to have gone missing for so long. I have been working constantly, as two of my fellow bakers have gone on vacation, and another one is slated to leave next week. Everything here is otherwise fine. I am just tired and feeling as if I have no life, but I can’t turn down the hours and I am sure it won’t be like this forever.

Meanwhile, tell me a little about yourself in the comments, if you’d like. Some of you have kindly emailed me and introduced yourselves. Others I have yet to meet. Or, if you don’t want to write about yourself, tell a joke, or tell me about something you cooked lately that was scrumptious, or something you did that was fun, or something you bought that was cool. Anything is fine.  And I didn’t understand Bonnie’s comment either. Bonnie?

Starting at the top of my head, he softly ran his fingers across my skin, following his fingers with a trail of kisses and whispered words of my beauty. I closed my eyes and he kissed my eyelids, tickled the sides of my face with butterfly kisses as we both laughed at how ticklish I was. “What happened here?” His fingers traced the scars on my forehead, barely noticeable by then, signs of a little girl who didn’t listen when told not to scratch her chicken pox. He found the mole on my neck with fingers and tongue, traced the lines of my collarbone, and shushed me when I tried to stop him from pulling my nightgown all the way up and over my head. We had made love before, but I had always kept an article of clothing on, trying to hide my scars, the stretch marks on my breasts that had appeared seemingly overnight when my breasts had sprouted out so quickly as a young girl, my rounded belly, my full thighs, the birthmark that no one had seen except for family members, back in the days when I was still young enough to run freely in a swimsuit, to slip in and out of swimming pools without a thought of my body and its flaws.

“Even your fingernails are pretty”, he whispered, and he took the time to slowly rub his thumb over them as he held each finger in turn. I smiled in the darkness, happy that I had taken the time to paint them before he had arrived.

His hands didn’t linger on my breasts; instead they found my stomach and I tried pulling the covers over my midsection to hide. He pushed the blankets away and I replaced them with both hands. “I am….fat.” I said, and I could feel the tears spring to my eyes. “No”, he replied, gently removing my hands and replacing them with his, “you are soft and beautiful.” He stroked my stomach in slow circles, slipped a finger into my belly button, and ran his hands down to my thighs. He looked at my knees and then back up at my face, his eyes asking. “Roller skating down a hill in shorts, third grade.” It was getting easier somehow. My breathing had slowed and I was starting to relax. He almost had me believing what he had said earlier about wanting to really know me.

The part of me who couldn’t believe I was spread out naked on a bed while I let my first love touch every square inch of me was shushed by the other part of me who was intrigued by his desire to bend me this way and that way, to find out the story behind scars I had forgotten about, to listen and to reassure over and over when I would become overwhelmed with insecurity.

He kept all of his clothes on. I can still see his hair falling into his eyes, his red flannel shirt open at the neck far enough to flash a fraction of his chest, his tight jeans straining to hold his erection, one he stopped me from touching every time I reached for it , his hands gently grasping mine and leading them away.

It was now time for my calves, summer’s reminder resting there in the marks left by mosquito bites I was told not to scratch but I could never resist. I recalled how it felt so good to finally dig my nails in and scratch until the blood ran. My mom tried spanking me, tried forcing me to sleep with socks taped onto my hands but even then I would rub at my legs, longing for relief from the itchiness, not caring at the mess that I made of my legs and the scars that were left there. I found myself feeling stupid in the retelling, and “No, I can’t remember where the scar on the sole of my foot came from.” I would hear the story from my sister years later, a “Don’t you remember that time you stepped on…” but by then he would be long gone.

He slowly turned me over and started on the other side.

***

I saw him at a party many years later. We both had children, were in relationships that appeared to be promising. He was drinking beer, avoiding eye contact, looking a little green in the face. He approached me later and offered me a beer but I was not drinking at that time; I was still breastfeeding. I shook my head and said, “No thank you. I don’t drink.” His eyes met mine and the corners of his lips turned up as he said, “I don’t believe you.”

I felt a flash of anger as I quickly walked away.

Later, I was sitting in a lawn chair watching our children play together in the grass and he plopped down easily into the chair beside me. I envied him the bottle in his hand. He was no longer green in the face but flushed with the slight red of alcohol. “Hey!” he said suddenly, “Have you seen my hand?” I turned toward him prepared with a witty comment about not having seen him or his hand in years but his eyes were earnest, almost pleading, and his hand is outstretched. I was uncertain what I was supposed to do with his outstretched hand so I lightly traced the scar with my finger and broke the uncomfortable silence by asking the first thing that popped into my head, “Did it hurt?”

