Wal-Mart and Murder

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

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

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

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

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

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

nth Update

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

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

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

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

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

In Perfect Harmony

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

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

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

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

Chats in the Offing

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

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

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

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

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

The Lamination Chronicle

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

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

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

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

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

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

Better Than Paris

Bossman had a friend at the bakery today, a French guy who helped in some way (I'm not sure how) with the Big Competition that Bossman won in 2005. So Philippe is looking at my croissants, and he tells Bossman they're nicer than the ones in Paris. (France, not Texas.) So that was kind of cool. We've also been selling a ton of them--today we even sold out of my red-headed stepchildren, a.k.a. the almond croissants. For some reason, they don't sell very well, and it's a rare day when we sell them all. We also got cool little paper cups for the monkey bread, and we sold a bunch of those today, too; the paper cups also make it much easier for me to assemble and store the damned things.

They're a great solution, too. I'd been putting my dough scraps into the next batch of dough, but that seemed to be causing a problem, or so Bossman concluded. I suggested the monkey bread--how can you go wrong with croissant dough, cinnamon, and sugar?--and then was faced with the problem of assembly. I was using our large muffin tins, but they're a pain, and you can only get twelve on a sheet pan, and so on. One day last week Bossman is cutting up strips of paper and taping it into rings: he'd looked into the sizes available of these paper panettone cups, and we chose the size closest to the muffin tins. They came in yesterday, and they're perfect: they have straight sides, which means they fit next to each other. They're individual cups, so I can (a) fit more on a sheet pan and (b) only bake as many as I want to bake. In addition, I found a deep-sided hotel pan that fits on top of a sheet pan, which works much better as a holding bin than the sheet pan--I just take my scraps, cut them up, and throw them in the bin in the freezer as I go, and every couple of days I pull out the pan in the morning, let it thaw a little, fill as many cups as I have dough for, and throw holding bin and a now-full-of-monkey-bread-cups sheet pan into the freezer. And customers? When they ask what's in the product and hear the answer, they typically Must Have One Now.

Flat Nephew came to the bakery today, too, though Flat Narya hasn't come alive yet. About what, you ask, am I talking? I got a letter from Nephew One last week, complete with a paper doll (hand-made) of himself and a girl paper doll for me to color in to look like me. Nephew One's class read Flat Stanley, and the project they're doing involves each kid sending a flat version of him/herself to someone who lives in another state. I'm supposed to send Flat Nephew and Flat Narya back to him, along with an account of his visit and tales of my state. Today Flat Nephew came to the bakery and posed with Artie, Johnnie, Phil (the Hispanic Phil), Bossman, and a tray of croissants. Bossman posed with his trophy, and with me (the 3-D version). I took down the names of the cities in Mexico from which Artie, Johnnie, and Phil come, figuring the whole immigrant angle would be interesting. I'm also going to take pictures of a statue of Abe Lincoln (it being his land here and all) and some of the interesting sights downtown, seeing as I'm going downtown on Monday. (I'll have Flat Narya colored in by then, so she can appear in some photos as well.) I would have liked to take the Flats to the prairie (we've got a bit of it somewhere around here), but I have no vehicle and not a lot of time. I will get to the lake, it being two blocks away and all--maybe I'll take a break from my marathon editing session tomorrow. I hope the pictures come out okay; I don't have a camera, so I got a couple of those disposable ones.

I Am NOT a Human Resource, I'm a Human Being

(with apologies to Patrick McGoohan)

Larry's comment below made me realize that I've been particularly lucky: I have had bosses who actively sought out and utilized my intelligence and who appreciated what I brought (or bring) to the table. My boss at the substance abuse treatment place still uses me whenever he can for writing and brainstorming and such, and he's also become a good friend. My boss at the biotech company always valued what I did, even if he couldn't get them to compensate me appropriately. (That's a long, annoying tale that I'll leave for some other time.) My current boss really likes having me around, though I think he realizes, on some level, that he's going to have to pay me much better to keep me for any length of time.

It's had a price, however, in that one could argue that I've been relatively underpaid at every one of those jobs. As I put it to my last boss, what would it cost to replace what I do? At the biotech company, if they brought in someone Bigger than I was, then the compensation would have had to increase significantly--double, perhaps--and someone like that would have wanted an assistant and such. So, right there, more than twice what they paid me. If they went the other route and hired less-skilled people--sort of one per function, or something like that--they would have had to hire several people as well, and, while each might have been had for less than they paid me, the total still would have been higher.

I recognize that part of this is my own doing, in several ways. First off, I absolutely suck at negotiation. Second, I tend to be good at filling in little niches that people didn't realize needed filling, and doing a lot of that, across broad areas of the organization. People who are good at that never get compensated properly, because it's underappreciated as a skill. Third, I have not tried to create a Career--well, I did, actually, which is what the whole graduate school thing was about. You'll notice I am not a professor, however, so that didn't work so well. Point being, while my choices have made sense (to me, at the time, given the options I thought were available), and while my experience and skills are pretty broad, an HR person is going to throw my stuff in the trash.

