (chopped tomatos, fresh mozzarella, and basil, with semolina sesame sourdough bread), then more race-watching, plus champagne (because why not; the Walgreen's near him has been clearing out its alcohol section, so the good stuff was 30% off).

Yes, it's still hot, and I expect the bakery will be extremely hot tomorrow--those oven thingies tend to heat things up some--but whatever. I'll play the lottery, too.

Fear of Falling

In the past two days, Marty (the new guy from my pastry school, who's heading to France tomorrow for 10 days but will be working with me full-time after that) and I made up 500 pounds of laminated dough into croissants. Yes, you read that correctly: a quarter-ton of croissants, in two days. Thanks to that effort (and Marty's already proving his worth), this coming week won't be as bad as it might otherwise have been. (Bossman is taking a class Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, and he leaves Thursday for Texas, which means, in part, that Thursday will be a 14-hour day, because I'm going to be the bakery's resident expert at a foodie event in the evening.)

But that's not what I want to write about.

Over at Flea's place, she recently wrote one of the funniest posts I've ever seen. She then followed it up with two related posts that sum up many things, including my fears, and that brought tears to my eyes.

As I have spewed my fears all over this space, my readers have reassured me multiple times, and I appreciate every word of it. I've had to keep reminding myself that I'm not in dire straits. But in the back of my head, I hear a panicked whisper that says, "Not yet. But it could happen." Where the panic comes from is that I realize that I'm one stroke of bad luck away from disaster, precisely because I don't have much money. Yes, I'm getting by, and even making enough to afford some fun, but it's all held together with spit and baling wire. As Flea's experience shows, sometimes nothing can protect you. Except money. And if you don't have that, you're fucked, plain and simple, and not in a good way.

There are two things (at least) I want to make clear. The first is that there's a tendency in all of us when we read accounts like these (or accounts like the ones David Shipley provides in The Working Poor) that tempt us to search for some big mistake that someone made that We Would Never Make. And it's bullshit, it's a kind of incantation we chant to reassure ourselves that we can't, won't, no never would find ourselves in That Position. Even a fragment of honesty, however, makes it clear that the incantation--and the blaming it implies--aren't the right answer to the fear of finding ourselves in a desperate situation. Compassion strikes me as a better response, as well as concrete assistance--how about real health care for everyone, just for starters?--and a better safety net and a living wage. When's the last time a politician tried to feed his or her family on a minimum-wage job? Or even on the nearly-twice-minimum-wage money I'm making? I can't imagine trying to feed another person, much less a couple of kids, on what I make.

And that leads to my second point. Bad things happen to everyone. No amount of health insurance is going to keep you from getting fibroids, or cancer, or a broken bone, or double pneumonia. (Actually, some kinds of health insurance make possible health care that helps catch some maladies early when they can be cured easily.) I figured out, when my sister died, that everyone's life has bad shit in it. It's why I had little patience with Chuck's ex-wife's moaning about how difficult her life is--and, more to the point, why I had little patience with his son's mimicking her complaints. Even more to the point, everyone makes mistakes, including some big ones and some expensive ones. (My sister-in-law not paying the mortgage for a year and a half, without telling my brother, would be an example of that one, in that my brother came within days of losing his house.)

But, and this is a big goddamned but, money means you have a cushion, a protective layer, that lessens the effects of the bad shit and big mistakes. Imagine that Chuck had really gone round the bend and run up, oh, $30,000 in credit card debt on a card he got while we were married. At the very least, I'd have to hire a lawyer to avoid being socked with part of that debt. Yes, you can tell me I shouldn't have married him, that that was a Big Mistake--but that wouldn't pay my debt or hire my lawyer, would it? That wouldn't protect me from collection agencies and a fucked credit rating and possibly garnished wages or some such.

And so I live with the fear. It's always been there--it eased up for a couple of years when I was debt-free and making (relative to my usual wages) more money, and able to save some. But that's all gone now, and I'm working in a low-paying job, in a low-paying industry, at work that is physically grueling and that can't be maintained over the long term. Frankly, I think fear is the appropriate response. And trying to find a way into a better situation, which I'm doing my best to create, but the fear stays with me.

Oooooo . . . . . Ahhhhhhh

A little mini-vacation in the middle of the week! And I made the most of it. Tuesday night I met my friend at our usual Tuesday-night good-beer-and-free-food venue. We both got out of work early and therefore were both there early (4:00 for me, rather than 6:00, for example, and 4:20 rather than 5:00 for him), which meant more time for chatting. After dinner, we dashed out of there, hopped in his vehicle, drove to an el station and parked said vehicle, and took public transportation to the big fireworks. (I LOVE fireworks.) The past bunch of years i've watched them from a boat in the middle of the harbor; our seats on Tuesday weren't quite that good, but not by much. After the fireworks, we headed back to the public transportation, waited through a bottleneck into the station, and then got on a nearly empty train: most of the people getting on there were heading south, while we were heading north. We got off the train near the vehicle but we did not go directly to the vehicle; instead, we went to hear a band at a bar near the vehicle's location. Sleep did not occur until nearly 2 am.

