Still More Moving Crap

Is it worth $250 to not have to lift any boxes? Two movers provided me with quotes that come out to about $400, and figure another $60 in tips--let's say $500 total. Renting a truck (truck rental, mileage, gas, a dolly, insurance, tax) will be about $175, I'm guessing, and figure another $75 to provide food and beer for the friends who help me move. Either way, I may try to rope a friend into moving the bed and some essentials (teapot, stereo, shower curtain, towels, soap) the day before, so I can get that shit set up first. If I have everything packed--and I fully intend to do that, because any other plan is a fucking nightmare--then it might be possible to do the whole thing in less than six hours. (For the move mentioned below, I assembled a pickup truck and three or four station wagons, plus about ten people, and the whole thing was done in a little more than two hours, though there was no furniture.) All in all, I'd probably rather spend the $250 throwing a big-ass party for the people who help me move, you know? And maybe getting a good massage.

I asked the building management at the current apartment whether they'd pro-rate the rent, and they said no. Thus, even though I'm planning on moving out on the 18th, they don't get the keys until the 30th. Fuck 'em; if I'm paying for it, they can wait. That also gives me an extra week or so to collect mail and the like, and provide a birthday pie for the doorman (if I am sufficiently organized to do that, which is probably questionable). Money-wise, it doesn't make that much difference, as the new place is apparently giving me June for free.

I have half of a post in my head, about food, or, rather, the gendered aspects of food and eating, but my brain still thinks I only need four hours of sleep, and I'm not going to try to write it now. I don't ever remember having this much trouble sleeping. I suspect that more exercise and more yoga would help tremendously, and, hey, I'll get right on that. Soon--first thing, in fact.

I found a website that has a word a day in Spanish, so I bookmarked it and try to go every day. I still don't know what to do with verbs, or any of the other grammatical bits, for that matter, but I figure it doesn't hurt to add vocabulary. Anyway, today's word is grosero, which means rude or coarse, according to the definition. Except the sample sentence's translation spells it "course," as in, "He was a course man." I keep trying to invent meanings for that sentence.

In this corner . . .

we have piles of boxes--about 70% of my books, which were even dusted before they were packed (thank you, J), some kitchen stuff (cookbooks, wine glasses), the bins that were under my bed, and tchochkes. In that corner, we have a pile of winter clothing, bedding, and towels, all of which are waiting for acceptable receptacles, but which have been sorted through. On the chair, we have the items that are destined for the Salvation Army (I'm not a fan of their homophobia, but they pick up, which means one less thing about which I have to worry). If I had some boxes I could do more, but I'm out of boxes, and I can't bring myself to buy something that I should be able to get for free by the end of the week (including bubble wrap!).

This packing reminded me of Memorial Day weekend, 1993. I had applied for a job at the university, a three-year, full-time, but non-tenure-track position that was for people like me, i.e., people who had finished their dissertations but who had not found a position for the next year. I was one of the ten people interviewed by the committee; there were five positions. One Thursday, I found out that I did not get the job--via a secretary leaving a message on my answering machine. I never got any other notice, even though I knew several members of the interviewing committee. (By way of contrast, the chair of the hiring committee at Swarthmore called in person to tell me that they had--by a very narrow margin--chosen someone else for the position for which I had interviewed. He told me what the committee had said, he made it clear that he had supported me, and he made it clear that the committee thought I would make an excellent professor.) The next day, I came to the north side of the city and found a new apartment, after obtaining promises of assistance from my parents (seeing as how I was unemployed).

The following Tuesday, I told the rental office in my university-owned building that I would not be there for the summer--"Oh," they said, "you had to tell us by Friday. So you have to pay the rent for the summer after all." Mind you, I had lived in the building for seven years and had been a model tenant; in addition, my long tenure there meant they had been able to avoid repainting the apartment, etc. "But," they said, "someone is coming next week to find a place to live, and if your place is empty, maybe they'll rent it." I had originally planned to move on June 15, after graduation; I had nine people coming in from out of town for said event. Nevertheless, I changed my moving date to June 1 or something like it and spent Memorial Day weekend packing all of my worldly possessions (which, at the time, didn't include furniture, because I had rented a furnished apartment). The move, and graduation, went off without a hitch, but, of course, no one rented my apartment, and they still made me pay the rent.

And I think last Memorial Day weekend was the wedding shower.

All in all, though, I got at least some stuff done, and I think that, with the boxes, I can do the rest of this pretty easily. There are a couple of Corners of Crap--like my desk, for example--that will take some sorting, and the kitchen will be, as always, tedious beyond belief, but it'll be okay.

Comments

I'm tired of dealing with haloscan--damn you, haloscan!--so I switched back to blogger for comments, which has the apparent effect of deleting all of your comments (or storing them in comment purgatory, maybe?). Which is a drag.

Okay, back to the packing and sorting (though I'm contemplating hiring movers; I'll at least get an estimate).

Some wine with that blackout?

So J shlepped me to pick up boxes from the back porch of the Brazen Tart, and then she came back here with me and packed books for awhile, even dusting them before packing. She did that while I sorted clothing and packed a few boxes and tried to think. Then I insisted on taking her to a local quasi-asian joint, where we had food, and wine . . . and then the lights went out. The power was out for quite awhile, so we were comped our dinner plus a lot of wine (a bottle plus) and Enrique brought three bowls of dessert (vanilla ice cream, coconut ice cream, and lichee nut sorbet) on top of that. The lights came on about 15 minutes before we left, but we were still comped (even though, by the time the lights came on, we were the only non-employees in the joint). Needless to say, Enrique got an even larger cash tip than usual. He always comped me and Craw extravagantly, and a few weeks ago, when he wasn't there and we asked for Carlos instead, we were comped half our meal. We tend to tip, large, in cash, and it comes back to us. More tonight than usual, of course, as dinner only cost the tip.

