Such a mundane life, eh?
This is probably the first time in a month that I’ve cracked open my laptop and sat down with it. To surf, to write. I have a blueberry candle burning away, a cool, autumnal breeze making it’s way through the apartment, cats curled up in their respective places, a little Sting playing (along with a mix of stuff that I should try burning on CD), a cold Coke (off the wagon again), and some home-made popcorn tussled with tex-mex seasoning. Yummy.
It’s my first day off in seven (eight?) days. Long days, too. With Mark on Holiday, we’re working crazy-mad hours. I pulled in 22 hours over Sunday and Monday. Next weekend is the same. Sometime inbetween working the next six straight, I have to make some more quick breads (cheddar-zucchini, orange-cranberry, and a banana bread that I’m going to spice with rum) for John.
John, who, while the rest of us are pull 50-60 weeks, took four days off right when Mark’s holidays started, and continues to get his two days off a week. And let’s not even talk about Brenda, who’s only working three, four hour shifts this week (she doesn’t work holidays, ya know).
The whole thing is making my head and my heart hurt. (Metaphysically). I’m tired all the time, grouchy, upset, quick to anger. I’ve no rest for myself. So when today came, my only day off, I knew I wanted to spoil myself, to indulge and relax and hopefully find some inner strength (and peace) to keep going at the pace I’m going. On the spoiling side, I left early with my discman and headed to Chapters to pick up a book I’d spied the other day. Letters to a Young Chef by Daniel Boulud. It seemed like a source of inspiration, beyond what a cook or food book does for me (and always does for me). I need words of people there, of people working hard and striving to be better, perfect. I know there is still so much for me to learn, before I can hope to master anything. I worry about being broken in my current place of work, unrecoverable and damaged like some of those I work with. So I went searching for words (or maybe they were searching for me) and I found them. It’s a slim little volume, and I’ve read a third of it since buying it, but it’s helped already. There’s a calmness seeping into me … something I’ve lacked, something I’ve needed. I have to start challenging myself again, pushing myself. I’ve started to stagnate and I need to reverse gears before it’s too late.
Tonight I’ll be putting copperain‘s smoked salmon to use in a quick (and yummy!) pasta before heading out to see a whack of houses for sale. We’d had some crossed wired with our agent, a nice fellow whom we seemed to lose track of for a couple of weeks, but they appear to be resolved. I’m probably hyper-sensitive to neighbors after my experiences in subsized housing, but our new neighbors (formerly of the downstairs apartment), are accumulating an impressive collection of random trash by the basement door/mailbox area, signage, automobile parts, and automobiles themselves (which constantly are either in or blocking our parking space). They’ve also converted their side of the small shared storage on our floor into a closet, so now we don’t know who is coming or going through our storage area anymore. So besides my deep-rooted nesting urges, my inclination to be far away from random and thoughtless strangers is also intensifying.