(Note: this is somewhat related to my writing. Eventually. Please skip if you like. I swear a lot.)
People have a hard time getting the fact that I don’t want to go back to a regular kitchen, at least not in the short term. My mother is the worst of the lot.
I worked for a crazy fucker before I left to go to Esnagi. Crazy. Mother. Fucker. I cried, I ranted, I freaked out near 24/7. It was not pretty. I was probably as close to clinically fucked up as I have ever been, and, universe willing, ever will be. I had been looking for work elsewhere, but Esnagi came up first and I took it and ran with it like my life depended on it. And if I can be pardoned some hyperbole, I think it did.
Was Esnagi easy? In some ways, yes. Was Esnagi hard? In some ways, yes. Did I miss Todd? Hell yes. I fucking cried for him into a pillow that did not belong to me.
But I have had all these months of down time since coming back from a job that has paid me more money than I have earned since leaving cooking school and where I work on my own, my own boss, doing as I saw fit to do. I have had time to have my life back, hanging out with friends, going places, sleeping like a normal person and spending evenings at home with Todd.
Mom just called with news about an advert for a Head Chef job at Timberlake Golf and Country Club. 1) I had a friend apply for it, the guy there absolutely hot for her to come down, but he gave her weird, creepy vibes and she turned him down. I haven’t heard good things. 2) If I applied, and took it, I would have absolutely NO FUCKING LIFE AT ALL. It’s a head chef job. It’s work around the clock, work weekends, work nights, work until you cry. No fucking thank you. 3) I DON’T HAVE MANAGEMENT EXPERIENCE! I have three years of work under my belt at a couple of decent places but one giant cluster-fuck of suck that was the Idylwylde. There are lots of other cooks in the neighborhood that are more qualified than I. Hell, Suzanne just took a job as the Head Chef of the Chartwell’s Food Service at the Collage. It’s a caf, but they’ve done a lot to improve it, and it’s a 9-5 job. Very sweet. She got the job without an interview, over an inch-thick stack of other applicants, because the guy knew her from her work at the College last semester as an instructor. She’ll manage some 20-30 people, she’ll be doing the daily specials, the ordering, the occasional weekend wedding and, bonus, she’ll get a life for the rest of it. Of course, they are only paying her a measly $10/hour, a fucking crime, but there you have it.
Mom doesn’t know I’m writing. She might get off my case if she knew. She just doesn’t want me to go to Esnagi, though. Fuck, it pisses me off. Stop interfering! When you get off your ass and get a job after ‘opting out’ for the last ten years, then you can give me job hunting tips.
I’m going to Ad-Astra. When Mike comes up, I get to see him and not spend my time bitching about a miserly lepraucan. And in April, I get to go to Vegas with Todd and have a grand fucking time.
Job at the Golf Course? I can kiss all of that goodbye.
It’s bad enough I’ve fucking squandered the last month in borderline-OCD behavior about my computers and my desk and whatever other glittery things have captured my raven’s-like attention span. Enough. Fuck. The book will be finished its first read-through and editing notes by the END OF THE WEEKEND. Will it hurt? Tough. I’ve sat here with it too long. Then Monday the rewrite begins.
Plus – and this is the part no one gets, except maybe Brent – I’m looking forward to Esnagi. I’m looking forward to the lake, to the vicious storms, to the bears hanging around on the edge of camp, to making food for people who like it, to listening to the satellite radio and laughing or singing to whatever’s on the waves, to the afternoons spent in sunshine in the warmth of my bed, to the evenings spent in my spartan quarters focused only on reading and writing, to the night and its utter darkness that spreads out, broken only by the stars and the moon heavy on the water, and is oh-so-silent.
Four months, summer break in between, and then back to Todd for the rest of the year, for Christmas and all the family gatherings. And writing, universe-willing. Maybe making some money by it next year.
All of this doesn’t mean that Esnagi is what I want to do forever. Hardly. But I do not want to go back to a regular kitchen – not for the foreseeable future.