Tomorrow is the Emma Goldman Festival of Sorting and Packing. A lot more of the former than the latter, as I don't have a lot of boxes yet, but that's okay. My yoga buddy is moving Tuesday, and she has promised me free boxes AND bubble wrap and the like, when she's done with it, so I don't have the heart, or the budget, to buy what I can get for free. It means I can only sort rather than pack a lot of things, but that's okay. I've decided that sorting things into piles is nearly the same as packing, and I'm probably right about that. Right this minute, I don't give a shit. (Wine does that to a person.)

Ch-ch-ch-changes

My brain will NOT let me sleep much later than 4 or 4:30 most mornings, which is getting annoying (and tiring). The move will cut a half hour off my commute in the morning, so I'll move up the alarm a little (now set for 4:54, but I don't remember the last time it went off, as I wake up before that) and see what that does. I'm actually looking forward to beginning the packing today--much as I hate the chore, what I hate even more is knowing it needs to be done and not having it done. If I don't have enough boxes to start, I'll either buy some or just start sorting and piling. I'd hoped to have Craw's room for that, but it's still full of his stuff, and I think it's unlikely that he'll have all of his stuff out of here much before I move. Yesterday I bought some packing tape, some duct tape (for the heavier stuff), and some rags, so I can dust stuff as I pack it (and I know a lot of stuff is rather dusty). Yeah, I know, I could have sacrificed some t-shirts or something, but the rags were only about $2.

One of the side effects of my current job is that my upper body is gaining significant strength/muscle--my arms and biceps and shoulders are noticeably more muscular. (If I get to play handball again someday, it'll be interesting to see what effect that has on my game.) Another side effect is that my diet (in the sense of what I eat on a daily basis) has gone to hell in a handbasket. I try to have my bowl of wood chips and burlap bags in the morning, and I probably do that three, sometimes four, days out of five, but I no longer bother to pack a lunch. I end up nibbling stuff all day--bits of bread, day-old baked stuff, the occasional cake scrap with some fudge icing. I try to eat a reasonable dinner, if I haven't had too much crap, so it's not a total loss, but I don't really have lunch, per se. It's cheaper, for sure, and I make an effort to eat more bread than cake, so it could be worse, but it's still a lot of crap.

A lot of the products we make involve a mix of some kind, especially the cakes, cupcakes, donuts, and muffins. Even that stuff has real eggs, milk, buttermilk, sour cream, etc. in it, so it's not just powdered mix plus water (which is pretty common at most places). Our croissants are all butter, which is practically unheard of in this city, and we use butter (as well as something called "puff-flake"--you don't want to know) in our puff pastry, again unlike anywhere else in the city. We use real chocolate in our fudge icing and cocoa in our chocolate buttercream frosting, as well as in our chocolate mousse (again, most places don't use real chocolate). Yes, we use a lot of shortening, but we also use a lot of butter. Yes, we use a whipped-cream base, but we also use heavy cream with it (the base helps stabilize it, which is important if you're going to have a cake sit for more than an hour or two).

I'd say the two things we do best, though, are breads and croissants. As noted, the croissants are all butter--and I laminate the dough by hand, every day. And the bread--lordy, the bread is good. Some of it has shortening or oil in it, but many of the things we make have little or no fat, and a lot use organic flour. It's no wonder I nibble it whenever I can. My favorites are the semolina sesame, the roasted onion and walnut, and several versions of a tomato bread. The miche is dense and tasty, and the baguettes are beautiful and delicious. All in all, they are really exceptional products.

All of this is relevant in part because I have to figure out what I'm going to do. The mixes make life a little easier, but they also make life a little cheaper. If I don't have a location where customers will pay the higher price for the no-mixes products, then I won't be in business for long. The other thing I have to figure out is how much and how hard I want to work. Jefe spends at least 75 to 80 hours a week at the bakery, as best I can figure. He has a good manager in Brad, but Jefe still spends many hours with his hands in dough. Partly that's because he likes it--he wants to be making stuff, not dealing with the details of the business, and he only does the latter because he has to (and his wife and Brad both do a chunk of that). The other thing is that the three people who do the bulk of the rest of the production--the whistler, the baker, and Johnnie--have been there for at least a decade apiece; Johnnie has been there more than 15 years. The people who come in at night have been there a similarly long time. If I buy an already existing business, chances are I'll get the employees, too, which has good and bad aspects.

One of the problems this place faces is that the Hispanic guys resist certain kinds of changes. Jefe and Brad put up a white board in December. It's supposed to be used to list things that need to be ordered and to list things that need to be made. Brad and I are the only ones who use the board. He's tried to get the guys to use it for their ordering, but they just won't, in part because Jefe won't enforce it and Brad can't enforce it single-handedly. (That is, one could only order things listed on the board, which will eventually mean that there aren't eggs or butter or something like that, but Jefe will go to the whistler and ask him how many cases of eggs or milk he needs, meaning Whistler doesn't have to use the board. So he doesn't.) It may be that the guys aren't terribly literate, especially not in English (I've seen some of their labeling, and I suspect that's true), but that's going to be the case no matter where I go. (Hell, at this point Jefe and Brad both ask me to proofread whatever they're writing--I sometimes think I could make a living just doing freelance writing for places like this.) The upshot, though, is that Brad or Jefe have to go around the bakery and ask each employee whether s/he needs anything from a given supplier, which isn't terribly efficient. It also means that production is similarly inefficient--whenever Jefe asks Whistler when we're going to have Product X (something that Whistler makes), the answer is always "Tomorrow," because the question is what prompts Whistler to put the product on his production list for the next day. There are some exceptions to this system--Whistler keeps track, more or less, of what cakes he needs to make for the decorated cake orders--but it's how the cookies and muffins and cupcakes get made, by and large. Again, it's inefficient as hell, but it's the way things are done at the bakery, and trying to change it wouldn't work very well. If I buy a place, I'll be buying these systems, too, and I know better than to think major changes can be instituted overnight.

