Plaster Dust

Success! I now have a shelf on the bathroom wall (albeit with three screws instead of four, because the guy at the hardware store recommended screws that were WAY too big, but I had three of the right size sitting around) AND I have my pots hanging on the kitchen wall (screws, anchors, and cup hooks; I'd originally thought a pegboard, but once I got to the hardware store, that seemed like way more trouble than it was worth, and more money, too), which means the mixer and the food processor are under the cabinet rather than on the counter and next to the freezer, respectively. I suppose it's possible that there could be too much counter space, but I doubt I'll ever personally be faced with such a situation. It's also probably the case that it would have been smarter to do all of this stuff and then clean, rather than the other way around, thereby necessitating doing some of it twice.

Saturday was an 11-hour day at the bakery. In addition to the usual 120 pounds of croissant dough (out of which I made approximately 500 croissants), I had an extra 30 pounds of dough, out of which i made 130 curved croissants. (Jefe and I referred to them as "shitty" croissants for awhile, because the roll-in fat is this nasty-ass margarine; we had to change our terminology so we didn't inadvertently call them that in front of the customer. We don't sell them in the store, because they're for a wholesale account, and everything about them offends me.) I also put together 16 dozen mini-pastries. These are basically our various sheet cakes iced with their proper icings and cut into 1.5-inch by 1.5-inch squares; we can also do mini-eclairs and mini-cream puffs and mini-cannoli, but I avoid all of them like the plague because they have a bunch of extra steps. At the end of all of that, I had to do the final assembly for two leaf tortes, or mousse tortes, or whatever we call them: basically, chocolate layers with chocolate mousse between, covered in this very thin Tootsie-Roll type substance and with a fucking endless frilly spiral of the same substance on top. Jefe showed me how to do the TR-substance months ago, so I end up having to do it whenever that cake shows up. As a result, I put in nearly my 40 hours last week--37, I think--which is good. Even with some overtime this week, the next check will be a little light, but not as light as I'd feared.

I got lots of sleep (for me) this weekend, though that didn't mean sleeping late. Sunday I slept until 5:45 . . . except, with the clock change, it was 4:45. Today I slept until 5, I think, though I crashed early last night. I managed a short walk yesterday and today, and I may even manage another one today.

I've been thinking a lot the past few days about being a freak, but I haven't gotten around to writing it down yet, and I have a phone call in 15 minutes (about doing some web copy for one of my clients), so it's going to have to wait.

Daylight

I sit here shuffling the deck of stuff in my head--all the shoulds (go to a yoga class; get some writing done so I don't have to do it all tomorrow; take a shower; rebraid my hair; run the dishwasher; pay some bills; get the writing done), and some of them are even want-tos. But the motivation level is pretty low. I have managed to get most of the clean laundry moved from the couch, and I even cleaned the bathroom this morning, and did about 15 minutes of yoga, plus my mom and a friend called already, as did the friend/ex-boss for whom I'm doing the writing. (Yes, mom is talking to me again, though I assiduously avoid all but the most general discussion of my work as much as possible.) My friend called early--7:00 maybe?--but of course I was up. I slept "late" today--it was nearly 5:45 when I woke up!--but then I realized, once I set the clocks back, that it wasn't so late after all.

I'd really like to hang some things, but, in the case of the living room stuff, there's no point, since they haven't painted yet, and in the case of the bathroom shelf, I need to get screws and anchors and a drill bit (my drill bits disappeared in the move). One of the side effects of living in a crappy/"changing" neighborhood is that a lot of the things I took for granted downtown are simply not here. The hardware store was across the street; the grocery stores were numerous and close. Here, the nearest hardware store (or the nearest Ace, anyway) is nearly two miles away, and closed on Sunday. (On the other hand, if I go tomorrow, I can also go to the public library, which I've been meaning to do.) There's a hardware store right next door to the bakery (and I'm in there about once a week for something for the bakery), but the times when I remember what I need and the times when I have the time to go the hardware store for myself don't always coincide. There's a half-decent grocery store near the el stop, but it's really only half-decent, even if it's a thousand times better and closer than the corner stores in really shitty neighborhoods. So, even though I've fallen back into a lot of the habits of living alone, I haven't changed my routine--the routine in my head--to accommodate the new neighborhood.

