Happy solstice, everyone! It's my favorite holiday (seriously--for a few years running, my holiday cards were handmade [by me, no less] solstice cards).
Let's see. Apparently mom was starting dialysis today, but I haven't heard a report from anyone on how that went. I talked to both my parents yesterday and told them each that I'm going to be visiting; I had wanted to surprise them, but I thought it was better this way. Mom sounds pretty good. She's not a whiner, and she's known this would be coming eventually, so she's just accepting it and moving on. I suspect the dialysis will even improve the quality of her life in some ways.
I took Friend out to dinner for his birthday last night, which means I left work after only 9.5 hours or so, plus I went in nearly an hour late this morning (I punched in at 7:50), as I'd warned Bossman I was going to do. We had a wonderful dinner, even though we ended up at his second choice restaurant because his first choice was full of holiday parties and there was a 1.5-hour wait for a table. The place we went is set up such that you can either order from the menu or, for a fixed price, they bring you a bunch of little plates of appetizers, and then a couple of pastas, and then an entree (which you choose from a list); they will also bring you a glass of a different wine with each of those courses (there are three price levels for that option). I've never ordered from the menu the half dozen times I've been there, in part because I like to sample the bits they bring. Last night: appetizers were olives; little balls of fresh mozzarella drizzled with a flavored olive oil; a parmesan-encrusted caramelized onion slice; and some little veal meatballs. The pastas were wide ribbons with a duck ragu and rigatoni with parmesan, italian sausage, spinach, and cauliflower. For our entrees, Friend had a hunter's stew with quail, rabbit, white beans, and spinach, and I had braised pork with white beans and greens (kale, I think it was). We both took home wads of our entrees--I had some tonight, with added spinach and over pasta, and I'll get another meal out of it as well, and Friend took his leftover stew to work today with a hunk of bread I had on the counter. (I told him it was a sign of my affection for him that I was willing to give him the heel of the bread--and it was semolina sesame sourdough, no less, which may well be my favorite bread at the bakery.) I insisted on dessert, which was a slice of candied orange--including the peel--and a scoop of hazelnut chocolate gelato. It was simple and spectacular, and we shared a glass of the dessert wine they suggested as a pairing, and it was wonderful, too; the caramel notes in the wine played off the rest of the dessert beautifully. All in all, a wonderful evening.
Friend is heading up to visit his family this weekend--which is when they're doing their christmas thing--and returning Sunday evening. He has to work Monday, though he expects to be told to leave early. Thus, our current plan is for me to work like a crazy person at the bakery for the next two days, then meet him downtown Monday for dinner (another place to which we've gone has a great deal on Mondays--if you sit in the bar area, all their wines are $5 a glass, which is a great way to sample wines that are normally $12 a glass). The place opens at 4:00, so that should work out okay. I'll shlep along whatever we'll need for dinner on Tuesday. The current menu includes rabbit (which he has in the freezer), using a recipe that I've made several times with chicken and that includes madeira, pancetta, dried cherries, and tasty goodness; broccoli and cauliflower with a cheese sauce; polenta or potatos (it would be easier to bring the ingredients for the former, so I'm leaning that way); and dessert of some kind. I may make a chocolate hazelnut cake, if I get sufficiently ambitious and am not too tired and I remember to bring some hazelnut flour home from the bakery. The other part of our plan is to watch the LOTR trilogy Christmas day, though we may not have the wherewithal to do all of that--it's more than 12 hours of viewing, after all.
I only worked until about 6:00 tonight. I did manage to rearrange my production schedule such that I'm not laminating or shaping croissants tomorrow or Sunday, which means I'm available to be a utility infielder and do whatever needs doing. I did a little of that today, too. Phil wants to know whether I'm making lasagna or pizza or what next Saturday (for my last day)--I told him he should make it, not me. We'll see; someone will make something.
I also decided to give myself a break. I've continued to gain weight, such that many clothes don't fit. But I've also realized that I can't take any serious steps until I'm not at the bakery, in part because of the availability of the food and in part because of the aforechronicled hours, etc. So I'm just not going to think about it for the next couple of weeks. I'll get it together and start exercising and practicing yoga again, and I'll lose the weight--just not in the next two weeks. I've also realized that I can work out at city park facilities for quite cheap--way less than a gym--so I'm excited about that, even if I'm not sure how far I'm going to have to shlep to find facilities. Yes, I know I could Just Walk, but I also know I won't do that.
Friday, December 21, 2007
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Countdown
Talked to dad first thing this morning, then mom called later in the morning. She sounded tired, but otherwise not too bad--though I suspect she's a little down, too, because she'll be starting on dialysis soon. She's managed this balancing act for far longer than anyone (including her doctors) thought she'd be able to do it, but she's putting herself in danger of system collapse if she doesn't. Two stupidity stories: (1) She was due to get an iron injection today, which she apparently gets in the outpatient procedures area of the hospital. They don't want to release her until she gets that injection . . . but no one could seem to figure out how to make that happen, according to my sister-in-law. I suggested that mom insist that they put her in a wheelchair and she'd give them directions to the damned clinic. It's in the same hospital, people; surely someone can figure this out? (2) Apparently they finally got her into a room at around 3:00 am. They woke her at 3:30 to take her blood pressure, at 4:00 to take a blood draw, and at 4:30 to weigh her. I'm surprised they didn't wake her at 5:00 to check her height. I understand why they had to take those measurements, but is there a law against taking all three at the same time? From someone who is obviously in bad shape, and, btw, hasn't slept?
Today I was talking to Bossman across the table about young guys--I forget what the particular point was--and I mentioned that Axe body spray shit. He looked puzzled, and Mike (being mid-20s himself) started to explain, but I said to Bossman, "It's Hai Karate for this generation." He cracked up, but everyone else just looked puzzled.
Later: One of the kids who works in the store is an engineering student at the nearby university, family lives in a nearby suburb, he's Hispanic, bilingual (and quite cute, but, according to Bossman, not the brightest bulb on the tree). So he was working in the back today, helping out, and I said, "Hey, Dan, does your family make tamales for the holidays?" And he says yeah, or, at least, they have tamales, but they don't make them any more because it's too much work for his mom. So I said, well why don't you help her? He says, well, my dad never did, and he starts explaining how she pays a neighbor for the ones they need because it's so much work, etc. I asked again, why don't you help her? And again he says, well, my dad never did. I interrupted him and said, "Wait, I'm not getting this. What's the connection between having a penis and not being able to make tamales? What's the problem? Does it get in the way or something?" And he's kind of embarrassed, but laughing (and, I think, getting my point), and I see Bossman snickering, too, and Bossman adds that that's why the toilet paper is never on the roller in the men's bathroom--it's women's work. (Now, I know Bossman doesn't really think or act that way; he was providing an interpretation rather than a justification, and I could tell he was amused.)
Meanwhile, I told Phil today that the 29th is my last day. I think he's kinda bumming a bit. Cute Boy is going to take over for three months or so--he's coming in tomorrow so I can start training him--and I'll make sure he's trained to help Phil, too. I keep pulling things out of the air these days, too--today I found the stollen filling for Bossman, after he'd searched the walk-in and given up, plus I suggested throwing some shredded parmesan into the garlic asiago pepper bread, because we were short of asiago and very long on shredded parmesan. We were all kinda goofy today, though, and it was fun. There are things I will most definitely not miss--like flour in every crevice of my clothing and my being--but there are other things I will miss a lot.
Today I was talking to Bossman across the table about young guys--I forget what the particular point was--and I mentioned that Axe body spray shit. He looked puzzled, and Mike (being mid-20s himself) started to explain, but I said to Bossman, "It's Hai Karate for this generation." He cracked up, but everyone else just looked puzzled.
Later: One of the kids who works in the store is an engineering student at the nearby university, family lives in a nearby suburb, he's Hispanic, bilingual (and quite cute, but, according to Bossman, not the brightest bulb on the tree). So he was working in the back today, helping out, and I said, "Hey, Dan, does your family make tamales for the holidays?" And he says yeah, or, at least, they have tamales, but they don't make them any more because it's too much work for his mom. So I said, well why don't you help her? He says, well, my dad never did, and he starts explaining how she pays a neighbor for the ones they need because it's so much work, etc. I asked again, why don't you help her? And again he says, well, my dad never did. I interrupted him and said, "Wait, I'm not getting this. What's the connection between having a penis and not being able to make tamales? What's the problem? Does it get in the way or something?" And he's kind of embarrassed, but laughing (and, I think, getting my point), and I see Bossman snickering, too, and Bossman adds that that's why the toilet paper is never on the roller in the men's bathroom--it's women's work. (Now, I know Bossman doesn't really think or act that way; he was providing an interpretation rather than a justification, and I could tell he was amused.)
Meanwhile, I told Phil today that the 29th is my last day. I think he's kinda bumming a bit. Cute Boy is going to take over for three months or so--he's coming in tomorrow so I can start training him--and I'll make sure he's trained to help Phil, too. I keep pulling things out of the air these days, too--today I found the stollen filling for Bossman, after he'd searched the walk-in and given up, plus I suggested throwing some shredded parmesan into the garlic asiago pepper bread, because we were short of asiago and very long on shredded parmesan. We were all kinda goofy today, though, and it was fun. There are things I will most definitely not miss--like flour in every crevice of my clothing and my being--but there are other things I will miss a lot.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Aaaaaand now . . . .
of COURSE my mother's in the hospital again. Apparently dad took her at midnight, because her congestive heart failure was sufficiently bad. I don't know details--my brother was my source of info, and he didn't know much either, and I hesitated to try to call my mom because she hadn't slept in a day or two, and of course I'd probably manage to wake her. Basically, her kidney function is such that she is, as my brother put it, on the precipice of needing dialysis, and the least little stress puts her into the congestive heart failure state. To put it bluntly, without a kidney, she's not getting any better. She may be able to maintain for a little while longer, and, if she starts dialysis, she may be able to maintain in that condition for awhile, but there will be no improvement without a kidney, and the decline could be precipitous. So there's that.
Otherwise, I managed to get many errands done yesterday, and today I mailed the one package that needed mailing, plus I called a friend who probably thought I had fallen off the face of the earth, so those bits are going well. One of yesterday's errands was to take my change to one of those coin-counting machines: I keep quarters, of course, but otherwise change just seems like a pain, especially given that I'm usually in chef clothes, so I had been throwing it into a dish. Now I have a Starbucks card worth $16.12, which feels like free money, though, of course, it was my money all along.
Eight days left at the bakery, and only seven of them will include lamination, because I'm showing up this Sunday to be a utility infielder rather than a laminatrix. Despite the incipient panic occasioned by the prospect of having no job whatsoever, I continue to think it's the right thing to do. Terrifying, yes, but it's the only way I can do anything else. Or so I've managed to convince myself. We cut one of the tortas from the other day, and it rocked. I may actually try it at home, though I don't know that I can make a laminated dough without a sheeter at this point. If I do, I'm going to try the orange version. Which means I'd have to share some with anyone named Orange.
Otherwise, I managed to get many errands done yesterday, and today I mailed the one package that needed mailing, plus I called a friend who probably thought I had fallen off the face of the earth, so those bits are going well. One of yesterday's errands was to take my change to one of those coin-counting machines: I keep quarters, of course, but otherwise change just seems like a pain, especially given that I'm usually in chef clothes, so I had been throwing it into a dish. Now I have a Starbucks card worth $16.12, which feels like free money, though, of course, it was my money all along.
Eight days left at the bakery, and only seven of them will include lamination, because I'm showing up this Sunday to be a utility infielder rather than a laminatrix. Despite the incipient panic occasioned by the prospect of having no job whatsoever, I continue to think it's the right thing to do. Terrifying, yes, but it's the only way I can do anything else. Or so I've managed to convince myself. We cut one of the tortas from the other day, and it rocked. I may actually try it at home, though I don't know that I can make a laminated dough without a sheeter at this point. If I do, I'm going to try the orange version. Which means I'd have to share some with anyone named Orange.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Don't Read This if You're Hungry
In a political aside, this is why I support John Edwards.
Added: Turns out that Paul Krugman agrees with me on this one.
Turns out Bossman is more concerned that there be enough croissants until he gets back than concerned about me coming in to the bakery through the 2nd. I sat down and figured out a production schedule that will keep the bakery in croissants until he gets back, plus leave him with some wads of laminated dough in the freezer, and I think my last day will be the 29th. As i was doing my calculations, I realized that the total number of plain croissants I need to make for the next two-and-a-half weeks is smaller than the number I was making weekly during the height of the farmers' markets, which provided me with a certain amount of perspective.
Yesterday I made some torta russa, which is puff pastry in a large-muffin-sized cup (we use the paper cups in this picture, specifically the one at 2 o'clock, for monkey buns, as well as for the mini tortas), filled with a mixture of butter, eggs, lemon, sugar, and almonds. (In fact, I think the baker who developed this formula was the one who was at the bakery last spring and who told me my croissants are better than the ones he gets in Paris.) Bossman had started it but then had to make some deliveries, so I took care of it. We add some lemon curd to the bottom of this, which works out quite nicely and improves the lemoniness of the flavor; i think an orange filling with some not-too-sweet marmalade on the bottom would work, too. I would have baked them a little longer, but they were still quite lovely. I made some cannoli filling for the store. I helped Bossman coat mini rum balls in chocolate sprinkles. And then I helped with the gingerbread house kits, mostly by taping boxes. Bossman's dad had cut up the sheets of gingerbread (using patterns that are easily 25 years old) and bagged the toys (snowman, Santa, candy canes, etc.) we include in the boxes, and Bossman had made a big batch of royal icing, so he glued house bits together and stuck them on gold circles, while I put the house and a bag of toys into the cardboard box and taped it shut; we has a pretty efficient assembly line going. There's an order for 80 of them for today, and we got through about 40 or so before he ran out of icing, plus there were another 19 up on the shelf.
I was all full of ambition when I got home, too--I intended to do my laundry, but someone was removing laundry from all four washers, prior to refilling three of them. i settled for putting plastic over my bathroom window for insulation; finally replacing the shower curtain liner (I've had the replacement for two or three months, but hadn't gotten around to putting it up because I intended to get new shower curtain rings, ones that would be easier to open and close; as (a) it became clear THAT wasn't going to happen soon, and (b) the old liner got steadily more grody, I just used the old ones again); replacing two burned-out light bulbs in the dining area fixture (amazing how much more light you get when you have four working bulbs instead of two); sweeping the floor and doing some general tidying; collecting garbage, including the piles of catalogues I don't want; and making some dinner.
I did get the laundry going this morning early, and I talked to mom, who now has, on top of her other issues, an abdominal hernia, but they don't want to operate on it unless it strangulates because they're afraid that'll force her onto dialysis. I could also tell that she hadn't taken her lasix yet--she doesn't take it every day, but modulates her consumption based on how she's feeling. (Too much makes her sick, too.) When she's gone more than a day without it, the congestive heart failure kicks up a notch and she starts coughing some, which is how I could tell. Oy. At least she's started getting a little exercise (on the treadmill two days in each of the past two weeks, plus her volunteer stint at the Crayola factory), so perhaps my nagging on that score sunk in. My mother also informed me that I should be there for Christmas, no matter that it's the busiest week of the year at the bakery.
I wish I didn't have so many conflicts about visiting my family. On one hand, flying is cheap enough and quick enough that even I feel a little ridiculous taking the train--but I still hate to fly, which just reduces the enjoyment of any trip. And, much as I love my family, they have never, ever spent a holiday with me: not when I lived in Philadelphia, not since I've moved here in 1985. Never once in 30 years. Instead, I get lectures on how I shouldn't spend the day alone. Who fucking cares? One of my best Christmases was the one where I saw four movies in two days--by myself. Loved it. Obviously my mother is in no condition to travel now, especially in the middle of winter, but you get my point.
In any case, I end up fibrillating about when to go, how to go, and on and on, and on top of that I have to make it a point to let go of the resentment--that is not baggage I want to take with me. I did finally make a decision today and made train reservations, with sleeping accommodations, which increases the price significantly but improves the quality of the trip; it also means I can bring my laptop without reading the fine print and bring as many, and whatever size, bottles of shampoos and moisturizers and body lotion and whatever as I want. I can also bring the poster I had framed for my parents (I'm on the poster, in my chef clothes, so I'll be lucky if they put it in the garage) rather than trying to package and mail it.
Speaking of the poster, Friend helped me out significantly today. He had some vehicle errands to run, despite the snow, so he offered to meet me at the place where I had the poster framed so i wouldn't have to sherpa the stuff on trains and buses. From there we went to a nearby drinking establishment to have a beverage while we waited for the restaurant to open at 4:30. We also made plans to celebrate his birthday (which is Friday, but he's playing hockey that night, so we'll celebrate on Thursday, which means I can deliver baked goods that he can take to his family over the weekend) and christmas--he'll be back for christmas eve, and he's working that day, so I can concoct a dessert and he can come fetch me and we can hang out at his place in front of the fireplace and/or the TV and drink with abandon. On christmas day we may do a LOTR marathon, coupled with some fancy-ass cooking (we might even cook Thumper) and possibly a trip to a suburb to hear the band we're intending to see on new year's eve (although there's every possibility we'll be way too comfy on the couch to contemplate that expedition). Then we both work for a couple of days--different ones, in that he has vacation days to use up and I have to work until the 29th--get together for the new year, and I head out on the 3rd and get back on the 10th, whereupon I start whatever it is I'm going to be doing. All in all, I think there's a good blend in there.
I don't know how my coworkers and Bossman are reacting to my leaving. He seems okay with it, but he never shows anything, and his wife went out of her way to thank me for "staying," and she was complimentary and appreciative, so that was nice. (I figured she'd be all one way or the other, and I was glad it was the one way. The other might have become unpleasant.) I've told Johnnie, who looked surprised and dismayed, but I haven't told Phil or Artie yet; Bossman may do that tomorrow when I'm not there. I know that Phil will miss me: I help him out, a lot, and it's generally wordless, in the sense that I just step in, lend a hand with a particular part of a process, then go back to whatever I was doing. A few tasks we've managed to streamline in ways that accomplish the task much more quickly than he can do alone and more quickly than other people manage. It's subtle, but it's there, and I know he recognizes it.