I immediately wished I could go back and time and take back my stupid question, but he didn’t laugh. “No Tam, not too much.” And then he began to tell me his story, the accident, the hospital, his surgery and subsequent recovery. I listened and soon I was no longer angry at him, just emotionally exhausted. I listened and I wondered if he remembered that night so long ago.

“Death is caused by swallowing small amounts of saliva over a long period of time.”
George Carlin

Thank you for the laughs George. I wonder if you’re finding out the seven words you can’t say in heaven.

I have been spending some of my time talking on the phone and emailing my cousin, the one I wrote about here; the one I didn’t go see when he was in Portland. We’ve had a magical ability to communicate with each other since we met in 1983, and I do believe him to be the only person who can say, “Cheer Up!” to me without making me either feel worse or making me want to snap and get homicidal. I wanted to apologize to him for my lack of civility when he was in the city but it didn’t end up even needing to be explained. This man, he is marvelous in the way he is fully able to just move on. It has been nice having someone to talk to. Honestly, Alex and I never had long in depth conversations, except of course for the time frame when we were using drugs that never wore off and we used to talk for hours, bonding over pharmaceuticals. Steve (my cousin) has always been incredibly supportive of whatever I am dreaming of doing, and it’s nice to have someone like that in my life once again.

Like most people I get moody and bitchy; sometimes I don’t feel like talking to anyone and I just want to be left alone. If I act like that for a few hours or a few days even it is inevitable that Alex will ask what is wrong. The thing that has always set me off, and we have lived together since I was 15, so that’s really a lot of times I got pissed off by this, is the way he asks me. He will say, “What’s wrong with you, anyway?” The tone of his voice, the way that the emphasis is placed on his enunciation of the word wrong, the whole thing always gives me a rush of anger and I usually answer with , “Nothing!” On occasion this will end it, but sometimes he will continue with, “Well, obviously something is wrong. You’ve been acting funny and…” I won’t pretend that I am an easy person to live with. My moods swing wildly, and sometimes I want a lot of attention and I get clingy and needy with him, and then other times I don’t want to talk to anyone in the world and I long for my own bedroom, one with a lock on the door, just so I can have the solitude I crave.

Lately we have been so busy with both of us working too much and sleeping different shifts, rarely are we in the bed at the same time due to our work schedules. Sometimes when we go through stages like this I forget that we are just busy, tired, and stressed and I really believe that he doesn’t love me or give a shit one way or another how I am doing.

I have brought this topic up to him numerous times, this constant feeling I have inside of me that I am not loved by him. He has always listened to me when I try to explain what I imagine is missing when I say not feeling loved, but he struggles to show me his feelings, and I feel bad for not being satisfied when I know that he is just loving me to the best of his abilities.

One of the main reasons for my decision to try to end my drinking habit is the fact that my stomach has been bothering me for weeks now. It is a horrible burning sensation that I knew could be related to the fact that I was drinking mostly coffee or alcohol, taking my prescription medications on an empty stomach and not eating properly. I bought TUMS and those little individual pepto bismal tablets and I’ve been stashing them into my purse and into my pockets when I have to go to work so if I need something to try to ease the burning gut it is readily available. The pill holder that Alex bought me to stash my emergency Klonopin into seems too small these days. I need a medicine cabinet I can wear as a backpack.

I never mentioned to Alex that my stomach was sick or why I haven’t been drinking alcohol or coffee. The other night I was on my way to work and my cell phone signaled that I had a text message. I looked at it and it was from Alex. Usually it is something regarding the kids, or a request for me to pickup something from the store. This time though it was a question he’s never asked me.

Alex: Are you alright?

Me: Yeah, why?

Alex: Because your stomach has been bothering you for weeks and I was wondering if you are feeling better.

I was stunned, honestly, but more than anything I was touched. In one text message he was able to convey more concern than twenty years of living together has ever done. Gone was that anger I feel every time I hear, “What’s wrong with you, anyway?” Apparently, are you alright is OK with me. Maybe we should text to each other more often instead of talking.