Here's a good thing about this apartment that wasn't apparent until recently: I'd thought that it would get a lot of sun because it faced south, even though it faces a courtyard, because I'm on the 7th of 9 floors. It didn't seem to get much direct light, through the summer and even into the fall, but I've discovered that it gets a LOT of light right now, probably because the sun's lower in the sky or something. That's a very good thing; I love sunlight in my living space, especially in the winter. Now I just have to get the materials to start a new needlepoint and I'll be set.

I've decided I need to go outside today, if only for the opportunity to wear something other than (a) chef clothes or (b) at-home lounging clothes, which usually consist of a t-shirt or fleece shirt (depending on the temperature) and loose cotton pants. I was out for a couple of hours Tuesday night, but otherwise those two sets of clothing are all I've worn for close to two weeks. It's sort of interesting to me how much I miss wearing "civilian" clothing. First, though, a shower is in order. And some writing--did I mention that part?

Fermentation Boogie

Bread class is officially over--I've been dispensing fermented things all over the damned place, and I still will end up with a freezer full of same (as soon as I buy some foil). The guest chef was a great guy, and, since he's a friend of Jefe's we'd heard about each other. The class didn't make much--in the sense that the students didn't really do much mixing, although we did a fair amount of shaping--but a ton of stuff got made. Baguettes all three days; miche (though he used white rather than wheat flour); roasted garlic bread with some rye flour in it; some decorative breads done with baguette dough, as well as pizza and focaccia done with same; croissants (yeah, I know; a buswoman's holiday for me); brioche, in several different forms; and a bread with a lot of potatoes in it. We also talked a lot about sourdoughs and starters and poolish and fermentation and bulk fermentation and proofers and retarders and so on, which was the valuable part. I can learn a lot of this stuff from Jefe, of course, but when do he and I have 21 hours to sit down and talk?

One student in the class was this guy who used to build aircraft or something, and apparently did a lot of home baking. By the middle of the first day, he was Pouty McFrown--he felt like he was in over his head, and, as he said today, all he saw was all the things he'd been doing wrong. I tried to talk with him a couple of times, encourage him in various ways, but he was determined to be stuck in a Not Happy Place. It was kind of strange. I know that I've been around a lot of this stuff for awhile, but he'd apparently been baking before, and, dude, if you are an aircraft engineer, you're probably not an idiot. But he was basically saying that he wasn't going to bake any more. Which, I don't know, seems kind of extreme and wrong to me.

Meanwhile, I was looking forward to being able to write off some of my educational expenses--the tuition I paid for this course, for example, and the interest on my student loan--but, apparently, one cannot claim either of those things if one files one's income tax forms in the "married, filing separately" category. Which blows; I was counting on those deductions. And why? What's the logic behind that restriction, i want to know?

I should be doing some other writing right now. I finished one proposal, but I have to get the other one done--preferably by tomorrow, but I'm not sure that'll happen. We'll see. I have no motivation tonight; what I really want is to sit in front of the TV with a glass of wine and call it a day, and, hey, I may yet decide to do that, despite the folded and clean laundry that's been on the couch since Monday afternoon. They had a little buffet for us at the end of class (pate, cheese, and some of the wads of bread we'd shaped), which means I don't really need dinner. After the buffet, I got to talk to the chef who'd hooked me up with Jefe (I forget what I called him; let's call him Bill). He's a great guy, and definitely one of my supporters; he suggested I ask Jefe for more money. Which I'll figure out how to get up the nerve to do, eventually. I won't get enough to allow me to live on that alone, but even another couple dollars an hour would help some. It would also allow me to stay there longer--as it is, as I've been writing here, I really have to start looking for something else, probably something not in baking, unless I can make a little more money and get a little more time off. Chef Bill noted that you don't make any money in this business unless you work for yourself, but i've detailed the challenges in that scenario--here and in my head--ad nauseam.

Still, a little more money would mean I can keep doing this for a little longer and see what happens. Right now, I'm running close to full speed just to stay even; it would be nice to be in a position where I can (a) continue running close to full speed, but end up ahead, alternated with (b) occasionally stop running quite so much.