The same is true with Bossman, for that matter; there are dozens of small ways that I lend a hand--fix an invoice for the delivery guy; make cannoli filling or pastry cream (the latter of which I hate, but will do); check in the dairy order or the dry goods order; finish some task, like the tortas yesterday; fill the macaron trays in the store; and, of course, magically produce 2000 to 4500 croissants per week without anyone else needing to think about it. It's true that I had Lole for the summer, and I would have been screwed without that, but even then noone else needed to be involved. In some ways, Friday morning is a perfect example: I didn't have the ingredient I needed, so I had to occupy myself, and I managed to do that in productive ways. I'm sure this takes different forms in different environments--the Tart probably has a different perspective than I have, for example, because she works a line and I don't--but I think the general principles apply in every single workplace. Some people make themselves useful, and will find ways to do so as needed, while other people will . . . not. I really enjoy being in a workplace where the former greatly outnumber the latter, in part because that goads many people in the latter category to do more or better than they might otherwise do and in part because it means everyone really is working together, even if we're all doing different tasks. Sometimes I marvel at how much we manage to produce at the bakery.
At the moment, however, I'm marveling that I've managed to keep my eyes open long enough to finish this. I'm fading fast, even though it's only 8:45, and I have shlepping to do tomorrow, so I'm going to give up and go to bed.
Added: Turns out that Paul Krugman agrees with me on this one.
Turns out Bossman is more concerned that there be enough croissants until he gets back than concerned about me coming in to the bakery through the 2nd. I sat down and figured out a production schedule that will keep the bakery in croissants until he gets back, plus leave him with some wads of laminated dough in the freezer, and I think my last day will be the 29th. As i was doing my calculations, I realized that the total number of plain croissants I need to make for the next two-and-a-half weeks is smaller than the number I was making weekly during the height of the farmers' markets, which provided me with a certain amount of perspective.
Yesterday I made some torta russa, which is puff pastry in a large-muffin-sized cup (we use the paper cups in this picture, specifically the one at 2 o'clock, for monkey buns, as well as for the mini tortas), filled with a mixture of butter, eggs, lemon, sugar, and almonds. (In fact, I think the baker who developed this formula was the one who was at the bakery last spring and who told me my croissants are better than the ones he gets in Paris.) Bossman had started it but then had to make some deliveries, so I took care of it. We add some lemon curd to the bottom of this, which works out quite nicely and improves the lemoniness of the flavor; i think an orange filling with some not-too-sweet marmalade on the bottom would work, too. I would have baked them a little longer, but they were still quite lovely. I made some cannoli filling for the store. I helped Bossman coat mini rum balls in chocolate sprinkles. And then I helped with the gingerbread house kits, mostly by taping boxes. Bossman's dad had cut up the sheets of gingerbread (using patterns that are easily 25 years old) and bagged the toys (snowman, Santa, candy canes, etc.) we include in the boxes, and Bossman had made a big batch of royal icing, so he glued house bits together and stuck them on gold circles, while I put the house and a bag of toys into the cardboard box and taped it shut; we has a pretty efficient assembly line going. There's an order for 80 of them for today, and we got through about 40 or so before he ran out of icing, plus there were another 19 up on the shelf.
I was all full of ambition when I got home, too--I intended to do my laundry, but someone was removing laundry from all four washers, prior to refilling three of them. i settled for putting plastic over my bathroom window for insulation; finally replacing the shower curtain liner (I've had the replacement for two or three months, but hadn't gotten around to putting it up because I intended to get new shower curtain rings, ones that would be easier to open and close; as (a) it became clear THAT wasn't going to happen soon, and (b) the old liner got steadily more grody, I just used the old ones again); replacing two burned-out light bulbs in the dining area fixture (amazing how much more light you get when you have four working bulbs instead of two); sweeping the floor and doing some general tidying; collecting garbage, including the piles of catalogues I don't want; and making some dinner.
I did get the laundry going this morning early, and I talked to mom, who now has, on top of her other issues, an abdominal hernia, but they don't want to operate on it unless it strangulates because they're afraid that'll force her onto dialysis. I could also tell that she hadn't taken her lasix yet--she doesn't take it every day, but modulates her consumption based on how she's feeling. (Too much makes her sick, too.) When she's gone more than a day without it, the congestive heart failure kicks up a notch and she starts coughing some, which is how I could tell. Oy. At least she's started getting a little exercise (on the treadmill two days in each of the past two weeks, plus her volunteer stint at the Crayola factory), so perhaps my nagging on that score sunk in. My mother also informed me that I should be there for Christmas, no matter that it's the busiest week of the year at the bakery.
I wish I didn't have so many conflicts about visiting my family. On one hand, flying is cheap enough and quick enough that even I feel a little ridiculous taking the train--but I still hate to fly, which just reduces the enjoyment of any trip. And, much as I love my family, they have never, ever spent a holiday with me: not when I lived in Philadelphia, not since I've moved here in 1985. Never once in 30 years. Instead, I get lectures on how I shouldn't spend the day alone. Who fucking cares? One of my best Christmases was the one where I saw four movies in two days--by myself. Loved it. Obviously my mother is in no condition to travel now, especially in the middle of winter, but you get my point.
In any case, I end up fibrillating about when to go, how to go, and on and on, and on top of that I have to make it a point to let go of the resentment--that is not baggage I want to take with me. I did finally make a decision today and made train reservations, with sleeping accommodations, which increases the price significantly but improves the quality of the trip; it also means I can bring my laptop without reading the fine print and bring as many, and whatever size, bottles of shampoos and moisturizers and body lotion and whatever as I want. I can also bring the poster I had framed for my parents (I'm on the poster, in my chef clothes, so I'll be lucky if they put it in the garage) rather than trying to package and mail it.
Speaking of the poster, Friend helped me out significantly today. He had some vehicle errands to run, despite the snow, so he offered to meet me at the place where I had the poster framed so i wouldn't have to sherpa the stuff on trains and buses. From there we went to a nearby drinking establishment to have a beverage while we waited for the restaurant to open at 4:30. We also made plans to celebrate his birthday (which is Friday, but he's playing hockey that night, so we'll celebrate on Thursday, which means I can deliver baked goods that he can take to his family over the weekend) and christmas--he'll be back for christmas eve, and he's working that day, so I can concoct a dessert and he can come fetch me and we can hang out at his place in front of the fireplace and/or the TV and drink with abandon. On christmas day we may do a LOTR marathon, coupled with some fancy-ass cooking (we might even cook Thumper) and possibly a trip to a suburb to hear the band we're intending to see on new year's eve (although there's every possibility we'll be way too comfy on the couch to contemplate that expedition). Then we both work for a couple of days--different ones, in that he has vacation days to use up and I have to work until the 29th--get together for the new year, and I head out on the 3rd and get back on the 10th, whereupon I start whatever it is I'm going to be doing. All in all, I think there's a good blend in there.
I don't know how my coworkers and Bossman are reacting to my leaving. He seems okay with it, but he never shows anything, and his wife went out of her way to thank me for "staying," and she was complimentary and appreciative, so that was nice. (I figured she'd be all one way or the other, and I was glad it was the one way. The other might have become unpleasant.) I've told Johnnie, who looked surprised and dismayed, but I haven't told Phil or Artie yet; Bossman may do that tomorrow when I'm not there. I know that Phil will miss me: I help him out, a lot, and it's generally wordless, in the sense that I just step in, lend a hand with a particular part of a process, then go back to whatever I was doing. A few tasks we've managed to streamline in ways that accomplish the task much more quickly than he can do alone and more quickly than other people manage. It's subtle, but it's there, and I know he recognizes it.
The same is true with Bossman, for that matter; there are dozens of small ways that I lend a hand--fix an invoice for the delivery guy; make cannoli filling or pastry cream (the latter of which I hate, but will do); check in the dairy order or the dry goods order; finish some task, like the tortas yesterday; fill the macaron trays in the store; and, of course, magically produce 2000 to 4500 croissants per week without anyone else needing to think about it. It's true that I had Lole for the summer, and I would have been screwed without that, but even then noone else needed to be involved. In some ways, Friday morning is a perfect example: I didn't have the ingredient I needed, so I had to occupy myself, and I managed to do that in productive ways. I'm sure this takes different forms in different environments--the Tart probably has a different perspective than I have, for example, because she works a line and I don't--but I think the general principles apply in every single workplace. Some people make themselves useful, and will find ways to do so as needed, while other people will . . . not. I really enjoy being in a workplace where the former greatly outnumber the latter, in part because that goads many people in the latter category to do more or better than they might otherwise do and in part because it means everyone really is working together, even if we're all doing different tasks. Sometimes I marvel at how much we manage to produce at the bakery.
At the moment, however, I'm marveling that I've managed to keep my eyes open long enough to finish this. I'm fading fast, even though it's only 8:45, and I have shlepping to do tomorrow, so I'm going to give up and go to bed.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Like a Rolling Stone
To answer kstyle's question, I don't exactly know how it feels.
I am, of course, a little terrified. i don't have a job. I don't even have any freelance or temp jobs lined up. Yes, I've had several interviews (four, to be precise, with a total of seven people) that I think went pretty well, but no one has intimated that I'm going to be hired or made an offer, so I know better than to count on that in any way, shape, or form. I do have a little money in the bank, and a little more on the way from a few different sources (the last few bakery checks, plus a couple of freelance checks), which is how I planned this escapade. And I've also decided that if I don't get an offer by the time I get back from my visit east--i.e., mid-January--or if they say they're not interested after all, then i start looking for a temp agency immediately. I can simultaneously look for more freelance clients, of course, but getting at least a little income will take off some of the heat and drain the reserves more slowly.
I'm also relieved. The job has been wrecking me physically, in several dimensions. I get no real exercise, I do a lot of repetitive motions, I eat a lot of crap, and I'm on my feet for 9 to 12 hours a day, lugging around 15-pound wads of dough. The place is loud. I'm constantly dinging myself on one thing or another. (I whacked my shin the other day--through my pants mind you--hard enough to draw blood. When I raised my pant leg to see--because it hurt--Bossman said, "80-quart mixing bowl?" and I said, "No, a bucket." Yes, I seriously bruised my shin on a plastic bucket. He, meanwhile, has several new burn scars--baker's tattoos, he calls them.) The job wrecks me in other ways, too, but the real reason I'm quitting is that I never intended to work this hard for someone else. If I can't start my own bakery, then I'm going to do something else for pay (and, for that matter, if I still wanted to start my own bakery, I'm not going to earn enough capital to do that by working for someone else).
So it seems like the right and sensible thing to do, even though, on paper, I shouldn't be quitting one job before I have another one in place. I have also recognized, however, that, if I do end up doing the freelance copyediting and proofreading, I'm never going to have the time to search for, get, and complete those jobs while working at the bakery. That is, to implement that plan, if that's the one I end up implementing, I need to have the time to find those jobs.
But you guys know all of this.
Here's another thing: it's not like I'm giving up, say, health insurance to do this, or bennies like the ones the Tart gets. It turns out that the bakery does not, in fact, have properties in the Cayman Islands at which I can stay at a drastically cheap rate. Even my "vacation" wasn't really two weeks' pay, it was 80 hours of pay. (My brother the mechanic gets vacation pay based on his average weekly check, and, because he's flat rate and he's good, that's a lot more than 40 hours of work per week--which means his vacation pay is higher, too.) My point isn't to complain about the bakery--I can point out ways that Bossman could more easily keep people like me, but that's a different subject. My point is that my pay there is nothing special, and making up that pay, or a portion of it, isn't the same as making up a full-time salary, or even hourly pay with benefits.
Meanwhile, today was an extra grind, because I had to wait for the dairy delivery to get my lamination butter, plus I made up the monkey buns, so I put in another 11.5-hour day. I already have 2.5 hours of overtime this week, which kind of makes my point for me. Tomorrow I'm probably going to be assembling gingerbread house kits--or whatever else someone needs, as I don't need to laminate. The only other thing I need to do this weekend is finish the editing job I THOUGHT I'd finished (a few days early!) last week, except I'm an idiot and forgot to do the short bio, intro, and table of contents. I was going through things last night so I could invoice and realized this; the production editor says she's okay with getting everything Monday first thing, but I still felt kinda dumb. It's a small job--less than $200--so I'll throw in a 10% discount on the invoice. Other than that, though, I need to do laundry, and maybe play with the new computer toys, and . . . not a lot else. There's some talk of seeing Friend on Sunday, but that partly depends on how much alcohol he consumes Saturday night and whether he's up for anything on Sunday. Monday I should do a little holiday shopping, and perhaps actually ship a few things off to their various destinations.
I had a pretty good conversation with Chuck today, too; he seems to be doing well, and I'm glad for that. I find that I still can't watch (or, sometimes, even think of) "Elf." But that's for a different post.
I have decided to visit my family the first week in January, and I've nearly decided to take a train (because I really hate to fly, and that reduces the vacationy aspect of any travel), but I haven't booked anything yet. Today Bossman asked me to stay at the bakery a few extra days, because he's going out of town on the 28th or 29th. It turns out that his real concern seems to be that there be enough croissants in the freezer so his going away doesn't matter, which means I don't necessarily have to be there on a given day, I just need to make sure there are enough laminated dough products in the freezer. I'll double check that tomorrow, and then book the travel. I'm also going to get bro involved such that I can surprise my parents, which will be amusing.
And is wine an adequate dinner? Tonight's survey says yes.
I am, of course, a little terrified. i don't have a job. I don't even have any freelance or temp jobs lined up. Yes, I've had several interviews (four, to be precise, with a total of seven people) that I think went pretty well, but no one has intimated that I'm going to be hired or made an offer, so I know better than to count on that in any way, shape, or form. I do have a little money in the bank, and a little more on the way from a few different sources (the last few bakery checks, plus a couple of freelance checks), which is how I planned this escapade. And I've also decided that if I don't get an offer by the time I get back from my visit east--i.e., mid-January--or if they say they're not interested after all, then i start looking for a temp agency immediately. I can simultaneously look for more freelance clients, of course, but getting at least a little income will take off some of the heat and drain the reserves more slowly.
I'm also relieved. The job has been wrecking me physically, in several dimensions. I get no real exercise, I do a lot of repetitive motions, I eat a lot of crap, and I'm on my feet for 9 to 12 hours a day, lugging around 15-pound wads of dough. The place is loud. I'm constantly dinging myself on one thing or another. (I whacked my shin the other day--through my pants mind you--hard enough to draw blood. When I raised my pant leg to see--because it hurt--Bossman said, "80-quart mixing bowl?" and I said, "No, a bucket." Yes, I seriously bruised my shin on a plastic bucket. He, meanwhile, has several new burn scars--baker's tattoos, he calls them.) The job wrecks me in other ways, too, but the real reason I'm quitting is that I never intended to work this hard for someone else. If I can't start my own bakery, then I'm going to do something else for pay (and, for that matter, if I still wanted to start my own bakery, I'm not going to earn enough capital to do that by working for someone else).
So it seems like the right and sensible thing to do, even though, on paper, I shouldn't be quitting one job before I have another one in place. I have also recognized, however, that, if I do end up doing the freelance copyediting and proofreading, I'm never going to have the time to search for, get, and complete those jobs while working at the bakery. That is, to implement that plan, if that's the one I end up implementing, I need to have the time to find those jobs.
But you guys know all of this.
Here's another thing: it's not like I'm giving up, say, health insurance to do this, or bennies like the ones the Tart gets. It turns out that the bakery does not, in fact, have properties in the Cayman Islands at which I can stay at a drastically cheap rate. Even my "vacation" wasn't really two weeks' pay, it was 80 hours of pay. (My brother the mechanic gets vacation pay based on his average weekly check, and, because he's flat rate and he's good, that's a lot more than 40 hours of work per week--which means his vacation pay is higher, too.) My point isn't to complain about the bakery--I can point out ways that Bossman could more easily keep people like me, but that's a different subject. My point is that my pay there is nothing special, and making up that pay, or a portion of it, isn't the same as making up a full-time salary, or even hourly pay with benefits.
Meanwhile, today was an extra grind, because I had to wait for the dairy delivery to get my lamination butter, plus I made up the monkey buns, so I put in another 11.5-hour day. I already have 2.5 hours of overtime this week, which kind of makes my point for me. Tomorrow I'm probably going to be assembling gingerbread house kits--or whatever else someone needs, as I don't need to laminate. The only other thing I need to do this weekend is finish the editing job I THOUGHT I'd finished (a few days early!) last week, except I'm an idiot and forgot to do the short bio, intro, and table of contents. I was going through things last night so I could invoice and realized this; the production editor says she's okay with getting everything Monday first thing, but I still felt kinda dumb. It's a small job--less than $200--so I'll throw in a 10% discount on the invoice. Other than that, though, I need to do laundry, and maybe play with the new computer toys, and . . . not a lot else. There's some talk of seeing Friend on Sunday, but that partly depends on how much alcohol he consumes Saturday night and whether he's up for anything on Sunday. Monday I should do a little holiday shopping, and perhaps actually ship a few things off to their various destinations.
I had a pretty good conversation with Chuck today, too; he seems to be doing well, and I'm glad for that. I find that I still can't watch (or, sometimes, even think of) "Elf." But that's for a different post.
I have decided to visit my family the first week in January, and I've nearly decided to take a train (because I really hate to fly, and that reduces the vacationy aspect of any travel), but I haven't booked anything yet. Today Bossman asked me to stay at the bakery a few extra days, because he's going out of town on the 28th or 29th. It turns out that his real concern seems to be that there be enough croissants in the freezer so his going away doesn't matter, which means I don't necessarily have to be there on a given day, I just need to make sure there are enough laminated dough products in the freezer. I'll double check that tomorrow, and then book the travel. I'm also going to get bro involved such that I can surprise my parents, which will be amusing.
And is wine an adequate dinner? Tonight's survey says yes.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Monday, December 10, 2007
The Importance of a T
Today's interview seemed to go fabulously well; I really enjoyed it, if you want to know, and I seemed to connect with the person (the HR guy, as a matter of fact), and I'd say they're still pretty interested in hiring me, even if they don't quite know what they're going to do with me. Thanks to my previous 873 interviews there, I was able to say, "I think what you need is X," and have HRGuy say, "Yes, that's very astute of you." But you know? Until I show up for work the first day, it's not a done deal. Hell, I don't even have an offer yet.
I've also been busy: coffee with J, book-buying for the nephews and CS, and dinner with Friend last Monday, lots of nothing on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday (I think: I don't remember precisely), a hockey game with Friend on Friday, beer with Lole and his Cute Girl and Mel and her husband (she worked at the bakery last spring, until she got the Brazen Tart internship) on Saturday; slept late Sunday morning, because it was the first day in months and months where I had nothing to do, then Friend came over and we went to breakfast, he tried (and failed) to fix my internet connection, then we headed to his place for a fire in the fireplace, and checking out whether we should do a computer trade, and a simple dinner in front of the TV ("Kinsey" followed by a tape of a football game). I headed to the interview from his place today, then came home and waited for the internet-fixer.
