Jean Asks: Tell me how it feels to be a baker….do you feel like you’re an artist or is it a job? What’s your favorite part of the job - or your favorite thing to create?

It just feels like a job to me, honestly. I don’t feel like an artist. I’ve enjoyed the places I’ve baked for that gave me some creative freedom more than the ones that don’t (like this one). Maybe eventually I’ll earn that right. Two of the other bakers are now able to bring in recipes and see if they sell on the menu. My favorite part of the job so far has been shooting the shit with the men I work with. They are funny guys and I enjoy talking to them. My favorite thing to create is bread. I am still in awe of the simple process and its results. Sweets get old very fast; bread never has.

Mary asks: Please tell us about a time when you succumbed to temptation.

Damn, this one is difficult. I was pretty much succumbing to temptation on a daily basis from the day my Dad died until I became pregnant with my son. How about this: When I was 15 Alex broke up with me to date this girl he “had to have” (his words at the time) and I started a new school. I had always been in Catholic school so starting public school was a huge shock for me. One day when we were alone in his classroom my teacher wrapped his arms around me from behind and whispered in my ear, “I had a dream about you last night.” I was stunned and I had no idea what to say. After a couple of weeks of flirting I decided to take him up on his offers to take me out. I still think of him when I hear that Police song, “Don’t Stand So Close To Me.”

ie asks
Is there something you regret doing in your childhood? Or: What’s your favorite color and, why?

When I was a girl I can remember watching my sister Maria sitting next to my mom getting her hair brushed out and rolled in curlers. Maria and I had always been very close and she looked out for me in every way. At this moment though, I can remember being so filled with rage. I felt that Maria was always so good and I was so naughty. I saw her as the personification of all that was holy and myself as truly evil. I got up and walked across the room and punched her as hard as I could. Her face crumpled into tears and I immediately regretted what I’d done. My dad came into the room and smacked the shit out of me for a good long time and I remember knowing that I deserved it.

Favorite color? When I was a little girl my favorite color was yellow. My mom used to use our favorite colors to differentiate between her three daughters; Monica was red, Maria was blue and I was yellow. I started hating yellow and I kept telling my mom ,”I don’t like yellow anymore” but it was too late. Now I don’t have a favorite color. I stick to black, gray and white. I found out a few years ago that I am color blind. I get my blues and greens mixed up and my reds, purples and browns. When Alex found out he started trying to get me to take a bunch of tests but I wouldn’t do it because when I first found out I was color blind they all laughed at me (Alex, Nathan and Polly) and joked about it for days even though it was clearly upsetting me. I hold grudges forever, apparently.

la says:

Guest fee $7.50? Um, guest fee? I think this means if you want to bring a hooker back to your room but maybe I’m too cynical. I wonder how much it costs if you want to bring a hamburger back. That’s something for you to find out!

I immediately thought of prostitutes being brought back to the hotel when I saw the guest fee, but then I wondered about other scenarios. A prostitute getting a room for the night and then having to pay 7.50 every time she brought a john back, for example. Or one person renting a room and then bringing someone else along for the night, and extra $7.50. That hotel is pretty sleazy; I am surprised the powers that be haven’t put it out of business yet. Of course they’ve also been unable to do anything about Old Town /Chinatown either. That area is a complete and total haven for drug dealers, addicts, prostitution, homelessness, etc. I don’t even feel safe there during the broadest of daylight.

Cynthea asks: I love love love looking at the city through your pics. I miss downtown. I used to go to college at PSU. I haven’t been to Pioneer Square (those were the bricks you were walking across, right?) in years. I swore I’d never live in the suburbs and contribute to single person vehicles, and now look at me. Hmmm …
What’s your very favorite building? And why. Here in Portland, or wherever.

The bricks were on a sidewalk down near 2nd and Alder. Some of the sidewalks downtown are brick and I don’t remember that. Now I wonder if they always were, and I just didn’t notice it? I used to love this building downtown that had gargoyles around it. Now I can’t remember where it was. I love the old US Bank down on SW 6th and Oak, I think. I tend to like the old, detailed buildings. I also like the Central library downtown. I’ve spent hours of my life in that library just reading or writing and getting in from the cold rain. Of course they put a Starbucks in it and now I don’t feel the same about it as I used to. I also love old churches. I am not a religious person, but I like to look at the buildings.