Wait; what's that? Is that the wine calling to me? Why, yes, I believe it is. So I'm going to get my writing ready for tomorrow and answer that call.

. . . Singin' Doo-Wah-Diddy-Diddy-Dum-Diddy-Doo

I had written this long-ass post, but I reread it yesterday morning before putting it up, and I decided it was more of that whining shit, and that I needed to drink a nice big cup of shutthefuckup and be done with it. In short, you're not going to have to wade through another pity party over here at Chez Goldman. I'll say that it was a rough weekend, at times, and be done with it.

I had dinner Saturday with Dave and the Kid, and I had a good time with them. I don't have any idea how to go about this, so I'm just feeling my way around. The Kid and I have been in each other's lives since he was 17 months old--he turned 9 in August--so I'd like to find a way for us to be able to continue doing that. Dave is for it, too, so long as the Kid is for it, and the Kid sure seems to be. It's difficult for Dave, and me, too, and i truly appreciate Dave's efforts, despite those difficulties. And Dave loves his new job, which is also great.

I finally got all of the damned croissants made yesterday and today, which means I get to spend three days making bread. (It also means the freezer is crammed full of croissants.) I kind of like working on Sundays, because i get to pick the radio station, and I turn that fucker up LOUD, and I even sing along (under my breath, though, because I can't carry a tune for shit). Brad was there yesterday, and, though he tends to prefer more head-banging stuff, his head was bobbing, too--Emma and Brad, starring in "Rock 'n Roll Bakery"!

I still have not finished my writing, largely because I still don't have the info I need to do so. I should have a chunk by tomorrow, so I'll get up at 4:30 to get downtown, race home after bread class, work away, go to a concert (yes, I know--remember, sleep is for the weak), and then do most of the same thing on Wednesday (no concert Wednesday). Thursday there's an alumni thing downtown for my college, and I might go, if I get enough done. Friday it's back to the croissant production, and I told Brad that if and only if I get the writing done, I'd help him Friday night for a few hours (because Jefe won't be around and one of the other night guys won't be around). I would kind of prefer not to, but I could use the hours, and what the fuck.

Sooner or later I'm going to need to sleep, or, more to the point, go to sleep with no alarm clock set. Of course, I'll still wake up well before dawn, but it's the principle of the thing. And the being able to stay up late without a sense of dread, and the ability to lay in bed and even have some tea and watch the sun rise over the lake.

I've also decided I need to (a) set up a website so I can (b) advertise my copyediting, proofreading, and editing services--there are multiple universities in this city, and I suspect a couple of flyers and a website to which people could go would get me some bidness. We'll see.

You Oughta Be in Pictures

Yesterday was something of a clusterfuck at the bakery, though in an instructive way. First off, Jefe is giving a "demonstration" on Sunday (yes, day after tomorrow), and the place he's presenting doesn't have any equipment, so he wanted to take a DVD with him. Except he doesn't have a camera, so he borrowed one. Except it isn't digital, it actually uses 8mm tape. Except he had no way to edit it. So I said, "Hey, I have iMovie, maybe that'll work." Except I have an old version of it, and the guy who transferred the file put it into a format that neither iMovie nor Quicktime can read, though the DVD does, in fact, play. I added bookmarks to it (though I suspect they're a function of my Mac, not on the disc itself), and, more important, wrote down what's where. I won't be able to move things around into the desirable order, and I won't be able to edit out the numerous shots of people's butts, but it'll be a nice backdrop, of approximately the correct length, for his demonstration.

While we were taking turns with the camera (Jefe and I did most of the filming and "performing," though a few other people made guest appearances), or, rather, in between times, Jefe was up in the ceiling, installing a hoist so he could hang his new machine (it makes little sourdough rolls that the Brazen Tart's restaurant is using; we're supplying their dinner rolls these days). We now have two machines hanging from the ceiling, as the muffin dropper is up there, too. But really, did we have to hang the machine the same day as we were doing all the filming? Apparently we did.