You or I can SAY that I have great skills, broad experience, blah, blah, blah. But in order to get hired, I have to stumble across someone, in person, who's looking for me, or I have to find a posting where the resumes bypass HR and go straight to the person doing the hiring (and that person doesn't fit Larry's description below). My experience with HR people is limited, and all bad. They hate me. You see why this narrows my options.

I don't really want to write about that tonight, though. I'd rather tell you what's happening at work (though I must go to bed soon). Bossman took a class this week with a French pastry chef guy--a special three-day class at my old school, with a guest teacher they brought in. He brought back all kind of goodies and ideas, and I think we are definitely going to kick it all up a notch. He should be able to expand the bakery's square footage this fall, as the printing shop next door wants to move; Bossman has already started talking about what he'll put in there, and it includes space devoted to laminated doughs. Which is all well and good, except if he wants me to be doing the laminating, I want more money and fewer hours.

In other news, I may be getting a new laptop, which is pretty exciting. (I have one of the old iMacs right now--the half-basketball base, and a small screen.) I decided that I'd go ahead and get it--not least because I can write it off as a business expense--once I (a) got an all-clear from the doc (i.e., no looming medical expenses) and (b) earned enough on the side to cover me through the end of the year. It would be very nice to be able to do the editing work someplace other than my apartment. Part of the reason I want to work fewer hours at the bakery is that I really do want time to do my own writing, too, and that ain't happening if I'm working 55 to 60 hours a week at the bakery, even if I still get my two days off.

Meanwhile, it's after 10 pm, and I have to get up at the ass-crack of dawn tomorrow.

Cha-Ching

I think maybe, in response to Ann's comment, that I should 'splain some things. For one thing, her comment (and reading my old posts) helps me see just how much I yammer about money. I think it's an awkward subject, but it seems to me that I should try to find ways to talk about it, not least because it's important in our everyday lives.

Although my day job is low-paying and physically grueling, it IS a job. I could live on what I make, just barely, if I were willing to live in a tiny apartment, have no social life, and eat as cheaply as possible; doing without health care or health insurance would help, too, as would doing without cable/internet and doing without a cell phone. I'm willing to work a second job so I can live in a one-bedroom apartment, go out to dinner or drinks with friends, eat organic (insofar as I eat anything other than meals out or bakery food), have health care and insurance, have an internet connection and cable TV, buy stuff, and have a cell phone as well as a land line. I don't like debt: my only debt right now is my student loan for pastry school, and I pay more than the minimum payment so I can (a) pay it off sooner and (b) pay less over the life of the loan. (If I paid it on their schedule, I'd pay twice the original loan amount--the loan amount plus the same amount in interest--which I think is insane.) That is, though I have credit, I have no desire to use it for material comforts, not least because interest rates are usurious, and I will do without rather than run up consumer debt. (I am not critical about people who have had to use credit cards to get out of jams and then find themselves in an even harder place; I have a parental safety net that many people simply do not have. I am critical about people who pile up debt for big houses, cars, and other conspicuously consumed items, but I may also be overly harsh about that.)

Not so terrible, really, especially compared to most of the rest of the world's population. Relative to what I have earned in other jobs, relative to what people with my level of education and experience can/do make, well, that's a little different comparison.

The other thing about my current situation, and probably the reason I write about this so often, is that it feels precarious to me. I've been getting enough side work such that I feel like I can breathe a little right now, but it's all built on being able to continue all of this work for the indefinite future--which is simply not realistic or pleasant to consider--or on finding another job that is less grueling and pays more--which, as I've noted before, is much more easily said than done. That's the source of the anxiety, I think, and why it shows up in my writing here so much. That is, it's not the immediate lack of money that makes me anxious--I have enough for my current needs and such--it's that I know my current situation is not one that will work for the long term, and my options seem so limited or difficult to attain that I start to worry about what I'm going to do.

It also brings up old crap. When I finished grad school, I was un- or underemployed for more than a year, as I've said here before. Could I have moved back in with my parents, if all else failed? Yup--and that's not an option that everyone has. But seriously; who'd want to do that, at the age of 36? Yeah; me neither. The fear and anxiety (and grief, for an assortment of losses) stayed with me for much of the last 13 years. It abated somewhat, with the last job; even when the company started to fail, I thought I had a partner who would help me as I made a transition to something new. As all of that blew up in the past 18 months, the anxiety has reared its ugly head again, and the particular choices I've made and circumstances in which I have thereby found myself have reawakened the fears again.

Keep in mind that I don't think I "deserve" this or that--job, salary, compensation, material lifestyle, whatever. I think all of us "deserve" work that is valued, living circumstances that are comfortable and free of anxiety about things like food and health care, etc.--me no more or less than anyone else. I'm closer to having a lot of that, because of the time and place in which I live, and also because of the genetic luck of the draw, i.e., I have brains and skills. And, yes, I work hard, but that is by no means either a necessary or sufficient condition. So it's not that I feel cheated, that I've been deprived of something that's rightly mine or something like that, it's that I don't know how I'm going to maintain. I want to create the time and space to do needlepoint, to write (other than to you guys), to make dinner for friends, to sit in a cafe and read a book for fun, without having to worry about anything right that minute. I've had those things before, and I want them again, and instead I'm worrying about paying the rent--not next month, but next year.