Somewhere in there I managed to acquire a cold, but it's a strange one, in the sense that I didn't have the typical cold symptoms, I just had to blow my nose a lot, and, yesterday, I sounded a little hoarse. So, okay, whatever; I have tissues. Better than having issues.
I keep thinking about Stuff, too. One thing that makes the conversation difficult, I think, is that few, if any, readers in this little space really look to Stuff to provide meaning or comfort in their lives, so we can look at the piles-of-stuff people (if I may categorize for a moment) and kind of shake our heads, even as we recognize that, in many parts of the world (and country), even the most simple-living of us would be regarded as fabulously wealthy. So there's that. At the same time, at least a few of us have been or are in situations (or have/had relatives in situations) where money would have made, or did make, all the difference. And not big wads of money, either; not big-mansion-on-the-lake money.
Or here's another way to think about it: do the math to figure out what you make, after taxes, in a day. Now, imagine someone who makes a million dollars a year; not a lot, by the standards of the mansions on the lake. Assume s/he gives up half his/her income to taxes (which is already probably wildly inaccurate, in that there are likely tax shelters about which you and I know nothing). That person earns $1923.08, after taxes, each working day. That person gets more in a DAY than I need to pay my monthly rent, health insurance, student loan, and public transportation each MONTH.
Or yet another thought: when my sister-in-law secretly didn't pay the mortgage for 18 months and my brother and she and my nephews were days away from losing their home, my parents and my SIL's mother were able to help out, prevent that from happening. My mother helped them get their finances together, and I think they're fine now. Or how about these past couple of months, when my SIL had her knee replaced AND my brother was out of work with a torn bicep? If they'd been barely scraping by, or if bro hadn't upped his disability insurance last year, or whatever, they'd've been screwed. The point is, none of the amounts of money about which we're talking is all that much to the mansion people--they wouldn't notice it.
And it's that disparity that irks me. Not because I want the piles of money or stuff, but because I think we should all have access to some insulation.
Speaking of which, the other thing that irks me is that the rich are insulated from their mistakes--or even just unfortunate events--in the way the rest of us are not. Yes, my brother was insulated by my parents, and we are all extremely grateful for that. Yes, he actually spent the money on disability insurance, but not everyone can afford that. We all should have some insulation.
On the other hand, all the money in the world would not have saved my sister's life (even as a little of that money might very well have saved others' lives). So, yeah, it's messy. What I most try to avoid is carping on the people most nearly around me--because that only serves the purposes of the really rich. Let the poor and middle class fight over the crumbs, while they feast on the whole cake, all while thinking they deserve it.
I've also been busy: coffee with J, book-buying for the nephews and CS, and dinner with Friend last Monday, lots of nothing on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday (I think: I don't remember precisely), a hockey game with Friend on Friday, beer with Lole and his Cute Girl and Mel and her husband (she worked at the bakery last spring, until she got the Brazen Tart internship) on Saturday; slept late Sunday morning, because it was the first day in months and months where I had nothing to do, then Friend came over and we went to breakfast, he tried (and failed) to fix my internet connection, then we headed to his place for a fire in the fireplace, and checking out whether we should do a computer trade, and a simple dinner in front of the TV ("Kinsey" followed by a tape of a football game). I headed to the interview from his place today, then came home and waited for the internet-fixer.
Somewhere in there I managed to acquire a cold, but it's a strange one, in the sense that I didn't have the typical cold symptoms, I just had to blow my nose a lot, and, yesterday, I sounded a little hoarse. So, okay, whatever; I have tissues. Better than having issues.
I keep thinking about Stuff, too. One thing that makes the conversation difficult, I think, is that few, if any, readers in this little space really look to Stuff to provide meaning or comfort in their lives, so we can look at the piles-of-stuff people (if I may categorize for a moment) and kind of shake our heads, even as we recognize that, in many parts of the world (and country), even the most simple-living of us would be regarded as fabulously wealthy. So there's that. At the same time, at least a few of us have been or are in situations (or have/had relatives in situations) where money would have made, or did make, all the difference. And not big wads of money, either; not big-mansion-on-the-lake money.
Or here's another way to think about it: do the math to figure out what you make, after taxes, in a day. Now, imagine someone who makes a million dollars a year; not a lot, by the standards of the mansions on the lake. Assume s/he gives up half his/her income to taxes (which is already probably wildly inaccurate, in that there are likely tax shelters about which you and I know nothing). That person earns $1923.08, after taxes, each working day. That person gets more in a DAY than I need to pay my monthly rent, health insurance, student loan, and public transportation each MONTH.
Or yet another thought: when my sister-in-law secretly didn't pay the mortgage for 18 months and my brother and she and my nephews were days away from losing their home, my parents and my SIL's mother were able to help out, prevent that from happening. My mother helped them get their finances together, and I think they're fine now. Or how about these past couple of months, when my SIL had her knee replaced AND my brother was out of work with a torn bicep? If they'd been barely scraping by, or if bro hadn't upped his disability insurance last year, or whatever, they'd've been screwed. The point is, none of the amounts of money about which we're talking is all that much to the mansion people--they wouldn't notice it.
And it's that disparity that irks me. Not because I want the piles of money or stuff, but because I think we should all have access to some insulation.
Speaking of which, the other thing that irks me is that the rich are insulated from their mistakes--or even just unfortunate events--in the way the rest of us are not. Yes, my brother was insulated by my parents, and we are all extremely grateful for that. Yes, he actually spent the money on disability insurance, but not everyone can afford that. We all should have some insulation.
On the other hand, all the money in the world would not have saved my sister's life (even as a little of that money might very well have saved others' lives). So, yeah, it's messy. What I most try to avoid is carping on the people most nearly around me--because that only serves the purposes of the really rich. Let the poor and middle class fight over the crumbs, while they feast on the whole cake, all while thinking they deserve it.
Sunday, December 2, 2007
Cavalcades of Cavalcades
On the other hand, for a bunch of laughs, go check out Sara's latest cavalcade of bad nativities. While you're there, check out the previous collections (left margin links at her blog). These crack me up. Make sure to scroll down in the main blog for Jesus Christ on a surfboard.
Stuffing
In a wonderful, thoughtful, blurty post, kstyle touches on a bunch of issues that have been floating in my brain for months. (And I may have written part of this here, so pardon me if I'm repeating again.) Warning: this is kind of all over the place rather than aiming for a single specific point.
At one point this summer, I walked home from work. Although I live in a neighborhood that is populated by gentrifiers as well as by working-class and poor people, by students and drug dealers and old hippies--i.e., in a neighborhood that has a mix of people and housing stock--the path from work is through one of the older, more wealthy suburbs around this city. (A little further north of where I work you can find one of the richest burbs in the country; we go through it on the way to the outdoor music venue.) What this meant is that I was walking through one of the country's richest suburbs, past old, well-maintained lakefront mansions. In my chef clothes. After earning somewhere around $100, before taxes, for 10 hours of hard physical work.
It put me in a viciously bad mood, and anger at myself was no small part of it. I was looking at these houses and feeling resentful and unhappy--not because I particularly want those houses, mind you (and I'll get back to that in a second), but because, even were I to want one, it is completely and totally out of my reach. I don't work any less hard than the people who live there, I'm no less smart, the work that I do is no less useful (or, at least, I don't think it is), but nothing I have ever done or am ever likely to do will provide me with the means to own one of those houses--or, possibly, any property at all. And I was angry at myself for that covetousness, and for that resentment; I really don't like feeling that way, and I find it shameful and embarrassing that I cared enough about it to get myself worked up about it. But I've been thinking about it for months, trying to tease the various bits out of it.
As noted, I wouldn't want one of those houses, and that isn't sour grapes on my part. In the northern, richer suburbs, the houses on the lake make the houses past which I was walking look small. Some of them are uglier than shit--McMansions, or nearly so, or just plain big and stupid and ugly, with lots of architectural flourishes that serve no function--but some are quite beautiful, and they are nearly all on acres and acres of land. But if I had one of those places, who would maintain it? Yes, I know, those people don't mow their own lawns, do their own laundry, or (literally or figuratively) clean up their own shit, but I'm working-class enough such that it just seems wrong, somehow, to have so much space that one can't maintain it oneself. (And, as if to mock me, an issue of the Nature Conservancy magazine from around that time featured a board member from one of those suburbs. She loves to fly-fish, and she has probably donated big wads of money to protect lands that might otherwise be destroyed or industrialized, i.e., not everyone who lives in those burbs is a self-satisfied, greedy fuck, and in fact some people use that money for the betterment of the world.) That is, living in such a mansion would require such a change of being for me as to probably cause my head to spin around and around.
I also know, from my brief sojourn in the land of the (for me) well-paid, that having (for me) a lot of money doesn't mean I go spend it all on Stuff. Despite the occasional indulgence in consumer toys--hello, iPod--and an improved wardrobe (some of which was necessary, given the fact that much of my clothing was still from grad school or before), I discovered that I didn't go buy lots of Things and I still looked to buy things on sale. Even the new computer is in part justified (or rationalized?) by the fact that, if I do end up doing the editing work full time, I want to be more mobile. It was useful to have that well-paid episode, because I think it's one thing to imagine how one might act, and another thing to observe how one actually acts, i.e., I certainly was more self-indulgent, primarily with going out to dinner, because that's one of my favorite things, but I also did Responsible stuff, I upped my charitable contributions, I paid off loans early, I didn't live beyond my means, and I made it a point to save. The experience helped me recognize that, when push comes to shove, I don't particularly want a big house or a lot of stuff. I want some insulation from calamity (or, at least, the kind of insulation that money can bring); I want to be able to go grocery shopping without a running tally in my head that I compare against my bank balance or budget; I want to be able to treat (or help out) a friend or my brother.
And here's the other thing, and I'm sure I've mentioned this before: Wealth does not remove your problems. You still have to figure out your life. Wads of money can insulate you from some of that, of course, just as it can get you health care, say, but bad and sad things still happen when you're rich. You can be as aware or unaware with money as without it; you can just afford a better class of drugs, and better lawyers, and better rehab.
Unlike kstyle, however, my issues about upper classes aren't at all latent. It's not stuff-envy--I really don't want the houses or lawns or whatever; I don't want the vehicles or closets full of clothing or servants. It's that I don't trust piles of stuff. What can one possibly do with it all? (Note that I understand the line between "enough" and "too much" is wide and very, very blurry, and everyone's mileage will vary considerably, depending in part on where one lives.) I try not to impute evil thoughts to people who have lots of stuff, but part of me wonders what hole they're trying to fill with all that stuff.
At one point this summer, I walked home from work. Although I live in a neighborhood that is populated by gentrifiers as well as by working-class and poor people, by students and drug dealers and old hippies--i.e., in a neighborhood that has a mix of people and housing stock--the path from work is through one of the older, more wealthy suburbs around this city. (A little further north of where I work you can find one of the richest burbs in the country; we go through it on the way to the outdoor music venue.) What this meant is that I was walking through one of the country's richest suburbs, past old, well-maintained lakefront mansions. In my chef clothes. After earning somewhere around $100, before taxes, for 10 hours of hard physical work.
It put me in a viciously bad mood, and anger at myself was no small part of it. I was looking at these houses and feeling resentful and unhappy--not because I particularly want those houses, mind you (and I'll get back to that in a second), but because, even were I to want one, it is completely and totally out of my reach. I don't work any less hard than the people who live there, I'm no less smart, the work that I do is no less useful (or, at least, I don't think it is), but nothing I have ever done or am ever likely to do will provide me with the means to own one of those houses--or, possibly, any property at all. And I was angry at myself for that covetousness, and for that resentment; I really don't like feeling that way, and I find it shameful and embarrassing that I cared enough about it to get myself worked up about it. But I've been thinking about it for months, trying to tease the various bits out of it.
As noted, I wouldn't want one of those houses, and that isn't sour grapes on my part. In the northern, richer suburbs, the houses on the lake make the houses past which I was walking look small. Some of them are uglier than shit--McMansions, or nearly so, or just plain big and stupid and ugly, with lots of architectural flourishes that serve no function--but some are quite beautiful, and they are nearly all on acres and acres of land. But if I had one of those places, who would maintain it? Yes, I know, those people don't mow their own lawns, do their own laundry, or (literally or figuratively) clean up their own shit, but I'm working-class enough such that it just seems wrong, somehow, to have so much space that one can't maintain it oneself. (And, as if to mock me, an issue of the Nature Conservancy magazine from around that time featured a board member from one of those suburbs. She loves to fly-fish, and she has probably donated big wads of money to protect lands that might otherwise be destroyed or industrialized, i.e., not everyone who lives in those burbs is a self-satisfied, greedy fuck, and in fact some people use that money for the betterment of the world.) That is, living in such a mansion would require such a change of being for me as to probably cause my head to spin around and around.
I also know, from my brief sojourn in the land of the (for me) well-paid, that having (for me) a lot of money doesn't mean I go spend it all on Stuff. Despite the occasional indulgence in consumer toys--hello, iPod--and an improved wardrobe (some of which was necessary, given the fact that much of my clothing was still from grad school or before), I discovered that I didn't go buy lots of Things and I still looked to buy things on sale. Even the new computer is in part justified (or rationalized?) by the fact that, if I do end up doing the editing work full time, I want to be more mobile. It was useful to have that well-paid episode, because I think it's one thing to imagine how one might act, and another thing to observe how one actually acts, i.e., I certainly was more self-indulgent, primarily with going out to dinner, because that's one of my favorite things, but I also did Responsible stuff, I upped my charitable contributions, I paid off loans early, I didn't live beyond my means, and I made it a point to save. The experience helped me recognize that, when push comes to shove, I don't particularly want a big house or a lot of stuff. I want some insulation from calamity (or, at least, the kind of insulation that money can bring); I want to be able to go grocery shopping without a running tally in my head that I compare against my bank balance or budget; I want to be able to treat (or help out) a friend or my brother.
And here's the other thing, and I'm sure I've mentioned this before: Wealth does not remove your problems. You still have to figure out your life. Wads of money can insulate you from some of that, of course, just as it can get you health care, say, but bad and sad things still happen when you're rich. You can be as aware or unaware with money as without it; you can just afford a better class of drugs, and better lawyers, and better rehab.
Unlike kstyle, however, my issues about upper classes aren't at all latent. It's not stuff-envy--I really don't want the houses or lawns or whatever; I don't want the vehicles or closets full of clothing or servants. It's that I don't trust piles of stuff. What can one possibly do with it all? (Note that I understand the line between "enough" and "too much" is wide and very, very blurry, and everyone's mileage will vary considerably, depending in part on where one lives.) I try not to impute evil thoughts to people who have lots of stuff, but part of me wonders what hole they're trying to fill with all that stuff.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Flotsam
*grumpgrumpgrump* (or, as Friend puts it when I'm complaining even more than usual, Moo, moo, moo) though, really, not everything in this collection is grumpworthy; quite the opposite.
item: The Music Wars at work are getting on my last fucking nerve. Hipster Girl felt compelled to blare the White Stripes yesterday. Artie then blared the holiday music. And so on. My little radio seems to work reasonably well at blocking out objectionable content, and it'll probably get me through the season. HGirl wasn't in today, but Artie nevertheless had the holiday crap on Very Loud, so I politely asked him if he could turn it down a little, and he did, and i thanked him and left it at that. Otherwise, I'm actually a little slow at work (not in the sense of not having anything to do, but definitely in the sense of having about half as much work as I had over the summer), which is fine with me. Cuts into the paycheck, certainly, but it's not as though I'm making huge gobs of money an hour.
item: Menopause can show up ANY TIME now, and it would be fine with me. Certainly it would be an improvement on the cycles that have been the case. Though "cycles" is a misnomer, in that that implies a certain regularity and predictability that have been absent. You know that whole thing about how you're supposed to bleed LESS frequently? My body apparently did not get that email.
item: I did, in fact, get a new laptop (a macbook, if you care), and it showed up Tuesday (yay!). Last night I started setting it up, but managed to fuck things up and get frustrated. And, yes, before I did anything, I did, in fact, RTFM, but the M failed to mention that you Had To Do Everything once you started the process, and I hadn't figured out all the connect-to-the-intertubes bits yet. At one point, you have to choose a picture to represent you, and the computer (which has a built-in camera) automatically offers the option of a snapshot of yourself. Yes, in the middle of my annoyance and disgruntlement, up pops a picture of me with crabbyface on. Needless to say, I did not choose that option, and it did not improve my mood. I will get it figured out eventually, with or without some assistance from Friend, and I'm looking forward to the mobility the laptop will provide, even if I'm still gulping a little at the wad of money I just spent on this.
You may remember that I had a second (or, depending on how you're counting, third) set of interviews on the 19th. I sent an email a week later, i.e., this past Monday (figuring that the holiday in the middle there would make that delay preferable, i.e., not a bunch of crap that needed to be answered right before the holiday), but I have not heard anything at all from anyone. I'm contemplating emailing the original interviewer (the one who thinks I might not have the kind of financial background she thinks she needs) and suggesting I work as a consultant for a few months and then we evaluate. I'll think about that over the weekend.
In relation to this, I'd been sort of fussing in my head lately (yeah, I know) about when to quit the bakery, and what to do in general, and I finally realized I needed an algorithm, or, more likely, several of them, and I've been making some progress on that front. Obviously, an offer for a full-time job trumps everything, but I'm dealing not just with a not-for-profit, but a not-for-profit-with-academics, and that latter provides a multiplicative (rather than merely additive) effect, such that one has the sensation of moving backward. Plus, despite the excellence of the fit, etc., it's certainly possible, perhaps even likely, that they won't actually offer me a job, which is a long-winded way of saying that I'm not counting on it in my plans.
There are a few things I want to do, most notably visit my family, perhaps, and have at least a week, and preferably two, where I can do a lot of nothing around my apartment. That latter actually has a list of chores attached to it, because I have a lot of literal and metaphorical crap rid of which I want to get. When I moved, I was in something of a state, and I didn't sort through my belongings as might perhaps have been useful. This apartment has exceptional amounts of closet space (exceptional especially since the building was built in 1929)--a closet in the living room where the murphy bed used to be, an L-shaped hall closet with two overhead shelves, a built-in set of shelves and drawers (which holds my t-shirts, underwear, socks, athletic gear, winter layers, etc.), and two bedroom closets, one pretty big and both with two overhead shelves. Thus, when I moved in, I unpacked about 90% of my stuff, but that other 10% is just thrown into a closet somewhere. i want to sort through all of that crap, not least because there are a couple of things that I cannot find.