Needless to say, Wednesday was somewhat slower--I did manage to do some first-pass proofreading, and we managed to grill our food for dinner, so I felt both productive and patriotic (insofar as I care at all about the latter). We had some ice cream after dinner, on our way to the lakefront near my apartment, where we could watch still more fireworks. And although I got up early this morning, I didn't get to the bakery until 10 am (I had dough in the freezer, which meant I had nothing to laminate and there was no point in going in early, plus I got to get more proofreading done). It'll be a light paycheck, given that I won't put in 40 hours this week, but I don't care. Next week will likely be somewhat hellish, given Bossman's absence for much of it PLUS me filling in for him on Thursday night at some fancy-ass foodie thing (15-hour day, that'll be), but getting the proofreading moving along means it'll be less hellish than I once feared. The editor had wanted the stuff back next week, but, given the known qualities of next week, I pushed the deadlines back to the week after that, thinking that I was better off promising late and delivering early rather than the other way around. The manuscript is unbelievably poorly written, and the copyeditor apparently saw no reason to fix a lot of the messy bits, which I don't really understand. Seriously: I could take this manuscript and write a book that is twice as good as the one they're going to get. I'm restraining myself, because I'm proofreading rather than copyediting, meaning the text is already in page proofs, but it's pretty heinous, and the things the copyeditor outright missed are a little disturbing (the past tense of "lead" is "led," not "lead," for example); I can only hope my own copyediting isn't that bad.

Okay, I'm fading fast, and this isn't anything other than a what-I-had-for-lunch post, but it's all I got. Except to say that the son of a bitch should have served a jail term.

BakeryWorld

I'm not sure that three dried apricots, a prune, two crackers with cheese, two cookies, and a half a glass of wine really count as "dinner," but it's going to have to do.

What I would have liked to have done today:
Get up "late" (i.e., some time around 5:30 or 6:00), make a cup of tea, read my email, finish an editing job, leisurely begin the end of the other editing job, practice some yoga (or even go to a class!), get a massage, sit in the sun in the window of a cafe and read "The Mists of Avalon" while sipping some hot tea, and have a lovely dinner somewhere, perhaps with a friend.

What I did instead:

• Pounded 36 pounds of butter into rectangles (3 pounds per rectangle)


• Put the frozen croissants for tonight's bake onto sheet pans and racks so there would be room in the freezer for today's dough


• Cut 144 (or so) pounds of dough into 12-pound chunks, put each chunk on a sheet pan and cover it with plastic, and put each into the aforementioned freezer


• Counted the croissants on hand and tried to figure out a production schedule that takes into account Saturday's market, next week's holiday (no market Wednesday, which is good, but the bakery is closed Wednesday, which means no production happens on that day and no dough for Thursday gets made


• Fixed some Excel spreadsheets for Bossman


• Cleaned the dough sheeter


• Laminated the aforementioned chunks of dough with the aforementioned rectangles of butter (takes about 90 minutes to 2 hours)


• Pulled a stack of sheet pans and put paper on each one, in preparation for the Festival of Plain Croissants


• Took a brief hiatus from that task to help Phil with the sourdough rolls while Woody mixed some dough


• Made eggwash


• Put a second fold in each piece of dough


• Took a 20-minute break (it being nearly 1:00 pm by this time) and tried to reach a friend so we could plan food for Saturday night, failed in that task, but read for 15 minutes while chowing on a chunk of sourdough bread with butter


• Began the Festival, which involved rolling somewhere around 830 plain croissants


• Put the last of tomorrow's croissants on pans


• Made a 150-pound batch of dough for tomorrow and put it in the walk-in


• Punched out, not quite 12 hours after I punched in


• Upon arrival at home, edited for an hour and a half, which enabled me to finish one job

As you can see,* this is not exciting. It's not particularly difficult or interesting, and it probably didn't involve nearly as much variety or skill as, say, Brazen Tart's day on the job. It's grueling, and somewhat boring, and did I mention the low pay? The other thing that's been getting on my last nerve is the lack of paid days off. Now THERE'S a benefit you don't think much about until you don't have it any more. Having spent most of the previous 25 years in academia or OfficeWorld, you get used to sick days, vacation days, personal days, whatever the fuck your company calls them. Here in BakeryWorld, you don't get any of that: you don't work, you don't get paid. Of course, in BakeryWorld you also get the fabulous amusement-park ride of Bossman's Spouse--one day she hates you, the next day she loves you!

So fuck it, I say. As I've noted before, and as my conversation with J reminded me yesterday, I realized 10 years ago that I didn't want to work 80 hours a week.** At the time, I was contemplating trying to get a big-dollar consulting-type job (not that I necessarily would have succeeded in actually getting such a position, but I was thinking about it), and I realized that, while a six-figure salary would be nice, I really didn't want to work that many hours. Turns out, not only do I not want to work those hours for a six-figure salary, I really REALLY don't want to work those hours for an average of $12/hour. I'm planning my escape. It'll probably be as successful as all of my previous plans--let's not forget that, ten years ago, when I made this big conclusion, I was (a) making about what I'll make this year, most likely, and (b) working about half as many hours, plus I got vacations and such. But I'll take a stab at a new plan--probably two or three simultaneously.
__________

*I have no idea why the typeface changed after the list, but I'm too tired to try to solve it.
**In fact, I happily would have worked 80 hours/week as a professor, but keep in mind that I wouldn't have been doing so much of the same thing every single day.