Anyway. I need to sleep.

Good Times

Well, THAT was fun.

Or not.

I met with Chuck after work so we could exchange income tax forms (he made about $20k more than I did last year . . . and he still can't pay his fucking bills) and divorce forms and such. We discussed the promissory note that he's going to execute regarding the $14k he owes me--he suggested $25/month as a repayment for now, because he's so very strapped for cash (for which I have no fucking sympathy, believe me). He also wondered whether I'd consider giving back his mother's diamond. He said that the question "wasn't from him" but, apparently, from his mother. He was nervous and almost apologetic--as well he should have been, on an assortment of levels. I told him I really didn't want the diamond, but did not have the money to have it removed from the ring right now. (Let's face it, I'm not going to have the money until he pays back the $14k. Which, at $25/month, will take 47 years.) I've been waiting for that request, so I wasn't surprised, and I managed to avoid open hostility, but it took a serious effort on my part.

I've set a task for myself to maintain an attitude of compassion, and I told him that. He of course said he didn't need compassion, and I said that everyone needs compassion, in the buddhist sense or the golden rule sense, which he accepted. I didn't succeed as well as I would have liked today, but it could have been a lot worse. As I said to him--when he thanked me for the lack of acrimony--the last thing either of us needs is more pain in our lives.

Maybe tomorrow I'll have the energy to tell you about my flat nephew (it's a class project--kind of cool, actually), which I got in the mail Tuesday. I had three editing projects simultaneously, but I finished one tonight--the one on which I've been working since November. The other two are due next Wednesday, which, for me, means Monday, so my life, except for Tuesday, has been pretty much come-home-from-the-bakery-and-edit. It's fine, though, and I'm happy to have the work; I figured, when I got the last two, that they'd be pretty quick, that it would be two weeks of editing heck--followed by two checks, and that doesn't suck.

Così Va*

As I left my building at 5:45 this morning, I saw a text message on my phone from my friend Roberto: "So it goes," it said. I thought, "Hmm. Who died?" First I thought it might have been his grandmother, who has been in ill health, but as I walked to the el, I decided it had probably been Kurt Vonnegut, and, indeed, it was. I gave R a copy of "Player Piano" last year, because he and I have been talking about embodied knowledge, and there's a passage in that novel that perfectly captures the aspects of the notion that interest me.

My father went to the public library in my hometown every week or two, to exchange one stack of books for another. I often went with him, and, when I was about 12 or so, I started wandering into the adult fiction shelves. ("Young adult" fiction made me crazy--the books for girls were always about how the girl who felt like a misfit eventually got a boyfriend after all, so there!, and I knew none of that was going to work in my life, for one thing, and the stories were insipid, for another.) For some reason, I pulled "God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater" off the shelves and added it to my stack.

Reading it changed my life.

I could no longer tell you any salient detail from the novel--the media has been rife with recountings and quotes, but that doesn't count--except the presence of Kilgore Trout and Mr. Rosewater Although I own a bunch of Vonnegut paperbacks, I don't have that one. But it did, in fact, change my life: I don't claim to have understood completely what I read, but I wanted more--of Vonnegut, of whatever it was. I worked my way through the rest of the Vonnegut that the library had, and for several years I kept my eye open for the latest one. (I didn't find the short stories until later, and I admittedly didn't have the reaction to "Welcome to the Monkey House" that many of Twisty's readers had, though I probably should have.) The thing about it was, he played with language, he told stories that weren't straight lines but still had points, and the point he was often making had to do with the brutality of patriarchal, war-mongering, capitalist society. And to my adolescent, small-town, social-outcast self, it was a revelation. It opened a side door that I didn't even know existed, and the very existence of the door, much less anything I might find on the other side, changed my sense of the possibilities. So, yes, Kurt Vonnegut changed my life; thank you, Mr. Vonnegut.
______

*So it goes. In Italian, or so says BabelFish.

Still More Whining!

I am so pathetic.

I've begun to think about possibly maybe embarking on the Find and Get a New Job project, and of course I read job descriptions and eliminate myself from consideration before applying, which makes the "getting" part difficult to accomplish. Sometimes it's because the job requires skills I clearly do not have (I'm not a nurse, for example), and sometimes it's for a part of a university that I suspect would not be a good fit for me (the business school), but just as often it's because I read the description and think they'd never hire me to do that, whatever "that" is. So I read more job descriptions and I get really depressed, because I feel like I'm completely unable to get a job. And then I think about doing more of what I'm doing--somehow staying at the bakery, and doing enough editing and so on--just so I don't have to look for another job, and that makes me nearly frantic. You wouldn't be able to tell that I'm frantic, because I'm being frantic in my head, while I shlep through another 11-hour day at the croissant factory, but frantic I am. On the worst days, like today, I can't even find something else about which I can think, so I'm sheeting dough, or cutting it, or rolling it, or egg-washing it, or whatthefuckever, while I have all these dire thoughts inside my head.