Move to the Music

I might possibly have found a place to live--I put in an application today, anyway. It's in the building I described a couple of posts ago, with the indoor laundry and elevator and so on. The building is U-shaped, with the U facing east (which is the lake); I'm at the top corner of the U, facing south. On one hand, being there means I face the courtyard (except for some lake from the bedroom window), and therefore my neighbors, but I'll be on the 7th floor (of 9), so I should get a fair amount of light. The place is a godawful pit right now (including old food in the fridge), but they'll clean it up. Part of my brain kept thinking that I should Keep Looking! Because there's a Perfect Place out there somewhere, and for less money! But fuck that. It has a gas stove, a big kitchen, a big dining area, hardwood floors (except in the bedroom), lots of closets and built-in drawers and shelves, a window in the bathtub, it faces south, and it has an indoor laundry room. Oh, and it will cut a half hour off my commute in the morning, and it's three blocks from the lake. Thanks to the day I spent wandering from hither to yon and back again, I know that there's a lot worse to be had for the same price in the same neighborhood, and I really (really, really, really) do not have the energy to expand the search to some other (theoretically) More Perfect neighborhood.

On Sunday, J is going to meet me, with her car, and we're going to pick up boxes from the Brazen Tart, then head to Whole Paycheck and then come back here so J can drink wine and watch me pack. I've started formulating a Packing Plan (yes, I know, you're shocked that I'd have a plan or a system of some kind), and now I just have to execute the plan. A yoga friend may also drop off more boxes on Monday, so I can just pack to my heart's content. Woo-fucking-hoo.

My aim is to get out of here by mid-June, if possible; I think Sunday the 18th would be a fine day to move, especially since that gives me Monday to unpack. (I'm capable of being sufficiently organized such that I could probably have 80% of the unpacking done by Monday night if I worked at it. We'll see whether I can actually do that.) That also has the effect of having me NOT moving on our first anniversary. I really wanted to avoid that, though D doesn't seem to mind so much. I saw him and the Kid tonight for the first time in a couple of weeks. It was great to see the Kid, and to see D, for that matter; we have things to discuss that can't really be discussed in front of the Kid, but it was a nice dinner and I'm really glad we did it.

Meanwhile, I'm rather exhausted. I like getting the overtime pay in my paycheck, for sure, but working the hours is draining. My back feels something like a 2x8, except without the flexibility of a board. And this weekend is going to be a festival of chores: the apartment is, once again, one of the circles of hell, in terms of neatness and cleanliness (even I, with my nearsightedness, can see the crud in the tub), and I have laundry. And packing. Did I mention the packing?

All those fine thoughts of going through my possessions and weeding things out . . . well, let's just say that expediency is going to be the watchword here, rather than thoroughness. Years of living in small apartments (rather than, say, a house) helped me curb whatever packrat tendencies I might have had--hell, if I suddenly bought a house, I wouldn't be able to fill it with what I own. (I find that thought depressing sometimes.) I keep thinking I should be working on my Master Plan, my Long Term Goals, or whatthefuckever, but then I remind myself that I have a lot of chores to do in the next six weeks, and those have to take priority. I have limited time and energy--I can't steal 15 minutes while at work to deal with the cable company, for example--and I have to focus on the necessary. And did I mention the packing? My yoga teacher suggested deep breathing while I pack--and some rock and roll on the stereo. She knows whereof she speaks.

Signed, Glad They Met

Unhappy, unhappy
You have no complaint
You are what you are and you ain't what you ain't
So listen up buster, and listen up good
Stop wishing for bad luck and knocking on wood
John Prine, "Dear Abby"

Perhaps not surprisingly, I was in kind of a funk on Tuesday, and, while sitting on a bus, it started morphing into feeling sorry for myself. Then my iPod served up the above song, which made me laugh. I met a friend for some beer and free Indian food, which helped with the attitude adjustment. As I talked about my weekend, I realized that part of what had been so unpleasant was the lying I described in the post below. (The post makes it sound like I knew that at the time, but I didn't.) Talking about it definitely improved the situation, too, in the sense that I was able to figure out what was giving me mental indigestion.

Oh--I promised you all the story of how my parents met, didn't I? My mother and M have been friends for nearly their whole lives, and M is the one who told this story to the assembled multitudes. My father espied my mother and decided he wanted to know her. As luck would have it, my mother and M were in a wedding that my father attended with a woman named Antoinette. My father--whom I have seen dance MAYBE six times in my whole life--came trotting over to my mother to ask her to dance, and every time he did this, my mother grabbed M's fiance and made him dance with her. My mother didn't know whether Antoinette was a girlfriend or what, but she wasn't comfortable having my dad abandon his date for her. After about five tries, dad figured out that mom wasn't going to dance with him. Luckily, however, one of his friends lived next door to my grandparents and mother (and I had heard this part of the story before), providing him with additional opportunities to talk to her. Then, because M's fiance was in the army, whenever my mom and dad went on a date, they took M along--the three of them would even go to the drive-in together (and my mom would fall asleep while my dad and M watched the movie). (My dad said on Monday, as we talked about this in the car, that he should have told everyone that he dropped M off first at the end of the evening.) They started dating in July 1955, got engaged in November, and got married the following May, 50 years ago tomorrow. Kinda cool, really.