Mary asks: Have you ever been to Collins Beach?

Yes, twice. For those who don’t know, it’s a nude beach. I’ve never been one with particularly high self esteem, but I did some topless sunbathing there.

Thanks everyone for the questions. This job is kicking my ass. I only seem to be working and sleeping and trying to get caught up on the housework. I was thinking about buying one of those tiny little laptops so I can type on the bus on the way to and from work. I really miss writing. I have been jotting ideas in a notebook from time to time, but like I said, so tired.

Itty Bitty Napping in His Basket

Maggie May Enjoys the Sun

You Only Give Me Your Funny Faces

4 Out of 5 Doctors Recommend I Don’t Read This Info.

I am Tempted to Pop In For a Cocktail

Walking

The Joyce Hotel

I am Tempted to Get a Room So I Can See What 30 Bucks Gets You

Quit Stalling and Get Your Ass Moving, Tammy

I Remember Getting Free Condoms Here in the 80s, Back When AIDS Was Called “The Gay Disease”. (Yes, it’s a clinic for men, but I had friends who volunteered there.)

They Were Very Nice to Me and I Am Glad to See They’re Still Helping People. I Make a Mental Note to Make a Donation When I Can Afford It.

I Am a Tourist In My Own City. I Used To Love Looking At The Buildings Downtown.

After A Hard Day’s Night I Want a Beer Or Three. They Don’t Look Open.

Working downtown feels filled with temptation.

I have writer’s block. Ask me a question, would you?

Thanks to all my readers for such kind wishes. I am so physically exhausted that I’ve felt unable to post even the smallest update. Supposedly this week I am moving on to four ten hour shifts. Hopefully having a three day weekend will give me the rest I need as well as some time to get some other things done that have been waiting. (Hello, grass, yes I do see that you need to be cut.)

The job isn’t bad, as jobs go. I have already learned some new skills, i.e. pretzels and flatbreads, that might serve me well in the future. Either way, I wouldn’t hesitate to try them out at home as they are easy and would be fun to teach my children. Last week I trained on the yeast breads and pizza dough, this week I am supposed to step into training for the desserts, which look easy enough. The one difference is I am working for a restaurant this time instead of a wholesale/retail bakery as I was last time so the focus for the desserts is on the way that they look when plated. I was a bread baker/ pastry chef at a restaurant years ago, until I left in 1991 to give birth to Nathan, so I am not unfamiliar with the process of only baking for in house use.

I have changed a lot over the years. My body is older, of course, but my mind is very different as well. I don’t sweat small stuff, and the big stuff, well, I don’t sweat it much either. When there is a problem I try to fix it and if it can’t be remedied, which is something that needs to be deduced quickly, I start again. It feels strange to be the old baker. I have reached a point, I guess, where the fact that I have been in this industry since the late 80s and I haven’t achieved a managerial position looks suspect, or at worst pathetic. I wrestled with my ego a bit over this fact. I had achieved the status of manager by the age of 18. I gave that up to have my son and then my daughter and I do not regret that decision Alex and I made for me to stay home with our kids until they were older. I understand that option isn’t available to everyone or even desirable for everyone. I am not getting into the SAHM VS. WFHM argument. Every situation is different. We made a lot of sacrifices to ensure that I could stay at home with the kids and although some assumed that we were very wealthy at the time the truth is we were incredibly frugal.

I offered up two suggestions for items, one for a bread, one for a dessert. Both ideas were shot down, one as too expensive, the other as too played out. It stung a little but then I realized that I am not going to let it bother me. If my boss wants input I have a good eye for what will sell. If she asks for assistance when she’s trying to figure out why that certain dough keeps rising over too fast I won’t offer it up again only to be ignored. There’s a lot of ego in this industry. Some people paid big bucks to attend culinary school. I did my apprenticeships on the job, so I was in fact paid to learn. I am not going to look down on those who went to culinary school and if they choose to look down on me that’s cool. We’re making the same amount of money now, so it might make them pause but instead it seems to give an air of quasi superiority that they can enjoy at their leisure.

