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.

Friday I had a doctor’s appointment that I had planned on canceling but had forgotten. I got dressed and went even though I didn’t want to talk about my back, or my depression and anxiety, or my should I keep it? uterus. When they called my name I walked in and after passing through the doors I was immediately asked to step onto their large digital scale. I took my coat off as it was my heavy winter one still soaked with rain from the last downpour I walked through umbrella-less and I hung it and my purse on the hook. As I was slipping off my shoes I remembered what my Mom always says before she’s weighed; the joke about needing to take off her 100 lb. shoes. She did it every week when we were in Weight Watchers together and she’s done it at every doctor’s appointment and ER trip I have accompanied her on. My Mom has maybe a dozen lines like that which she laces into her conversations. Decades old and worse for the wear, they are the jokes I used to roll my eyes at and groan with embarrassment over, now I smile just because they are a part of her and she refuses to give them up, even though everyone has heard them all before.

The CMA led me back to the room and after I had sat down on the paper covered exam table she took my vitals. I apologized for wearing a long sleeve shirt, but the young girl said it was okay, she could put the blood pressure cuff over it because it was so thin. I studied the girl’s face as she carefully recorded the numbers. She looked to be about twelve, her hair in a ponytail, her face a mixture of perfectly tiny features that made up her sweet little face. I imagined that I could be old enough to be her Mom, if I’d given birth to her in high school. As she was checking my pulse the sleeve of the long sleeve shirt she wore under her pink scrubs slid up and I saw that her arms were covered with scars from cutting herself. I imagined that she had to wear long sleeves on even the hottest days, and I thought about her cutting into herself, wearing her pain on the outside too. She told me that I had to get undressed and that I couldn’t even leave my socks on. “When I go to the doctor, I always want to leave my socks on because it makes me feel more secure.” she said to me. I nodded in understanding and wanted to hug her but she was out the door, gone, not my girl to save.

My doctor had large dark puffy circles under her eyes. I had never seen them there before, but although she sees me naked, inside and out, we are not allowed to break through the doctor patient relationship and talk about her. She scolded me gently for not having done the two things she had told me to do, go to physical therapy, and get blood work done at the lab. I told her that I knew I should have, but when the woman had called bright and early from the physical therapy department I had listened to her chipper over enthusiastic voice and deleted the message without writing down the number. The doctor laughed at that. I have always been suspicious of people who are genuinely cheerful, especially so early in the morning, because I feel like I am in a Twilight Zone episode enough as it is without surrounding myself with constant happy banter.

The doctor gave me three new prescriptions and I showed her the zit that had sprung up on my chin. It was one of those that lingers, red and throbbing, but there is nothing you can do about it because it refuses to break through to the surface. I told her that it was my worry about going back to work zit and mentioned that I had read in a trash magazine that celebrities have cortisone injections to eliminate their pimples. She said that she had never done a pimple injection before and she wanted me to hold a warm compress on it three times a day.

She flipped through my charts after we had talked for awhile about my back and my crazy brain and exclaimed that I had lost fifteen pounds in a month. She asked me how I had done it and I, having not been aware of the weight loss, said that I had been drinking lots of water and walking my dog. I didn’t mention that I was trying to flush narcotics out of my system. She warned me again about the ramifications of taking any job that required lifting and I nodded solemnly as I thought about telling ChefHisName that I could lift up to one hundred pounds, no problem. She told me she wanted me to find another psychiatrist because she felt like what she was doing, the drugs she was prescribing me, the medication monitoring, she felt it wasn’t working. I knew she was right but I felt weary at the thought of trying therapy again. I told her I’d look for a doctor who was accepting new patients, and inwardly felt nauseated at the thought of sitting in another office with the stranger taking notes and the tissue box pushed closer to my seat as I was told to tell the story of my childhood. Again. Over and over again, just for me, just for them, until one day something in the wiring of my brain reprograms itself perhaps? Until I can retell the morning of March 27^th 1985, walking into a house to find my father had chosen to die, was I supposed to tell that story until I could tell it with dry eyes?