Weekend with Emma's Family

So the worst part of the weekend, I realized last night, was the fact that I spent most of it lying. The very first thing my older nephew asked was, "Where's David?" I practiced my lie on him ("He got a new job recently, and he had to go to a meeting at the last minute"). I told this lie at least 20 times on Sunday. I also lied to the four people who knew the truth (mom, dad, brother, sister-in-law), in that they kept saying they just wanted to make sure I'm okay. Of course I am, I'd say; I'm fine. That's not quite as much of a lie, but it does blur a lot of the truth, like how my head spins sometimes. But I really did not want to go there.

One of the things that was interesting, in a meta kind of way, was to which people I almost told the truth. One was my mom's first cousin; she's a couple of years older than my mom, and I've always thought she was the best. She continues to be active in (and get arrested in the course of participating in) various anti-war and social justice movements, and she has a son in his early 40s who has schizophrenia. Because of my past (I once dated a man with schizophrenia) and some of the work I've done, I've talked to her a lot about her son. Not only did she come out here for the wedding, she came out for my Ph.D. graduation, which I thought was pretty cool. Another almost-told was my first cousin--my dad's youngest sister's oldest son. He's almost two years older than me, but because of how our birthdays fell, he was only a year ahead of me in high school. His younger brother and my younger sister were close in age (only a couple of months apart) and in the same grade in high school. His younger brother committed suicide about 17 years ago, so we were able to talk about our parents and how they've dealt with losing a child. I've always liked him a lot, and I'm glad to get back in touch with him. He was also one of the two cousins who made it a point to tell me that their daughters remind them of me--the daughters have the same color hair as me, wear it long, get good grades, and are . . . strong-willed. That was kind of entertaining, and flattering, if you want to know.

Two of my mothers friends want to work in my bakery--one wants to do wedding cakes (she used to have a cake business), and the other, my parents' next-door neighbor and long-time friend, loves to make bread and would work in the bakery for free.

My younger nephew is scary-smart, though I'm not sure everyone realizes it. First off, he's reading--he won't be six until September. And I don't mean reading simple stuff, I mean reading whatever he comes across. His older brother has apparently taught him multiplication (only through the twos, but still). But most entertaining was the Wagon Experiment. When I got there on Saturday, he was standing in a wagon and riding it down a hill. It crashed and he fell out and bumped his arm and that was the end of that. Sunday after the party we were hanging around outside again--brother and older nephew were shooting their bows again (my brother usually uses his recurve bow against my nephew's compound bow, but bro had pulled out his compound bow that evening--and my nephew was still beating him, I believe). Younger nephew had the wagon on a different hill, and he'd replaced himself in the wagon with a bucket of rocks. (I'd also told him he needed a crash test dummy, so he went and got one of his stuffed animals.) He was setting up rocks on the hill and aiming the wagon at it--and there seemed to be some complicated reason for this. I asked him what he was trying to accomplish with the rocks and he said he wanted the rocks on the ground to strike the axle in such a way as to make it turn. Why, I asked. Well, so when a truck hits something it doesn't flip over (or turns in a particular way, or doesn't go off the road; I forget the precise thing he wanted to have happen). Is the wagon axle the same as a truck axle, I asked. So he took me over to the truck and pointed out the axle. There was also a bit about what happens to the engine in a collision, and where the airbags were, and so on. One could speculate that this is, in part, a reaction to the fact that he was in the truck (a different one) when my sister-in-law hit and killed someone a few weeks ago (an elderly woman ran a stop sign and my SIL broadsided her--it was absolutely not SIL's fault, and she couldn't have prevented it). But one should also notice that my nephew had a whole experiment and a paradigm and who knows what else going on--which I thought was pretty impressive for a five-year-old.

The party itself was fun, mostly, lying notwithstanding. The uncle who's going through chemo was there, looking better than I expected, but still not great. (Ever since I was tiny, he'd wait until I'd give him a kiss and then say, "Best one I had all day." He still does this, much to the delight of both of us.) There was much dancing, though not by me (I don't know how to dance, really), except when the cousin mentioned above snagged me and when younger nephew got me out there. I also for the first time heard the complete story about how my parents met, but that will have to wait for a subsequent post.

Toast

I found out Sunday morning that I was giving a toast Sunday afternoon, so I wrote it out. I also brought it back with me, so I'll share it with you while I write more about the weekend:

On behalf of [mom] and [dad}, and on behalf of [brother], [sister-in-law], and David, I want to thank you all for being here today. You all know what special people my parents are, but [brother] and I know, and [sister] knew, what special parents they are. They taught us, by their examples, the value of hard work, and they've shown us that any job worth doing is worth your best effort. They taught us how to live with love and compassion in our hearts. They showed us how to live with devastating loss and with the adversity that is part of life. They've shown us how to enjoy happiness and create and share joy. And so I'd like to ask you all to raise your glass with me and thank them, for sharing their lives and their happiness with each other and with all of us.

Croissants, anyone?

My brain has been deciding that 3:30 or 4:00 am is a FINE time to wake up. I disagree, but I've learned that there's little arguing with my brain on this point. I know that some of it is circumstantial, but some of it is circadian, too; I'm much more likely to do this when the days are long and sunrise comes early. It's catching up with me today, though, and it's going to be a grueling day at work, so I'm not as pleased about it as you might think.

I've been trying to fit a full week's production of croissants into four days; the only upside is that the farmers' markets have only just begun, so I'll probably only make about 2,000 croissants this week. That number will go up to closer to 3,000, as best I can tell, by the height of the markets. I can't make them all myself, at least not in a nine-hour day, so I have to be organized enough to get everyone else involved, too. Wednesday we did almond croissants, which involved Jefe feeding blocks of laminated dough through the sheeter and then through the feeder/roller, the dishwasher brushing the flour off, the machine cutting the dough in half horizontally, me using a plastic guide to cut four-inch-wide strips, Brad squirting almond filling (of which I'd made a huge batch) and egg-washing the edges cut by the horizontal cutter, Brad and the baker rolling the croissants and egg-washing the outside, and the whistler dipping the egg-washed croissants into sliced almonds and putting them on sheet pans. We made approximately 250 croissants this way.