More Whining, Followed by Cultural Commentary (Which Is Merely Whining of a Different Flavor)

I had dinner with a friend the other night, and as we wandered over to crunchy-granola-land, I was (what a surprise) moaning about how many more croissants I have to make now that the farmers' markets are in full swing, and our orders are up, and so on. He grabbed my hand and pointed out that people are not buying the croissants to torture me--that I'm GOOD at this. It was very sweet of him, and it made me laugh and refocus, both of which were helpful.

But you know what? Some days--most days, lately--it's just not enough, given the compensation I get in return. I'm looking at my calendar for the next three weeks, and it's ugly. The Students are graduating on Friday, then they're either going away for a vacation, starting the internship, or both, and, of course, the week when I have neither of them to help me is the week that Bossman is taking a class. I've already decided I'm not going in that Monday, despite his class, because he didn't pay me for Memorial Day. (The general principle is that you get paid for holidays that fall on days when you're normally scheduled to work, and, of course, I'm theoretically off on Mondays, but the other principle, for me, is that I've gone in on Mondays, most recently at the end of May, when he's out of town. So: don't pay me for Monday holidays because I'm not scheduled to work that day? Fine, but that means I'm not, in fact, going to work on Mondays.) He's offered to pay me my editing/proofreading rate to write the website on Mondays, and I told him I'd put it on the schedule, and I will, but I don't see it happening any time soon.

I'm wearing out, plain and simple. I've been applying for jobs, but except for the film company (they hired someone else), I typically don't get any response at all. I'm thinking more about what I need to do to do the copyediting and proofreading full time. In short: save up money, which I've been doing as best I can; figure out how much I need to have banked to feel comfortable quitting the bakery entirely; and line up some other publishing companies or clients for whom I can freelance. I have little idea how to go about the last thing, though I used to know an editor at a university press and I intend to ask him, and I'll do some research on it tomorrow. (Also on tomorrow's list: edit the last chapter of one of the current manuscripts; schedule a mammogram; pick up sample divorce papers from the clerk of the court's office; find out what happened to the pants I tried to exchange; call a friend who had a heart attack a couple of months ago; do laundry. So, nothing much, really. The original plan included a trip to a bar tomorrow night, where someone is doing a little cafe thing on sex differences, so I could tell him how wrong he is, but I don't know that I feel like dealing with the shlep home afterwards, which easily could take 90 minutes.)

The real question for me in doing the freelance thing full-time is whether I can get enough work. I'm not worried about being able to do the work if I get it--shit, I'm working nearly 80 hours a week now. If I can find enough work for, say, 50 hours a week, I'll end up making substantially more money each week AND working 30 fewer hours. I don't see how that's a bad thing. And I can keep looking for a full-time "regular" job, too, while I'm at it.

I'm a little afraid of being a full-time freelancer, in that it means I'm always going to be hustling for jobs. I also worry somewhat about the lag between doing the work and getting paid. Occasionally there's a snag in getting paid--an invoice not received or not submitted, say--and about 25% of the time (it seems), a job takes longer than the editor originally predicted, typically because an author has lagged somehow. My most lucrative gig, for example, was supposed to be done by the end of December or maybe early January: I didn't get the last bits until April. If I'd needed that $4k to pay immediate bills, it would have been ugly--hence the need to have a "comfortable" amount of money in the bank.

Really, though, I'm blathering on here so I don't write about the sadness that's been overwhelming me of late. I ignore it most of the time, because what's the point in dwelling on it? And I know it's exacerbated by long workweeks like the one I just had and the ones in front of me. And I'm tired of talking about it to friends, who, I'm sure, are tired of hearing it. I'm also tired of feeling like the world's biggest fucking loser, however. And you know, I can rephrase things in my head, such that I didn't make a bad decision (in going to work for the biotech company; in getting involved with, and--what the fuck was I thinking?--marrying Chuck) so much as I made a decision that didn't work out well, but I end up in the same goddamned place, no matter how you phrase it.

Yeah, okay, whatever.

For our movie review tonight, let me say that i watched "The Devil Wore Prada" the other night. I loved Meryl Streep; she was brilliant, as was Stanley Tucci. But parts of the script made me want to smack someone. Specifically:

Why did the assistant woman have to be all proud of herself for getting down to a size 4? Why did that have to be a plot point after the opening scenes where everyone is mocking her for being a size 6? They could have dropped it after that and it would have been fine, but NOOOOOO, she had to be all bragging about it at the end. I'm sorry, people, but most women are not a size 4. And the Devil can go on at length about how the blue of assistant-woman's sweater is, in fact, a product of the fashion industry, albeit a down-market version, but the high-fashion shit she was selling? What is the point? Oh, wait: to reinforce the notion that women are the sex class.