I also want to kind of cleanse myself physically. I eat a lot of sugar and butter and junk at the bakery, despite my efforts in that regard. We make pretty good products, mind you: our puff pastry is made with only butter, none of that greasy fake garbage that Brad used to use, which means the turnovers and palmiers are exceptional. (We had to taste one of each today, and they were quite tasty.) Brad used to claim that customers couldn't tell the difference, but Bossman says that we are selling a lot more turnovers since we switched to all butter, and I believe it. Same with croissants. (Our yellow cake is nasty, IMHO, especially since we changed mixes, but I avoid the yellow cake, so no problem.) The bread rocks and rolls. But there aren't any vegetables in that list, and I find that I can go a couple of days without eating any vegetables at all. Which kind of grosses me out, especially since I used to eat a lot of fruits and, especially, vegetables. I also don't get a lot of fiber or whole grains in there, especially since I stopped eating breakfast.
So I want to change that. I know that trying to change very much while I'm still at the bakery will just be an exercise in frustration. But the job is wrecking me in that way, too. I did get to two yoga classes in the past week, which was good, but my zen shiatsu appointment for yesterday did not occur, as my practitioner has a bad cold. Next week, though. In any case, I'm thinking that a week or two at home, cleaning out my closets and not eating crap, would be a nice transition to whatever else it is I end up doing.
Algorithm-wise, I've decided that I can set a couple of dates: a date to quit the bakery (either the last week in December or the middle of January); a date by which I should assume that things won't work out with the place where I've been interviewing such that I go ahead and start trying to acquire additional clients for the editing work; and a date by which (if that fails or goes too slowly) I try to find temp work. I'll keep applying for full-time work as I see jobs that seem like good prospects, and I may include some financial rules in there (e.g., must apply for temp work if balance drops below $X, no matter what the date is).
Yes, I know, it all seems like it should be obvious, but it hasn't been, at least not to me.
item: The Music Wars at work are getting on my last fucking nerve. Hipster Girl felt compelled to blare the White Stripes yesterday. Artie then blared the holiday music. And so on. My little radio seems to work reasonably well at blocking out objectionable content, and it'll probably get me through the season. HGirl wasn't in today, but Artie nevertheless had the holiday crap on Very Loud, so I politely asked him if he could turn it down a little, and he did, and i thanked him and left it at that. Otherwise, I'm actually a little slow at work (not in the sense of not having anything to do, but definitely in the sense of having about half as much work as I had over the summer), which is fine with me. Cuts into the paycheck, certainly, but it's not as though I'm making huge gobs of money an hour.
item: Menopause can show up ANY TIME now, and it would be fine with me. Certainly it would be an improvement on the cycles that have been the case. Though "cycles" is a misnomer, in that that implies a certain regularity and predictability that have been absent. You know that whole thing about how you're supposed to bleed LESS frequently? My body apparently did not get that email.
item: I did, in fact, get a new laptop (a macbook, if you care), and it showed up Tuesday (yay!). Last night I started setting it up, but managed to fuck things up and get frustrated. And, yes, before I did anything, I did, in fact, RTFM, but the M failed to mention that you Had To Do Everything once you started the process, and I hadn't figured out all the connect-to-the-intertubes bits yet. At one point, you have to choose a picture to represent you, and the computer (which has a built-in camera) automatically offers the option of a snapshot of yourself. Yes, in the middle of my annoyance and disgruntlement, up pops a picture of me with crabbyface on. Needless to say, I did not choose that option, and it did not improve my mood. I will get it figured out eventually, with or without some assistance from Friend, and I'm looking forward to the mobility the laptop will provide, even if I'm still gulping a little at the wad of money I just spent on this.
You may remember that I had a second (or, depending on how you're counting, third) set of interviews on the 19th. I sent an email a week later, i.e., this past Monday (figuring that the holiday in the middle there would make that delay preferable, i.e., not a bunch of crap that needed to be answered right before the holiday), but I have not heard anything at all from anyone. I'm contemplating emailing the original interviewer (the one who thinks I might not have the kind of financial background she thinks she needs) and suggesting I work as a consultant for a few months and then we evaluate. I'll think about that over the weekend.
In relation to this, I'd been sort of fussing in my head lately (yeah, I know) about when to quit the bakery, and what to do in general, and I finally realized I needed an algorithm, or, more likely, several of them, and I've been making some progress on that front. Obviously, an offer for a full-time job trumps everything, but I'm dealing not just with a not-for-profit, but a not-for-profit-with-academics, and that latter provides a multiplicative (rather than merely additive) effect, such that one has the sensation of moving backward. Plus, despite the excellence of the fit, etc., it's certainly possible, perhaps even likely, that they won't actually offer me a job, which is a long-winded way of saying that I'm not counting on it in my plans.
There are a few things I want to do, most notably visit my family, perhaps, and have at least a week, and preferably two, where I can do a lot of nothing around my apartment. That latter actually has a list of chores attached to it, because I have a lot of literal and metaphorical crap rid of which I want to get. When I moved, I was in something of a state, and I didn't sort through my belongings as might perhaps have been useful. This apartment has exceptional amounts of closet space (exceptional especially since the building was built in 1929)--a closet in the living room where the murphy bed used to be, an L-shaped hall closet with two overhead shelves, a built-in set of shelves and drawers (which holds my t-shirts, underwear, socks, athletic gear, winter layers, etc.), and two bedroom closets, one pretty big and both with two overhead shelves. Thus, when I moved in, I unpacked about 90% of my stuff, but that other 10% is just thrown into a closet somewhere. i want to sort through all of that crap, not least because there are a couple of things that I cannot find.
I also want to kind of cleanse myself physically. I eat a lot of sugar and butter and junk at the bakery, despite my efforts in that regard. We make pretty good products, mind you: our puff pastry is made with only butter, none of that greasy fake garbage that Brad used to use, which means the turnovers and palmiers are exceptional. (We had to taste one of each today, and they were quite tasty.) Brad used to claim that customers couldn't tell the difference, but Bossman says that we are selling a lot more turnovers since we switched to all butter, and I believe it. Same with croissants. (Our yellow cake is nasty, IMHO, especially since we changed mixes, but I avoid the yellow cake, so no problem.) The bread rocks and rolls. But there aren't any vegetables in that list, and I find that I can go a couple of days without eating any vegetables at all. Which kind of grosses me out, especially since I used to eat a lot of fruits and, especially, vegetables. I also don't get a lot of fiber or whole grains in there, especially since I stopped eating breakfast.
So I want to change that. I know that trying to change very much while I'm still at the bakery will just be an exercise in frustration. But the job is wrecking me in that way, too. I did get to two yoga classes in the past week, which was good, but my zen shiatsu appointment for yesterday did not occur, as my practitioner has a bad cold. Next week, though. In any case, I'm thinking that a week or two at home, cleaning out my closets and not eating crap, would be a nice transition to whatever else it is I end up doing.
Algorithm-wise, I've decided that I can set a couple of dates: a date to quit the bakery (either the last week in December or the middle of January); a date by which I should assume that things won't work out with the place where I've been interviewing such that I go ahead and start trying to acquire additional clients for the editing work; and a date by which (if that fails or goes too slowly) I try to find temp work. I'll keep applying for full-time work as I see jobs that seem like good prospects, and I may include some financial rules in there (e.g., must apply for temp work if balance drops below $X, no matter what the date is).
Yes, I know, it all seems like it should be obvious, but it hasn't been, at least not to me.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Gobble Gobble Hey
with apologies to the Ramones . . .
So my pumpkin flan is in the oven, turning into custard (we hope), rather than pumpkin soup. Soon I'm going to hunt down a gingerbread cookie recipe, and, once the custard is done, will make some maple pecan praline (pronounced PRAH-li-nay by fancy-ass pastry chef types). The gingerbread cookie needs to be a little crispy, because the plan is to make the cookies sufficiently large to upend a pumpkin flan on top, perhaps a little off-center. I was waffling between gingerbread and ginger cookies, and Bossman noted--and I had thought the same thing--that the cookie would provide some crunch, i.e., a different texture, where gingerbread would just be a different kind of soft.
I'll probably bring some whipped cream, as well, because why not. And the praline will add some crunch. I'm kind of making that one up as I go--I found a recipe for a maple pecan ice cream sauce (on epicurious, which is a great resource, especially if you already have an idea what you want) and I'm going to leave out the cream and spread it on to silpats so it's candy-ish rather than sauce-ish. And then I have some caramel filling that Bossman gave me yesterday (he was filling macarons and had some left over) that I'll probably melt down in the double boiler to incorporate it all and then use that as some swirly bit on the plates. (It was kind of funny: I looked in the bowl where the filling was sitting and said, hmm, didn't incorporate all the caramel (into the butter), eh? and he said, You weren't supposed to see that (while moving a bowl scraper over top of it), and I said, don't worry, I'm probably the only other one here who knows what she's looking at, and I won't tell anyone. But I did scrape that caramel bit into my transporter container as well, figuring I could, as noted, heat the whole thing over a double boiler.) The one concern is that I don't have much sugar. I used the rest of the white sugar I had for the caramel for the flan, and subbed brown sugar for white in the flan itself. The praline uses maple syrup and a little sugar, but I'll presumably still need sugar for the cookies. I suppose I could run out somewhere if I absolutely had to do that, but one of the advantages of being a Professionally Trained Pastry Chef-type person is that you have a better idea of when you can substitute willy-nilly and when not so much.
Yesterday I wore my little radio headphones all day, which solved my problem. I think it caused amusement on the part of my coworkers--Phil and Bossman, in particular--but I don't really care. I cannot, simply cannot, hear fucking Frosty the fucking Snowman four fucking times a day for the next fucking six weeks. Cannot. I tucked the wires inside my shirt and the radio into my pocket, so there aren't dangling bits to catch on things, and I modulated the volume such that I could hear if someone spoke to me. I could still occasionally hear the christmas music, but at least I had an alternative. I'd rather look a little ridiculous than (a) go on a homicidal rampage or (b) be annoyed and stressed all day from the noise.
later
Okay, now I've made the cookie dough--but I ended up using all crystallized ginger, because I didn't have any ground ginger, and using all maple syrup, because I didn't have any molasses. Clearly I need to do a major shopping expedition. I think because I've done so little cooking or, especially, baking at home of late, and because I'm usually sufficiently organized to snag what I need and don't have from the bakery, I hadn't realized what state my supplies had reached. The flan is out of the oven and seems to have flanned.
Now for the praline . . .
Even later than that
The cookies came out almost as I envisioned--crispy, chewy, and VERY gingery. Possibly too, for some people (but not me), but I'm hoping the flan will mellow it out. The praline is quite sweet; maple syrup plus brown sugar plus a little butter plus pecans. It's more of a garnish, though, so, again, the intense sweet shouldn't be too much of an issue.
On the other hand, having tasted everything along the way, I have now had enough sugar, and close to enough food, for the day. My understanding is that dinner will include four snacky bits, and caramelized onion and leek soup, and salmon with a cranberry thyme crust, and potatos, maybe?, I'm sure with something, maybe a salad in there, and two kinds of bread (miche and pumpkin sourdough, both from the bakery), before we even get to dessert. If I weren't such a slug, I'd go take a long walk or something. (Hah! and I say Hah! again.) I suspect I'll manage to enjoy every morsel.
I saw Chuck and CS last night, and we had a really fun dinner. Chuck and I got hysterical remembering a few incidents in our past, and it was a nice moment. They were heading off to feed Chuck's girlfriend's cats and then heading to NearbyCity last night; I loaded them up with baked goods. I suspect Chuck's mother is taken aback, but I don't much care. Chuck is the one who gets to decide what's good for him and for his son.
So my pumpkin flan is in the oven, turning into custard (we hope), rather than pumpkin soup. Soon I'm going to hunt down a gingerbread cookie recipe, and, once the custard is done, will make some maple pecan praline (pronounced PRAH-li-nay by fancy-ass pastry chef types). The gingerbread cookie needs to be a little crispy, because the plan is to make the cookies sufficiently large to upend a pumpkin flan on top, perhaps a little off-center. I was waffling between gingerbread and ginger cookies, and Bossman noted--and I had thought the same thing--that the cookie would provide some crunch, i.e., a different texture, where gingerbread would just be a different kind of soft.
I'll probably bring some whipped cream, as well, because why not. And the praline will add some crunch. I'm kind of making that one up as I go--I found a recipe for a maple pecan ice cream sauce (on epicurious, which is a great resource, especially if you already have an idea what you want) and I'm going to leave out the cream and spread it on to silpats so it's candy-ish rather than sauce-ish. And then I have some caramel filling that Bossman gave me yesterday (he was filling macarons and had some left over) that I'll probably melt down in the double boiler to incorporate it all and then use that as some swirly bit on the plates. (It was kind of funny: I looked in the bowl where the filling was sitting and said, hmm, didn't incorporate all the caramel (into the butter), eh? and he said, You weren't supposed to see that (while moving a bowl scraper over top of it), and I said, don't worry, I'm probably the only other one here who knows what she's looking at, and I won't tell anyone. But I did scrape that caramel bit into my transporter container as well, figuring I could, as noted, heat the whole thing over a double boiler.) The one concern is that I don't have much sugar. I used the rest of the white sugar I had for the caramel for the flan, and subbed brown sugar for white in the flan itself. The praline uses maple syrup and a little sugar, but I'll presumably still need sugar for the cookies. I suppose I could run out somewhere if I absolutely had to do that, but one of the advantages of being a Professionally Trained Pastry Chef-type person is that you have a better idea of when you can substitute willy-nilly and when not so much.
Yesterday I wore my little radio headphones all day, which solved my problem. I think it caused amusement on the part of my coworkers--Phil and Bossman, in particular--but I don't really care. I cannot, simply cannot, hear fucking Frosty the fucking Snowman four fucking times a day for the next fucking six weeks. Cannot. I tucked the wires inside my shirt and the radio into my pocket, so there aren't dangling bits to catch on things, and I modulated the volume such that I could hear if someone spoke to me. I could still occasionally hear the christmas music, but at least I had an alternative. I'd rather look a little ridiculous than (a) go on a homicidal rampage or (b) be annoyed and stressed all day from the noise.
later
Okay, now I've made the cookie dough--but I ended up using all crystallized ginger, because I didn't have any ground ginger, and using all maple syrup, because I didn't have any molasses. Clearly I need to do a major shopping expedition. I think because I've done so little cooking or, especially, baking at home of late, and because I'm usually sufficiently organized to snag what I need and don't have from the bakery, I hadn't realized what state my supplies had reached. The flan is out of the oven and seems to have flanned.
Now for the praline . . .
Even later than that
The cookies came out almost as I envisioned--crispy, chewy, and VERY gingery. Possibly too, for some people (but not me), but I'm hoping the flan will mellow it out. The praline is quite sweet; maple syrup plus brown sugar plus a little butter plus pecans. It's more of a garnish, though, so, again, the intense sweet shouldn't be too much of an issue.
On the other hand, having tasted everything along the way, I have now had enough sugar, and close to enough food, for the day. My understanding is that dinner will include four snacky bits, and caramelized onion and leek soup, and salmon with a cranberry thyme crust, and potatos, maybe?, I'm sure with something, maybe a salad in there, and two kinds of bread (miche and pumpkin sourdough, both from the bakery), before we even get to dessert. If I weren't such a slug, I'd go take a long walk or something. (Hah! and I say Hah! again.) I suspect I'll manage to enjoy every morsel.
I saw Chuck and CS last night, and we had a really fun dinner. Chuck and I got hysterical remembering a few incidents in our past, and it was a nice moment. They were heading off to feed Chuck's girlfriend's cats and then heading to NearbyCity last night; I loaded them up with baked goods. I suspect Chuck's mother is taken aback, but I don't much care. Chuck is the one who gets to decide what's good for him and for his son.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Not Crazy
This week should be a lot more crazy for me than it has been so far. But one of our wholesale customers hasn't paid the bills--to the tune of multiple thousands of dollars--and so we have cut off their croissant supply. Their orders make up about two-thirds of our wholesale croissant sales, so it's a substantial decrease in my production. On top of that, we pretty much expect Friday through Sunday to be slower than usual. On the other hand, of course, we're selling the mini plain croissants as a special in the store, plus Brazen Tart's place wants a whole big bunch for Thursday, plus some people have ordered full-size croissants from the store, so it's not like I don't have to make any. Today I shaped croissants from six pieces I'd put in the freezer Saturday, and tomorrow I'll laminate ten pieces (I think eight will be enough, but I'd rather stash the two extras in the freezer) and make sure there will be enough of everything to last until next Tuesday.
I'll go in Friday and help Phil and dick around some, but I'm not going in on Saturday. I figure, it's going to be slow, and my hours will be short enough this week such that I'm not giving up much overtime, and I can make substantially more per hour by doing the pile of editing that's glaring at me, so better I should do that. Besides, it'll be nice to have off three days in a row, and it'll be nice to have the extra time to do the editing. On top of that, another editing job just came in this week. It's not due until the 7th, but I'd like to at least start it. This one will be interesting and kind of fun, in that part of my job is to make the text longer (the author was apparently a little more terse than would have been desirable; the publisher needs a certain minimum number of pages to put a spine on the book, and it's not clear this manuscript gets there).
I think I'm going to keep doing the freelance work even if I get the other job, and even if that job pays a decent buck. I may not say yes to every single opportunity, but, on the other hand, I want to keep my hand in, and continue to improve, for that matter, and I like the extra income. If I could manage to do that much work while working 50 to 55 hours a week at the bakery, I can't see why I couldn't do it while working 40 hours a week at an office job.
I'm going to need to take drastic action at the bakery, meanwhile: the christmas music started today, and I cannot, simply cannot, listen to it ten hours a day, five days a week, for the next six weeks. I have a little radio with headphones, which I'll try; I hesitate to use the iPod, only because it's getting old and crotchety as it is, and a flour-filled environment (plus the risk of getting banged around) probably isn't the best thing for it. If the radio doesn't work, I'm maybe willing to shell out the bucks for an iPod shuffle; my sanity is worth $80. But nonstop christmas music is just not an option--I found myself gritting my teeth several times today, and I know it was from that.
And, meanwhile, I'm having dinner tomorrow night with Chuck and his son. They're heading to Chuck's family's home, so we can have dinner at our usual spot, and I can hand off some baked goods, and they can head north. Sometimes it feels strange to keep doing what we've been doing--we're divorced; we're not supposed to do this, somehow--but it seems to be working for us, so I don't much care.