Then we switched to chocolate, and we called in the college guy who manages the front of the bakery to help with placing the bars of chocolate and rolling the pieces up. We only made about 140 of those on Wednesday, but Brad, Jefe, and I made another 175 or so of those yesterday, plus we made over 300 plain croissants and about 65 cinnamon raisin. (I can still handle the ham-and-cheese production, because we don't sell those at the markets.) There's apparently a machine that rolls the plain ones, but one of the belts doesn't work right now, so I sheeted the dough, Jefe cut, and Jefe and Brad rolled the pieces.

I've been making 24 pieces of dough at a time--for those of you doing the math at home, that's 24 6-pound pieces, plus 36 pounds of butter, once the dough is laminated. Tuesday and Wednesday I made 144 pounds of dough, divided into three bins. Wednesday and Thursday mornings, I divided the dough into six-pound pieces (two pieces per floured sheet pan), covered it in plastic, and shlepped it downstairs to the walk-in freezer, where I have to have someone help me actually get it in the freezer. While it rests, I pound the 36 pounds of butter into pound-and-a-half rectangles and put it in the walk-in refrigerator. I then have a little time to do something else; I've tried to have a couple of pieces of frozen laminated dough sitting out to thaw, which means I can make some ham and cheese croissants while the new dough is resting. When it's sufficiently cold, I drag the rack of dough out of the freezer downstairs and wrestle it back to the walk-in refrigerator, and Jefe and I start laminating. Even with his help and a steady pace, it takes awhile to laminate all that dough. After that's done, I give each of the 24 pieces a second turn, then take the rack BACK down to the freezer. I find something to do for an hour or so, including taking a break in there somewhere, and then start production.

In subsequent weeks, I think I'm going to organize production so we do the almond croissants for the week on Tuesday, the chocolate on Wednesday, and the plain and cinnamon on Thursday, and maybe some plain on Friday as well. This also means being sufficiently organized so there's enough dough to do all of each kind on the designated day, and it means being sufficiently organized so I have enough of the other kinds to fill the wholesale orders and produce croissants for the store as well. And this can't be done too far ahead, because the laminated dough only lasts for a week or so (either as dough or as a frozen croissant). My guess is that I'll be getting some overtime, which is fine for me.

Which brings me to the next tale. I talked to my mom last night, giving her enough info about what's been happening here (and I have not told you all, and will not unless/until D decides he's comfortable sharing the info) to explain D's absence tomorrow/Sunday. She's worried about his job and his ability/willingness to support me, so of course her first response (after concern for his and my well-being) is to tell me that I have to quit this bakery thing and get a higher-paying job. I told her I did not want to hear that from her again. She has been the absolutely least supportive person with regard to this career change--shit, she's not supportive at all. The part I really like is how I'm supposed to go get some fabulous high-paying job. Um, mom? I tried that. My failure to achieve that was part of what made me rethink this whole thing. And have you noticed that I don't exactly have a personality or a resume likely to get me a high-paying corporate job? Quite the opposite, actually.

I have to admit to my own anxieties in this regard, and I've realized that I really must start drumming up some side work. The guy who does the computer stuff and website for the bakery says that his customers need people to write stuff for them, which I can do. Basically, I have to find writing, editing, and/or proofreading jobs that I can do on my own time. Of course, I also have to seal the new apartment deal, pack my stuff, and move in the next six weeks, but what the fuck ever. Hardly a surprise that I'm waking up at 3:30 am with little anxieties running through my brain. I'm hoping that I can get through this weekend (including two flights--did I mention I HATE to fly?--in three days) and then begin to focus a little better.

Which reminds me of something my yoga teacher said a few weeks ago. One of the Big-Name teachers she really likes is Gary Kraftsow, though he's not as famous as some of them. He points out that we tend to measure our physical selves with a lot of numbers--height, weight, bench-press ability, cholesterol level, etc.--and suggests three other criteria: lightness of body (by which he does not mean weight, per se); ability to withstand change (which is not the same thing as, say, adapting to change); and ability to focus. By those criteria, I'm doing doing too badly; I can also see the ways I'm not doing as well as I'd like. Of course, more yoga would help in that regard.

Okay, time to get moving here. If I don't talk to y'all until after I get back, you'll understand, I hope.

Candidates for Home

I must have walked five miles today (uphill through the snow in both directions . . . yeah, like this city has any hills), crisscrossing the neighborhood in which I expect to live.

The first building I saw is one of the two candidates for Emma's New Home status: it's a mid-rise (maybe 10 stories), with laundry indoors, and with decent-sized apartments that have big kitchens with attached dining areas and dishwashers. There's likely to be an apartment that faces south opening up in my timeframe; the manager will know for sure later this week. Price? $800/month, with the first month free.

Then I saw a bunch of crap, mostly around $750/month. All had outdoor laundry access. One had spongy floors (I think they put some kind of cushion under the fake hardwood floors), which was kind of eerie. None of the kitchens was tiny, but one was from about 1947. The built-in cabinets in that one were kind of cool, if you want to know, even with 50 coats of paint, but that was a two-bedroom and the guy who showed it to me didn't know what it cost. The one-bedroom in the building was $750, so the two-bedroom was almost certainly over $800. The laundry room had one washer and one dryer, for more than a dozen apartments, which doesn't seem like enough (and what if one breaks down?). One other apartment had a kitchen that's smaller than some closets I've had.