Why was the Entourage-boyfriend guy's ambition okay--remember he got the fancy-ass sous chef job at the end?--but the assistant's ambition not okay? You can make an argument that fashion is not a worthwhile pursuit, but the movie didn't make that argument at all. You can make an argument that ambition is a bad thing for everyone--but, again, the movie didn't make that argument (and, to be fair, assistant-woman DID get a Dream Job in the end, but one that she only got because of the experience with the Devil). You can make an argument that some kinds of ambition are destructive to the people around you, and, ultimately, to yourself, or you can choose not to participate in certain (kinds of) rat races--but the movie didn't make those arguments. What we saw was ambition in a woman being a bad thing, especially when that ambition meant she wasn't around to Take Care of Her Man and Attend His Birthday Party. (No one seemed to mind the ambition when it resulted in expensive gifts for them.)

And I still haven't made up my mind about "The Corrections." I'm still reading it, but the I-don't-believe-that-part bits are piling up in the corner. For one example, the gun artist's stuff? Doesn't seem right to me. I do not claim to be an expert on parental grief, despite my first-hand observations, but that whole section did little except annoy me with what appeared to be efforts to be clever. That, really, is what's piling up in the corner: too many efforts to be clever, such that even the ones that succeed irritate me.

Yes, a Second Post This Week!

Years later than everyone else, I'm finally reading "The Corrections" by that Franzen guy, and I haven't decided what I think about it yet. On one hand, he has some wonderful writing going on there--funny, evocative, lots of detail without that Cormac McCarthy thing going on (I tried, i really did try, to read Cormac, and he put me to sleep)--but I don't know whether he really likes his characters. (Tom Wolfe, for example, hated all of his characters in "Bonfire of the Vanities," which is the last book of his I tried to read, and I eventually wanted to thonk it against the wall because of it.) Yes, they're a little absurd, but aren't we all? So that could be okay. The one thing that's making alarm bells ring just the teensiest bit is the magical way that one of the main characters gets out of the huge mess he's dug for himself. One of the reasons I love Richard Russo's fiction as much as I do is that we get to see his characters--for whom he has much affection, because of, as well as in spite of, their absurdities--muddle through their messes. Sometimes they find a peace of one kind or another, but no magical fixes. So we'll see.

Meanwhile, Bossman's wife has made a liar out of me. I was sure that she was hatin' on me lately, but yesterday she came up to me and made it a point to say how much she appreciates me, for my consistency and reliability and something else (I couldn't quite make out what). I suspect that Bossman had made it clear that I'm humping away, magically producing nearly 4000 of the best croissants in the city, pretty much by myself, and, by the way, helping out Phil and (this past Saturday, because Phil kept bugging me) making pizza. In the face of that, my not doing the customers' orders for Bossman rather pales.

We've got two new people around the bakery these days. One of them worked there years ago, and he's pretty much an okay kid (early 20s, I think, so I think of him as a kid). He's reasonably competent, though he screwed up my croissant dough--in ways that we couldn't figure out how--three days running when he started. He mostly focuses on bread--and he leaves after about 8 hours. Which, okay, whatever, but when the fuck am I going to get some help during the week? Student 2 has been coming in on Saturday with Student 1, and he's going to start full-time after graduation (end of June) and his trip to Paris (early July), and he's meanwhile going to come in on Thursday and Friday after school, as well, which should help with the Thursday Festival of Plain Croissants and the Friday Market-Preparation Clusterfuck.

The other new hand is the 19-year-old son of one of Bossman's best friends (who also owns a bakery), and he is getting on my last nerve. He kind of means well, but he is So Fucking Slow. Seriously; he makes NP (who actually improved over time) look like a fucking genius. And he's just clueless. He's all proud of himself for working an 8-hour day and working at "his" bakery on weekends, but, I hate to tell you, I worked two jobs the summer I was his age, and (a) neither was for a "friend," meaning I had to actually, you know, work, and (b) I needed to earn the money, meaning I had to actually, you know, work. He's basically playing bakery. I, on the other hand, have 11 to 12 hours of work to get done each day, and I don't have the time to deal with him or teach him shit. Because you know what? After 8 hours he punches out, no matter what work remains to be done. (He wants to not get caught in traffic, and go work out, and so on.) I have never met anyone who can stand around as much as he can. And I think the thrill is wearing off, despite the small amount of work he does. That is, when he started a couple of weeks ago, he was all excited, but, let's face it, he doesn't want to work particularly hard, and no one's going to make him work particularly hard at our place, and he's not going to lose his job if he doesn't work hard, so he just lollygags, and chats, and leans, and plays bakery.

Oy.

I wish Brazen Tart would come work for us instead of suffering the craziness at the restaurant (and the hotel). She'd get so much done, in no time at all, that she'd make the rest of us look like slackers. And my opinion about the craziness, since she asked? The restaurant chef is insane, and why do you need that insanity in your life? Leave, already. Or, alternatively, have what my old boss called a come-to-jesus talk with her and tell her you really don't have time or patience for that shit. (Brazen Tart is MUCH nicer and more diplomatic than I am, so it would come out sounding much better.)

Muscle and Machine

I love this time of year: the sun seems to be up forever (and it mostly is, given that it starts getting light before 5 am and doesn't get dark dark until 9) and it's warm without that underlying knife-edge of cold that seeps in in April and sometimes May and definitely October, but it's also not unrelentingly hot. I'd say the weeks around the summer solstice are my favorite time of the year.