And, really, if he'd mentioned this a week ago, we could have gotten the video, in the correct format, and I could have purchased Tiger and iLife, which I've been intending to do anyway, and he could have had a first-class production, minus shots of people's butts. We give new meaning to the phrase "just in time."

He made an interesting comment today, though, after he returned from dropping off the tape, to the effect that the video guy wasn't exactly a baker. What he meant by that is that the guy was kind of yammering away, and dicking around, for 45 minutes, without actually doing anything with the tape, i.e., he could have begun a process while Jefe was there, instead of putting it off awhile. As I've said before, if I weren't female I wouldn't get to sit down all day some days--there isn't any time or space to put up your feet, or take a leisurely lunch, or surf Teh Internets. One of the problems into which I run occasionally--and Wednesday was a perfect example of this--is that I often have about an hour to kill while the dough gets cold, before I laminate it. So I volunteer for something, if I don't have almond filling to make, or pans to fill, or raisins to soak, or whatever. Wednesday I was making chocolate curls (with a big bar of chocolate and a potato peeler) to top this dessert thing we had to send to a local hotel. A hundred of them, as a matter of fact. Well, this took more than an hour, and it had to go out the door, and I wasn't going to stop in the middle, so I got behind with my own work. As a result, I've already worked 39 hours this week, and tomorrow's likely to be another long day, plus there was the three hours tonight in front of the computer. As I've said before, overtime, baby.

But I'm tired, and I'm fighting off a cold (with only some success; I've been hacking all day), and I still have to do a bunch of writing, and I'm working Sunday and Monday so I can do the bread class Tuesday through Thursday, for which I'll have to get up a half-hour earlier. I'm not really complaining, mind you, though I'm sure it reads that way (as I said to a friend earlier tonight, sleep is for the weak)--but it is bringing home to me the fact that I cannot do what I'm doing for the long haul, and probably not even for the medium haul, which means I have to figure out what I'm going to do instead. I still prefer the "win the lottery" option, but that's not been very successful.

So, in a display of weakness, I guess, I'm heading off to bed.

Adornment

There's been a big whoop-de-do lately, about makeup, shaving, heels, femme adornment in general, etc. Twisty is always good for stirring up some shit, and, over the weekend, Jonquil and Ron Sullivan (who's my new blog crush) weighed in with their own commentary. The comments to both of those latter posts are interesting, too. What eventually struck me about the whole thing is how gendered the whole discussion is--when is the last time you heard/read men defending their choice of clothing, whether they shave their body hair (or rip it out by the roots with wax), their personal adornments, etc.?

That is, what's important about this whole thing, to me, is that women feel compelled to make and defend their choices, and their feminist (or femnine) cred becomes attached to those choices and defenses. Which, in itself, is a commentary on the totalizing effects of patriarchy. I find it fascinating how often a woman defends not/adopting a particular practice because of how it "looks" on her (certain styles, for example), or never having learned how to do it properly (usually makeup), or some bad physical reaction that ensues if she does try to adopt that practice.

And it's not trivial, either. Random strangers (and family members, often enough) feel like they have the right to deliver their opinion on a woman's appearance, particularly if some aspect of it isn't sufficiently feminine, in their judgment. Other women claim they've never been subject to such sexism, not once, nope, never--which, I'm sorry, you haven't been paying attention. Still others claim that True Feminists wouldn't do x, where x = wear makeup, shave, wax, wear heels, etc. The point is, a lot of people are spending a lot of time enforcing one or another dress code--for women. This, in turn, necessitates women defending the choices they make (with or without some consciousness of patriarchy's influence on the choices available and the selections they've made among those choices). The fact that we can and do defend the practices we adopt means that we are at least aware of some aspects of the expectations, i.e., the patriarchy has wormed its way into our heads.

I get kind of tired of enforcers in either direction, to tell you the truth, but I think it's more interesting to see someone make an argument that a particular commonly accepted (or expected) aspect of feminine grooming or apparel is, indeed, anti-feminist in some way. I'm not a fan of the "shaving is bad, and any woman who shaves is caving in to the patriarchy and isn't a True Feminist" approach, but I think a more reasoned argument, detailing (a) why or how a particular practice is patriarchal and (b) how that practice does actual harm, either to the woman who does it or to other people, is a legitimate argument, even when I don't agree with the particular case.