I went downstairs to fill my prescriptions and the café next to the pharmacy was packed with lunch eaters. After comparing prices between the café and the vending machines I bought water from the vending machine, letting that be an opportunity to use up all of the nickels in my purse. I sat staring at the numbers on the pharmacy screen. It currently read 71; the piece of paper in my hand read 85. There was a woman in a wheelchair telling everyone and no one that she had lost her husband of thirty years to cancer. People moved tables to avoid her, and she maneuvered her motorized scooter, carefully zipping up rows in between the groups of patients and employees trying to eat their lunches. Everyone seemed to be avoiding eye contact, not wanting to get caught up in someone else’s grief, and I looked directly at her, committing her face to memory, noticing the long thick grey whiskers growing from her chin. She didn’t come near me. She forced her pain on the other people, the people in the circle that I actively tried to sit outside of.

Finally, unable to stand sitting a moment longer, I made my way outside to the one bench that has been designated as a smoking section at the hospital. Rushed employees trying to hurry and inhale as quickly as possible linger there, as do patients who come outside to smoke, some with their IV poles still attached to their arms, some with oxygen tanks hooked to their faces that I imagine to be flammable.

As I lit my smoke I remembered my cell phone, which I had turned off due to hospital regulations. I turned it on, wondering if ChefHisName had called with the appointment time for my UA. I pressed the 1 on my speed dial and his voice was there, different than before.

“Hi, sorry I haven’t gotten back to you sooner. Uhhhhhhh…….After giving it, uh, further thought, I uh, have decided to uh, um, go with someone less experienced, so ah, um, the position has been, uh, filled with someone else. I, um, uh, will, however, keep your resume on file, and it will, uh, be the first one I pull if I am looking for a Chef or a Baker.”

I hit the 4 button on my phone and listened to the message again. I felt a pang of disappointment, then a rush of anger. He had told me the last time we spoke that the job was mine; I just needed to take the test. Pride came to my mind and joined regret and anger in the party and my ego said, “ChefFucker, you just made a huge mistake not hiring me.”

As I stood there and studied the sky, the people taking advantage of the free valet parking, the old people bringing their even older looking parents into the hospital, (at least they were parent child in my imagination), and the most amazing thing happened.

Usually I am prone to fretting and fussing, over thinking every scenario until it’s beaten to death, bloody and limping, feeling and feeling some more. This time? This time I just let it go. I let it all go, and I actually felt the weight of it leave me. I wondered if that was the secret of the chipper people I so try to avoid, the ones whom I feel so irritated around, the ones who can put on the face and pull out the happy voice.

I walked back inside and the number board read 84. I was next.

After I’d gotten both kids off to school this morning I started to prepare the items I’d sold on Ebay for shipping. My Mom called and asked what I was doing ;I told her and she offered to come and take me to the post office so I didn’t have to carry all of the boxes of books on the bus and then she wanted to go out for coffee. I finished with my packages and called ChefHisName. As soon as he said hello I realized who he reminded me of, that guy who plays Dr. Cox on Scrubs. That helped me feel less nervous. After I’d gotten off the phone I took a shower and kissed and cuddled Maggie until it was time to go.

My Mom was telling me about her upcoming trip to Australia and after I spent too long in the post office (are they always busy?) I went back to the car and my Mom asked where I wanted to go for coffee. I thought it might be a nice treat to actually sit down somewhere instead of drinking in the car so when she was finished talking I told her of a Starbucks up ahead. I decided to go ahead and tell her about the conversation I’d had with ChefHisName. I told her about how I had called him and he’s asked me to come down tomorrow for a drug test and after that and the criminal background check the job is mine. She looked away from the road at a red light and placed her hand on my leg. “Oh, Tammy. I am so proud of you.”

Something had been nagging me in the back of my mind all morning and I hadn’t talked with anyone about it, so I told her that I was worried that the drugs I’d been given in the ER and for a few weeks after I injured my back were going to make me test positive because they were in the opiate family, you know the family that actually works when you’re in severe pain. She snatched her hand away and said “TAMMY!!!” in that voice that makes me feel so little again, that voice that shows me just how disappointed she really is.