I'll go in Friday and help Phil and dick around some, but I'm not going in on Saturday. I figure, it's going to be slow, and my hours will be short enough this week such that I'm not giving up much overtime, and I can make substantially more per hour by doing the pile of editing that's glaring at me, so better I should do that. Besides, it'll be nice to have off three days in a row, and it'll be nice to have the extra time to do the editing. On top of that, another editing job just came in this week. It's not due until the 7th, but I'd like to at least start it. This one will be interesting and kind of fun, in that part of my job is to make the text longer (the author was apparently a little more terse than would have been desirable; the publisher needs a certain minimum number of pages to put a spine on the book, and it's not clear this manuscript gets there).
I think I'm going to keep doing the freelance work even if I get the other job, and even if that job pays a decent buck. I may not say yes to every single opportunity, but, on the other hand, I want to keep my hand in, and continue to improve, for that matter, and I like the extra income. If I could manage to do that much work while working 50 to 55 hours a week at the bakery, I can't see why I couldn't do it while working 40 hours a week at an office job.
I'm going to need to take drastic action at the bakery, meanwhile: the christmas music started today, and I cannot, simply cannot, listen to it ten hours a day, five days a week, for the next six weeks. I have a little radio with headphones, which I'll try; I hesitate to use the iPod, only because it's getting old and crotchety as it is, and a flour-filled environment (plus the risk of getting banged around) probably isn't the best thing for it. If the radio doesn't work, I'm maybe willing to shell out the bucks for an iPod shuffle; my sanity is worth $80. But nonstop christmas music is just not an option--I found myself gritting my teeth several times today, and I know it was from that.
And, meanwhile, I'm having dinner tomorrow night with Chuck and his son. They're heading to Chuck's family's home, so we can have dinner at our usual spot, and I can hand off some baked goods, and they can head north. Sometimes it feels strange to keep doing what we've been doing--we're divorced; we're not supposed to do this, somehow--but it seems to be working for us, so I don't much care.
Monday, November 19, 2007
So how did it go?
(The interview, I mean.)
On some level, it could not have gone any better. I managed to fire on all cylinders today, and, having thought about the people and place and likely tasks, was able to provide an analysis of what it sounds like they need and how I could provide that. Even better, it was an analysis that (a) was accurate but (b) they hadn't really figured out for themselves yet, so I got to look smart, too. I saw the person from two weeks ago again for a few minutes, as well, and was able to say hey, you know, I don't really need a job description at this point, don't let that hold you up, because if I come in and develop some systems and such, you may discover that you need a different array of people than you thought you did, and perhaps fewer people than you thought you did. Everyone seemed duly impressed and excited, but who knows whether they'll get it together--organization does not seem to be the strong suit of this part of that forest. (Which is why, in my heart of hearts, I wish I could work for the CFO, the woman with whom I originally interviewed.)
A part of me keeps thinking maybe I should get anxious about this--because I am, in fact, going to quit the bakery, no matter whether I have an offer or not, and I therefore will need another source of income. But I can't seemed to get wrapped around the axle about it. If they don't get something going soonish, I can go back to the CFO and talk to her again. I can find some temporary secretarial work while I expand my editing client list and continue to look for a full-time gig. Whatever. Trust me--if I don't have something in place by, oh, the end of January, there will be panic, and shit can always happen. All in all, though, I've had way more anxiety the past few days over the current copyediting job than over the job interview.
Incidentally, a few of you have asked about Friend. Now that I'm no longer married, I'm willing to answer specific questions (up to a point, anyway) if you have them. I'm a little hinky about his privacy, but I'll deal with that as it seems to be an issue.
I don't have anything profound to add. Or, rather, I do have a few things I'd like to go on about, but my energy has dwindled and I'd rather pour a glass of wine and watch either a movie ("Stranger than Fiction" is the one I haven't watched yet) or something lame on television.
On some level, it could not have gone any better. I managed to fire on all cylinders today, and, having thought about the people and place and likely tasks, was able to provide an analysis of what it sounds like they need and how I could provide that. Even better, it was an analysis that (a) was accurate but (b) they hadn't really figured out for themselves yet, so I got to look smart, too. I saw the person from two weeks ago again for a few minutes, as well, and was able to say hey, you know, I don't really need a job description at this point, don't let that hold you up, because if I come in and develop some systems and such, you may discover that you need a different array of people than you thought you did, and perhaps fewer people than you thought you did. Everyone seemed duly impressed and excited, but who knows whether they'll get it together--organization does not seem to be the strong suit of this part of that forest. (Which is why, in my heart of hearts, I wish I could work for the CFO, the woman with whom I originally interviewed.)
A part of me keeps thinking maybe I should get anxious about this--because I am, in fact, going to quit the bakery, no matter whether I have an offer or not, and I therefore will need another source of income. But I can't seemed to get wrapped around the axle about it. If they don't get something going soonish, I can go back to the CFO and talk to her again. I can find some temporary secretarial work while I expand my editing client list and continue to look for a full-time gig. Whatever. Trust me--if I don't have something in place by, oh, the end of January, there will be panic, and shit can always happen. All in all, though, I've had way more anxiety the past few days over the current copyediting job than over the job interview.
Incidentally, a few of you have asked about Friend. Now that I'm no longer married, I'm willing to answer specific questions (up to a point, anyway) if you have them. I'm a little hinky about his privacy, but I'll deal with that as it seems to be an issue.
I don't have anything profound to add. Or, rather, I do have a few things I'd like to go on about, but my energy has dwindled and I'd rather pour a glass of wine and watch either a movie ("Stranger than Fiction" is the one I haven't watched yet) or something lame on television.
Friday, November 16, 2007
Mistakes and Moral Failings
kstyle notes that some people regard mistakes as moral failings, and I find that I have half-promised to dilate on that.
I remember dealing with Chuck's son on this one, and that taught me a lot, actually, because it forced me to articulate my own thoughts in a way that a 7-year-old could understand. What I tried to teach him (and who knows how much stuck) is that everyone makes mistakes. It's going to happen. What matters is what you do when you make a mistake. In my mind, you apologize for it; you try to fix it, if it can be fixed in some way; and you try not to make that particular mistake again. Some kinds of mistakes are going to happen again anyway; as Bossman says, not every day can be a good day. Similarly, although I try very hard not to make mistakes in my proofreading and copyediting, I know that I will. As I discover new (kinds of) mistakes, I try to develop strategies for minimizing or eliminating them, but I know that I will not be perfect.
I tell you all of this to make it clear that I do not, in fact, regard mistakes as moral failings. As Orange could tell you, a frequent crossword puzzle clue is "to be human." The answer? "Err" (as in, to err is human).
But I think that the people 'style mentioned are afraid of this view. All mistakes must be regarded as transgressions, as moral failings, as evidence of one's badness and unfitness to draw a breath. Perhaps it has to do with a notion of the possibility of perfectibility. I think many (but by no means all) religious types regard humans as inherently flawed--Adam's sins and all that. (For an entertaining take on that matter, see this entertaining post by John Scalzi on the Creation Museum; hat tip to mythago.) Humans were perfect; then they fucked up; so all humans are fucked up; except Jesus will save you by washing away those sins.
And, really, that never made sense to me, in either the Protestant or Catholic versions. In some Protestant versions, if one acceptsJesusChristasone'spersonalsavior, then all sins are forgiven; in the Catholic version, one confesses one's transgressions to a priest, who (a) assigns a penance, in the form of prayers and (b) intercedes on one's behalf with one or more members of the holy trinity (I'm a little unclear on that aspect). (Here's a Jewish interpretion of that notion.) Obviously, there are several questions in play:
1. Is it the act that is problematic? Can/should the act be distinguished from the doer of the act? (Hate the sin/love the sinner would be one variation on that theme.)
2. Are humans inherently sinful?
3. Are humans inherently prone to sinful acts? (not quite the same as 2., I think)
And on and on and on.
To me, it seems a lot of blather, but that's where my lifelong atheism comes in. Why not just accept that we're all going to fuck up, and develop strategies for when that happens?
To get back to 'style's originalsin question, however, I think we react most strongly to the things we most fear. The person who regards mistakes as moral failings is afraid of being thought of as, or afraid of being, a Bad Person, and s/he secretly or not-so-secretly is convinced that s/he is bad, and, therefore, unlovable.
Or (and this is less charitable): people who are afraid of non-religious transcendence, who are afraid of other-than-religious joy, because they're afraid of the loss of control inherent in joy and transcendence, want there to be rules, damnit! They want to be able to condemn others, and mistakes are an easy way to do that--mistakes being a sign of Original Sin and all that.
Eh; it makes me tired. It seems like a lot of time being spent worrying about other people's houses.
And, you know, I could be completely wrong and/or full of shit. Wouldn't be the first time.
I remember dealing with Chuck's son on this one, and that taught me a lot, actually, because it forced me to articulate my own thoughts in a way that a 7-year-old could understand. What I tried to teach him (and who knows how much stuck) is that everyone makes mistakes. It's going to happen. What matters is what you do when you make a mistake. In my mind, you apologize for it; you try to fix it, if it can be fixed in some way; and you try not to make that particular mistake again. Some kinds of mistakes are going to happen again anyway; as Bossman says, not every day can be a good day. Similarly, although I try very hard not to make mistakes in my proofreading and copyediting, I know that I will. As I discover new (kinds of) mistakes, I try to develop strategies for minimizing or eliminating them, but I know that I will not be perfect.
I tell you all of this to make it clear that I do not, in fact, regard mistakes as moral failings. As Orange could tell you, a frequent crossword puzzle clue is "to be human." The answer? "Err" (as in, to err is human).
But I think that the people 'style mentioned are afraid of this view. All mistakes must be regarded as transgressions, as moral failings, as evidence of one's badness and unfitness to draw a breath. Perhaps it has to do with a notion of the possibility of perfectibility. I think many (but by no means all) religious types regard humans as inherently flawed--Adam's sins and all that. (For an entertaining take on that matter, see this entertaining post by John Scalzi on the Creation Museum; hat tip to mythago.) Humans were perfect; then they fucked up; so all humans are fucked up; except Jesus will save you by washing away those sins.
And, really, that never made sense to me, in either the Protestant or Catholic versions. In some Protestant versions, if one acceptsJesusChristasone'spersonalsavior, then all sins are forgiven; in the Catholic version, one confesses one's transgressions to a priest, who (a) assigns a penance, in the form of prayers and (b) intercedes on one's behalf with one or more members of the holy trinity (I'm a little unclear on that aspect). (Here's a Jewish interpretion of that notion.) Obviously, there are several questions in play:
1. Is it the act that is problematic? Can/should the act be distinguished from the doer of the act? (Hate the sin/love the sinner would be one variation on that theme.)
2. Are humans inherently sinful?
3. Are humans inherently prone to sinful acts? (not quite the same as 2., I think)
And on and on and on.
To me, it seems a lot of blather, but that's where my lifelong atheism comes in. Why not just accept that we're all going to fuck up, and develop strategies for when that happens?
To get back to 'style's original
Or (and this is less charitable): people who are afraid of non-religious transcendence, who are afraid of other-than-religious joy, because they're afraid of the loss of control inherent in joy and transcendence, want there to be rules, damnit! They want to be able to condemn others, and mistakes are an easy way to do that--mistakes being a sign of Original Sin and all that.
Eh; it makes me tired. It seems like a lot of time being spent worrying about other people's houses.
And, you know, I could be completely wrong and/or full of shit. Wouldn't be the first time.
Commitment
I did it.
Not only did I sort-of-in-my-head commit to going to an actual yoga class on Sunday (despite the wads of editing that must be accomplished), I (a) made sure my teacher would be there (she travels a fair amount) and (b) committed to meeting her for a beverage before class. It'll be pitiful, I'm sure, and I'm mildly panicked about taking so much time for it when there's so much editing to be done. I also scheduled some zen shiatsu, though no room for that until the 6th.
Not only did I sort-of-in-my-head commit to going to an actual yoga class on Sunday (despite the wads of editing that must be accomplished), I (a) made sure my teacher would be there (she travels a fair amount) and (b) committed to meeting her for a beverage before class. It'll be pitiful, I'm sure, and I'm mildly panicked about taking so much time for it when there's so much editing to be done. I also scheduled some zen shiatsu, though no room for that until the 6th.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Seasonal Affect
This time of year is always so very difficult--or, at least, it always has been, for me, and working in a bakery basically acts as a multiplier. Beginning with Halloween--which is actually a huge bakery day, believe it or not--it's this crescendo, this marathon, this ever-increasing intensity that ends at Christmas. And the holidays themselves; oy. I have, on occasion, been able to carve out some of the spirit of whatever the holiday is, but it's so difficult. I mean, Christmas decorations already! Seriously; in the bakery, but elsewhere as well. That rushing-of-the-season merely adds to the anxiety.
For one thing, it just wears out. The Holidays has a relatively short shelf life, at least in people's spirits, and taking it out of its wrappings this early means that it has gone a little sour by the time the actual date, whatever it is, rolls around. I realize that it's an economic thing, in part, having to do with retail sales, and how crappy the economy is, and what retailers can count as sales, etc., but that makes it worse for those of us who aren't convinced that either capitalism or the (so-called) free market are really paths to happiness.
For another thing, the extra time devoted to it all just makes everyone kind of sick. It becomes this guilt-laden, sugar-laden, crap-you-don't-need-or-want-laden two-month exercise in overload. I do like the winter solstice, mind you; I sometimes think I could be a pagan or wiccan or whatever branch seemed the most entertaining. Those ways of thinking and measuring keep us grounded--quite literally, sometimes--in the world. So much of our lives--central heating and air conditioning; vehicles of various sorts; artificial light--literally and figuratively insulate us from the world. Mind you, I like a lot of that insulation; a couple of years ago, maybe in the fall of 2005, we took Chuck's son to a scouting thing that was basically a pioneer village with some actual pioneer-era buildings around, and the little house made me cold to think of living there. Those people were cold from October to May, every year. And they probably stank, and they didn't have indoor plumbing, and I'd guess there were various bodily parasites around as well. Ew.
And sometimes I'd like a little more insulation: I am getting quite tired of standing on a train platform as an icy damp wind cuts through every layer of clothing I'm wearing. I am not going to buy a vehicle, but I will definitely wish for teletransportation devices.
The point is, we insulate ourselves from everything. This is a time of year when we want to hibernate, to sleep, to curl up with a friend or a blanket or a pet (or all three, if we're lucky). Instead, we find ourselves running around to events and parties and work and whatever, and those of us in industries that are affected by the holidays--like bakeries, but I'm sure also like restaurants and party locations--just try to hold on, grimly slogging through another day or week of it all.
Just to make my personal experience more entertaining, Bossman is leaving town tomorrow morning, not returning until Sunday. He is NOT happy to be making this trip, so far as I can tell. Apparently, his kids don't want to come home for Thanksgiving, because it's a lot of travel for a short weekend, so the Wife (I'm guessing) has decided they'll go to the kids (one's still at home, one's in California, one's in Texas). Which, okay, but has she realized that her husband owns a bakery, and this is one of his busiest weeks all fucking year? Then again, perhaps today's conversation will provide you with some enlightenment. Bossman started making our stollen yesterday (and it seriously rocks). Today it was being buttered and rolled in sugar, and then his daughter, who's been working there a couple days a week, was wrapping them and tying them up with a ribbon--and the ribbon is a new one he purchased this year, with the bakery's name and logo on it; the ribbon is quite cool. So Wife came through and he said something about the stollen, and she said, I do not care about that, why are you even telling me about it? (In my head I answered: Because it puts food on your table and clothes on your back? Because it's what your husband loves to do?) He said, yeah, but have you seen the ribbon? And she said, the ribbon I care about. Hey, on one hand, whatever makes you happy, you know? But it also kind of blew me away.
On the other hand, I have people around me who make me smile, who remind me to be truly present, who have more faith in me than I have in myself. I have coworkers who make me laugh, and who have taught me just how much can be communicated even when we're not fluent in the same language. And--at least for another few weeks--I make a damned good croissant. They've been truly beautiful lately--and I make sure to give Phil a bunch of the credit. He's been baking them, at least the ones that go in the store, and he knows I like them a little darker than the night guys bake them, so he's been doing that, and they're fucking beautiful. Today we were selling them all two-for-one, because one of our customers hasn't paid the bills and we didn't send them their order--and they buy about two-thirds of our wholesale croissants, so there were a LOT to be sold. The two-for-one thing worked, though; people know a deal when they see one. The next few days will be difficult--work work work at the bakery, then edit like a madwoman on Sunday and on Monday morning, then job interview Monday afternoon (reinterview, actually; Round 2 with the person from last week). Deep breath, maybe, on Thanksgiving, but more likely more editing, along with dinner with friends in the evening. And so on.
And then there's Anthony Trollope. Here's one line from Barchester Towers:
He is somewhat below middle height, being about five feet four, but he makes up for the inches which he wants byt the dignity with which he carries those which he has.
How can writing like that not improve your day? Seriously: if you're looking for an escape from the season, go find a copy of "The Warden," and read that, and then read "Barchester Towers."
For one thing, it just wears out. The Holidays has a relatively short shelf life, at least in people's spirits, and taking it out of its wrappings this early means that it has gone a little sour by the time the actual date, whatever it is, rolls around. I realize that it's an economic thing, in part, having to do with retail sales, and how crappy the economy is, and what retailers can count as sales, etc., but that makes it worse for those of us who aren't convinced that either capitalism or the (so-called) free market are really paths to happiness.
For another thing, the extra time devoted to it all just makes everyone kind of sick. It becomes this guilt-laden, sugar-laden, crap-you-don't-need-or-want-laden two-month exercise in overload. I do like the winter solstice, mind you; I sometimes think I could be a pagan or wiccan or whatever branch seemed the most entertaining. Those ways of thinking and measuring keep us grounded--quite literally, sometimes--in the world. So much of our lives--central heating and air conditioning; vehicles of various sorts; artificial light--literally and figuratively insulate us from the world. Mind you, I like a lot of that insulation; a couple of years ago, maybe in the fall of 2005, we took Chuck's son to a scouting thing that was basically a pioneer village with some actual pioneer-era buildings around, and the little house made me cold to think of living there. Those people were cold from October to May, every year. And they probably stank, and they didn't have indoor plumbing, and I'd guess there were various bodily parasites around as well. Ew.
And sometimes I'd like a little more insulation: I am getting quite tired of standing on a train platform as an icy damp wind cuts through every layer of clothing I'm wearing. I am not going to buy a vehicle, but I will definitely wish for teletransportation devices.
The point is, we insulate ourselves from everything. This is a time of year when we want to hibernate, to sleep, to curl up with a friend or a blanket or a pet (or all three, if we're lucky). Instead, we find ourselves running around to events and parties and work and whatever, and those of us in industries that are affected by the holidays--like bakeries, but I'm sure also like restaurants and party locations--just try to hold on, grimly slogging through another day or week of it all.
