writing

To the ones who have come from away, welcome to the rock!

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I grew up pretty poor. We didn’t starve. We’re never homeless. But there were times my parents struggled to keep the lights on and food on the table. That being said, my mother always made sure we went to school clean and that our clothes had no holes in them.

We also moved a lot when I was a kid. I think it’s one of the reasons I’ve moved a lot as an adult. We never stayed for long anywhere. My dad would lose his job. The landlord would decide to let his sister rent our house. My favorite reason was the owner decided he didn’t want to rent to people with kids.

I was also a grownup kid. I always wanted to be with the adults and even though they tried to keep the struggles from me, I was acutely aware of our finances even as young as 7 or 8. I rarely asked for expensive things and tried to keep my Christmas wishes realistic.

My father was always coming up with creative ways to improve our situation. Once he bought two keeshond puppies. Pure breads that he was going to breed and sell for hundreds if not thousands of dollars. I’m embarrassed now at how they were treated. I’m pretty sure they died tied to a chain in our backyard. They never had puppies and we never made any money off them.

Another one of his brilliant ideas, was to buy into a housing development in Burnside, Kentucky. Over the course of a couple of years, he and my mom bought three undeveloped lots in a development that was going to be the next big thing in the community. The lots were adjacent to each other. He was going to hang on to them until their value grew, OR he was going to build us a home and we’d move there.

I remember being so excited the first time we drove there. For those of you NOT from Kentucky. Burnside is south of Somerset. Somerset is in the southern part of Kentucky about an hour and a half from Lexington. I can’t speak to traveling there now, but in 1975 it was a two lane road, traveling through multiple small towns.

Every so often we’d all pile in the car and my father would announce that we were going to check out “the lots.” We’d sit in the back of the car, my mom chain smoking in the front, watching the sites go by. After what seemed like hours, my father would announce that we were here.

As an eight-year old, I had no concept of what a quality piece of land should be, but I knew this was NOT a quality piece of land. It was rocky. It was overgrown with weeds. There were hardly any homes built in the development. Although my favorite was the A-frame homes on equally crappy land.

We’d climb out of the car and stand on the edge of the street, while my father walked “the lots.” Three equally rocky lots. He’d tell us where the house would go. What he was going to do. I’d try to stay out of the overgrown weeds, because I didn’t want chiggers. And truth be told there really was NOT much to look at.

After a while, we’d get back in the car and drive home. I don’t remember stops. I don’t remember lunch. I don’t remember anything other than the drive down, the 30 minutes admiring the land, and the drive home.

However, one time, my father took a detour after we left “the lots.”

We went to the location of Old Burnside at Lake Cumberland. Old Burnside was a small town, that was flooded over with the construction of Lake Cumberland. The buildings were left standing, the people moved, the land flooded and the lake created.

He drove us there on this particular day, because we’d had a severe lack of rain all summer. And he’d heard that you could see parts of the buildings. Sure enough, he was right. It had only been 20 years and there were ruins displayed over the water, where the drought had done it’s job.

We stood there looking. After a few minutes we walked back to the car. On our way back I saw a rock on the shore. I thought it was beautiful and asked my parents if I could have it and they said yes. The photo below is of that rock.

I have had that rock for 50 plus years now. It’s displayed in my office. It’s as special to me today as it was back then. I just thought it was cool. And I still do.

I held the rock in my lap on the drive home.

We never went back to Old Burnside, but at least twice a summer until I was in high school and old enough to say I didn’t want to go, we’d pile in what was now the pick up truck and treck down to look at “the lots.”

My father never built that house. And based on the last few times I was there, the lots never appreciated as a housing development never occurred. The last time I was there, it looked like an area where you might make crystal meth, if meth was being made in the early 80’s.

At some point, my mother made my father sell the lots. I have no idea what they bought them for. I have no idea what they sold them for. But I can assure you, my father did not get rich off the deal.

I haven’t been to Burnside in over 45 years. But ’m sure by now the remnants of the buildings are gone. But there are probably lots of cool stones along the shore of Lake Cumberland.

Adam’s prompt tonight was rocks.

Gonna give you barley, carrots and pertaters—

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I have always remembered things from my early childhood. Very early. Memories from when I was two or three. Very clear. Very specific memories. And they are definitely not stories that I was told and then created memories of. These are very detailed memories of a small child growing up in Kentucky.

Some of those memories:

I remember a neighbor wrecking her motorcycle in front of our home and my mother passing out because of it. Neither of them were seriously injured.