I tried explaining it to her, the pain, the not being able to walk, the you just drove by Starbucks but she was just cruising on down the road. I pointed in a direction and said, “There’s a little coffee shop down that way that’s nice.” As I snuck a look her face was set, her lips gone, her eyes facing forward. “”What time is it?” she asked, “I have a lot to get done today.” We rode the rest of the way to my house in silence. I was sorry that I had trusted her with that, kicking myself for thinking that she would understand.

When I got home Alex was still awake. I hadn’t told him about the call either and so I crawled into bed beside him and told him that I was afraid that I was going to fail the piss test. He told me about the drug tests he’s taken and how they ask him if he’s on prescription medication first. I imagined writing out the list of medications I am taking. I imagined ChefHisName, or ChefCox, as I think of him now, reading the list and shaking his head at his foolishness. He actually mentioned something today about a position where I would be a supervisor [oh my god I haven’t had to keep track of kids who aren’t my own in three years] and now this fear in my head after I’d told him I’d have no trouble supervising a crew. “No Problem!” I had replied.

Anyway, Alex talked me through my fears and when I asked what about a hair follicle test he said with a straight face as he eyed my hair hanging all the way down to the middle of my back, “Hair Follicle? You’re fucked!” There was something about the way he said it and then the way he rubbed the top of my head afterwards. We laughed and I wondered aloud if I should Sinéad O’Connor it right now. He doesn’t think that would be a good look for me, somehow.  As he spooned me I whispered, “What if I don’t get the job?” and he whispered back, “Then you will get another one.” and it was all OK then. I should have gone to him first, not to my Mom.

You were all very sweet in the comments and I want to answer everyone but I can’t right this minute so I will just say thank you for now and hope you know that I truly felt those good thoughts coming my way and it was very important.

The test is tomorrow at 1p.m. PST.

I have had a few interviews now. I have applied for so many jobs that I can’t keep them all straight and sometimes when someone calls and says ,”Hi, this is Jude” and then starts talking away I am wondering,  “Jude from where?”

I should have kept records. Anyway, I am liking the over the phone interviews. I think that in many situations time can be saved on both sides with a preliminary phone interview. Case in point: the woman who asked me if I wanted a position on call, rotating shifts. The money was very good and the benefits package was better than anything I’ve ever had but the truth is that the job is 90 minutes away by bus and since our buses don’t run 24/7 I had to answer honestly when she asked me if I could jump up and rush to work at a moments notice if she called at say 3 a.m. I thought that even if it was bus accessible I would be a nervous wreck with an on call job. There is no one in the world I want to talk to at 3 a.m anyway. Sometimes I miss the days when only drug dealers and doctors had cell phones or pagers. Now we are so accessible.

I had an interview last week, I can’t remember the day now. Anyway, I was on the phone with the boss/man who called and I had gone up to Alex’s and my bedroom to try to get away from the kids and the pets for a bit of quiet. Alex came upstairs and heard me refer to the man as ChefHisName. When I hung up the phone Alex made a crack about it. I told him that it was something I’d encountered before and it didn’t bother me. Certain chefs will demand to be referred to as Chef whatever and others don’t care. There is also the whole thing in kitchens about who gets to wear which uniform and who gets the big hat and the in between size hat and who gets no hat at all. I have actually witnessed arguments amongst cooks when one feels that the other is wearing a hat he hasn’t earned. It’s sort of like the Catholic church and the priests, bishops and the pope. It’s all in the special hats. Look next time. I personally don’t need a hat so I just put my hair in a bun with a hairnet over the top.

Anyway, he must have liked whatever I said on the phone because he asked to meet with me in person. I arrived early, even getting off a few stops ahead of the place so that I could have a cold drink, work on my breathing for relaxing as I get very nervous in these situations, and to have a cigarette (oh by the way Chantix isn’t a magic pill and you have to actually want to quit smoking and I really was more determined to cut down, not to quit, so I quit taking them after a month. )

I’m so frazzled lately I can hardly focus. I read my resume over few times because the jobs I did in the 80s and early 90s? I wasn’t so sure I’d remember everything. I decided to enter 20 minutes before the interview because nerves+ cold drink= must pee. The woman at the entrance greeted me and I told her that I was there for an interview with ChefhHisName and could she please point me in the direction of the facilities? I was only in there for a few minutes and when I walked out the door ChefHisName thrust his hand out and shook mine vigorously. I had this moment of panic that maybe my hands weren’t all the way dry. Maybe there was some moisture between my fingers and he had felt that when he shook my hand. Another woman in a uniform met up with us as we walked toward the breakroom and I noticed how fast the employees were all moving and I realized that I have been out of the professional kitchen for a few years and my speed walk has turned into a saunter.