Finally, three hours and too many apartments later, I saw the other candidates for ENH status, or, rather, saw two apartments in the building that likely houses the apartment I'd want. One had a separate dining room ($750), the other had an eat-in kitchen (which really was big enough for my table and chairs) ($725)), and the building manager used to play handball--at one of the places I used to play, no less. He has an Irish accent you could cut with a knife, too. It turns out that a south-facing apartment on the third floor (it's a walk-up building, which means even more stairs to do laundry) is about to come open this week, once they finish evicting someone, and it's one with the eat-in kitchen, i.e., $725, and the manager said he'd try to get me a dishwasher in there, too. If he succeeds, then I have to decide whether it's worth $75/month to not have to schlep down three flights of stairs to wash my kitchen clothes each week. The laundry room is pretty decent, though, so I'd probably just bring a book and sit there while things spun in various machines.

I'm seeing a place tomorrow, too, that looks pretty spectacular, but it has a July 1 date, meaning I'd have about 24 hours with no place for my stuff. The candidates from today would facilitate a June 15 lease, which would enable me to vacate here in a reasonable fashion and would probably also enable me to move on a day other than our anniversary. Part of me is leaning toward the second candidate--I liked the guy who's managing the buildings, and they seem nice and well-kept, and it's clear the owner is willing to maintain them. But indoor laundry AND a dishwasher? If they really will give me the first month rent-free, then the price is nearly a wash over the course of the year (which I hadn't thought about until just now). I'll wait and see whether a south-facing apartment comes open, I guess, and wait until I see the apartment in the 3rd-floor walkup, and decide then. I could keep looking, but I suspect I've seen a pretty fair sampling of what's available, and either of the candidates could be home. Plus, then you guys won't have to read my whining about finding an apartment--don't worry; I'll find some other whine-worthy material.

"Cozy" = "Small"

Things I did today: called my mom and wished her a happy mother's day; went to a yoga class; wandered around looking for apartments in a neighborhood in which I want to live; actually saw an apartment (really nice, but REALLY small; have to think about it); had lunch with the Kid, who seemed really glad to see me, and his father; read through a bunch of ads and identified a dozen or so places I want to see tomorrow; went grocery shopping. Things I didn't do but maybe should have done: laundry; sorting through the bills and such in my mail basket; some more cleaning or organizing (I did do some yesterday, as this apartment had turned into a circle of hell). I have to stay reasonably organized this week, as my flight on Saturday is at 9-something in the morning. I'd been thinking it was noon, but that's actually when I get in. It remains to be seen whether I'm going to have company with me at the 50th anniversary party; it's clear, however, that it's gonna kinda suck for me no matter what happens. If D goes with me, he's going to be miserable, and likely I will be too, though perhaps we can manage a good front. If he doesn't go with me, some story will have to be told to my parents, and a story (not necessarily the same one) will have to be told to all the party guests, many of whom attended the wedding less than a year ago and will wonder where he is if he's absent. Forward to this I am not looking. I keep reminding myself that it's for my parents, that it is NOT about me, that I can get through it and even enjoy some of it, and that what's most important is that THEY enjoy it.

While walking to Whole Paycheck today, I could see the fog rolling in off the lake, which is always a trip. I've always loved fog, and the apartments in which I've lived for the past 12 years have afforded an amazing sight when it happens.

One of my yoga classmates is moving at the end of the month (to the area of town where I want to live, no less), and she's promised me her moving boxes. I'm going to see if That Brazen Tart wants to get rid of hers, too, which will solve the problem of finding the boxes. Transporting them might be a little more difficult, but perhaps not. And even though I'm determined to see a bunch of apartments tomorrow--and, hey, maybe I'll even rent one of them--I've otherwise decided to give myself off from the search until I get back. I'm going to have to work longer hours this week, because (a) we're starting the farmers' markets in a big way this week, which means increased production, but (b) I'm not going to be here next Saturday. (I also wouldn't mind getting in my 40 hours in the four days I'll have to work; that's the down side of hourly work, for sure.)

The place I saw today almost convinced me. It got reasonable sunlight (including a window in the bathroom, which I like), it has a great kitchen area (big stainless steel fridge, nice countertops, dishwasher, microwave, lots of cupboards--not a gas stove, but one of those flat-top stoves, which are okay), it has a washer and dryer in the unit, and it's close to transportation. It's a condo, and the owner is keeping it even though he's moving out. The downside, however, is that it is quite, quite small. I would not have room for my kitchen table and chairs (and I kind of like them, even though they're getting kind of in need of a cleanup), the desk would be a squeeze even though it's a small desk, and I'm not sure all the bookshelves would fit. I saw a different apartment on Friday, and the dealbreaker on that one was the have-to-go-outside-and-down-three-flights-to-do-laundry part, plus the walk from the el to the apartment is through a not-great area. Given my current occupation and the need to do laundry frequently, the former will wear exceedingly thin in February. The apartment was very large, though--too big, almost. (I feel like Goldilocks--too big, too small. I'm holding out for just right.)

I had a nice conversation with the guy today. I told him that with every apartment I've ever had that I really liked, when I walked in I thought, "This could be home." I almost felt that today--the washer/dryer is extremely appealing, and the kitchen is nice, though small--but I think I can get more space for that price, even if I sacrifice the washer/dryer and dishwasher. A surprising number of apartments have dishwashers, so I could get lucky on that one. I found a penny today; maybe the luck will carry through to tomorrow.

Habit Forming

Maybe sheetrocking wasn't one of Sully's favorite jobs, but like most physical labor, there was a rhythm to it that you could find if you cared to look, and once you found this rhythm it'd get you through a morning. Rhythm was what Sully had counted on over the long years--that and the wisdom to understand that no job, no matter how thankless or stupid or backbreaking, could not be gotten through. The clock moved if you let it.