Part of the problem, of course, is those 11-hour days; I end up with almost no time to myself. On a typical day, I get up a little before 5 am, get breakfast, put my bottles of tea for the day in my bag, get dressed, check my email, brush my teeth, and leave for work around 5:45. (I used to shower in the morning, but this week I'm experimenting with showering at night, which gives me an extra few minutes in the morning.) I usually punch in by 6:20 unless I have bad public transportation karma. I take a 20-minute break, usually around 11:30, sometimes later (nearly 1:00 the other day). I've been punching out around 5:15, give or take a half-hour, though occasionally as late as 6:15. I get home by 6:00, sometimes 6:30 or even 7:00. I read my email, I vegetate in front of the computer, maybe do some editing work, take a shower, and go to bed by 10:00. On Mondays I deal with all of the crap--phone calls, appointments, doctors, whatever--that I can't deal with the rest of the week. I do my laundry every other week, usually on Sunday morning, early, and I clean when I can find the energy. I rarely cook anything any more. I don't play handball. i don't practice yoga. On Tuesdays I meet friends for beer and free food, and I occasionally have breakfast or dinner with someone else, but I spend most of my hours in my own head (see above for the pathetic commentary that goes along with that) or working with people with whom I don't share fluency in a language. Even the things that used to provide me with satisfaction--for example, today's croissants were absolutely beautiful, and Bossman praised them extravagantly--provide only transitory moments of pleasure. I'm dreading dealing with the details of this stupid divorce; it's one more slog through a mud field. It occurred to me tonight that I am worse off than I was when I met Chuck, in just about every way you can imagine. I'm older, I make way less money, I have fewer career options, I have more debt (I'd paid off a lot of my student loans), I have less savings, and I have the wreckage of that relationship to survey and the legal wrangling with which to deal.

And then I hear (or read) myself whining, AGAIN, and I feel worse, not least because that's all I seem to do when I try to write here or talk to my friends. Also because there are so many people--including people whose blogs i read and to whose blogs I link--who are dealing with seriously heavy shit (cancer, death of a sibling) and who are doing it with a lot more style, grace, wit, and entertaining writing than i manage to throw up here.

This is a long-winded, whining way of saying that I may be posting even less frequently in the coming weeks. I can't stand it that all i fucking do is whine. I hate it that I try to write a post, because I haven't in forever, and this shit comes spilling out, so I try to think of something else, and my brain just won't go anywhere else. And i don't want to keep on with the whining. And I'm sorry.

Skip This

Unless you're up for more whining.

Turns out that realizing you're in a dead-end job and that your Life Plan has once again immolated itself doesn't really do wonders for your motivation. Throw in the fact that I simply have too much work to accomplish in a reasonable work week, and, well, let's just say that Narya's cranky. On top of that, Bossman has been gone for a week, so I was the Unofficial Bossperson for many things. And today's paycheck did not have a comma (though it IS the third paycheck of the month). Unfortunately, all of my friends have heard the whining even more than you guys have, and they can recite my woes as well as i can. ("Moo, moo, moo," said one the other night, after reciting said list so I didn't have to, which made me laugh.)

Seriously, though, I have had to try to sleepwalk through this week just so I didn't put down my knife and walk out. (Actually, I'd take the knife with me, it being my knife and all.) If I think about the summer--and the work that will be required for the farmers' markets--I get even more depressed. I hate it all. I hate the croissants. I hate the laminating. I hate the constant struggle to get out of work before 6 (after punching in at 6:15). I hate coming home to more work. I hate not being able to play handball or have the motivation to practice yoga. I hate not being able to talk to my coworkers or understand them very well when they talk to me. I hate working 11- and 12-hour days. I especially hate working those kinds of days (a) on behalf of someone else's business, (b) with no end in sight, and (c) for relatively little money. I don't want to ask for more money, because (a) it wouldn't be enough more money and (b) even a little more money would cause Bossman to regard me as obligated to work the kind of hours and days that I hate working, and did I mention I hate that?

And looking for a job--which I am, indeed, doing--depresses me in a whole other way, and not just because I don't have a lot of time to look or apply for one. My skill (luck?) at finding work is really pretty abysmal, and my checkered resume isn't going to make that process any easier. And the jobs out there? I really think I'd suck at writing or editing (a) a mega-company or industry newsletter, (b) for a financial services firm, or (c) for the health care industry, which seem to be the most prominent editing/writing jobs available. (Seriously, can you see me writing cheery, upbeat crap for some health care industry megalopoly that doesn't want you to notice that it's sacrificing your health for shareholder profits? Yeah, me neither.) Yes, I know I'm being negative. Take a look at the last three years of my life--at the wasteland of job loss, money loss, marriage to a liar, separation from same, health care issues for both parents, mental health issues for said spouse--and it's no wonder I'm overwhelmed. But knowing that I am, and knowing why I am, do not help. And it especially doesn't help me get a job, which is the thing I most want these days. Okay, second-most want; divorce would have to be at the top, and no, I haven't had time to get that moving, either.