I still spend most of my time working these days, though--after more than 55 hours at the bakery, I spent four or five hours yesterday and another nine or so hours today slogging through the manuscript. (I'm seeing proofreading marks in my head.) I also watched three auto races in less than 24 hours (the Indy car race Saturday night, the Formula 1 race at noon on Sunday, and the Champ Car race at 3 on Sunday), which was interesting as well. I'm getting to know a little bit more about the courses and drivers and such, and I've realized that what I like about it, in addition to the raw speed of the whole thing, is the interesting intersection between human and equipment.

With handball, for example, there's not a lot of equipment: eye guards, gloves, gym shoes, shorts, t-shirt. The rules even specify acceptable versions of much of that, meaning one simply isn't going to get an advantage from the equipment. Presumably steroids would help with the body, but even there, if you don't get to the ball, you can't hit it. Fitness certainly helps, especially at the top level, but I've also seen people who could stand to drop a few pounds--or someone who was pregnant with twins--play spectacular games. In short, it's a game that's more about the human than the equipment, and the human doesn't have to be some finely chiseled specimen to play and win.

Football often seems to me to be the worst combination of human and equipment. The players wear a bunch of protective equipment, and, over the last decade or two, have begun to add physical poundage such that you essentially have multiple collections of 300-plus pounds of flesh hurtling at each other. And, as George Will once noted, the game itself can be described as violence punctuated by committee meetings.

In baseball, it's obvious--from the home run shenanigans of recent years, in particular--that players can modify their bodies with steroids in ways that affect the game. Nevertheless, it is possible to play well and to succeed without steroids, and it's possible to be both normal-sized and good (something that's not possible in basketball or football).

With racing, though, the machines obviously make a big difference--though more in some series than others, in that, in some series, all the drivers drive cars with the same specs. What you get is an interesting nexus of driver, vehicle (teams with more money have better equipment and better crews), and engineering, all at very high speeds. You can have the best driver in the world, and if the car sucks, s/he isn't going to win. Conversely, faster/better cars need good drivers at the wheel.

Anyway.

I've been diligently applying for jobs and such, and trying not to panic. The "don't panic" injunction works some days better than others. But hey, my anniversary is coming up, which means we'll have one less piece of paper to file when we file for the divorce (working on that, too). (In this state, if you've been married less than two years, you have to file an additional form of some kind.) Next week's project involves going to the Clerk of the Court's office and getting the papers to file. And editing, of course.

Random Notes

Let's see . . . since I last showed up in this space, I've gone to the Indy 500 (in short: really, really fast), worked somewhere around 115 hours at the bakery, stayed up one night--until 7:30 am--drinking wine and talking to a friend (just this past Saturday, which meant not nearly as much editing got done Sunday as I would have liked), and had a job interview (at a film production company that's looking for an administrative assistant). Yesterday I even managed to clean the bathroom (which had turned into a godawful pit) and do the laundry. I'm still not as caught up on my proofreading as I'd like to be; I have a batch due next Wednesday, and I've only scratched the surface.

May I also add that this particular manuscript is written hideously. The copyeditor apparently isn't as much of a martinet as I am, in that s/he allowed to stand some truly heinous writing. The writer and copyeditor also aren't so good about keeping subjects singular or plural (e.g.: The patient has to decide what is best for them.), and apparently don't know that the past tense of "lead" is "led." It's kind of a train wreck, but since it's already gone to the composition people and I'm supposed to be only proofreading it, I hesitate to do any more than correct egregious errors. But have I mentioned that the writing sucks AND blows? It makes me wonder, too: I worry about my own copyediting, which I mostly do electronically--which, I'd argue, is much harder to make neat and much harder to format, but substantially easier in other ways. Because I tend to get things in batches--and, therefore, often have to send things back in batches--I don't always realize in, say, Chapter 2, that I'm going to want to format or write something differently when I get to it again in Chapter 5, and, by the way, Chapter 2 is already gone back, so tough luck. It's not clear to me how many passes a given manuscript gets, so that could be less relevant than I think it is, but it still worries me.

I have long said that chocolate and raspberries are two of my three favorite things. I think I might have to make the list longer, though, to add ginger and honey. Thus, the bar of Green & Black's chocolate with ginger in it is transcendent, and if were a less prudent person, I'd eat the whole damned thing right this minute and run out and get another one.

I saw Chuck briefly yesterday, so he could borrow my tent for a scout camping trip with his son. Chuck looked like shit, and when I asked if he was okay, he said no, but that it I didn't have to be concerned about it any more, and he didn't want to talk about it with me. Whatever. He really did look haggard. I know I'm supposed to be working on the divorce papers, but I simply don't have the time right now. When I'm not making croissants, I'm editing, sleeping, or, occasionally, recreating a little, and all of those things need to take precedence. The last batch of the current crop is due June 25th, so I'll be able to get to the divorce paperwork on June 26th, maybe--our anniversary. Eh; whatever. I'll make the time for the divorce crap, and soon. It breaks my heart, still, but not because I want to reconcile. Maybe I'll have a new job soon, and thus have more time for stuff.