I remember making mud puddles in our back yard getting the water for the mess from the hand water pump from the kids next door.

I remember putting my hand through our front storm door, when my aunt was chasing me and trying to tie me up.

And my favorite memory from that age, is going to bed. I lived with my mom, her two sisters and my cousin Ricky. It was a four-room house, with a tiny bathroom. I slept with my mom, in a very small bedroom in the back of the house.

On the particular night in question, my mom and I were going to bed. She entered the room, smoking a cigarette, Viceroy’s if I remember correctly, and got into bed. She told me to get into bed as well. But first. I had to say good night to my stuffed animals. My favorite of my toys, was a talking Bugs Bunny Doll. You pulled the string on his back and he said, “What’s up, doc?”

I got into bed, and hugged him close and said, “Good night, Bugs Bunny.” I can see the lamp beside my mom on. She slept on the right side of the bed. Me on the left. Bugs was pulled close on the left side of me. I remember turning over, and hugging him and going to sleep.

There are so many other memories from this time, but that’s my favorite.

My mother took advantage of my love for Bugs Bunny to get me to eat vegetables. I was a very picky eater as a child. And for all of my parents faults, they never forced us to eat food we didn’t like. It was never eat it, or go hungry.

For example, when my mother made liver and onions for my father and her, we’d get a pork chop, or a piece of chicken. While I can eat liver now, it will never be a fan favorite.

However, Bugs Bunny LOVED carrots. LOVED them. So therefore, I LOVED carrots. To this day, it’s probably my favorite vegetable. I love them in any form. Raw. Roasted. Boiled. Out of a can. Out of the garden. In other dishes. Love them. Adam will often roast them in the oven, with just a bit of char. YUM!!!

I googled Bugs Bunny and carrots before starting this post. His love of carrots came from a tribute to It Happened One Night. Clark Gable chewed on carrots and this was a little appreciation from the makers of the cartoons. According to the Google, Bugs Bunny did for carrots what Popeye did for spinach. I do know that it worked on me, because I’d eat them every night as a kid. PS. I was not a fan of popeye, so I didn’t develop a love of spinach until 30 years later.

As I googled information about Bugs Bunny and carrots I learned that carrots should not be a staple for bunnies as they have a high sugar content. A great snack but should not be a staple.

It made me laugh, as I remember working at Day’s Inn restaurant in high school, out off Insterate 75. I started as a dishwasher, but was eventually promoted to cook. A one cook, short order kitchen, with hand written tickets. Fried chicken. Prime rib. Baked scrod. Western omelets. Turkey clubs. I was quick and good at it. Making $3.35 an hour back in 1904.

All of our food arrived frozen and in cans. Thus making it fucking delicious gourmet food in 1904. The carrots came in #10 cans. Giant. I’d use the industrial can opener to get them open. I dump them in a large pot. And then I’d add at least a cup of sugar, because god knows carrots aren’t sweet enough on their own. PS. #10 cans are great for putting table legs on if you need to lift the table to a counter height, which is better for your back.

After the carrots were hot, I’d dump the whole pot into the steam table, and then they’d be ready for service. The fried chicken would come with mashed potatoes (or baked potato if you paid more), a giant scoop of carrots and a garnish of a candied apple ring on a piece of iceberg lettuce. Fun fact, it took a hot minute for the chicken breasts to cook so you the server had to let the guests know that it might take a minute. Probably be a good idea to give them extra rolls or biscuits.

I was a grown ass adult, living on my own in an apartment in Atlanta before I learned that canned carrots do NOT need a cup of sugar to make them good.

Disclosure:

Adam pushes me to write, because he knows how much I love it. However, I get distracted, depressed, tired and its easier to watch Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy than to sit down at the computer and write. He came in tonight and asked me if I was writing yet and I said no. I didn’t know what to write about. And he said carrots. Write about carrots.

So, this my friends is my composition on carrots.

I hope you enjoyed.

When you’re gone, I’ll go mad. So don’t throw away this thing we had. Cuz when push comes to shove, I will kill your friends and family to remind you of my love.

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I’d like to speak to the manager!

I’ve worked for a lot of restaurnts in my restaurant career. A LOT!

My best count if my memory serves me correctly, which is doubtful these days, is 24.

During those experiences, I worked for some amazing people. I also worked for some assholes.

Keith was an asshole.

Karen was an asshole.

Mike C. was an asshole.

Christine was an asshole.

Eddie was an asshole.

David was an asshole.