I am working downtown which is an area that I have been avoiding for the most part since they started a major construction project that has closed streets and detoured sidewalks. As I was telling my friend Cork, I am dangerously close to the large Powell’s book store now. Must avoid after payday.

I am looking forward to having my own income coming in. I only realized later in life that money can equal power in a relationship and while for the most part Alex has been good about sharing his money with me there have been times aplenty when I have felt less than because I had no income. I also felt as if I had less of a say in important financial matters. I am considering getting a dress made of dollar bills to wear around the house, just because it would be cool. Larger bills would be no doubt cooler, but I am not making that much money.

Anyway, thanks to you all. I have some photos waiting to upload and I am looking forward to finding a way to update on a regular basis. This is what I wish I could focus on, my writing, but it’s not in the cards right now.

I am working. They have hired me as we still await the test results of my urine, which seem to be taking forever. This is going to take me a few days to get used to. Thank you all for the kind support. It really means a lot. I am working at a restaurant as a pastry chef/artisan bread baker. I am getting used to never stop restaurant pace once again. My feet hurt, but my mind feels good.

Hopefully I’ll figure real updates into my schedule soon, plus I haven’t forgotten that I promised the conclusion of the Sophie story.

She had the most amazing ass I’ve ever seen in my life.

I was surprised that I noticed this. It is not a habit of mine. I was walking in my usual head down manner, IPOD headphones in ears, eyes alert to any broken lifted pieces of sidewalk that might trip me, and as I thought with amazement that I still like the Violent Femmes as much as I did in high school, I reminded myself to look up occasionally. She was about half a block in front of me. Her pants appeared to have been custom tailored to her body, hugging her hips and allowing the roundness of her backside to take center stage. Her pants were black with a thin yellow pinstripe; the pockets on each cheek had a flap and a button.

I wondered at what point my own ass had flattened, widened and dropped until it become more like a part of my thighs than a separate body part. I imagined it must have been after childbirth but really I can’t remember that time, age 19; I was thinking of other things, caring for Nathan 24/7.

Her long blond hair hung down her back all the way to the top of where her backside stuck out. It was perfectly highlighted in the $120 and up range. I became aware of my own highlighted hair; ends dry and crisp because I am in desperate need of a trim; roots of a dark blond color that have grown out three inches; my scalp felt itchy all of a sudden.

She wore black boots with chunky heels; her gait was strong, determined, and confident. Her shirt was black as well, tight and clingy material. Her hair swung side to side as she moved. She had a black portfolio under her arm that appeared to be made of leather and the tiniest purse I’ve ever seen, gold in color, matching the stripes in her pants. I wondered with my own breed of strange curiosity what her purse held. Was it a key, a tube of lipstick, a credit card, a twenty dollar bill folded into a rectangle, a single condom? If you had a purse smaller than your own hand, what would you choose to put in it?

She was eventually forced to stop at a light to let the cars pass. I caught up with her. We both stood at the corner staring at the sign with an orange palm glowing its do not walk warning. The wind picked up and there was rain in the air. I’ve lived long enough to feel it coming. I snuck a glance at her face. I’m not sure if my face registered my disappointment. She was a victim not only of the foundation turning her face a horrible orange color but of the not knowing my personal makeup mantra to blend blend blend. She had forgotten her neck. It was a pale ivory like mine, holding on top of it the orange mask, the streaks of blush, the overpowering blue eye shadow.