I'm neither particularly hopeful nor excited about the film production company job--it's pretty simple, and involves things like answering phones, tracking packages, ordering lunch (the company buys lunch every day), running the dishwasher, making coffee, etc. I have no idea what I'd say if they actually offered it to me. On one hand, I'd perhaps go out of my mind with boredom--it's a very small company, and I do not see how they would fill up my days, even when they're in production. On the other hand, if they offered me a little more than I'm making at the bakery, for, say, 10 to 15 fewer hours per week of work, it'd be mighty tempting, just to get the hell out of the bakery. On the other hand, if I can manage to hold out a little while, I could add $10k to $15k to what the film people are likely to offer, were they to offer to me. Or maybe not. I suck at this.

Wal-Mart and Murder

Over in kStyle's comment sections, Ann wants to know whether Wal-Mart or murder can be beautiful, in part because I argued, elsewhere in the comments, that functionality can/does "bestow" beauty on something. Ann's question is whether it DOES, by the rules I've already suggested.

I'm insisting on messiness, as I often do, and probably being Kantian, in the sense that I'm arguing (whether or not Kant would agree with me) that an end that is, in itself, problematic (as, i would argue, Wal-Mart is) or downright wrong (as, I would argue, murder is) makes it difficult, perhaps impossible, for the execution of that end to be beautiful. That is, it's not just that something must (or perhaps only should?) be functional in order to have the attribute of beauty, it's also that the thing that is functional must itself be a worthwhile thing. This may be merely a question of whether functionalities must be interlinking and must be considered in that way to judge them properly. For example, Wal-Mart may serve certain kinds of ends, most notably the enprofitulation of its owners, but do a poor job of serving other worthwhile functions that we may properly regard as linked to the functionality of business establishments. That is, if Wal-Mart's functionality at enprofitulation requires treating workers poorly, degrading the quality of merchandise available, etc., then we might argue that Wal-Mart is not, in fact, beautifully functional, unless, of course, I had the luck to be born into the owning family.

The biggest problem with this, of course, is who decides--whether something is worthwhile, whether it's functional, whether it succeeds, on its own or others' terms, at the thing it sets out to do. And, if it does, is it beautiful? A spoon may function perfectly well as a spoon--which gets it some points, in my book--but not be notable in any other way. Is that a sufficient condition for beauty? (Probably not. Mere functionality may be a worthwhile goal, but may not suffice for beauty.)

On the other hand is the question Anne posed, i.e., the one raised by the decorative impulse. That is, some things, jewelry and paintings being the objects in question, don't serve an obvious or utilitarian function, even if they serve a decorative function. If we're not sure whether "decoration" is properly regarded as a function, then we must ask whether functionality is a necessary condition for beauty. Even if we do regard decoration as a proper function, this is obviously a situation where it's easy for the decorative impulse to take over, as it were, and overwhelm functionality. (Most "fashionable" clothing, for example, suffers from this.) So, I think, I'm insisting that something not just be functional, but that the function it serves be worthwhile (or moral).

Who decides all of this? I do. Well, and you, too. i think the interactive aspects of life require that we all take part in these conversations.

As you might imagine, I could say more, but it's time to make the croissants.

nth Update

Another 60-hour week, plus another 7 hours in front of the computer today, and the prospect of another 2 or 3 tomorrow. But! Breakfast tomorrow with the Brazen One, by which time I should be finished with the said two or three hours of work, which means I get to have a half a day off, anyway. Today was pretty desultory, too; I didn't leave my apartment. And I finished off the evening by watching the rest of Wordplay, though I couldn't find Orange.

It's difficult to say what's going to happen at the bakery. The Saturday person from my school is so good that the chef (the one who sent me to the bakery) basically tracked her down and insisted she be an intern. I think she's going to do it (and I think she should), but that means Bossman and I are back to square one. Saturday's person brought another classmate with her, and I suppose there's a chance he'll join us, but either way it wouldn't be until July. I don't know what the fuck we're going to do for June; both Bossman and I are rather concerned about it, when we're not too busy to think about it. The markets start in full force next week (a Wednesday market, plus three on Saturday). Plus, he leaves for Camp Bread on Saturday and doesn't return until next Thursday, which means my life becomes more miserable; for one thing, I have to go in at least briefly on Sunday and Monday to process orders.

Bossman's wife continued to bemoan Brad's absence this week. One day I asked him why she misses him so much, and he said that she thinks that's why he isn't home. I said, "That's not true." And he said, "I realize that." Which, for us, on this subject, spoke volumes. Basically, she wants him to take off at least a day a week, but she doesn't realize that the reason he doesn't and can't is that we need to hire more people, a project that involves expending even more time. I've already told him that I can't give up another day to work at the bakery, that I can't afford it financially, which is true. (Let's face it, when I can make somewhere around $25/hour sitting in front of my computer or $10 to $15/hour making croissants, I'm gonna pick the former. And if all I make making croissants is $10/hour, then I really need the hours where I can make the $25.)