“ Why must you always be around?
Why can’t you just leave it be?
It’s done nothing so far but destroy my life
You cause as much sorrow dead
As you did when you were alive”

SINEAD O’CONNOR You Cause As Much Sorrow

I worked the graveyard shift Saturday night. As I’ve mentioned before, I work with mostly men. A few of them are veterans, and hearing them tell their stories, if they even can, and seeing the consequences they are dealing with now as a result of seeing more violence in a few years than anyone should ever have to face in a lifetime is heartbreaking. One man told me not to come up behind him; he can’t handle it. I’ve tried to walk heavily when I am entering an area he’s working in. He told me of working as a medic in the combat zones and trying to come to terms with losing 80% of his men. He told me of shooting them with morphine when they were hit and holding their hands as they died because, as he put it, “no one should have to die alone out there.” I asked him if he was treating a fellow soldier with a fatal wound and that man asked if he was dying if he told them the truth, or no. He said he always told them they were going to make it, no matter what.

Another veteran soldier tells no stories, ever. He shakes his head “No” and walks away slowly. I wonder how they feel about the people who drive around with yellow ribbon stickers making statements “I Support Our Troops”. I know that they received training that they could parlay into other jobs but they hide on night shifts and don’t use their GI Bill for college, not yet anyway.

A couple of them have erupted at work, showing anger and frustration by throwing things, swearing, yelling. Me being me, with my own issues; I get scared when this happens. Saturday night when one man blew up I moved away quickly and tried to work in a far away area. There’s a new woman on the maintenance crew; she was on her first night. I was trying to breathe through a panic attack and fighting the urge to run out the door when she came up to me and asked, “What man did that to you in your life, made you afraid like that when someone yells?” I was a bit taken aback. We’d only been introduced once and her name had slipped out of my head as soon as I heard it.

“Your Daddy?” she pushed, and I just nodded, not wanting her to think I am in an abusive relationship now. She nodded back and smiled. “It’s gonna be O.K.”, she said as she walked away.

Later on we were all sitting outside on the patio chilling out and relaxing at the end of our shift. I decided to tell my coworker that it had scared me when he blew up like that. He looked surprised and then sad. “I’m sorry! Sometimes I just need to let off a little steam and then I am fine.” I nodded, but I felt better having said my truth.

The conversation switched to Father’s Day and everyone reminded everyone else, “Call your Dad and tell him I love you and thank you!” I remained silent. The woman whose name escapes me said, “My father is deceased, thank you very much.” She glanced over at me and asked, “You too?” I nodded in the affirmative and she asked me how old I was when it happened.

“Twelve”, I answered, “I usually call my Mom and wish her a Happy Father’s Day but she’s out of town this year.”

“Me too! I call my Momma on Father’s Day too!” and then she rose and sat right down beside me, pulling out her cell phone. She texted her Mom so I could see, “Happy Father’s Day, Momma. I love you.” and the reply came quickly. “Thank you baby. I love you too. Signed Daddy Momma”

As she picked up her belongings and prepared to leave she told me, “Every bit of fathering I needed I got from my Daddy Momma, even before he died when I was 17.”

I know what she means and even though my Mom is in Australia right now and I have no way of calling her because she’s traveling about the country I sent her an email when I got home from work on the off chance she might stop into an internet café or something. It took me a few years, but I’ve finally been able to convince my Mom that she can check her email from anywhere in the world. She thought that it lived inside of her computer only.

***

Thank you all for your wonderful dessert ideas and opinions. I printed everything out and I look forward to getting back into the kitchen to try out some new recipes. I get bored making the same old things every night so hopefully getting to play around with the dessert specials will help. The comments that even took the time to say sweet things about me and my writing were a pleasant surprise. Maybe I should ask you all for advice more often. Do you think that now that I have hit the ripe age of 35 I should cut my hair above my shoulders? What about the color? Continue to get it highlighted at a salon even though I can only afford to do it once a year and I always have roots, or go back to doing it at home the way I did when I was in my teens and twenties?

***

One last thing, before I go. For those of you who have been following my stories, ChefHisName called and offered me a job. I actually considered it for a second because it would be a Mon.-Fri. day shift, but it’s several dollars less an hour and the benefits aren’t as good. Plus, and this really sealed the deal, the job was as a breakfast cook and the thought of cooking eggs for 200+ people every morning is more than I can stomach. It was nice to learn that he wasn’t just feeding me a line of bullshit when he said he’d keep me in mind for another position.

You go out for a nice meal. What do you hope to see on the dessert menu? We have been running dessert specials so I am hoping to get some ideas in that will sell well. The chocolate lava cake was a big hit.

Any and all thoughts greatly appreciated.