Mike S. was an asshole.

When I first started managing I decided that I would emulate the manager’s I’d had who were great. And do the opposite of the manager’s I’d had who were assholes.

I’ve already listed the managers who were assholes. The managers who were great.

Danny.

A different Karen.

Reggie.

Buddie.

Deborah.

Mary.

Follow the good ones. Deny the bad ones.

This week I posted a New Times Article about the chef at the world’s greatest restaurant. NOMA. He had defied all odds, and created something very special. The restaurant was amazing and set the gold standard.

However, the chef, Rene Redzepi, set the gold standard in EVIL. He not only verbally and emotionally abused his team. He physically abused them as well. He’d punch, slap, and hit his team with items, when he decided they had failed him in some way.

I’d love to say that I didn’t understand, but when you are getting experience in the world’s greatest restaurant you turn the other cheek.

Fuck, when you are getting experience in Maine’s best restaurants you turn the other cheek. Trust me I know. Been there done that.

One of the weirdest situations ever, was at Rafferty’s on Nicholasville Road in Lexington. The General Manager’s name was Karen and she was a beast. When you think of the hospitality industry you think of people who are hospitable. She was anything but.

The Saturday, before I quit without notice, around 6:30, she started to yell for all of the staff to meet her in the walk-in. Screaming at the top of her lungs. We all jammed into the small space. It was about 20 of us. Bartenders, servers, etc. There was no one on the floor at this point.

She began to tell us all the ways we were horrible at our jobs. This went on for a good 10 minutes before she told us that if we couldn’t go out there and do a better job then perhaps we should start looking for another job.

And out we went. I knew at the time it was a shit show, and I quit the following week.

Looking back, if I had to do it over, I’d have asked her if she as general manager wasn’t the problem if her entire staff was dropping the ball. The fish rots from the head back and she was the fish head.

In NYC, I had a manager who hated me for no reason. I requested time off to go on vacation. My request, was for the end of one schedule and the first day of the next schedule. She honored my request, but a week later scheduled me on the day I was traveling home.

I called and told the management team that I would not be there as I was traveling. When I showed up for work, for my next shift, she asked to see me, to tell me that I was going to be suspended without pay for missing my shift.

I said okay. The next day I met with the GM and dropped the word harassment about 17 times. By the time I was finished, I was not only not suspended, I was guaranteed quality shifts for the next month. PS. I got her transferred to a different restaurant but that’s another story.

When I worked in Kennebunkport (this deserves its own post) I reported an owner for inappropriate behavior and the next thing I knew I was being reprimanded in the corporate office for a whole host of things that weren’t true. When I documented my experience for HR, I was asked to change the facts so they wouldn’t get in trouble with the owner.

When I worked at David’s, I was once accused of being as bad at my job as the air traffic controllers who caused the plane crash in DC with the helicopter. My restaurant manager, walked out of the meeting, and I still am still amazed at how horribly I was treated. Fun fact, when I started working for him and employee of Adam’s told him I’d last a month as his reputation was known for being someone who was volatile and mean.

The truth is, there is still a belief that hospitality workers have no rights. They should tolerate the abuse. They should tolerate the hatred. They should tolerate the insanity. Because they aren’t as important as the owners, the chefs, the bosses.

I can’t say that I’m perfect. There are things that I’ve said that embarrassed me. BUT I have never verbally assaulted an employee. I’ve never treated my staff without respect.

In the meantime, the backlash at the chef at Noma shows how the times are changing. These horrible people are a dying breed. They have outlasted their usefulness. And hopefully will be a thing of the past very soon.

In the meantime. I ask myself what Mike, David, Karen and Christine would do. Then I do the opposite. Because I’d never want to be known as the asshole boss.

I was lost for you to find. And now I’m yours and you are mine

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I’ve written before about working at Bennigan’s. It was my first “real” serving job. I started there in the fall of 1987 about three months after I moved to Atlanta. I lied to get the job, saying that I had experience. I don’t think anyone ever figured it out.

What I do remember is that the staff had all been there for a while and were pretty friendly with each other.

The story I’m going to tell is about Diane. She was older than me, probably in her late 20’s. About five minutes after I started she discovered she was pregnant. From the moment she knew she was pregnant she wore maternity clothes. Well, a baggy polo and she carried herself like she was 15 months pregnant.

The larger she got, the more she embraced it, as she realized it was good for the pocket book. She embraced the belly and would do anything she could to encourage people to ask her about being pregnant.