Flashback Sequence in Italics

For a second I was transformed back to the girl I was in eighth grade; 1986, the girl who was on a personal mission to beautify those around her by teaching them how to care for their skin, to placing towels over their heads as I gently eased them down over a steaming pot of boiled water with herbs floating in it. No food in the house was safe as I smashed bananas and whipped honey and lemon juice with a handful of oatmeal into facial masks and spread it on the faces of my sisters, my mom, my aunt, and my two cousins who were living with us at the time. I told them that I had secret recipes that I had read somewhere that would beautify their skin. Truth? I hadn’t read anything; I made everything up as I went along. I went grocery shopping with my mom, who hated it with such a passion she had completely stopped going when my dad died. I wrote lists and clipped the coupons from the paper, watching for sales. She thanked me for taking over, said she couldn’t handle shopping or cooking anymore. I felt useful for once. I slipped boxes of hair color into the cart when she wasn’t looking, not that she seemed to care about anything anymore. I asked her questions but she was far away, grieving for her husband, dealing with her guilt. She stared off at nothing, not hearing me when it was time to pay. Sometimes I had to grasp her and give a gentle little shake. Sometimes I would come up behind her and wrap my mom in my arms and she would come back from that place she went to and she would let the tears come. “I’m sorry I killed your dad”, she would whisper to me and I would try to say no as I pressed myself against her body as hard as I could while trying to gently squeeze her back together, to make her whole again.

I dyed the hair of everyone in the house save my brother. I instructed those with oily T-zones to powder their noses. I turned the kitchen and dining area into my own personal beauty salon. Everyone sat in my special chair except my brother; he complained to my mom that all of the good food in the house was being spread on our faces or placed into one of the pots I kept simmering on the stove. My mom hushed him with a smile. She said, “Tammy might be a cosmetologist!” I searched the yellow pages for beauty schools, glad to have found my calling. My Mom told me tales of working as a manicurist in Sydney ,NSW. The drag queen clients were her favorites and I imagined them coming to my salon when it opened. Little did I know that less than a year later would find me deeply immersed in the gay and lesbian community here. Little did I know that they would be the ones to sit me in a chair as they shared their beauty secrets with me.

One day, sitting alone, enjoying my cigarette, I envisioned the strangers. I thought of the people I saw on the sidewalks everyday. I imagined them coming into the salon and me having to dye their hair, scrape their feet. I felt sick. I realized then that I couldn’t touch strangers. I was only having fun because it was family I was working on. The various bowls of facial concoctions I had in the fridge developed a sickening impenetrable crust. Everyone ignored them until they were eventually thrown away. I was done.
******************************************************************************

The light changed. She took off like a wind up toy that had been made to wait by the hand of a playful child. I walked slower, nowhere to go in a hurry. I dipped into my medium size purse and extracted a cigarette and lighter. The rain came. The wind picked up. My hair flew about, wild and out of control. The pinstripe girl has ducked into a phone booth. I stop, turning away from the wind and trying to cup my hand around the flame. I have a callous on my thumb from turning the wheel. The pinstripe girl is looking through her portfolio filled with photos of herself. She looks to be 18, maybe 19. She is nervous. The pieces come together in my head right there on the sidewalk. I continued on, inhaling, exhaling, finally arriving at my bus stop.

I watched her, the young pin stripe girl. She tried to smooth her hair, her clothes. Her large breast stood up tall and full. She either had a great bra or she hadn’t experienced the effects of gravity yet. The building she stands in front of has mirrored windows where she checks her makeup, opens her mouth (is she checking her teeth for food and/or lipstick?) she practices her smile. I talk to her in my head. “Don’t worry; you won’t need that portfolio of glamour shots in there. They won’t be examining your face long enough to see your lack of makeup application skills. You will enter a room. There will be a man there, behind the desk. He will ask you to undress. Perhaps he will have you turn in a slow circle. It doesn’t matter if you can’t dance. You will get the job.”

She stood up straight and tall against the wind and rain as she reached for the handle of the door with the No Minors sign. I imagined she took one more deep breath before she pulled on it. I inhaled with her and then slowly exhaled as she passed through the entrance. She is gone now.

Attached to the side of the building is the sign that stays there 365 days a year.

DANCING GIRLS WANTED!

NO EXPERIENCE NECESSARY!

AUDITIONS DAILY!

This is Portland, Oregon, strip club capital of the USA. Welcome.