--Richard Russo, "Nobody's Fool"

I've been thinking about habits lately. My yoga teacher suggests that we notice our habits--which way do you cross your arms, or clasp your hands, or sit cross-legged? We fall into patterns, unthinkingly, and our bodies "grow" that way. Sometimes it's helpful to not just notice those patterns but to try to change some of them and see what happens when we do that. (I try not to set up my mat in the same place every time I take a class.)

We get into mental habits, too--ways we respond to people or situations--and I think our habits feed off of each other, in good and not-so ways. It's one of the factors in what's been happening in my head: one of my fears, since this drama really escalated, was that, even if Craw managed to change some of his more undesirable behaviors, I'd either keep looking for them, or keep seeing them. Another factor is that I know he is capable of some kinds of change, because I've seen it with my own eyes--but I've also seen the habits that have persisted. And I'm sure he could say the same about me; one of the things that's true when you spend a lot of time around another person is that, if you're paying attention, you really can say, "I know how you get." When we first got together, for example, one of the habits Craw had was to store up grievances. In his last marriage, one did not bring up issues when they occurred--oh, no; one stored grievances. Why? Because if the other person had a grievance, then you could bring out one or more of the stored grievances and brandish it/them. Whoever could pile up the most grievances in a given battle "won" the title of Most Aggrieved, and then the other person had to eat shit; it was an all-or-nothing game. I wanted absolutely no part of that particular game and not only refused to play, I denied the legitimacy of the game. To his credit, Craw gradually pretty much gave it up, too; he didn't enjoy playing it, and I think he realized that I absolutely was uninterested in playing it. He falls back into it sometimes, but I think he'd really rather not readopt it as a way of airing one's grievances. In any case, Craw and I did fall into habitual responses. We could discuss which ones were helpful and which ones not so much, but they really weren't all bad.

The other thing, though, brought to mind by the quote at the top: the creation of rhythms or patterns--which aren't so different from habits, in at least some ways--can ease the flow in ways that are ultimately useful. If you're trying to turn out a consistent product and you're doing the work with the same tools every day (and especially if you're doing a bunch of it--like shaping croissants--by hand), then you'd better find habits that enable you to do that. Just as the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result, it's also the case that you can't do things differently every day and expect the same result. The trick, I suppose, is figuring out when you want to get the same result and when you need to change what you're doing so you get a different result.

Ready . . . Set . . . Move

The building manager called yesterday and wondered if I would be interested in getting out of here by July 1, because there's someone in the building who for-sure wants the apartment then. So I'm going to tell her yes, which will save a little money, which means I have about six weeks to find a place to live, sort and pack everything, and move. Sometimes you gotta say what the fuck. Time to enter the Zone--you know the one. The one where you make lists and do the next thing on the list without thinking too hard about it, and then cross it off and move to the thing after that. If I can get moving boxes in here by next week, I'll be in pretty good shape, I think. (Or so I tell myself.) I'll need someone to drive a rental truck for me, but I bet I can talk S into doing it if he's around, and I know he's capable of it. (I have a driver's license but you really don't want me to use it, and especially not for a big truck. I would have nightmares about this--literally--if I let myself think about it.)

I saw Craw's new place today, and it's pretty nice. It's a little on the small side, but, given the sequence of events, he ended up in a pretty good place. (That is, he probably could have gotten more apartment for about the same or a little more money, but this way he didn't have to completely break a lease that was only about a month old, he could move within his building, etc.) He doesn't have room for all of his stuff, meaning he'll have to store some things somewhere, but, realistically, he could also move when this lease is up next year, and he can manage nicely in this place in the meanwhile.

We still haven't figured out what to tell my parents: Craw really doesn't want to go to the 50th anniversary party, but what excuse is plausible but not hurtful? Work is probably not a good excuse; what employer would demand that you skip your inlaws' 50th anniversary party? Feigned illness requires something dire enough to prevent attendance but not so dire as to raise alarms. As of now, they all still think Craw's attending, but it's on the 21st, and the RSVP date is this Friday, so we'd better come up with something soon. And I'm trying not to think about flying, which I'll have to do and which I hate even more than driving a car.

Gone

I keep forgetting to tell you that she of the gasoline thong got fired. It's not clear whether she mouthed off to Jefe's wife one too many times, or didn't follow a rule one too many times, or had to go get her kid at school one too many times (one of her kids is diagnosed with childhood bipolar disorder and is on a raft of meds, including antipsychotics, and has behavioral problems), or some combination of all of those. It's much quieter around the bakery, and the hispanic guys still walk through the kitchen calling out "Excuse me!" the way she used to do. I found her entertaining in many ways, and interesting, but I figured it was only a matter of time before she got canned; she has almost no impulse control. I think it's fear, mostly; she was in an abusive relationship for quite awhile, and I think she's afraid of letting go of the behaviors that she thinks helped her survive that.

In other news, Craw and I had a long, occasionally tear-stained phone conversation yesterday. In part thanks to an email exchange with Larry (thanks again, Larry), and in part thanks to (another!) conversation with J the other night (she is redefining the meaning of "friend"), I began to get some clarity on some things yesterday. I never expected Craw to provide everything for me (emotionally, psychologically, financially, entertainment-wise, intellectually, whatever), but that was perfectly fine (I think expecting the everything is misguided, anyway). I expected to get some of what I wanted from various other people and relationships and so on, and I expected he would do likewise. We also have different tastes in a variety of things. For me, then, my relationship with Craw was a fabric, woven of the time we spent together, the time we spent sharing the things we did like in common, the time spent working out the details of living with someone, etc. In other words, the partnership, and the trust at the core of that, were what held the other whirling bits together.