Dead Parrot

I wish I had something to write that didn't fall into the categories of (a) whining, (b) complaining about work, or (c) reporting more mundane details from my life. Even the so-called epiphanies I've been having are repeats, though occasionally more pithily phrased. (For example, I realized today that, in essence, I'm working 55 hours/week to put Bossman's kids through college. While I'm all for college education, I'm not sufficiently generous to want to fund Bossman's kids' college education.) And I'm torn, too, because the farmers' markets are coming soon, and I'm already at a level of production that requires between 50 and 55 hours a week to accomplish--but i find myself looking at local universities' websites, looking for an administrative job that pays as much as (or, often, more than) I'm making now, and likely for fewer hours and better benefits.

As has become obvious, what I'm doing now was in no way part of the original plan. The bakery work was always a means to an end: my own business, with Chuck to assist with supporting me in various ways while I created and grew the business. But that whole plan has passed on. It is no more. It has ceased to be. It has expired and gone to meet its maker. It's a stiff! Bereft of life, it rests in peace! If I hadn't nailed it to the perch it'd be pushing up the daisies. Its metabolic processes are now 'istory. It's off the twig! It's kicked the bucket, it's shuffled off its mortal coil, run down the curtain and joined the bleedin' choir invisibile!!

THIS IS AN EX-PLAN!!

Which means, once again, I need a new one. I know I'm supposed to get the divorce out of the way first--and I intend to spend some time on the financial affidavit this weekend, even though I get NO days off this weekend, which is a wine of a different vintage--but it's difficult to stick with a dead plan, especially one that is so physically taxing and for which I receive, relatively speaking, so little compensation. Triple (maybe even just double) my pay--without doubling my work or responsibilities, and it might be worthwhile. Maintain my pay but cut my hours significantly? Same thing. But long hours plus low pay, eh, not so much. And if I'm pretty sure the plan is dead, then why stick with the means to execute that plan?

No, Because There's an Elephant in the Way

The Patchouli Princess--my patchouli-scented white-chick-with-dreadlocks next-door neighbor to the east--has begun the Friday Reggae Festival, so I'm being bombarded with music. Through two walls, mind you. Every Friday night, she cranks the reggae--though last week she changed it up with some Stevie Wonder. It occasionally wears a bit thin (one week i was forced to crank up some Bruce), but she tends to shut down the Festival by the time I go to bed, so I let it be. Some Fridays I get her music from the east and my other neighbors' thumping bass from the southwest (my apartment goes around the corner a little). Add to that the banging from the stairwell, and we've got a veritable cacophony. This is NOT a quiet apartment (the stairwell is probably the worst culprit, though I can hear the elevator, too, from my bed), and if it didn't cost money to move the cable and phone and such, I'd probably consider changing apartments if something more desirable opened up.

Yes, last night I was once again tired (and depressed), it being Friday and all. I've been having a week-long pity party for myself, and I am getting mighty damned sick of it. I've decided that the crap--the sentimental, sad crap, I mean--is this big ol' elephant, and I pretty much have to chew through it a bite at a time. I don't think there are any Unresolved Issues, or some big Meaning I'm needing to get out of it, or some Life Lesson--or, at least, if there are lessons, I already know what the fuck they are, so can we get the elephant out of here already? Why do I have to eat the damned thing? Can't I just move on? Why do I have to eat my peas in order to get dessert? Can you guarantee that there will BE dessert if I eat the peas? Of course you can't--so fuck the peas. So can I just move on? NO--because there's an elephant in the way.


And, of course, I AM moving on, because, as a friend of mine put it so succinctly this week as she contemplated some of the crap she's been dealing with, when you've got crap in front of you, you can either deal with it or lie down and die, and neither of us is much for that latter option. But I am so tired of it all.

I really must create a different life for myself, a different occupation of some kind. This one, as noted, is way too much fucking work, for way too little fucking pay, relatively speaking, and, in my case, no fucking future except more of the same. I was determined to do my editing last night so I get two days off--in a row!--which I mentioned to Bossman, and he said, only half-kidding, two days off? a year? a quarter? a month? Because two days off in a row in a WEEK is just . . . incomprehensible. Which, you know, to me it's actually not incomprehensible, because I've had jobs--SEVERAL jobs, actually--where two days off in a row, every single week, plus this thing called VACATION, where they pay you but you don't have to go to work, is routine.

Five Things

Responding to Landismom's request, albeit a bit late, my five favorite things about feminism are:

1. Twisty. Sometimes I want to move to Austin so I can find her and buy her tacos and beer and get her to tell stories. Critiques of the patriarchy are more numerous, and more available, than they were when I was a teenager, and Twisty's is one of the most thought-provoking, and most accessible, ones out there. I've long thought that people only begin to Blame slowly, and that it takes someone prodding, and pointing, and maybe saying something with which you disagree but you don't quite know why, but figuring it out in part because of the things Twisty wrote.

2. Being able to make my way in the world. Back in the day--and I was alive while this was true, but not in a position where it mattered personally--it was much more difficult for women to get credit, or mortgages, or jobs that would enable them to maintain either of those things.