Just to make my personal experience more entertaining, Bossman is leaving town tomorrow morning, not returning until Sunday. He is NOT happy to be making this trip, so far as I can tell. Apparently, his kids don't want to come home for Thanksgiving, because it's a lot of travel for a short weekend, so the Wife (I'm guessing) has decided they'll go to the kids (one's still at home, one's in California, one's in Texas). Which, okay, but has she realized that her husband owns a bakery, and this is one of his busiest weeks all fucking year? Then again, perhaps today's conversation will provide you with some enlightenment. Bossman started making our stollen yesterday (and it seriously rocks). Today it was being buttered and rolled in sugar, and then his daughter, who's been working there a couple days a week, was wrapping them and tying them up with a ribbon--and the ribbon is a new one he purchased this year, with the bakery's name and logo on it; the ribbon is quite cool. So Wife came through and he said something about the stollen, and she said, I do not care about that, why are you even telling me about it? (In my head I answered: Because it puts food on your table and clothes on your back? Because it's what your husband loves to do?) He said, yeah, but have you seen the ribbon? And she said, the ribbon I care about. Hey, on one hand, whatever makes you happy, you know? But it also kind of blew me away.
On the other hand, I have people around me who make me smile, who remind me to be truly present, who have more faith in me than I have in myself. I have coworkers who make me laugh, and who have taught me just how much can be communicated even when we're not fluent in the same language. And--at least for another few weeks--I make a damned good croissant. They've been truly beautiful lately--and I make sure to give Phil a bunch of the credit. He's been baking them, at least the ones that go in the store, and he knows I like them a little darker than the night guys bake them, so he's been doing that, and they're fucking beautiful. Today we were selling them all two-for-one, because one of our customers hasn't paid the bills and we didn't send them their order--and they buy about two-thirds of our wholesale croissants, so there were a LOT to be sold. The two-for-one thing worked, though; people know a deal when they see one. The next few days will be difficult--work work work at the bakery, then edit like a madwoman on Sunday and on Monday morning, then job interview Monday afternoon (reinterview, actually; Round 2 with the person from last week). Deep breath, maybe, on Thanksgiving, but more likely more editing, along with dinner with friends in the evening. And so on.
And then there's Anthony Trollope. Here's one line from Barchester Towers:
He is somewhat below middle height, being about five feet four, but he makes up for the inches which he wants byt the dignity with which he carries those which he has.
How can writing like that not improve your day? Seriously: if you're looking for an escape from the season, go find a copy of "The Warden," and read that, and then read "Barchester Towers."
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Grains of Sand
I threw shit yesterday--a pan of croissants, to be specific. (I didn't throw them far, but I did throw them, which is rather unusual for me. I'll curse like a motherfucker, but I almost never throw things.) The reach-in freezer, like most of our equipment, has issues; in particular, the shelves are cockeyed, such that when one puts a new pan of croissants into the freezer, even if one is careful, one may stick some of those new croissants to the bottom of the pan on the next shelf up, thereby destroying a significant amount of work. Not that that would be upsetting in any way whatsoever.
Item: The walk-in refrigerator is nearly always full--of the dairy order, and the dough, and the polish (pronounced "poolish") for the ciabatta, and all of our other cold stuff, and pans of crap that Artie hasn't bothered to sort through, and pans of cake, and buckets of crap Artie hasn't consolidated or looked through, and rolling racks (sometimes as many as six or seven)--which makes putting something in or getting something out of there an adventure. And by adventure I mean "long walk with blisters on your feet" rather than "stroll through the forest on a spring day and smell the flowers." (Yesterday morning Bossman was looking for pumpkin mix. He asked Artie, how many buckets do you have? Artie said, "Just one." Bossman rummaged for, oh, 30 seconds in the walk-in and found a second. I observed this and went and grabbed a bucket I had seen on Thursday--a large one that had about two inches of mix in it--and brought it out and set it next to the others without a word. Artie leaves shit all over the place, all the fucking time.)
Item: The slicer I use on Thursdays to slice the ham and cheese for the ham and cheese croissants spits fragments of whatever I am slicing at me. I often end up with shreds of cheese and ham down my shirt or stuck to my face. Bossman has apparently instructed the equipment guy to find a new one, or, at least, rebuild an old one; my threats to send this one sailing over the proofer have had an effect.
Item: We do not have enough rolling racks. We have many, it is true, but three or four are decrepit (e.g., missing shelves or bent such that inserting a sheet pan is impossible). And on busy nights, which is nearly every night these days, one must rummage around to find enough racks. Plus, Artie has cabinets (which can be used as racks) downstairs that are full of tea cookies, and not just tea cookies we'll eventually use or sell, but also cookies that are old, broken, stale. Did I mention that he leaves shit all over the fucking place?
So, yeah, it's wearing on me. It's the long hours--nearly 55 this week--and the physicality of the work, yes, but even more, it's the fact that nearly every goddamned task takes longer than it needs to take. I went to pound my butter yesterday morning--and couldn't find the butter bat (a longer-than-a-rolling-pin piece of wood with a carved handle bit at one end that a neighbor of Brad's made for us to use to pound butter). After searching for 10 or 15 minutes I spied it on the floor under a rack of sheet pans. Either it fell and noone noticed--which I doubt--or it fell and was ignored. I don't care about the falling--shit falls all the time. But I wasted my time looking for the fucking thing, and that annoys me, and that happens every fucking day, multiple times. I've learned where and how to hide things; I've learned how to bogart spaces in the reach-in freezer; I've learned to leave as small or as large a footprint as I need to leave to accomplish various tasks. I'm sure everyone goes through this, too; it's not as though I'm especially subject to it. But jesuschristonapogostick, it wears me out and annoys the everylasting shit out of me.
Ah well; before enlightenment, chop wood, carry water.
I'm just trying to hang on until the end of the year or until I can find another job, whichever comes first. I've already decided that if it's the latter, I'm giving myself a two-week vacation somehow. If it's the former, I'm going to have to spend some serious time hustling up temp work, or clients, or a full-time job, or whatever I can cobble together, but there will be vacation-esque time in there somewhere.
I have to admit that I am torn between wanting to stick it out until the end of December, not least because it will put Bossman's nuts in the grinder if I leave between Thanksgiving and Christmas, and wanting to stick it to Bossman, because that two bucks an hour he hasn't been paying me--but was paying the store clerk and likely is paying the handyperson/manager guy--would have made my life just that little bit easier this year. Somewhere around $200/month take-home pay easier, which, at my level of operations, is significant.
I don't much like either of those approaches, though. The first one seems to me to be too kindly toward someone who has profited significantly from my abilities but has not shared those profits. The second seems to me to be too vindictive. Thus, I have decided to take no course of action for the time being. I will stay if I have no other offer, but only until after the holidays (the holidays for which I will be paid, I mean).
Tonight I find myself staying up late just because I can. I went to bed at 9:30 last night, intending to get up and start editing by 6:00 am so I could go to the hockey game tonight with Friend. The editing went slowly (O! so slowly! because much reformatting was required as well), and Friend is preparing for his 10 days in the north woods, hunting Bambi, by making vats of gumbo to feed the men with whom he'll be hunting (brother, brother-in-law, uncles, nephews, etc.), so we did not go to the hockey game. Just as well; more editing must be done tomorrow, in vast quantities, seeing as how I only got about halfway through it today, and he will be better suited to having fun on Tuesday if he gets crap done tonight and tomorrow. And there's a stop-smoking group that wants my guest-speakerdom tomorrow, and checks to be gotten from Chuck, and bank visits to make and so on. But I'm still awake, if only because I don't have to get up at 4fucking37 and if only because I can.
Item: The walk-in refrigerator is nearly always full--of the dairy order, and the dough, and the polish (pronounced "poolish") for the ciabatta, and all of our other cold stuff, and pans of crap that Artie hasn't bothered to sort through, and pans of cake, and buckets of crap Artie hasn't consolidated or looked through, and rolling racks (sometimes as many as six or seven)--which makes putting something in or getting something out of there an adventure. And by adventure I mean "long walk with blisters on your feet" rather than "stroll through the forest on a spring day and smell the flowers." (Yesterday morning Bossman was looking for pumpkin mix. He asked Artie, how many buckets do you have? Artie said, "Just one." Bossman rummaged for, oh, 30 seconds in the walk-in and found a second. I observed this and went and grabbed a bucket I had seen on Thursday--a large one that had about two inches of mix in it--and brought it out and set it next to the others without a word. Artie leaves shit all over the place, all the fucking time.)
Item: The slicer I use on Thursdays to slice the ham and cheese for the ham and cheese croissants spits fragments of whatever I am slicing at me. I often end up with shreds of cheese and ham down my shirt or stuck to my face. Bossman has apparently instructed the equipment guy to find a new one, or, at least, rebuild an old one; my threats to send this one sailing over the proofer have had an effect.
Item: We do not have enough rolling racks. We have many, it is true, but three or four are decrepit (e.g., missing shelves or bent such that inserting a sheet pan is impossible). And on busy nights, which is nearly every night these days, one must rummage around to find enough racks. Plus, Artie has cabinets (which can be used as racks) downstairs that are full of tea cookies, and not just tea cookies we'll eventually use or sell, but also cookies that are old, broken, stale. Did I mention that he leaves shit all over the fucking place?
So, yeah, it's wearing on me. It's the long hours--nearly 55 this week--and the physicality of the work, yes, but even more, it's the fact that nearly every goddamned task takes longer than it needs to take. I went to pound my butter yesterday morning--and couldn't find the butter bat (a longer-than-a-rolling-pin piece of wood with a carved handle bit at one end that a neighbor of Brad's made for us to use to pound butter). After searching for 10 or 15 minutes I spied it on the floor under a rack of sheet pans. Either it fell and noone noticed--which I doubt--or it fell and was ignored. I don't care about the falling--shit falls all the time. But I wasted my time looking for the fucking thing, and that annoys me, and that happens every fucking day, multiple times. I've learned where and how to hide things; I've learned how to bogart spaces in the reach-in freezer; I've learned to leave as small or as large a footprint as I need to leave to accomplish various tasks. I'm sure everyone goes through this, too; it's not as though I'm especially subject to it. But jesuschristonapogostick, it wears me out and annoys the everylasting shit out of me.
Ah well; before enlightenment, chop wood, carry water.
I'm just trying to hang on until the end of the year or until I can find another job, whichever comes first. I've already decided that if it's the latter, I'm giving myself a two-week vacation somehow. If it's the former, I'm going to have to spend some serious time hustling up temp work, or clients, or a full-time job, or whatever I can cobble together, but there will be vacation-esque time in there somewhere.
I have to admit that I am torn between wanting to stick it out until the end of December, not least because it will put Bossman's nuts in the grinder if I leave between Thanksgiving and Christmas, and wanting to stick it to Bossman, because that two bucks an hour he hasn't been paying me--but was paying the store clerk and likely is paying the handyperson/manager guy--would have made my life just that little bit easier this year. Somewhere around $200/month take-home pay easier, which, at my level of operations, is significant.
I don't much like either of those approaches, though. The first one seems to me to be too kindly toward someone who has profited significantly from my abilities but has not shared those profits. The second seems to me to be too vindictive. Thus, I have decided to take no course of action for the time being. I will stay if I have no other offer, but only until after the holidays (the holidays for which I will be paid, I mean).
Tonight I find myself staying up late just because I can. I went to bed at 9:30 last night, intending to get up and start editing by 6:00 am so I could go to the hockey game tonight with Friend. The editing went slowly (O! so slowly! because much reformatting was required as well), and Friend is preparing for his 10 days in the north woods, hunting Bambi, by making vats of gumbo to feed the men with whom he'll be hunting (brother, brother-in-law, uncles, nephews, etc.), so we did not go to the hockey game. Just as well; more editing must be done tomorrow, in vast quantities, seeing as how I only got about halfway through it today, and he will be better suited to having fun on Tuesday if he gets crap done tonight and tomorrow. And there's a stop-smoking group that wants my guest-speakerdom tomorrow, and checks to be gotten from Chuck, and bank visits to make and so on. But I'm still awake, if only because I don't have to get up at 4fucking37 and if only because I can.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Another Placeholder
I'm not really a fan of overheated spaces in the winter; I don't mind wearing an extra layer or two around the house, and I hate the dry air that tends to accompany the heat. However. They're apparently replacing the boiler in the building, so there isn't any heat. It's not wildly uncomfortable yet (though I am wrapped in a blanket over my clothes as I type), but I am not looking forward to tomorrow morning's shower.
I am no longer married, by the way. It was kind of surreal, if you want to know. I showed up in a suit, in preparation for my job interview in the afternoon, so Chuck did likewise. (He has two suits, both of which we/I purchased in preparation for the wedding, but he decided not to wear the suit he wore at the wedding.) We got there on time, but waited around for an hour before the judge finally graced the courtroom with her presence. (Which was annoying: the call sheet had us down for 9:00, and it was more like 10:30 by the time we were called, because, in addition to the lateness of the judge, all the lawyers got to go prior to us pro se folks.) So we sat in the back of the courtroom, having a fine time, making each other laugh, and rolling our eyes at some of the folks around us. We finally went before the judge, who asked a bunch of questions that we'd already noted in the petition and judgment, and she okayed everything, we signed everything and had things stamped and . . . voila. No longer married. We went and had lunch, while we were at it, which means that, except for a trip to his mother's place last April, maybe, that three hours was the longest amount of time we've spent together since he moved out last March.
And what makes it more difficult, of course--and we talked about this--is that when we see each other now, we're on our best behavior, so all of our best qualities are on display. But I've thought about it, a lot, and I've realized that the relationship that would have resulted if we had tried to reconcile would have been toxic, for both of us. I would not have trusted him--with good reason, if the past is any guide--and would have been torn between feeling like I needed to watch over everything and feeling intrusive and feeling resentful that I could not trust him. He would have resented such oversight. He might even have lied to me again at some point, because it would have seemed easier than telling the truth. I've come to understand even more deeply how his lying was connected to his feelings of self-loathing, to his insecurities and feelings of unworthiness, and I'm not convinced he could have made the progress that he has made if he had moved back in with me somehow. He doesn't see any of this yet, and may never; it's clear from what he says that, on some level, he does not realize that HE is the one who left. He talks about how his mother and sister wish I had given him another chance, but it's not clear to me how, exactly, that was supposed to be accomplished.
Ah, well. We did have some good times, and we acknowledged that the other day. He said he hoped I wouldn't look back on this as a big horrible mistake in my life, and I reassured him that I would not (and most days that's true). And I'm supposed to have dinner with him and his son tomorrow night.
The interview seemed to go okay; I'm likely going back to meet more people on the 19th. Not quitting the bakery is a daily challenge, I should add; today was particularly difficult. I had 150 or so pounds of dough to laminate today (12 pieces @ approximately 12 pounds), and that's a bit more than I've been doing, but I'm not laminating tomorrow so I can spend the day helping Phil. I'll have to laminate on Saturday, too, which I've been able to avoid for the past number of weeks, but whatever. I'm hoping to get out of there expeditiously on Saturday so I can come home and get some editing done. What I don't finish on Saturday I'd like to finish Sunday, because the current plan is for Friend to stop by on his way home from his weekend jaunt so we can head to his place and then perhaps to a hockey game (Blackhawks/Redwings, which is a long-time rivalry). He won't be here until mid-afternoon, most likely, so it should be fine.
Okay, your other task is to send good thoughts out to my brother tomorrow. You may remember that my sister-in-law had her knee replaced about six weeks ago? Well, this past Sunday my brother tore a ligament or tendon or something in his bicep and is getting it repaired surgically tomorrow and then will be out of work for a minimum of four weeks. Luckily he's independently wealthy; he only works as an auto mechanic for fun. And, luckily--and truthfully--he had upped his short-term disability insurance last year, so he actually should be okay financially. Not great, of course, but okay. But as I was telling Bossman this saga yesterday, I said, remember how you asked how people become homeless? This is how. And he understood, I think.
One last thing: for today's musical selections, Hipstergirl chose the Clash, the Ramones, and AC/DC, the latter at an appropriately (but annoyingly) headbanging volume. Mike loved it all, too, but I think the Hispanic guys are really kind of tired of it. Phil even suggested, later this afternoon, that I grab the radio by the dishwasher and put it on the table between him and me so we could listen to that. He also offered to buy me a Coke (from the store), which I thought was kind of sweet, but I turned him down (I still had tea). And this was before he realized that I really AM working for him tomorrow. I had explained it yesterday, by way of explaining that I wouldn't be able to help him today, but it kind of didn't sink in until he told Mike to go ahead and make my croissant dough for tomorrow and I said I wouldn't need any, that I wasn't doing any tomorrow so I could help him. I will have some frozen pieces to shape, because I didn't get to everything today, but not a lot. It should be interesting.
I am no longer married, by the way. It was kind of surreal, if you want to know. I showed up in a suit, in preparation for my job interview in the afternoon, so Chuck did likewise. (He has two suits, both of which we/I purchased in preparation for the wedding, but he decided not to wear the suit he wore at the wedding.) We got there on time, but waited around for an hour before the judge finally graced the courtroom with her presence. (Which was annoying: the call sheet had us down for 9:00, and it was more like 10:30 by the time we were called, because, in addition to the lateness of the judge, all the lawyers got to go prior to us pro se folks.) So we sat in the back of the courtroom, having a fine time, making each other laugh, and rolling our eyes at some of the folks around us. We finally went before the judge, who asked a bunch of questions that we'd already noted in the petition and judgment, and she okayed everything, we signed everything and had things stamped and . . . voila. No longer married. We went and had lunch, while we were at it, which means that, except for a trip to his mother's place last April, maybe, that three hours was the longest amount of time we've spent together since he moved out last March.
And what makes it more difficult, of course--and we talked about this--is that when we see each other now, we're on our best behavior, so all of our best qualities are on display. But I've thought about it, a lot, and I've realized that the relationship that would have resulted if we had tried to reconcile would have been toxic, for both of us. I would not have trusted him--with good reason, if the past is any guide--and would have been torn between feeling like I needed to watch over everything and feeling intrusive and feeling resentful that I could not trust him. He would have resented such oversight. He might even have lied to me again at some point, because it would have seemed easier than telling the truth. I've come to understand even more deeply how his lying was connected to his feelings of self-loathing, to his insecurities and feelings of unworthiness, and I'm not convinced he could have made the progress that he has made if he had moved back in with me somehow. He doesn't see any of this yet, and may never; it's clear from what he says that, on some level, he does not realize that HE is the one who left. He talks about how his mother and sister wish I had given him another chance, but it's not clear to me how, exactly, that was supposed to be accomplished.