After we had all sat down the questions began. I had carefully thought this out beforehand so I would be ready with the “Why did you take a break from working?” to the “What is your best feature” and “What is your biggest flaw?” I’ve always hated the questions they ask in interviews. I know that you’re supposed to flip the answer around to a positive i.e. “I am a perfectionist” but I hate that shit. I had also researched the place online in case they asked me questions about it but this guy caught me off my guard by opening the interview with, “Why are you applying for this position? You are way overqualified.”

I told him that I was attracted to the schedule. It’s a Mon-Fri gig on the day shift. I mentioned that when I was baking it was 18-20 hours a day during the holidays and then I was lucky to get 20 hours a week during the off seasons. He seemed satisfied with that and after he had talked with me awhile he let the don’tcallmechefwoman ask me her questions. The whole thing was pretty quick. The chef said he’d like to cross train me so I could fill other stations and I said that was fine. We talked about wages and benefits and the fact that if I am a felon I might as let them know because they were going to run and background check and oh by the way you have to take a UA. I said that was fine and he said that as far as he was concerned he wanted to hire me right then and there but they still had two more people coming in so call Tuesday (tomorrow) morning and he will give the yes or no.

I don’t know why but I have been extremely nervous about it. I am nervous that I won’t get it, and nervous that I will. I have kept on searching just in case and I have felt frozen when it came to trying to write. I am worried that my back can’t do this type of work anymore and fretting because I don’t know how to do anything else.

That’s all for now. I just thought it might be helpful to jot this down as it’s something that is difficult for me, this going out into the real world and hoping that I can control my anxiety and depression enough so that neither of them will interfere with my ability to do my job . As much as I believe that the stigma surrounding mental illness needs to be lifted, I don’t want to be a spokesperson or a poster child for it in a work setting.

Sorry I haven’t had time to write. I have been looking for a job and I am becoming frustrated because I haven’t heard back from anyone yet.

The last time that I was looking I had four job offers in nine days. I am trying very hard not to get discouraged this time but it’s not easy.

Anyway, I have some items up for sale on EBAY if anyone is interested in taking a look. I should have more things up by the weekend. Too much stuff and not enough $$$. AHHHH…

Think good thoughts for me please.

Thank you to my kind readers. I never understood it really when some online writers went on and on about how much they loved and appreciated their readers but now I do. Thanks everyone. It means a lot that you’re here, more than I can say.

“She should have stayed away from friends
She should have had more time to spend
She should have died when she was born
She should have worn the crown of thorns”

Been a Son- Nirvana

1982 was the year that marked, among other things, my Dad approaching me to ask if I would like to attend this series of classes he had heard about. It was called GI Joe’s Fishing Camp, and it was for parents and their children to learn how to fish together.

At this point in time I was still very much a daddy’s girl and what I wanted more than anything was to make him happy, having deduced that if he was happy, everyone would be happy and we could all continue to live together. When I gave an enthusiastic, “YES!” he pulled me to him and held me. My heart was racing with joy and I felt just the sting of tears at the corners of my eyes. His face was beaming and I had done that; I had put that smile there.

He showed me the information that he had collected regarding these classes and wrote the times and dates down in his tiny little cursive. When the evening of the first class arrived I was all excited, imaging us flinging line into water and pulling out fish. When we got in the car he had no poles, just his wallet that he always studied carefully before he left the house. We arrived at a building and walked into a room full of fold out chairs. We were early as always and Dad seized that opportunity to grab good seats. He had difficulty hearing and even in the best situations he had to cup his hand around his earlobe and listen with a pained look on his face. We sat silently holding hands as we waited. Soon the room began filling up with fathers and sons and when a man approached the microphone stand dad gave my hand one last squeeze before he pulled it away to cup his ear.