3. The possibilities it has opened for men. I suspect my sample is skewed wildly, but I have several male friends who spent significant time as the primary caregiver for their child(ren), who moved for the sake of their wives' careers, etc. I know many men who simply do not like the frat-boy dude behavior that Twisty so often points out and critiques, and not because they're Nice Guys (a Twisty-ism), but because they do, in fact, regard women as people, not as receptacles. Feminism has provided men and women with alternatives to the strait-jacketing roles that bound our parents and grandparents (and that bind many of the people around us still) and has provided a language for disdaining the patriarchal view of women (and men).

4. The possibilities it has opened for women. Oh, there is still so very much work to do, but each step enables us to see more possibilities. Doctors, lawyers, executives, professors--they were all men when I was a kid. All. (Not that I knew any executives or professors, but still; even in college, there weren't all that many female professors, and none in either of the departments in which I majored.) Yes, what we see on television is the girls gone empowerfulled version, where every woman has been surgically altered to achieve perfect sexbotdom, but in real life, there's a little more going on.

5. Sex. Yes, I know, woman had sex--and even enjoyed it, at least some of the time, presumably--before feminism, but feminism has helped women reclaim their sexual experience as their own. The sexbotification and empowerfulication notwithstanding, there are at least a few of us out here who enjoy it for its own sake and do not feel the need to justify that in any way, shape, or form.

I'm not going to tag anyone--not least because I'm almost a week late here--but anyone who wants to join in, either in the comments or on her/his own blog, is welcome to do so.

Let Me Solve That for You

I wish all problems could be solved this easily:



I'll spare you most of the details of the doctor visit, except to say that apparently I don't have one of the riskier strains of HPV, and I'm at pretty low risk for serious issues. I still need regular exams and such, but we went ahead and postponed the annual exam until next month (after the 90-day new insurance waiting period) so the exam and lab work are covered by the insurance. We spent today's visit discussing all this crap, but also discussing the issue of a few weeks ago and its remnants. (Conclusion: probably a cyst, probably doesn't need anything, but might aspirate it at the next visit.)

Next up: new contacts and glasses. If I ever get around to calling the optometrist and making an appointment, that is.

Bzzzzzz

From wine, and not all that much of it, but it's still pleasant.

I was pretty zomboid today. Jane called this morning and we had a fine chat; she was out of town this week, hangin' with her 8-month-old granddaughter (and her daughter and son-in-law), so we had some catching up to do. We had an additional supplemental chat when i got back from dinner at Crunchy Hippie Restaurant. And Mom called this afternoon; she's making my dad go to a lung specialist, ostensibly about his cough, though likely because the CAT scan (?) that was done as part of the bladder cancer diagnosis turned up a spot on his lung that is likely asbestosis--given his occupation, that wouldn't be uncommon--but of course could be something else, plus the cough, which could be nothing, or a side effect of one of his meds (he has managed to exhibit the most bizarre of the side effects for several medications over the years). (Did you follow that? I'm not sure I did.) And I edited some stuff, and did a lot of vegetation.

I also found out that my gynecologist does, in fact, accept my health insurance, though I probably shouldn't get a pap smear tomorrow, if i can wait another month, because (a) the health insurance has a 90-day waiting period for "preventive" things like pap smears, and (b) if i try to get a pap smear as a followup for HPV-related dysplasia (which I should have and would have done in November, if Chuck had paid the COBRA), it won't be covered because they won't pay for anything related to HPV, and (c) of course I got my period early-ish. What a fucking pain in the ass. I find it appalling that routine health care like this is basically prevented by the health care insurance system. Given my situation, a Reasonable System, one that was truly interested in promoting the health of individuals and communities, would encourage me to get regular screening and any other damned thing I needed, because failing to do so could kill me, and with a cancer that is among the most treatable on the planet, particularly when caught early, as a result of regular screening. Instead, I have to pay for said screening out of my pocket, and, were I to need additional treatment, pay for it myself, die, or throw myself on the mercy of a lame-ass system of insurance for people who have a History. (Who reaches the age of 48 without any pre-existing conditions of any kind?) And all of this pales in comparison to Ron's sister's experience, and recent death. It is wrong--morally, ethically, and every other -ly--to not provide health care when it is within our means to do so. Instead, capitalist insurance companies are interested in Shareholder Value & Profit, or some such shit, presumably because said shareholders are wealthy enough to take care of these problems or purchase insurance for these problems and therefore are unaware that the majority of us are fucking struggling along here.

Okay; change of subject.

Friday night I was (what a surprise) working late; mixing my dough for Saturday, IIRC. Bossman is throwing bread into the oven to thaw it out; one of the regular restaurant customer's orders apparently wasn't filled, so he's pulling stuff out of the freezer to fill it. Bossman's wife comes in and starts harping on him. What's the customer doing? (It's only going to be five minutes.) Is that five minutes or ten minutes? (It's not a problem.) Why is this happening? Why are you working late while everyone else has left? Why don't you have a meeting and find out what happened and hire some competent people?