Ah, well. We did have some good times, and we acknowledged that the other day. He said he hoped I wouldn't look back on this as a big horrible mistake in my life, and I reassured him that I would not (and most days that's true). And I'm supposed to have dinner with him and his son tomorrow night.
The interview seemed to go okay; I'm likely going back to meet more people on the 19th. Not quitting the bakery is a daily challenge, I should add; today was particularly difficult. I had 150 or so pounds of dough to laminate today (12 pieces @ approximately 12 pounds), and that's a bit more than I've been doing, but I'm not laminating tomorrow so I can spend the day helping Phil. I'll have to laminate on Saturday, too, which I've been able to avoid for the past number of weeks, but whatever. I'm hoping to get out of there expeditiously on Saturday so I can come home and get some editing done. What I don't finish on Saturday I'd like to finish Sunday, because the current plan is for Friend to stop by on his way home from his weekend jaunt so we can head to his place and then perhaps to a hockey game (Blackhawks/Redwings, which is a long-time rivalry). He won't be here until mid-afternoon, most likely, so it should be fine.
Okay, your other task is to send good thoughts out to my brother tomorrow. You may remember that my sister-in-law had her knee replaced about six weeks ago? Well, this past Sunday my brother tore a ligament or tendon or something in his bicep and is getting it repaired surgically tomorrow and then will be out of work for a minimum of four weeks. Luckily he's independently wealthy; he only works as an auto mechanic for fun. And, luckily--and truthfully--he had upped his short-term disability insurance last year, so he actually should be okay financially. Not great, of course, but okay. But as I was telling Bossman this saga yesterday, I said, remember how you asked how people become homeless? This is how. And he understood, I think.
One last thing: for today's musical selections, Hipstergirl chose the Clash, the Ramones, and AC/DC, the latter at an appropriately (but annoyingly) headbanging volume. Mike loved it all, too, but I think the Hispanic guys are really kind of tired of it. Phil even suggested, later this afternoon, that I grab the radio by the dishwasher and put it on the table between him and me so we could listen to that. He also offered to buy me a Coke (from the store), which I thought was kind of sweet, but I turned him down (I still had tea). And this was before he realized that I really AM working for him tomorrow. I had explained it yesterday, by way of explaining that I wouldn't be able to help him today, but it kind of didn't sink in until he told Mike to go ahead and make my croissant dough for tomorrow and I said I wouldn't need any, that I wasn't doing any tomorrow so I could help him. I will have some frozen pieces to shape, because I didn't get to everything today, but not a lot. It should be interesting.
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Still! More! Excitement!
Lordy, I leave you people for a week, and look what happens! Oh. Wait. I'm the one who's been not blogging about all the crap going on in my life. Let's see if we can fix that.
I got home Wednesday to find (a) a message on my answering machine from someone else at the place where I interviewed three weeks ago, saying she had been passed my resume by the president of the joint, and did I want to come in for an interview, and (b) an email from the woman who interviewed me, which said that my lack of financial experience was a concern for her, even though they hadn't filled the position, but she thought there would be a place for me at their institute and she was passing my resume along. So tomorrow I'm getting divorced in the morning and going for a job interview in the afternoon. Once again, I cannot allow myself to think about this, because that makes working at the bakery nearly unbearable, and that is not a useful place to be.
Today I'm feeling both virtuous and frustrated: virtuous because I've done the laundry, made a big pot of chicken stock, cleaned the bathroom, and generally tidied things up around here (and I'll do the mail and bills in a little while), but frustrated because I'd intended to do the latest editing project today as well, and it has problems, one of those things where I don't want to proceed without talking with the production editor, and where Word is, once again, making things unnecessarily difficult. If I'd already purchased my laptop, I could take it with me tomorrow and work on the stuff between the divorce and the job interview, not to mention discuss it with the editor while having the work in front of me. Well, it'll work out fine, I'm sure. I only have the first six chapters, anyway, so I shouldn't have any trouble finishing the stuff by next Monday's deadline.
Meanwhile, at the bakery, the music wars have broken out again. Artie had bought a new CD/radio a few weeks ago, because the one he'd been using had pretty much died. (Keep in mind that there are three other radio-enabled objects in the bakery, a newish one back by the dish machine that was purchased and is used by Bossman's brother-in-law, who comes in at night and packs orders; an older one that one of the Hispanic night guys uses and that is invariably tuned to a Spanish-music station and, when it's in use, sits in the middle of the work table; and another one up in the cake room that Johnnie uses.) Partly by using some positive reinforcement, I got Artie to pretty much stick to an oldies station. It's an oldies station with a very short playlist, mind you, but it is still a dramatic improvement over the Spanish station and the "lite FM" station, the latter of which makes me crazy. (When I'm slicing ham and cheese, I use the newish one by the dish machine, and, occasionally, I'll bring that one over to the sheeter and listen to that--not so loudly that Artie can't hear his, despite the smallish size of the space, though he sometimes turns his off anyway.)
Hipstergirl observed that Artie's device plays CDs, so she brings some in. Unfortunately, she plays the same four or five over and over and over and over. Nearly every day, I've heard John Fogerty, a Beatles compilation, a David Bowie compilation (really old Bowie--makes me feel like I'm back in 1975), Lou Reed, and the Doors--one day she played the Doors CD at least three, possibly four times. (She also put the Clash on one day, but that didn't last long--Artie turned that off pretty quickly.) Some days, Artie turns off the CD and puts on the radio . . . and she turns off the radio and puts on another CD. I'm amused by it, on some level, and a little appalled that she has so little tact. I mean, it IS Artie's radio, first of all, and, second, she's an intern, while he's a long-time employee, and you'd think she tread a little more carefully.
Her skills seem pretty good, all in all, but she seems a little tone deaf to the atmosphere of the place. For example, one day last week she wore the snug threadbare yellow t-shirt again, with a black-lace-trimmed red bra. I know the bra details because I could see them clearly through the t-shirt. I haven't been able to sort through my objections completely: On one hand, the patriarchy certainly wants to control women, and what they wear, and so on. On the other, I'd be just as taken aback if the guys were wearing something similarly revealing--it doesn't seem appropriate. I'm not really a fan of anyone wandering around with their junk on display, unless it's, say, a nudist beach. I guess that's the principle here: while I certainly don't think women should be subject to more restrictive clothing requirements than men (for example, it annoys me no end that women have to cover their breasts or risk arrest), in general I think everyone in a given environment should dress similarly. Lots of room for interpretation there, of course, and that's imprecise at best, and I don't really give a damn about her tits or her bra, but my eyes do roll a little bit. It seems to be of a piece with her musical antics. Has it occurred to her that others may not want to hear the same four CDs every day? Or that the radio isn't hers and she's new, and maybe she could defer to Artie a little? Apparently not. This is all relatively good-natured grousing, however; she's not nearly as irritating as Woody (who has not reappeared and who, I believe, will not reappear).
I keep thinking I should be thinking more about tomorrow morning somehow. Mostly, though, I'm glad that Chuck has been maintaining a reasonable approach. I don't really know how else to characterize it. He's not being sullen or mean, which is what I had been expecting, and he has even given me the first check on the money he owes me. I think that he will regret his actions both more and less as time passes--I know that, in many many ways, he truly did (and perhaps does) love me dearly, and, you know, I loved him, too. He keeps asking me if I'm "happier" without him. I didn't have an answer for that, despite him asking me several times over the past 18 months, and I think I've figured out what the issue is there.
My "happiness," such as it is, isn't dependent on him. I've had bad times, I've had good times; I've been happy without him, and with him, and, again, without him. He and I used to mock the notion of someone "completing" someone else--and yet, in some ways, the are-you-happier question is a species of that notion, I think. I did not expect him to provide my all or my everything; I'm too old, and I lived alone for too long, and I'm not of the temperament for that set of expectations. As such, I was willing to deal with less-than-perfect aspects of him and of our relationship, figuring that the long-term intimacy we'd developed, and certain kinds of accommodations, would help both of us. What we did not or could not get from each other, perhaps we could get elsewhere, and we could meanwhile support each other, literally and figuratively, and provide a little safe harbor for each other. I don't think people can offer each other a whole lot more than that--but I think that's actually quite a bit.
I truly do not know what would have happened if . . . I had a whole list there, which I've deleted. The counterfactuals aren't useful in these cases; we do what we can with the circumstances in which we find ourselves, or, anyway, i do. And the short version, for me, is that, even though I believe, in some ways and on some levels, that he is sorry, and that he loves me, and that he (says he) wouldn't lie to me again, I have no reason to believe any of those things. I know him, I know what he wants to be true, but I cannot realistically believe that, if he were in a tight spot, he wouldn't lie to me again. And I do not want to be married to someone about whom that is true.
Ah, well. We're meeting tomorrow about a half an hour before the court time, to get the promissory note signed and whatever; it'll be a little strange being so cordial in a situation where many people are not, but I want to continue that if we can. Oddly enough, I still think, sometimes, that we could be friends, and I certainly hope that he continues to let me see his son. And then I meet a friend for coffee, and then I go interview for another job. Good thing I'm used to this kind of craziness.
I got home Wednesday to find (a) a message on my answering machine from someone else at the place where I interviewed three weeks ago, saying she had been passed my resume by the president of the joint, and did I want to come in for an interview, and (b) an email from the woman who interviewed me, which said that my lack of financial experience was a concern for her, even though they hadn't filled the position, but she thought there would be a place for me at their institute and she was passing my resume along. So tomorrow I'm getting divorced in the morning and going for a job interview in the afternoon. Once again, I cannot allow myself to think about this, because that makes working at the bakery nearly unbearable, and that is not a useful place to be.
Today I'm feeling both virtuous and frustrated: virtuous because I've done the laundry, made a big pot of chicken stock, cleaned the bathroom, and generally tidied things up around here (and I'll do the mail and bills in a little while), but frustrated because I'd intended to do the latest editing project today as well, and it has problems, one of those things where I don't want to proceed without talking with the production editor, and where Word is, once again, making things unnecessarily difficult. If I'd already purchased my laptop, I could take it with me tomorrow and work on the stuff between the divorce and the job interview, not to mention discuss it with the editor while having the work in front of me. Well, it'll work out fine, I'm sure. I only have the first six chapters, anyway, so I shouldn't have any trouble finishing the stuff by next Monday's deadline.
Meanwhile, at the bakery, the music wars have broken out again. Artie had bought a new CD/radio a few weeks ago, because the one he'd been using had pretty much died. (Keep in mind that there are three other radio-enabled objects in the bakery, a newish one back by the dish machine that was purchased and is used by Bossman's brother-in-law, who comes in at night and packs orders; an older one that one of the Hispanic night guys uses and that is invariably tuned to a Spanish-music station and, when it's in use, sits in the middle of the work table; and another one up in the cake room that Johnnie uses.) Partly by using some positive reinforcement, I got Artie to pretty much stick to an oldies station. It's an oldies station with a very short playlist, mind you, but it is still a dramatic improvement over the Spanish station and the "lite FM" station, the latter of which makes me crazy. (When I'm slicing ham and cheese, I use the newish one by the dish machine, and, occasionally, I'll bring that one over to the sheeter and listen to that--not so loudly that Artie can't hear his, despite the smallish size of the space, though he sometimes turns his off anyway.)
Hipstergirl observed that Artie's device plays CDs, so she brings some in. Unfortunately, she plays the same four or five over and over and over and over. Nearly every day, I've heard John Fogerty, a Beatles compilation, a David Bowie compilation (really old Bowie--makes me feel like I'm back in 1975), Lou Reed, and the Doors--one day she played the Doors CD at least three, possibly four times. (She also put the Clash on one day, but that didn't last long--Artie turned that off pretty quickly.) Some days, Artie turns off the CD and puts on the radio . . . and she turns off the radio and puts on another CD. I'm amused by it, on some level, and a little appalled that she has so little tact. I mean, it IS Artie's radio, first of all, and, second, she's an intern, while he's a long-time employee, and you'd think she tread a little more carefully.
Her skills seem pretty good, all in all, but she seems a little tone deaf to the atmosphere of the place. For example, one day last week she wore the snug threadbare yellow t-shirt again, with a black-lace-trimmed red bra. I know the bra details because I could see them clearly through the t-shirt. I haven't been able to sort through my objections completely: On one hand, the patriarchy certainly wants to control women, and what they wear, and so on. On the other, I'd be just as taken aback if the guys were wearing something similarly revealing--it doesn't seem appropriate. I'm not really a fan of anyone wandering around with their junk on display, unless it's, say, a nudist beach. I guess that's the principle here: while I certainly don't think women should be subject to more restrictive clothing requirements than men (for example, it annoys me no end that women have to cover their breasts or risk arrest), in general I think everyone in a given environment should dress similarly. Lots of room for interpretation there, of course, and that's imprecise at best, and I don't really give a damn about her tits or her bra, but my eyes do roll a little bit. It seems to be of a piece with her musical antics. Has it occurred to her that others may not want to hear the same four CDs every day? Or that the radio isn't hers and she's new, and maybe she could defer to Artie a little? Apparently not. This is all relatively good-natured grousing, however; she's not nearly as irritating as Woody (who has not reappeared and who, I believe, will not reappear).
I keep thinking I should be thinking more about tomorrow morning somehow. Mostly, though, I'm glad that Chuck has been maintaining a reasonable approach. I don't really know how else to characterize it. He's not being sullen or mean, which is what I had been expecting, and he has even given me the first check on the money he owes me. I think that he will regret his actions both more and less as time passes--I know that, in many many ways, he truly did (and perhaps does) love me dearly, and, you know, I loved him, too. He keeps asking me if I'm "happier" without him. I didn't have an answer for that, despite him asking me several times over the past 18 months, and I think I've figured out what the issue is there.
My "happiness," such as it is, isn't dependent on him. I've had bad times, I've had good times; I've been happy without him, and with him, and, again, without him. He and I used to mock the notion of someone "completing" someone else--and yet, in some ways, the are-you-happier question is a species of that notion, I think. I did not expect him to provide my all or my everything; I'm too old, and I lived alone for too long, and I'm not of the temperament for that set of expectations. As such, I was willing to deal with less-than-perfect aspects of him and of our relationship, figuring that the long-term intimacy we'd developed, and certain kinds of accommodations, would help both of us. What we did not or could not get from each other, perhaps we could get elsewhere, and we could meanwhile support each other, literally and figuratively, and provide a little safe harbor for each other. I don't think people can offer each other a whole lot more than that--but I think that's actually quite a bit.
I truly do not know what would have happened if . . . I had a whole list there, which I've deleted. The counterfactuals aren't useful in these cases; we do what we can with the circumstances in which we find ourselves, or, anyway, i do. And the short version, for me, is that, even though I believe, in some ways and on some levels, that he is sorry, and that he loves me, and that he (says he) wouldn't lie to me again, I have no reason to believe any of those things. I know him, I know what he wants to be true, but I cannot realistically believe that, if he were in a tight spot, he wouldn't lie to me again. And I do not want to be married to someone about whom that is true.
Ah, well. We're meeting tomorrow about a half an hour before the court time, to get the promissory note signed and whatever; it'll be a little strange being so cordial in a situation where many people are not, but I want to continue that if we can. Oddly enough, I still think, sometimes, that we could be friends, and I certainly hope that he continues to let me see his son. And then I meet a friend for coffee, and then I go interview for another job. Good thing I'm used to this kind of craziness.
Monday, October 29, 2007
Placeholder
There are a number of things I should be doing right now--calling to make various doctor's appointments, for one thing, starting the next batch of editing for another thing, doing a copyediting test for a third, rerere-editing the dissertation proposal for my client for a fourth, and taking a nap, because tonight is Bob and Elvis and I've been fighting off a cold for two days and am tired. That's because so far today I have shlepped to Bed, Bath and Beyond (Brita filters), Walgreen's (contact lens solution and ibuprofen), and Whole Paycheck (frozen veggies and some zinc lozenges)--and, in my case, shlepping means walking or taking the bus to get there, and taking all the crap home on a bus, so it really is a shlep. A visit to the bank was supposed to be in that list, but the bus was crowded (it being morning rush hour) and I had a seat (because i got on at the beginning of the line), so I decided to bail on that but might do it later.
I also went to the courthouse today to file our divorce papers, which involved going down there, finding out what I was still missing, getting something notarized (which involves an elevator from the 8th floor to the 1st floor and another elevator to the 12th floor, because of the way the elevators are arranged), going over to Chuck's office, getting his signature on a bunch of stuff plus getting some copies made, and going back to the courthouse to pay them money ($457) and go to a different counter to get a court date. The websites for the Clerk of the Court, not to mention every bit of advice you can find in a book or online, all suggest that getting a court date could take a couple of months. Our date? Next Monday. Which suits me just fine. I was going to say, "which makes me happy," but there isn't a single goddamned thing about this that makes me happy. We're doing what we need to do, there isn't any doubt in my mind about that, but this is certainly not what either of us had in mind in June 2005, and there isn't anything about it that's happy-making.
I still haven't told you all about the Church of Bruce, but that's going to have to wait. I also want to comment at length on kstyle's post about taking interest, and a few other things i can't remember right now, but I need to take a shower and shlep back downtown. Without a nap.
I also went to the courthouse today to file our divorce papers, which involved going down there, finding out what I was still missing, getting something notarized (which involves an elevator from the 8th floor to the 1st floor and another elevator to the 12th floor, because of the way the elevators are arranged), going over to Chuck's office, getting his signature on a bunch of stuff plus getting some copies made, and going back to the courthouse to pay them money ($457) and go to a different counter to get a court date. The websites for the Clerk of the Court, not to mention every bit of advice you can find in a book or online, all suggest that getting a court date could take a couple of months. Our date? Next Monday. Which suits me just fine. I was going to say, "which makes me happy," but there isn't a single goddamned thing about this that makes me happy. We're doing what we need to do, there isn't any doubt in my mind about that, but this is certainly not what either of us had in mind in June 2005, and there isn't anything about it that's happy-making.
I still haven't told you all about the Church of Bruce, but that's going to have to wait. I also want to comment at length on kstyle's post about taking interest, and a few other things i can't remember right now, but I need to take a shower and shlep back downtown. Without a nap.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Iiiiii don't wanna work . . . .
I wanna bang on the drum all day.