Eventually, she had the baby. I couldn’t tell you 40 years later if it was a boy or a girl. What I do know, is that when she came back to work after giving birth, she still looked pregnant. And she continued to look pregnant for another six months. Eventually, it became so ridiculous that the manager told her it was time to have the baby, once and for all and stop being pregnant.

So she did. And from that point on, a photo of her baby, was taped to her tips trays that she presented her checks on. I have no idea, how long this went on.

It has always made me laugh to remember her waddling around the dining room, up and down the stairs six months after she gave birth.

But a girls got to do, what a girls got to do.

Oh, the stories, I still have to do share.

Snow, It won’t be long before we’ll all be there with snow. SnowI wanna wash my hands, my face, and hair with snow. SnowI long to clear a path and lift a spade of snow. Oh to see a great big man entirely made of snow.

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

The official weather report from tonight on Channel 6 says that Cape Elizabeth got 14” of snow on Sunday and Monday.  That’s a lot for one storm, even for us.  Although, the most we’ve had since we’ve lived in Maine is just shy of 32” in one storm.  That was intense.  

I really don’t mind the snow.  Especially now that we live in Maine.  For the most part, the cities we live in are excellent at snow removal.  Our street has a thin layer of snow packed on it, but the main roads are all clear, less than 24 hours later.   

You do have to be careful walking around town, as someone at some point decided that brick sidewalks were cool.  They are pretty.  But they are horrible to walk on when they are wet.  They are even worse in the snow.  I highly recommend not having brick sidewalks.  

I also don’t mind the cold.  In fact, I never wear a coat.  It’s in the car just in case I’m in an accident or have car trouble, but I always leave it there.  I did use it a couple of weeks ago, when I knew I had to walk about 10 blocks from the restaurant we were eating at, to the music venue we were going to.  But even then, I took it off the minute I got into the car.  

However.  

With all the photos online of the expansive snow storm, there have been a lot of pictures of sledding.  I haven’t been sledding since 1993.  It’s one of those weird things I know, simply because there is photographic evidence of it. 

There was a huge snowstorm that closed the University of Kentucky campus for the day.   At least five or six of the tech students ended up in the show and we made makeshift sleds.  I can’t remember if we were using plastic, cardboard or metal.  What I do know is that it was great for sledding.  

We hit the hills outside of the theater building.  Fun was had by all.  

I was wearing my big red winter coat that I loved.  And my boyfriend, Sam and I were taking turns going down the hill.  At one point, we went down the hill together, and unbeknownst to us a photographer from the Lexington Herald-Leader took a photo of us. 

The next day we were in the paper.  

We were newspaper famous the next day, as we all got back to our regularly scheduled programming.  

Also, unbeknownst to me, Sam had reached out the newspaper and gotten a copy of the photo.  For my birthday, the next month, I got the framed photo of us sledding on campus.  It’s been displayed prominently; in every apartment I’ve had since. 

I’m way too old to go sledding now.  I’d end up breaking a hip and you know what they say.  But, the photo is a reminder here in Maine that I don’t mind the winter.  We put up with the intense cold and snow so that we can have the most beautiful summers and falls anyone as ever seen.  

On the 12th day of Christmas my true love gave to me…

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Growing up poor is an adventure in restraint.  Especially, when you are a child who’s wiser than his years, and knows that his parents struggle financially.  I learned at a very early age, to hide my disappointment when I didn’t get exactly what I wanted.  If I got it at all.  

Brands that were off.  Colors that were wrong.  The K-Mart version rather than the name brand version. 

To be fair, sometimes I’d be surprised and get exactly what I wanted.  The year we got our pong game, followed a few years later by an Atari console.  These were great years.  

Still, I learned to feign excitement.  I learned to smile through the disappointment.  

It’s a great gift to have learned as a child that is very useful as an adult.  Smiling through the disappointment when the bonus is less than you thought it would be.  When the role you auditioned for was not the one you got.  When your boyfriend buys tickets to the musical you want to see, but buys partial view tickets to save money.  

Or.  

In the mid 90’s I moved to NYC.  My mother asked what I wanted for Christmas.  And by then I’d learned to set the bar low, and to be very specific.  I really didn’t need anything so I asked for white bath towels.  

Easy right?  

The reason I mention that I was living in NYC, was that I was living on my own and only needed a couple of towels.  

The catch was, that anyone who was going to buy me a present that year for Christmas asked my mom what they should get me.  And she replied every time, white bath towels.  