The issues that Craw and I described in earlier posts are not new ones: we've gone through variations on the same theme more than once or twice, and there are other difficulties we haven't discussed much here (and won't). This latest round really blew the center out of things for me, though. I don't know all of the reasons why it was worse this time--certainly one reason was that we were married, i.e., it seemed like even more of a betrayal to me. I have no idea whether I could have eventually trusted Craw again--maybe yes, maybe no. But what do we have without that part, without the thing that was holding the center together? Yes, we both miss going out to dinner on Sunday night; we agreed that we'd managed to work out an equitable sharing of the chores; there are the everyday things that you have when your lives are intertwined. But those aren't enough, by themselves, I don't think.

I could not give Craw more than an uncertain maybe--I didn't see the path back, but was perhaps willing to believe it existed. Craw didn't want to wait; he wanted an answer, either so he could work on things with me (whatever that turned out to mean), uncertain though that path was, or so he could move on. Plus, around the time he moved out--end of March? early April?--he met someone new, and they are apparently more compatible in many of the ways that we are not (music, for one thing, which is extremely important to Craw). Bad timing, yes, but there it is: if Craw and I were to decide to try to work things out, it would be difficult, at best, and neither of us really knows what "work things out" would mean. (And why, really? That is the question up against which we keep bumping.) On the other hand, he can start over with someone new, someone with whom he already seems to share a lot. If I'm not in a position to say "yes," then it seems to me I should just let him be, even if I'm not absolutely, positively sure that "no" is the right answer.

I'm tired, when it comes down to it. We've had the same damned discussions, over and over. Would we have more of them, or has Craw changed (or is he in the process of changing) enough of the behavior that was at the root of them? Would I be able to trust him, even if he has changed? Who the fuck knows. It's not fair, in my mind, to either one of us, to stay in a relationship that doesn't have a foundation of trust. And here's where my inexperience is relevant, I guess: I hadn't been in a committed relationship in nearly 15 years when I met Craw, so I don't know how these things go. I don't know when to keep fishing and when to cut bait, and I don't know what criteria I should use to figure that out. I believe, in principle, that one should try to work things out, but I also know that one reaches a point where that's not the right thing to do (though the reasons why are myriad). The short version, for me, seems to be a question of which path is less likely to increase the pain, both in the short term and the long term.

I'm also terribly, terribly sad. I can still find the anger, yes--that's definitely there. But the grief is starting to make its presence felt, and it just grabs me by the throat (or the heart, more like), luckily mostly when I'm alone. Craw is slowly but surely moving everything of his or the Kid's out of the apartment we shared. Last night I reached to turn on a light--and it was gone. (It was Craw's and I knew he was taking it, I just hadn't noticed until that minute that he'd taken it.) Today I stumbled across a copy of our marriage license (it was in a bunch of papers on my desk), which was wrenching. I hate this; I hate it. And I don't know that there's an alternative that would be an improvement or that would result in something better for both of us.

Phone Me

I am an idiot. I got a new cellphone, because I could. That is, even though my old phone worked okay, it's getting old, and it's (literally) been through the wash--it stopped working briefly, but Craw dried it out and brought it back to life for me--and I was switching plans anyway, so I asked if I could get a new phone and they said yes. Anyway, it's a flip phone, which actually would not have been my first choice. So today I'm on the landline with Craw and the cell rings and I manage to answer it long enough to arrange a callback later, and I get back on the phone w/ Craw and mention that I haven't figured out how to answer my new phone yet. "Is it a flip phone?" he asks. Yes. "Just open it; that answers it." I laughed hysterically--I had no idea that that's how one answered the phone--I kept looking for a button to push. And, really, laughing is good.

Next Up

I've been writing a post, but it's not a happy shiny one, and I haven't decided whether I want to put all that out there on the internets. My head continues to spin, in some ways, because I'm still dealing with a dry drunk, so we have festivals of denial, self-justification, rationalization, accusations, etc., when we try to get together, but, of course, it's all My Fault--if only I would make the decision to work things out, then we could make a go of it somehow. Ah, fuck it, I don't feel like writing about this tonight.

In other news, my boss, Jefe, is trying to convince me to compete for a spot on the team that would represent the US at the Coupe de Monde. It would involved videotaping myself making croissants; if, as a result of that video, I was invited to compete at the regional level, I would do that locally, where I would have eight hours to make three products; the regional winners compete at the national level for a spot on the team; the team itself practices for a year or so before the competition. Of course, I don't have any expectation that I could actually get to the top levels of this, so it's not like I have to really worry about the costs involved (which would be considerable). But competing at the regionals could be interesting, and my boss seems to think I could do it.

Yesterday, for example, another local pastry chef came in, bearing croissants for Jefe to examine. This other chef also went to the school I attended, albeit eight or nine years ago and he has his own shop, but Jefe isn't so impressed with him (even though this other guy apparently thinks they don't even need to bother holding the competition, as he's clearly going to win it). After the other guy left, I noodged and asked what was wrong with the other guy's croissants. Jefe grabbed one and showed how the dough was too stiff and didn't have enough surfaces showing to get through regionals, then grabbed one of mine and pointed out that it had four surfaces, the dough wasn't too stiff, etc. (By surfaces he means basically how many twirls in your croissant; I can't really explain it w/o pictures.)

So we talked some more--where would I practice, I asked. Well, I could make something each day in the bakery (and the bakery could sell the products), and then come in on Sunday when no one's around and do everything. (That means giving up one of my days off for the forseeable future.) I contemplated a ricotta filling that could be used in a pastry, and he thought it sounded good. He loves my croissants. Etc.

The real question is whether I can (a) move all my worldly possessions, (b) deal with the drama that is what's left of my marriage, (c) put together some kind of business plan, not to mention a plan for what I do next, and (d) put in the time necessary to do a good job in such a competition. Something would have to give on that list--and I really hate to give up all my free time, because my sanity depends on having some. On the other hand, Jefe went to France and beat the French, and he could (and would) teach me a lot. Something (else) to think about, eh?