I have to admit that I also get tired of the many women who want to say, "I just do what I do, and it has no relationship at all to the gendered culture in which we live. And I LIKE wearing thongs and having my pubic hair pulled out by the roots with hot wax." That kinda can't be true. You may not want to think about it much, and you may not have experienced a whole lot of obvious (or subtle) sexism in your life (though I think it's more likely that the patriarchy has trained you particularly well), but that doesn't mean it doesn't exist.

So, really, I'm joining the chorus that's asking women to think about the choices they make, because we are the sexbot class, whether we believe it or no. And that, of course, is why it's women who have to think so much about their personal grooming, adornment, and hygiene practices.
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On a completely unrelated note, Susie's dad died, and her remembrance of him is beautiful.

In Which I Channel My Mother

who is speaking to me again, by the way. After the congestive heart failure brouhaha--during which I called several times to check in on her well-being--she just up and called me last Sunday, and we both pretended nothing had happened. We also carefully avoided (mostly) the subject of my work and my well-being. Hey, whatever; I've realized that my relationship with my mother is the most unhealthy relationship in my life, in that I wouldn't put up with the kind of crap I get from her from anyone else, but I've also become largely (though not completely) immune to it. I can't change her behavior, I can only change my reaction to it.

But that's not my point here.

I managed to score a ride to Whole Paycheck yesterday, so I could shop for groceries without worrying about how to get them all home. I do this about once a month, which seems to be sufficient. It makes for a whopping bill, not least because there's almost always a couple of higher-ticket items, but I've budgeted for it, so it's not a big surprise, either. So yesterday, Newman Os were on sale, including the ginger ones, which make me swoon. I stocked up: one of the original ones, one with chocolate instead of cream filling, and four (yes, four) of the ginger ones. I figure I'd've bought them anyway, and 70 cents off per pack was sufficient impetus to stock up in a marginally serious way (which is the mother-channeling portion of the program). I bought a bottle of olive oil, without which I probably could have done, despite tonight's pesto-making operation; pine nuts, of which I bought about twice what I needed for the pesto-making; laundry detergent; two bottles of body lotion, because my skin sucks that stuff in all winter; and a lot of frozen veggies (broccoli and spinach, if you want to know). I managed to bypass most of the fresh produce, except for some bagged salad that was on sale: I know, but still have to keep reminding myself, that I can go ahead and BUY that fresh bit of something, but the likelihood that I'll use it before it turns into a science project is pretty low. I might as well take some cash and set it on fire.

Yesterday I got my basil: I deputized (and gave $30 to) one of the guys who works in the bakery and who was working the farmers' market yesterday. He bought the basil--and I'm here to tell you that $30 doesn't buy nearly as much basil as it used to do--and gave it to our delivery guy, who picked it up when he picked up the rest of the stuff left over from our stand at the market and brought it back to the bakery with him. And, yes, I made pizza yesterday.

We have a new crop of help in the bakery, and one of the kids is tall, cute, and Mexican--and if I didn't know better, I'd think he was flirting with me a little. Not in any big-time way, mind you, but the vibe is kinda there. It's amusing, not least because I am old enough to be his mother--or even his grandmother, depending on how old he actually is. I suspect he doesn't know how old I am, either. And, hey, maybe I can get him to teach me Spanish. Between him and the friend who took me shopping last night (who is bilingual and who may be able to get me some teaching tapes), who knows, maybe I'll be able to pick out more than every fifth (or twenty-fifth) word. If I (a) learned the verb forms and (b) picked up some vocabulary, I'd probably be on my way, and I suspect the guys at the bakery would be entertained by my efforts and would be helpful.

Today, despite the nice weather, I chained myself to my computer and hacked away at one of the proposals I'm writing. It's a challenge, not least because I don't know this new agency very well, plus one of my contacts will be on vacation this coming week, which is when I have to do the bulk of the work. I'm a little worried, actually: I have to work next weekend, so I can do that bread class (which could have been more inconveniently timed, but not by much) the following week, and these things all have to be written by the 25th or so. I think some sleep will be lost along the way.