And on and on. I had to bite my tongue to keep from jumping in--which would have been wrong on SO many levels--but it was pretty annoying. Despite the fact that she collects a salary of some kind from the business, despite the fact that her husband has been in this business for, oh, 35 years (and loves it), despite the fact that this business affords her a reasonably nice life, and despite the fact that she does maybe 6 hours/week of actual work for this business, she persists in telling Bossman what he's doing wrong and how he should be doing things differently. And does she really think she's going to get better people than Johnnie and Phil and Artie? For the wages they (can afford to) pay? She's fucking delusional if she thinks that, and she doesn't know shit (despite her assumption that she knows a lot), and she's clueless about the industry. Let's not forget that Bossman told me--after two weeks--that he couldn't afford to pay me what I'm worth; and I'm not THAT damned special. Johnnie can do any job in the place; he does beautiful decorating work; he has off every other Sunday, i.e., he works 10 to 12 hours a day, 26 out of every 28 days. Just who, exactly, does she think she's going to get?

Bossman let it slide, and I, of course, at the time pretended I didn't hear a thing, and I have no intention or desire to fix any of the things that are wrong there. I figure the best I can do is give it my best effort, laugh at his jokes (which isn't hard, because he cracks me up; I wish i could remember what he said yesterday that made me double over), give him feedback in the areas where my feedback is relevant and helpful and wanted, and help out in the ways I can. He told me yesterday that the reason the order wasn't filled was because the night guy said he "ran out of dough." Um, okay, but . . .? I think Bossman was glad he could tell me what had happened (especially given what I had witnessed) and know that I would understand his frustration at the night guy--c'mon, dude, how long have you worked here? figure something out! don't just not fill an order!--without ranting about said night guy. We've also been commiserating about NP; i think he appreciates being able to discuss the situation with someone who isn't castigating him for Not Dealing With It Properly. What we're going to do, apparently, is hire the woman who's been working with me on Saturdays, starting as soon as she finishes up; she's willing to stay until at least September, which gets us through the markets. Plus the other Saturday person is going to do her internship with us, starting in July. As a result, NP is going to be history ("we're going to tie a rock around her neck," according to Bossman) as of the end of June.

It's been educational for me, because NP is so unbelievably incompetent, in so many dimensions. I've worked with incompetent people before, but they've had MBAs, so they're better able to at least (a) appear to be working and (b) sling the bullshit. Not to mention (c) get a much higher salary than me. NP is a whole other kind of incompetent.

Okay, enough ranting. I want sleep.

Things I Discovered

on my walk home from work tonight (and i say "tonight" because I worked almost 12 hours today and therefore didn't get out of work until after 7:00).

1. It doesn't take all THAT long--about an hour and 15 minutes, when taking what i think is the most direct (i.e., shortest) route.

2. There are a couple of stretches that aren't as well-lit as perhaps they could be, most notably the stretch that features the cemetery along one sidewalk and the train tracks (atop an embankment) on the other. There's enough traffic so that it's probably not a big issue, but it's still not great.

3. The most direct route (as opposed to the scenic route, I think) goes through a few somewhat unsavory bits. Even the unsavory bits seem pretty well-populated, but there were one or two places where groups of 20-something men were hanging around. It wasn't an issue, i.e., no one hassled me, because, despite today's warmth, I was still wearing my work pants and a down coat, rather than, say, summer clothing, and because these men had perhaps not ingested quite enough alcohol or other substances to have turned into complete assholes, and perhaps because (so I'm told) my style of walking is sufficiently quick and forthright that easier prey is likely to come along--but any of those things could change.

4. I really must do more yoga. I managed at least a few minutes of it a couple of days this week, but I can tell that my body is stiffer and I think I'm getting arthritis in my right hip, so I must make more effort, else the walking will have counterproductive effects as well as productive ones. The trick may be to alternate walking home and practicing some yoga when i get home.

All of this is predicated on working a few fewer hours per week. I got home at 8:15 tonight, and luckily had no intention of, say, making dinner or doing much of anything. It's already 9:00--I'm drinking some club soda, I'll soon pour myself a glass of wine, I may be able to find some television that isn't completely annoying, but on a school night, it would be nearly time for bed and I wouldn't have done my next-day prep yet. (Next-day prep includes putting out most of my clothes for the next day, packing real clothes if I'm going someplace after work, preparing my lunch, and pouring a bowl of cereal (leaving out the milk), which i then slip into a large plastic freezer bag.)

And not just that: I'm exhausted. I had dinner and a couple of beers with a friend last night, and he pointed out that I can set limits to the number of hours I'm willing to work (while acknowledging that that's easier recommended than done) and tried to get me to stop taking on even more crap at the bakery (the website; photography for the website; transitioning to Quickbooks). He's right, of course. I also had a revelation this week, sort of. For one thing, I think the own-my-own-bakery-or-coffee-shop dream is nearly dead. I don't see my way clear to doing it my myself, for sure, and there are so many issues involved that would take time and energy to solve; I don't think I have it in me to do it. I don't think I want it badly enough, is the thing, on top of being somewhat risk-averse these days and on top of feeling too old to do it. But I also realized that if I'm going to work 65 hours/week for an average of about $12/hour (I'm counting straight time, overtime, and editing time in the calculations, with appropriate remuneration for each), I'd rather do it all for me and be able to set my own schedule. And then I reminded myself that I have several things (doctor; eye doctor; divorce) with which I must deal before I attack the what-do-I-do-next issue.