Though for Mickey and company, that IS their work, and a fine job they do, too. For anyone who likes percussion, I strongly recommend the CD (Global Drum Project), which features, in addition to Mickey Hart, Zakir Hussain, Sikiru Adepoju (talking drum) and Giovanni Hidalgo (Latin percussion, the liner notes say--lots of different bongos on stage, and he's got the fastest hands ever). Mickey and Zakir started off by "playing" two gnarly pieces of wood--some old-growth grapevine, and some old-growth redwood--that had been miked somehow. The whole show was pretty fabulous. It was also interesting in that we were sitting in the balcony and could see everything on stage, and, while they use some recorded electronic bits, what it was about was drumming. Simplicity itself--and yet, the music was wonderfully complex.
It made me think of the work that I do, really. Take a baguette, for example. A good one is made from four ingredients: flour, water, salt, yeast. That's it. Or even my croissants--in addition to those four ingredients, add milk, butter (basically two forms of milk fat), sugar, and a pinch of malt. That's not a lot of ingredients, but the result can be spectacular. Today, for example, the croissants were all a thing of beauty, and it almost made it worthwhile for me to look at them and realize the hand I had in their production. (Phil's hand is the other one: I've encouraged him to bake them darker than they had been baked before, and he's listened, so they're even better. If I'd opened my own bakery, I'd've hired him just to bake my croissants. I can tell by looking whether he or the night guy baked them.)
There were some funny things at the concert, too. It was at a local community college arts center, so there were paintings and photos and such in the lobby. (Including, in a glass case, a display called "A Tribute to the Native American." Because there is only one. Either that, or the multitude of tribes that lived here before we showed up were sufficiently similar that they can be lumped together.) There were also paintings, several of which I glimpsed as we went in, and kind of liked. I should note that I know very little--next to nothing--about art. I know names enough to do crossword puzzles, but I know nothing about art history and I don't much like art museums. In any case, the program had info about the various things at the center, not just the evening's concert, and the artist who had created the paintings I'd noticed wrote about her own work as follows:
My work is created in a highly idiosyncratic manner with an obscure darkness lingering beneath the surface. The surreal narratives permeate the intermingling relationships between tangled membranes, pancake brooches, fluffy abstract sea creatures, and floral firecrackers. With radiantly rich pours of paint, it looks at times as though the surface might erupt off the canvas and squirt into space. Decadent and detailed imagery springs from a personal consciousness that effuses rhythm, flowering complexities and decorative disturbances. Attempting to articulate private thought, I play with the language of painting itself; the thick viscosity of paint pours and marbleized drizzles that sometimes relate themselves to tendrils and stems of brilliant hues are contained by thin decorative black ink, similar to ornamental filigree. The ubiquitous scheme of decorative decadence lends itself to a dream like ornate fantasy.
Umm, yeah, okay. It made me snort and poke my friend as I read it to him, and it made my eyes hurt from rolling them. I liked the paintings, but lordy lou, stay away from words, honey; they ain't your medium. It also seems to me that paintings are the kind of thing that sort of have to stand on their own, you know? If it doesn't work visually, if it has to be explained, then does it work AS a painting? I don't know. I tend to think of art in terms of whether I'd like to look at it, which, I know, is pretty shallow, but I don't have any other way to get at it.
It's like the croissants, again. I was looking at them today, and thinking that their essence requires that they be consumed. Yes, they were extraordinarily pretty today, but you can't frame them, you can't keep or preserve them. They only "work" if you consume them. And, really, it's just food. There's artistry involved, yes, but it's food. I sort of feel the same way about other kinds of art. I can admire the artistry, enjoy it in a multitude of ways, depending on what it is, but, as the Indigo Girls sing, it's only life, after all.
Though for Mickey and company, that IS their work, and a fine job they do, too. For anyone who likes percussion, I strongly recommend the CD (Global Drum Project), which features, in addition to Mickey Hart, Zakir Hussain, Sikiru Adepoju (talking drum) and Giovanni Hidalgo (Latin percussion, the liner notes say--lots of different bongos on stage, and he's got the fastest hands ever). Mickey and Zakir started off by "playing" two gnarly pieces of wood--some old-growth grapevine, and some old-growth redwood--that had been miked somehow. The whole show was pretty fabulous. It was also interesting in that we were sitting in the balcony and could see everything on stage, and, while they use some recorded electronic bits, what it was about was drumming. Simplicity itself--and yet, the music was wonderfully complex.
It made me think of the work that I do, really. Take a baguette, for example. A good one is made from four ingredients: flour, water, salt, yeast. That's it. Or even my croissants--in addition to those four ingredients, add milk, butter (basically two forms of milk fat), sugar, and a pinch of malt. That's not a lot of ingredients, but the result can be spectacular. Today, for example, the croissants were all a thing of beauty, and it almost made it worthwhile for me to look at them and realize the hand I had in their production. (Phil's hand is the other one: I've encouraged him to bake them darker than they had been baked before, and he's listened, so they're even better. If I'd opened my own bakery, I'd've hired him just to bake my croissants. I can tell by looking whether he or the night guy baked them.)
There were some funny things at the concert, too. It was at a local community college arts center, so there were paintings and photos and such in the lobby. (Including, in a glass case, a display called "A Tribute to the Native American." Because there is only one. Either that, or the multitude of tribes that lived here before we showed up were sufficiently similar that they can be lumped together.) There were also paintings, several of which I glimpsed as we went in, and kind of liked. I should note that I know very little--next to nothing--about art. I know names enough to do crossword puzzles, but I know nothing about art history and I don't much like art museums. In any case, the program had info about the various things at the center, not just the evening's concert, and the artist who had created the paintings I'd noticed wrote about her own work as follows:
My work is created in a highly idiosyncratic manner with an obscure darkness lingering beneath the surface. The surreal narratives permeate the intermingling relationships between tangled membranes, pancake brooches, fluffy abstract sea creatures, and floral firecrackers. With radiantly rich pours of paint, it looks at times as though the surface might erupt off the canvas and squirt into space. Decadent and detailed imagery springs from a personal consciousness that effuses rhythm, flowering complexities and decorative disturbances. Attempting to articulate private thought, I play with the language of painting itself; the thick viscosity of paint pours and marbleized drizzles that sometimes relate themselves to tendrils and stems of brilliant hues are contained by thin decorative black ink, similar to ornamental filigree. The ubiquitous scheme of decorative decadence lends itself to a dream like ornate fantasy.
Umm, yeah, okay. It made me snort and poke my friend as I read it to him, and it made my eyes hurt from rolling them. I liked the paintings, but lordy lou, stay away from words, honey; they ain't your medium. It also seems to me that paintings are the kind of thing that sort of have to stand on their own, you know? If it doesn't work visually, if it has to be explained, then does it work AS a painting? I don't know. I tend to think of art in terms of whether I'd like to look at it, which, I know, is pretty shallow, but I don't have any other way to get at it.
It's like the croissants, again. I was looking at them today, and thinking that their essence requires that they be consumed. Yes, they were extraordinarily pretty today, but you can't frame them, you can't keep or preserve them. They only "work" if you consume them. And, really, it's just food. There's artistry involved, yes, but it's food. I sort of feel the same way about other kinds of art. I can admire the artistry, enjoy it in a multitude of ways, depending on what it is, but, as the Indigo Girls sing, it's only life, after all.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Bits of Factuality
Oh, where to begin . . .
I don't think I can fit everything into one post, so I think I'll just do a factual recap here and then muse about shit in other posts.
First off, I have heard exactly nothing about the job for which I interviewed two weeks ago today (and for which I sacrificed, oh, $90 of pay). I sent an email that day, saying thanks, and sent another last Friday saying hey, still interested, and I'll be home Monday if you need anything like my references . . . and . . . nothing. I am not encouraged by this, needless to say, but, luckily, I have not permitted myself to think about this job very much. When I do, I want it so badly I can taste it--I begin to dream of a comma in every paycheck, of health care that covers everything and for which I do not have to pay out of pocket, of a job that pays enough such that I don't have to work 70 fucking hours a week. Given the whining that I've done in this space, you can see why I have decided that just not thinking about it, and resigning myself to not getting it, is the best possible strategy. Plus, it encourages me to keep moving toward Plan E, even though I haven't actually DONE anything to implement that plan except recognize that I should, because I've been too busy working and having fun. (That plan, you may remember, involves lining up a few more publishers as copyediting/proofreading clients and just doing that work full time.)
The bakery, well, it's the same. Woody's been the past three days, because we got a new oven on Wednesday and, while helping with it somehow, he apparently injured his wrist. The exact nature of the injury is unclear, along with whether Woody's going to return or, if he is, when. The new oven has been a process rather than an event. First the old oven had to be removed--keep in mind that the oven is about 8 feet high and has a footprint of about 25 square feet, so it's not exactly a small piece of equipment--which was a daylong project Tuesday, and during the end of which Woody got injured. Wednesday the new oven came in, in pieces. It was assembled over Wednesday and Thursday, and today it was in use, but this whole process has meant that Bossman was preoccupied (and doing a lot of the installation work), plus Woody hasn't been seen, so we've been minus two pair of hands. It's been pretty grueling without Lole. Mike helps out with the shaping somewhat--though not today, when I was swamped--and he's been making my dough for me (about which I'm pleased, because that means I don't have to schlep two 50-pound bags of flour at the end of each day), but it's not the same as the excellent arrangement I had with Lole. He and I divvied up the croissant-making tasks each day, sometimes discussing the coming week, and he could do nearly everything that I did. (I did all of the scheduling of production, including figuring out what we'd make on which day, and how much we'd make. He had a vague notion of what I was doing with that, too, and if he hadn't decided to leave, I would have trained him fully on that.) I hate it, though, every fucking day, and I'm trying to reassure myself that I can quit at the end of December. I don't know whether I really can afford to do that--I must implement Plan E and it must actually work for me to do that in a non-foolish manner--but I fear for my mental and physical health if I don't.
The concerts--I have gone to three so far, two Bruce and one Mickey, and they've all been quite spectacular. I have much to say about Bruce, as you might imagine--let me also say that, if you have the opportunity, you should actually go to one of his concerts. Without going into detail about the concerts themselves, I'll tell you a little about my attendance. Sunday night, well, let's just say that I was neither the oldest nor the greyest-haired person in the vicinity, and I'm both oldish and greyish. But the audience rocked as hard as Bruce did--we were standing nearly the whole night. There was a decided lack of the cellphone-mediated experience I noted at the DMB concert at Alpine; an age thing, perhaps? Dunno. My seat had truly excellent sightlines, though I was at the opposite end of the arena; coulda used a new prescription for my glasses, or Friend's binoculars, but made do without either. Getting home was a complete pain in the ass, as the buses don't all run late on Sunday night, but whatever.
Monday Friend was going with me, despite his history of disdain for the Boss (longish not very interesting story there). I had scored two general admission--i.e., floor--tickets, which meant we'd (a) be standing for the whole concert and (b) have an opportunity to stand Really Close to the stage. Bruce does a lottery thing, wherein if you have a GA ticket, you show up day of show with your ticket, get a numbered wristband and a hole punched in your ticket, and come back (if you've left) at 5:00 pm. Around then, the officials in charge draw a number. That number is the wristband number for the first person to be admitted. About the first 500 people get into the "pit," i.e., the front section that's close to the stage. I duly got my wristband, and meanwhile called Friend (who had urged me to try to get into the pit, but who hadn't intended to do so himself, as he was working and we didn't think he could get there in time to get a wristband before they ran out) and said, get your ass over here and get a wristband, because there will be enough for you. He hauled ass in a serious way--walked (or, rather, trotted) a couple of miles, because buses didn't show up--and got his wristband. Twenty minutes later they picked a number. Now, remember that there was a two-hour gap between our wristband-getting endeavors, and, therefore about 150 numbers. Also note that there were about 800 wristbands handed out, but only about 500 people would get into the pit. Short version? Friend ended up dead center, about 6 people back from the stage, and I ended up in the not-in-the-pit part of the general admission roundup.
He kept being semi-apologetic--wanting to somehow transfer his luck/wristbands to me--but I would have none of it. (I think he was kind of excited, too.) The way I figured it, he would be placed such that he could experience the full Power & Glory of Bruce, up close and personal, and I didn't think there was any possible way he could hate it. I've seen Bruce maybe 25+ times at this point, at least twice from very close up (e.g., the third row), and if only one of us could be in the pit, I wanted it to be him. The best would have been if we'd both been that close--and if I'd thought about it at the time, I would have asked the wristband dispensers to cut off my old one and give me a new one closer in number to his, though who knows if they would have done that--but I much preferred that he get the good spot than that I did. I didn't know I'd feel that way, but there you have it.
Anyway, it's late, I'm tired, and I haven't even told you about Mickey yet. Hell, I haven't told you about the Church of Bruce yet, either, or about kstyle's philosophical thoughts, or anything else. But tomorrow I have to shape all the dough I didn't get to shape today, so I must sleep. I'm also having dinner with a pastry school friend, and Sunday I am getting a massage--a long one. Given all of the concert-going and such I probably shouldn't indulge myself, but I'm gonna anyway.
I don't think I can fit everything into one post, so I think I'll just do a factual recap here and then muse about shit in other posts.
First off, I have heard exactly nothing about the job for which I interviewed two weeks ago today (and for which I sacrificed, oh, $90 of pay). I sent an email that day, saying thanks, and sent another last Friday saying hey, still interested, and I'll be home Monday if you need anything like my references . . . and . . . nothing. I am not encouraged by this, needless to say, but, luckily, I have not permitted myself to think about this job very much. When I do, I want it so badly I can taste it--I begin to dream of a comma in every paycheck, of health care that covers everything and for which I do not have to pay out of pocket, of a job that pays enough such that I don't have to work 70 fucking hours a week. Given the whining that I've done in this space, you can see why I have decided that just not thinking about it, and resigning myself to not getting it, is the best possible strategy. Plus, it encourages me to keep moving toward Plan E, even though I haven't actually DONE anything to implement that plan except recognize that I should, because I've been too busy working and having fun. (That plan, you may remember, involves lining up a few more publishers as copyediting/proofreading clients and just doing that work full time.)
The bakery, well, it's the same. Woody's been the past three days, because we got a new oven on Wednesday and, while helping with it somehow, he apparently injured his wrist. The exact nature of the injury is unclear, along with whether Woody's going to return or, if he is, when. The new oven has been a process rather than an event. First the old oven had to be removed--keep in mind that the oven is about 8 feet high and has a footprint of about 25 square feet, so it's not exactly a small piece of equipment--which was a daylong project Tuesday, and during the end of which Woody got injured. Wednesday the new oven came in, in pieces. It was assembled over Wednesday and Thursday, and today it was in use, but this whole process has meant that Bossman was preoccupied (and doing a lot of the installation work), plus Woody hasn't been seen, so we've been minus two pair of hands. It's been pretty grueling without Lole. Mike helps out with the shaping somewhat--though not today, when I was swamped--and he's been making my dough for me (about which I'm pleased, because that means I don't have to schlep two 50-pound bags of flour at the end of each day), but it's not the same as the excellent arrangement I had with Lole. He and I divvied up the croissant-making tasks each day, sometimes discussing the coming week, and he could do nearly everything that I did. (I did all of the scheduling of production, including figuring out what we'd make on which day, and how much we'd make. He had a vague notion of what I was doing with that, too, and if he hadn't decided to leave, I would have trained him fully on that.) I hate it, though, every fucking day, and I'm trying to reassure myself that I can quit at the end of December. I don't know whether I really can afford to do that--I must implement Plan E and it must actually work for me to do that in a non-foolish manner--but I fear for my mental and physical health if I don't.
The concerts--I have gone to three so far, two Bruce and one Mickey, and they've all been quite spectacular. I have much to say about Bruce, as you might imagine--let me also say that, if you have the opportunity, you should actually go to one of his concerts. Without going into detail about the concerts themselves, I'll tell you a little about my attendance. Sunday night, well, let's just say that I was neither the oldest nor the greyest-haired person in the vicinity, and I'm both oldish and greyish. But the audience rocked as hard as Bruce did--we were standing nearly the whole night. There was a decided lack of the cellphone-mediated experience I noted at the DMB concert at Alpine; an age thing, perhaps? Dunno. My seat had truly excellent sightlines, though I was at the opposite end of the arena; coulda used a new prescription for my glasses, or Friend's binoculars, but made do without either. Getting home was a complete pain in the ass, as the buses don't all run late on Sunday night, but whatever.
Monday Friend was going with me, despite his history of disdain for the Boss (longish not very interesting story there). I had scored two general admission--i.e., floor--tickets, which meant we'd (a) be standing for the whole concert and (b) have an opportunity to stand Really Close to the stage. Bruce does a lottery thing, wherein if you have a GA ticket, you show up day of show with your ticket, get a numbered wristband and a hole punched in your ticket, and come back (if you've left) at 5:00 pm. Around then, the officials in charge draw a number. That number is the wristband number for the first person to be admitted. About the first 500 people get into the "pit," i.e., the front section that's close to the stage. I duly got my wristband, and meanwhile called Friend (who had urged me to try to get into the pit, but who hadn't intended to do so himself, as he was working and we didn't think he could get there in time to get a wristband before they ran out) and said, get your ass over here and get a wristband, because there will be enough for you. He hauled ass in a serious way--walked (or, rather, trotted) a couple of miles, because buses didn't show up--and got his wristband. Twenty minutes later they picked a number. Now, remember that there was a two-hour gap between our wristband-getting endeavors, and, therefore about 150 numbers. Also note that there were about 800 wristbands handed out, but only about 500 people would get into the pit. Short version? Friend ended up dead center, about 6 people back from the stage, and I ended up in the not-in-the-pit part of the general admission roundup.
He kept being semi-apologetic--wanting to somehow transfer his luck/wristbands to me--but I would have none of it. (I think he was kind of excited, too.) The way I figured it, he would be placed such that he could experience the full Power & Glory of Bruce, up close and personal, and I didn't think there was any possible way he could hate it. I've seen Bruce maybe 25+ times at this point, at least twice from very close up (e.g., the third row), and if only one of us could be in the pit, I wanted it to be him. The best would have been if we'd both been that close--and if I'd thought about it at the time, I would have asked the wristband dispensers to cut off my old one and give me a new one closer in number to his, though who knows if they would have done that--but I much preferred that he get the good spot than that I did. I didn't know I'd feel that way, but there you have it.
Anyway, it's late, I'm tired, and I haven't even told you about Mickey yet. Hell, I haven't told you about the Church of Bruce yet, either, or about kstyle's philosophical thoughts, or anything else. But tomorrow I have to shape all the dough I didn't get to shape today, so I must sleep. I'm also having dinner with a pastry school friend, and Sunday I am getting a massage--a long one. Given all of the concert-going and such I probably shouldn't indulge myself, but I'm gonna anyway.
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