Things about my apartment that kinda suck, now that I've lived here awhile: There's no radiator in the bathroom, which is the only room in which I typically want a radiator. Plus, the window in the shower is going to need shrink-wrapping, because cold air kind of comes through there into the shower, which really won't do. The apartment shares a wall with the stairwell, which can be loud. The walls and ceiling look like they have measles, thanks to water damage--but I expect they'll fix that.

As long as I'm complaining, I have to bitch about my uterus, which, with its fibroid-laden self, is making me extremely peevish; the near-constant spotting is just annoying beyond belief. It seems that there's some kind of estrogen surge right before menopause, and, since estrogen makes fibroids grow (and the lack of estrogen makes them shrink), I think that I'm in the middle of that surge. And, of course, the fibroids are, indeed, one of the conditions that seems to be making me difficult to insure, even though (a) I've been treated for them, and (b) once I hit menopause, they'll shrink pretty dramatically. Insurance companies suck, and not in a good way. I have to solve this insurance problem, but it's going to have to wait a couple of weeks, given the current schedule. Feh. Single-payer system, I want you now!

Dead Dreams

Now those memories come back to haunt me
they haunt me like a curse
Is a dream a lie if it don't come true
Or is it something worse
that sends me down to the river
though I know the river is dry
That sends me down to the river tonight

--Bruce Springsteen, "The River"

I went back and looked at last October's entries yesterday, in part because I've been playing "last year at this time" in my head. Last October, Dave found out he'd be losing his job, and my company had crumbled; I was in pastry school, making chocolate and sugar sculptures, and still thinking I could open my own business. Still thinking I'd be with Dave, for that matter.

I've been telling myself that (a) I can get by on the combination of the side work (proofreading/copyediting/freelance writing) and the bakery, at least for now, so (b) I don't need to make any decisions about what I'm going to do until January. But the panic wells up inside, fighting for emotional space with the sadness. I know I can't do this particular combination forever; the bakery work is physically demanding and low-paying, which means it's also time-consuming. There are no benefits and no paid vacations. I'm 48 years old, and, hey, I'd like a day off once in awhile.

I also wonder if I can or want to start my own business by myself. The failure rate for new businesses is extremely high, especially for food businesses--more than 90% of restaurants fail in the first two years. The whole thing was predicated, in part, on Dave supporting me for awhile (as I supported him before we were married), giving us a cushion while I got the thing going; clearly, that's no longer an option. In addition, I see how many hours a week Jefe works (80, maybe?), and, even allowing for (a) efficiencies I might be able to build in and (b) ambitions for a smaller business than he has, there's not much likelihood of anything but long hours and low pay for the foreseeable future. It also ties me to whatever location I'd choose; you can't move food businesses.

In short, I've started thinking about alternatives. Can I find an office job I don't hate? There's another big question, seeing as how my inability to find a job was part of what prompted this change to begin with. But what kind of job? Can I find one that pays enough and that I don't hate? And does that mean the baking dreams are dead, even though I'm good at this shit?

And so on.

I try to tell myself that I DON'T HAVE TO THINK ABOUT THIS UNTIL JANUARY, DAMNIT, SO STOP ALREADY, but I don't listen for long. None of that is the least bit productive--it (what a surprise) tends to distract me from the writing/editing I should be doing instead, though I can make croissants and obsess about these things well enough. (Hey! I'm a multi-tasker!)

And then there's all the stuff from the dying marriage to contemplate as well; that's a fun subject for my brain, too. Another dream in shambles. Feh; I'm whining again, and that annoys me even more.

I had a long talk last night with one of my best friends, in California, and that helped some, not least because he thinks I'm pretty fabulous and he tells me so. He can commiserate, too, because he has the hardest time finding a job (he's unemployed again); he keeps finding a job, digging himself out of a financial hole . . . and then something happens and he loses the job, either because the company goes out of business or his boss is a nutcase who wants to hire a friend, or something. He's one of the two or three smartest people I've ever met, and he knows how to do all kinds of things, which makes it difficult to get hired, it turns out; most places, especially places run by half-bright HR people, are suspicious of people who don't have lots of obvious straight lines in their lives and work histories.