I soon discovered that listening to a man talking about fishing was even more boring than church, where at least we were threatened with eternal damnation and called sinners and told to beg for forgiveness least we be sent to the fiery pits of hell. I pretended to be incredibly interested in the man with the microphone and when he set up a screen for a slide show I hoped it was getting better but a slideshow about fishing while a man talks is only marginally more interesting than him talking without the slides.

When we left my Dad pulled me along by the hand and praised me for being the best behaved child in attendance. This was an early lesson; I knew full well that the consequence for misbehaving was being taken home and beaten until I could only hope I’d pass out or even die, but I never did. We were beaten until he either grabbed someone else and started in on them or he tired. The only salvation I had was the fact that he often beat us in chronological order, so by the time he had finished with my Mom, my brother and both of my sisters and reached for me he was sometimes out of steam.

All the way home in the car my Dad talked about the new things he had learned and I sat nervously, hoping there wasn’t going to be a quiz. When he exclaimed about learning to fly fish, something he had apparently always wanted to do, I felt this nausea within me. When the weather was nice and my Mom opened the windows the flies would come in. My Mom would smack at them and with each successful hit she would exclaim, “I got Louie!” or Fred, or Stan, or Joe… I asked her once how she knew their names and she said she just knew. The flies were always male and sometimes, before she would wipe the remains away, I would look down at the smashed insect and wonder if he’d had a family, a wife and kids. Now I envisioned catching them and having to place them on hooks.

Dad and I attended a few more seminars before the big event, the Saturday we got to try out all that we had learned at a trout fishing pond especially stocked for the occasion. Before that Saturday Dad surprised me by taking me shopping for supplies. We stood in the fishing aisle and I pretended to understand why we needed this and that but not the other. When my Dad said that he felt it was time to get me a pole of my own I nearly fell over with excitement. It wasn’t Christmas or my Birthday; I couldn’t believe I was getting a present. My Dad selected the pole for me, carefully pointing out the fact that it was very expensive at $14.99. I couldn’t wait to get it home and open it. I imagined standing on the couch casting off into the shag carpet and reeling my stuffed animals in one at a time.

At home the pole was tucked away for safety with my Dad’s things. I waited for the day I would be allowed to hold it. When the Saturday arrived I eagerly helped him pack up the car. Upon our arrival at the pond I saw dozens and dozens of sons with their poles and their fathers. There were tables set up with free hotdogs and soda pop and I was excited because I had never had a hotdog before and now the day had arrived when I would bite into the mystery of the bun and the dog all covered in mustard.

We went directly to the water’s edge and my Dad finally let me hold my pole. He showed me how to slip the salmon eggs he had bought onto my hook. I was relieved that I didn’t have to touch any flies or worms. The salmon eggs were pink and pretty and I just pretended they were mushy beads. My Dad showed me how to cast out and then we waited. I asked him if he was going to fish too, but he said that this was my day. All around me the excited screams, hollers and chatter erupted from excited boys reeling in fish to the delight of their back slapping proud fathers. My Dad grimaced in disapproval over the noise. Patiently he stood beside me, guiding me in a whisper, watching my face closely as I waited for a nibble. Hours seemed to pass as I tried again and again, unsuccessfully.

When most of the participants were now wandering around eating hotdogs and chatting with the other fathers as their sons ran and played, the fish they had caught either strung up or in buckets, forgotten already, my Dad packed us up without a word. Grasping my hand again and pulling me along he finally spoke, “You didn’t want a hotdog, did you?”

It wasn’t a question. I tried not to cry as we hurried to the car. After we had packed up he placed his hand on my shoulder and looked directly into my eyes. “It’s okay that you didn’t catch a fish. I am proud of you for trying so hard. The fish were probably scared away by all of the people making so much noise.” He shot a dirty look in the direction of the pond as I tried to believe him. I wanted so badly to see the look of pride on his face that I saw on the faces of the other dads. I wondered if it was due to the fact that I was a girl. I thought that all of those hours I had spent in those seminars just pretending to listen while daydreaming had caught up with me. I vowed right then that I would become a fisher girl extraordinaire. I would do him proud, one day.

To Be Continued, as always. For those readers who requested more about Terri and Sophie, I haven’t forgotten. For reasons that will become obvious later, it was necessary to write this entry first.