I had dinner Friday night with Chuck and his son, and everyone behaved. It's so very difficult, though. Lately I've been wanting to write to Chuck's sister, and I write and write and write in my head, and sometimes on the computer, but I don't send anything to her. For one thing, I'm afraid that, if Chuck were to find out, he'd keep me from seeing his son, and I don't want to essentially sacrifice my relationship with his son to make a point of some kind. For another thing, it's not clear to me that wanting to tell my story is a sufficient reason to write to his sister; it's too all-about-me for my taste. I'm beginning to lean toward sending her a brief email saying that I'd like to tell her more, but only (a) if she wants to read it and (b) if she doesn't tell Chuck. And, you know, she may not want to read it, which is her choice.

Last year I had brunch with Chuck and Son for Mother's Day--their "treat,' though it was probably my money he was using to pay--and of course I couldn't help but think about that today. Part of the reason I need and want to get this divorce done is that I'm worn out by the last-year-at-this-time thoughts, and I don't see them ending until we're divorced. Sometimes I'm consumed with anger, and I try to get past that, too. What's the point of being angry? It's not like that will repair anything; it's not like that will replenish my bank account with the money he begged, borrowed, and, in some ways, stole. (Speaking of money, apparently his car was booted this week, to the tune of $450, because he had too many parking tickets; he doesn't drive every day, so tickets get blown away, etc., and he didn't realize he had four instead of two. He was hoping his rent check doesn't bounce. Me, I was relieved to not have to deal with it--I paid for dinner, as I always do, but I made no offer to help out with the other shit. And, really, he should just park his car at his ex-wife's.) I realized awhile ago that I don't want anything from him except the money he owes me, so there's no point in engaging with him on the ending, on the stuff, on what he did or what I did or what might have been. If I wanted reconciliation with him, if I thought he were capable of even being my friend, I might make that effort, but I don't. Truthfully, I don't even expect to be able to maintain my relationship with his son. I want to do that--even though it would be easier not to--because I don't want to abandon him, and because I love him, but who knows whether Chuck will continue to allow it.

In Perfect Harmony

So my friend is "doing" eHarmony. She hasn't been all that pleased by it--of the men up with whom they've hooked her, only a couple have any real potential--but it hasn't been a complete waste of time, either. And, really, if you're single and want to date someone and you're in circumstances that make it difficult to meet potential datees (or should that be date--ees? . . . sounds like a crunchy-granola pharmaceutical: Having trouble getting a social life? Try Date-Eez!), you gotta try something.

So, on a whim, I filled out the eHarmony personality profile to see what they could come up with for me. I did it honestly, too. After you do that, they give you a sort of summary version, one of those things that says "you are x." (You can give them money and get a more detailed version, apparently, but I didn't do that.) If you read the one that came up for me (and if you really want to read it, I'll send it to you; I downloaded the pdf), the person being described is actually kinda okay. If that's really me, well, I'm okay with that. For example, under the category they call "agreeableness" ("taking care of others or taking care of yourself"), the "words that describe me" are fair, considered, collaborative, responsive, sensible, diplomatic, contemplative, indulgent, and rational (I particularly like the juxtaposition of the last two).

Except after I did all this? The final evaluation said, basically, you're too difficult to match with anyone; we fail about 20% of the time, and you're in that group, so thanks for playing, but we won't be able to find anyone who likes you. (The Twisty part of me wonders whether i would have received the same response if I'd filled it out exactly the same except said I'm male; if I could remember my answers precisely, I'd do it just to see.) So, apparently, if I ever want to jump in the dating pool again, I'm screwed. And not in a good way. Which does wonders for me.

On the other hand, I reconnected today with someone with whom I used to work (at the substance abuse place) and we had a delightful afternoon. We dropped off the Flat Nephew pics and then went to Whole Paycheck--she has a vehicle, so I could shop without regard to how much things weighed, which was wonderful--and then we picked up the pics (now I just have to send them off). Then we went to Local Crunchy-Granola restaurant and drank wine and ate buffalo quesadillas and I told her the Narya and Chuck saga, complete, as Arlo would say, with three-part harmony (and best told, and heard, in the presence of fermented beverages). Yeah, okay, I have to go back to croissant heck tomorrow, but I got some time off today, and the trees are turning that bright new green of spring, and it was warm enough, and the sun was out, and I got to see my friend, so things are good. They might suck again tomorrow, or even later tonight, but they were good today. Even if eHarmony thinks I'm hopeless.

Chats in the Offing

As I'm leaving work today, after putting in another 11-hour day (total this week: 57+ hours), Bossman's wife says to me, "You have to convince Bossman to hire Brad to come in on Sundays." Bossman had mentioned to me, months ago, that Brad wanted to work Sundays at the bakery. No one--including Bossman--wants Brad around. We don't like him. The Wife, however, "misses Brad," she says, and "Bossman just can't work seven days a week." I kind of hedged and said, well, you'll have to convince a whole lot of people. To which she responds that "Bossman and I write the checks, babe."