Anyway, it's time to make the doughnuts, or, rather, the croissants, because they still won't make themselves. Pizza today, too. I have to say that my croissants have completely rocked the house the past two days; we must have a good batch of flour or something (seriously; that makes a difference), and my lamination has been really beautiful.

Added: On my way to work this morning, my iPod served up this song first, in some kind of karmic harmony, I guess.

Ooooh, that smell . . .

that smell of wet plaster.

So after that last update, I realized that the walls and ceiling of the kitchen AND living room were oozing wetness, as was the hallway into the apartment (?!). I quickly moved the electronica, especially my computer, which I need to be able to earn enough to pay the rent, into the bedroom. I called the emergency number again, again got noone, so I went upstairs to the building manager's apartment (luckily I knew which one it was) and woke her up. She woke up the engineer, they started dealing with the problem, and I went off to work (sans shower, however, which makes me a little grumpy). Indeed, things had stopped dripping by the time I left, even if everything was still wet.

The building manager left a voice message for me around 9 am and said the problem was fixed, etc., and when I got home, it more or less was. There's still wet plaster, of course, and lumps and bubbles from said wetness, but--as the Polyanna in me noted--it could have been a hell of a lot worse. I need renter's insurance immediately, of course, but not owning a car makes that a little more difficult, evidently. I just kept thinking how lucky I was that it happened (a) at 4 am and not, say, 9 am, and (b) in the fall, meaning I can open my windows tomorrow to air things out. It's humid in this city in the summer, which would probably leave me moldy, but I'm hoping this will work out.

I'm beginning to think I was a really horrible person in a previous lifetime . . .

Crash! Bang! (drip, drip, drip)

This is getting ridiculous.

This morning, I was awakened at 4 am by a loud crash from the kitchen. Figuring I had put something in a precarious position, I got up to investigate. Nope; not that. My kitchen light fixture had filled up with water and exploded, a second one of the glass globes was filling as I watched (it's nearly full now), and the whole fixture--or, at least, two of the three globes--are leaking a steady stream of water. I called the emergency number, but, of course, it's some guy's pager, and he, unlike me, is asleep. I expect the second globe to come crashing down at any moment, so, needless to say, I'm not hanging out in the kitchen. And given the combo of water and electricity, I'm not trying to fix it myself.

I'm also not getting any more sleep this morning; that adrenaline rush from a loud crash pretty much obviates that option. And I think I'll skip the cereal this morning, seeing as how significant portions of the cereal-getting operation would require standing near the about-to-blow second globe, the broken glass I couldn't quite reach, and the steady stream of water from the first fixture.

Update at 4:36: And there went the second globe. Meanwhile, the third globe has started to fill--for symmetry, I suppose.

And then . . .

And then I was turned down for health insurance today. I'll try another provider--but get this: they might accept me, but exclude coverage on a particular condition, which, of course, would be the goddamned reason I need the insurance. Fuckers.

Water, Water, Everywhere

What I did not mention below is that my mother is still not talking to me. So yesterday my sister-in-law calls me and informs me that my mother has been suffering from congestive heart failure the past couple of weeks. Her kidneys have been failing slowly but steadily for the past five or ten years, and she's on a transplant list, but not quite yet on dialysis; looks like that's about to change. Presumably, that's why she had ten pounds or so of extra fluid. Of course, the diuretic they gave her had some kind of sulphur in it, to which she's allergic, so, after a couple of days, she started throwing up. She stopped taking that medication, but hasn't gotten through to the doctor (Monday was Yom Kippur and the doc hadn't called her back yesterday) since that. I called her on my way elsewhere (and, of course, she was still snotty to me; sickness doesn't deter my mother), but someone apparently came in so I'll have to call her back this morning on my way to work. My brother and SIL remain in the dark about the subject of my mother's pissation with me, though apparently my father mentioned to them that she had hung up on me without giving any details. I've restrained, rather than put my brother in the middle of it. And, really, the real reasons my mother's pissed off at me haven't changed in 48 years.