Speaking of divorce, we did last night. Chuck had called to tell me that he finally got all his documentation, and it turns out he only owes about $300, so he's going to just go ahead and file separately without itemizing. He then suggested we get the divorce moving along so we don't have to go through this again, and I agreed. He noted that he was tired of "banging his head against a wall, and tired of begging," which rather took me by surprise. I managed to bite my tongue, but i was a little curious regarding exactly what begging he'd been doing. Trust me when i say that he hasn't begged me for anything, most certainly not for a reconciliation of any kind, and he absolutely hasn't done any of the things that I told him I needed to see in order to be able to trust him again; in general, he's done pretty much the opposite, all along. I'm not sure how this translates to "begging," but I really didn't feel like getting into it with him about it. In any case, we've started that process moving again, so I'm going to keep it moving. I want to be out of it. It breaks my heart in so very many ways, but it is over and I want it over in all of the legal ways as well.

Found a Peanut Phone

Yesterday morning, in an alley. I've been trying to return it, but it turns out, of course, that there's no way to call the person to whom it belongs. I called the cellular provider (not least because the phone service has been disconnected to the phone) and left my number, but who knows whether the owner will actually call me.

The current Life Problem I'm trying to solve (the diddly one, not the serious one(s)) is how to get some exercise. The cheapest and simplest solution would be to walk home from work a few days a week, but, of course, this does not seem like an attractive solution after I've spent 10 to 12 hours on my feet. I'm reaching the conclusion that I must stop whining and just do it.

The more serious issues are around taxes. Chuck got a bunch of income last year out of which taxes hadn't been taken for various reasons, and, of course, he (a) has been living close-ish to the bone and (b) didn't plan for this eventuality. If he itemizes, then I must, too, which would be an issue for me, i.e., cost me money (which he has explicitly said he doesn't want to do). It may be financially better for him to itemize, though, which means we'd have to consider filing together--which, given the trust issues, isn't something I particularly want to do. The thing is, no matter what he does, he's going to owe money and he doesn't have enough to pay what he owes. And if we file together? Then WE owe it, and that will piss me off no end. What I'm hoping is that it doesn't make much difference whether he itemizes or not, which means he doesn't have a major reason for doing so, which means we can file separately and he can work out a payment plan with the nice people at the IRS.

We haven't discussed the divorce recently. We don't talk all that often--less than once/week, and that's usually for a very specific reason, like arranging for me to see his son or, recently, to open discussions about the taxes. We have managed amicability, though, which is an improvement. I can't help but not want to disturb that, but it must be done; I don't want to drag this out any longer than necessary, and I doubt he does, either. The thing that makes it difficult, at least for me, is that it's just . . . sad. Neither of us intended this result, and finalizing the divorce just serves as a reminder in the starkest possible terms of the things we did wrong. I can work up a good mad, on occasion, especially when I think about all of the money that I'd saved and that's just gone, but I don't want to think about that all the time, and, frankly, there's no way to get it back. Even if he does the right thing and starts paying me back, he doesn't make enough for it to be more than a token amount each month. It's like wishing to have my youth back; there's no benefit to wishing for something that can't be had.

Age

may not bring wisdom, but it does bring experience--like the experience required to get through an 11-hour day on less than four hours of sleep. I should feel WAY worse than I do; go figure. (Especially since, along with the beer, I inhaled about a half a pack of cigarettes worth of second-hand smoke; blegh.) And lots of intense conversations, last night and today.

But I'd rather bitch about NP. Yesterday I'm cutting up my dough into 12-pound pieces (usually with about 3 extra ounces per piece), and I came up 6 or 7 pounds short. NP had made that batch of dough on Monday (because I don't work on Mondays), so I asked her how much dead dough she'd used ("dead dough" being the scraps from a given day's production; about 3 or 4 pounds gets thrown into each night's 96-pound batch). Four pounds, she said, like Bossman had instructed. So I said, to her and Bossman simultaneously, I'm about 6 or 7 pounds short. Bossman asks if I'd tasted it; did it have sugar in it? I handed him a little taste and he said, yup, that's what's missing. NP had left out the 7 pounds of sugar. Bossman had me make a 24-pound batch, with the extra 7 pounds of sugar in it, and then mix in the batch that NP had made. It worked, more or less; it was ragged, but useable, and I wasn't completely screwed for the week's production.

However.

NP didn't ever apologize for fucking it up. She was completely uninterested in finding the solution or in doing anything about it. And she never once offered to lend me a hand, even though her fuckup added an extra hour to my day. I noted to Bossman, after NP had left, that it would have been the thing to do. He replied that he's running out of patience with her, that she's just not getting any better. I think he keeps hoping she'll quit, but I think he's going to have to cut her hours (such as they are) or fire her outright. It's his bakery, and he's got more experience with this shit than I do, but she's getting on my last goddamned nerve.