I just left and left it at that, especially since I was on my way out the door after the aforementioned 57-hour week--you know, the one I work so that her kids can go to college, and so that she can flit in and out and do whatever bullshit she does and still collect a salary?--but I really would not have wanted to say any more, because who knows what would have come out of my mouth. (Bossman witnessed this whole interchange, and I'm sure he had some idea what I was thinking, even though it was all done in this supposedly joking fashion.) Because you know what? She has no fucking clue. And you know what else? If Brad comes back, I'm out of there. She thinks Bossman works a lot now? Wait until he has to produce 5,000 croissants a week for the store, markets, and orders--without me.

I'm friendly to her--because why not, and because I see how difficult she is and I don't see any reason to rock the boat unnecessarily--but lordy lou is she clueless. She talks about the business in "we" terms, but I'm here to tell you that she really doesn't have any idea what's involved in the business, and she sure as fuck doesn't do any serious work in the business. For one thing, if she really wanted Bossman to spend less than 14 hours/day there, she would do something more productive than nag him. And I'll bet you a dollar that she nags him constantly about am I doing the orders, because they're paying me a whole $10/hour and all.

I think Bossman and I are going to have to have a little chat on Tuesday. I certainly won't say "It's Brad or me," or anything like that; I am not a believer in ultimatums. But if Brad does come back, I will be disrupting my own personal plan in order to get out of there. It's also true that we need more help at the bakery, but we need a fuck of a lot more than Brad coming in on Sunday, which I'm sure Bossman already understands, but Wife does not. Part of the problem is that we have two people coming in on Saturdays--one from my program and one from another program in the city--who are great but who, because they're still in their programs, can only come in one day a week. Yes, fine, they'll join us full-time--in July. Bossman and I are trying to figure out how to get through June, not to mention May.

Okay, I must sleep. One of my best friends came through town last night--he's driving a car from New Jersey to California--and we were up until after 2 and then up at 6:30 this morning. It was quite wonderful to see him; I miss our long email exchanges from what seems like a million years ago. But I must now sleep, because tomorrow I must edit my butt off, then get a massage, and on Monday I must once again edit my butt off and then see a friend from the substance abuse treatment place days--and she has a car, and is willing to take me grocery shopping! Meanwhile, though, sleep.

The Lamination Chronicle

I should have named the blog that, though it's admittedly less Kosmic than the title I chose. Speaking of dharma, the Dalai Lama is in town this weekend, speaking publicly on Sunday. Am I going to hear his wisdom? ("Big hitter, the lama.") No. I'm getting a massage. So much for enlightenment.

More croissant compliments today, from Bossman as well as from some random guy who admired my lamination (his word, to one of the counter people, which means he must be in the food biz, because normal people don't think of lamination when they look at croissants). It's very strange, on so many levels: to know that I am making some of the finest croissants to be had in this hemisphere--or, hell, just in this city--and that I am making upwards of 3000 each week, by myself, but I must work extra jobs to make ends meet. There's something fundamentally wrong about that. Not for me, so much, because I can (perhaps should) do other, better-compensated work; I mean cosmically, really. Because being willing and able to do something like that, whether it's baking bread, or making croissants, or whatever, should be regarded as worthy and worthwhile. I'd argue that I bring more good to the world than many a zillion-dollar-a-year CEO, and I'd argue that my coworkers do likewise, and yet we're not the ones getting platinum parachutes even when we don't fire enough people to suit the shareholders. That is, it's not just me, it's also Phil and Johnnie who should be making a lot more.

Speaking of coworkers, yesterday Johnnie came out and tapped me on the shoulder, pointed across the bakery, then said, "Never mind." I was confused--until I looked down and saw a fudge rose on a cake scrap. (Johnnie knows of my love for the fudge frosting.) Then, at lunch time, I found a hunk of "lunch" sourdough bread, complete with butter, nestled next to my book and glasses, courtesy of Phil. (I've been helping him with his rolls a LOT lately.) And, really, I find it ironic that Artie--the person who least NEEDS help--is the one to whom NP has, de facto, been "assigned." Of course, that's partly because she's pretty useless except for greasing cake pans, arranging cookies in store pans, slicing and packaging rolls, putting liners in muffin pans and dropping muffin batter into the pans, and tasks like that. Bossman, Phil, and I are all swamped lately, especially me and Bossman.

Luckily, Bossman understands that I cannot afford to work at the bakery another day, that I need to earn the editing money. (My guess is that he feels slightly guilty for not paying me more.) And, really, I wouldn't care much if he didn't understand--or, rather, I'd be less willing to bust my ass for him if he didn't understand. I don't know what I'm going to do for the longer term, but i keep telling myself I don't need to deal with this problem until i get the divorce finalized, that I can't solve every problem at once.

My primary life motto is from Hunter Thompson: "When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro." I've lived by that motto for 40 years or so--consciously lived by it for more than 20 years. My secondary motto is from I don't remember whom, from the same quote-a-day calendar that offered up Hunter: "First this. Then that." And I decided that I needed to go to an assortment of medical professionals (which I've done, except for the mammogram, which I'll schedule soon), get results from various tests (for which I'm waiting), get a divorce, and THEN figure out what I'm going to do, job/life-wise.

Also: Larry, I love you, too, and I'm REALLY glad you played music last week. In public and with friends and such. You rock.