Blather

I've been neglecting you all, and I'm sorry about that. After last week's mini-vacation, my nose is back to the grindstone: in addition to that croissant-making thing, I've got several side things going on now. Believe me, I'm NOT complaining--that's how I'm going to pay the bills, after all--but it does mean a seven days/week schedule, pretty much. The advantage to the side work is that I can do it in bits and pieces, and I can do it in my underwear rather than in an office. I can also take breaks from it, which I do. Yesterday, for example, featured a lovely walk in the woods, complete with the sighting of a 9-point buck; we crept along and eventually got quite close to him--maybe 30 feet away? These woods are large and full of deer, but the deer don't have any predators other than cars, so they're not much spooked by people.

Also, if you didn't see it in the comments: Dave got a job!! He started it on Friday, and it sounds like a great job for him. It doesn't pay enough for him to feel completely comfortable, and the health insurance doesn't kick in for 90 days, but it's a small business, and the owner will, I'm sure, reward Dave appropriately once he sees how valuable Dave will be.

Meanwhile, I've been dealing with a bout of sadness this week. Not depression, just . . . sadness. I don't care how you describe what's gone on this past year--it's just sad. Dave tells me that we're incompatible across a number of spectra (and we probably are), but that's not new. Hell, none of the issues that came up were completely new, for that matter; even his diagnosis had its appearances before, albeit not in quite so dramatic a form. Still, somehow, we thought we could make it all work; I wouldn't have married him otherwise, and I don't think he would have married me, either. And I really don't want to go down the "if only" path--if only he hadn't done/said this; if only I hadn't done/said that. What's the point? We took the paths we took, and we took them in good conscience, in that we never meant to hurt each other and we tried to, I don't know, do right by each other? I failed miserably, of course; it's not just the road to hell that's paved with good intentions. As you can see, I have trouble blaming, though I don't think that's a flaw, exactly; I just don't see the point of pointing fingers. It's just sad. Was it inevitable? Hell, I have no clue. As I said, that seems to be the path of "if only," and I'd rather deal with the path of "is." Here's where we are. Would all roads have led to here, or some other approximation of here? No idea. It'd be easier if I could say that definitively (though I'd still be sad). And if I thought that different paths would have prevented us from getting to Here? We didn't take those paths, and you can't go back. Ahhh, fuck, I'm just babbling.

On a related note, one of the things I'm editing includes a questionnaire that assigns points to stressful events, with the notion that the occurrence of some number of them means you're at greater risk for illness. More than 500 in a year is supposed to be a bad thing; I racked up over 800. What I would really like to do is get more exercise and practice yoga regularly. I could walk home from work a couple days a week, and I could practice yoga at home for free; instead, I do neither of those things and then feel bad about it, which isn't particularly productive. Handball is unlikely for the foreseeable future, if only because adding a $50/month expense for a YMCA membership seems like a bad idea, but walking is free. I'm on my feet all day, so I haven't turned into a total tub of goo, but I miss the endorphins of the exercise (and the game, of course) and the aerobic aspects of it, too. And I miss yoga. I try to do a teensy bit of yoga when I get up, but . . . I don't. Once I get out of work, I just want to get home and vegetate (or do the side work, then vegetate). I know I'd feel better even if I EITHER walked or practiced yoga, but, hey, why not just chastise myself some more? I guess I should move the "no blame" mantra to that area of my life, too.

On a completely unrelated note, what the hell is it with these so-called family values Republicans? They natter on and on, they legitimize and legalize torture, they spout their faith in a deity and castigate others' faiths or lack thereof, they want to control my vagina, they clutch their pearls over consensual sex the last president was having . . . and they turn and look the other way when one of their own solicits sex from teenagers. I've long suspected that the reason they're so insistent on trying to control my sex life is that their own heads are so out of control, they figure (a) everyone else's head must be similarly messy, and (b) since we don't believe in the same deities or believe in the same way, well, golly, nothing is holding us back! Apparently the deity isn't doing much to hold them back, either; guess it's that personal responsibility thing the kids are going on about, eh?

I'd write more about the torture, but others are doing it much better and more thoroughly, and I doubt my six readers really need to be told that (a) it's wrong, and (b) I'm sick to my stomach about the whole thing, because you probably agree with me.