I have known for quite some time that I have been drinking too much. There is admitting it to yourself and then there is the part where you actually admit it to yourself. I don’t know how to describe the difference. I guess I can say that although I knew that at times I was being excessive with it, I wasn’t willing to take any steps to change my behavior until I started to notice that alcohol was having negative effects on my life. So I decided to stop. I had a really bad headache for about four days and that gnawing anxiety like I was going to just chew my arm off if I didn’t get a drink into me, and quick, but now I am feeling better.

Now I can see things like how I always planned out what I was going to drink on my time off from work or when I went out. Just in the last few days I’ve felt that something was missing, and that is sad. I am hoping that soon I will feel better. I have been taking time to eat healthy foods and to drink lots of water.

I felt that now that I was really honest with myself I would be honest here too. I am going to drop the crutch and start hopping.

***

Ashleas, I did read your comment on my last post and it touched me deeply.I wasn’t sure how to respond. I know what you are saying and I wanted to say to you, “Go home and see your Dad.” but then I wasn’t even sure if that was the right thing to say. It’s always struck me as odd with all of the “How are you?”s and “Take Care”s that people throw around how little we reach out to those around us. I hope that you can find someone to talk to and a group if you want to be a part of one, but please know that you can always drop me a line and I am here to listen.

Bonnie, I hear you on the being hungry and still unable to take a half of someone’s sandwich when offered. I’ve been there, done that too. The part that kills me is if I found out that someone around me was hungry and felt as if they couldn’t ask me for help it would break my heart.

Just recently I’ve been having trouble eating anything (see part above about too much alcohol) . There are a few men who come in each night and clean the floors of the restaurant. I get a free meal each night as a perk of the job but I haven’t been eating anything. The other night it occurred to me that they might be hungry and so I threw together a meal and gave it to them to share and they were so incredibly grateful. Now if I see that one of the chefs is going to throw out food that is perfectly edible I’ll stash it away for when the maintenance guys come in and give it to them. I realize now when I see the excitement in their eyes over the food how hungry they were the whole time.

The other night I was being teased pretty heavily (which is par for the course in the industry) by one of my coworkers and I was getting pretty burned out on it when one of the maintenance guys stepped up and told the other man to lay off me. “I look out for her. Cut the shit.” was what he said. And then it was over. I can remember making eye contact and smiling but I don’t even know if I said thank you. I don’t know if if needed to, honestly. Sometimes I feel there are so many words and other times I think so much of it is total bullshit; we have actions so why the fuck is there so much useless talking?

Most of the men I work with have been very kind, but that one guy in particular I mention above seems to have gone above and beyond. I have to admit that I fear sometimes that this was motivated because he knows that I am not OK, that he can look at me and tell. I noticed the other day when I was alone in the kitchen that he rattled his belongings before he entered. I looked up and he said that he was trying not to scare me by popping up unexpectedly but he could see that he had failed. “I wasn’t scared”, I told him, “I was startled.” Then I laughed, because I wasn’t sure what the difference was. “Never mind me, I have baggage” I mumbled and he said “Yeah, me too”, and briefly I saw his hand rest across his heart.

I have been feeling out of sorts since I started working again. I think that it has something to do with being now forced out of my self imposed isolation back into life. I see people socializing everywhere around me; groups at fine restaurants with candlelight faces, huddles over morning coffee and scones. I feel at times a pull to be a part of a group once again. I haven’t been able to maintain a friendship in years. I don’t want to have to explain my sometimes total lack of ability to function. The real me shows through the cracks on the surface anyway. A coworker stops me at work the other night, “What’s wrong?” I told him I was just feeling mad, but then he wanted to know why, and I could only shrug and turn my face down until he walked away. I was hot, tired, had been in front of the oven for hours, and I was longing for a chance to take a break and to get something to drink. I thought of asking him to bring me some water but I couldn’t. I couldn’t leave the oven because otherwise I would burn something, and I couldn’t ask a fellow worker for a glass of water. He stopped by later and glanced at my face, checking for something. He broke out in the biggest smile I’ve seen in ages and I surprised myself by smiling back; a real smile. I searched for some meaning in the smiles but shoved it away, knowing my tendency to over think everything.

“I feel as if I have been standing in front of this oven for hours and hours.” I told him. “That’s because you have”, was his reply, because there are no clocks up there by the oven and I wasn’t really sure how long it had been. It was a busy night and time flew by.

Later he tried to arrange for me to get a ride home when I was finished but I brushed him off, telling him I had a bus to catch. I don’t want to get close to anyone again. I don’t want to make friends or have other people being concerned about my well being. I just want to hide in plain view.

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.