And Christmas comes, and I go home, and we gather on Christmas morning to open gifts.  My cousins pass out the gifts.  I had more packages than I thought I would.  

We are a go around and open one gift at a time family, so the opening commenced.  I open my first gift and it’s a white bath towel.  The opening continues and it gets back to me.  

It’s a white bath towel. 

And this goes on for several rounds.  When it’s all said and done, I think I have seven or eight towels.  Nothing else.  Just towels.  

And I think to myself,  I got what I asked for, but what does a single man going to do with 8 white bath towels.  Plus, I live in NYC, I have one closet, that’s the size of a shoe box.  

I’m very grateful, and not disappointed at all.  I didn’t really need anything and I got what I asked for.  

But wait.  It’s gets better.  

Fast forward 365 days. 

Christmas is here again.  I’ve flown home and am about to start opening gifts again.  They get to me, and what would you know, the first package contains white bath towels.  Two more circles around and now I’m up to 6 more white bath towels.  

When I got back to NYC I had enough towels to open a hotel.  

But wait.  

Yes, the following year, I got two more white bath towels.  

After we opened gifts that year, I said to my mom, “Please for the love of god, can I NOT get bath towels again next year.”  

And I didn’t.  

Soon after, we stopped exchanging gifts, but I’m pretty sure I still had these same towels when I moved in with Adam.  

They say the neon lights are bright on Broadway.

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Picture this Sicily, 1923. 

Actually, picture this.  New York City.  1983.  

My first trip to NYC. 

It was speech and drama students from Scott County Senior High School, seniors, who’d participated along the way.  Some of the specifics are a little fuzzy, but the stories are 100% true.  

My mother was pissed that I was going.  I’d never asked for permission.  I forged the permission slip.  When I told her, she asked who was paying for it, and I said I was.  By that time in my senior year things had gotten very contentious. 

We left on a Thursday.  We all piled in to Jason’s dad’s tricked out van. Our teacher Ms. Moore was driving.  The drive up was not memorable.  In fact, I remember nothing about it.  The trip back was much better with the story of all stories to share.  

We got to NYC and checked into the Howard Johnson, in Times Square.  I still have the ashtray from our room.  It’s on a shelf in my office.  

I don’t remember the order of the stories, but these are things that happened.  

One morning around 11:00 we all walked into a bar, sat at a table and ordered drinks. It was my first drink in a bar. I ordered a whiskey sour.  We were served, with no question.  

One of my classmates spent the night throwing up, and was HUNGOVER the next day.  VERY hung over.  

We went to Macy’s.  I remember the wooden escalators.  

We went to Tiffany’s.  There were four of us I believe.  We got our own personal security guard who followed us from floor to floor.  42 years later I’d get an engagement ring from that store.  

At one point we got on the subway, we had no idea where we are going.  We get on.  The doors start to close as a family is entering.  The mother and father get on, but the doors close in front of the daughter.  The subway starts to move and one of us says pull the cord, so the only time in all my time of riding the subway, someone pulled the emergency stop cord.

We WERE YELLED AT by a million people, but the little girl was reunited with her parents.  

The subway starts again, and we are immediately plunged into darkness.  We ride several stops with absolutely no lighting.  

We were on our way to the Bronx Zoo.  We ride and ride and finally get off.  We go up to the street.  And we are the only white people as far as the eye can see.  We weren’t scared, really, but a kind cop, suggested that we go back down and go back in the direction in which we came.  

One day, late afternoon, we are walking in Time Square, and a man approaches us about buying a camera. I had been wanting a camera and said, sure I’d buy a camera from him.  He tells me to follow him, and I very smartly gave my wallet to someone I was with.  I followed him with my 40 bucks and when I got there, he asked me for my wallet.  I said, I didn’t have a wallet but I had 40 dollars.  He took the money and left.  I looked around and there were people doing drugs in the entry way I was in.  Shooting up you might say.   Whoops.  Better luck next time.  

If any of you are wondering where our teacher was during all of this, she had sequestered herself in HER hotel room and was grading term papers.  We only saw her when it was time for dinner and a show.  

Speaking of shows.  

On the first night we saw CATS.  I remember I fell asleep during Act 2.  

However.  The show started late, because they were holding the curtain.  Around 8:15, there is a murmuring through the crowd and Jimmy and Rosalyn Carter enter and sit a few rows in front of us.  Along with Amy.  They both sign autographs during intermission, which I also have somewhere.  

During intermission, Ken Page, who was playing Old Deuteronomy, sat on stage and signed autographs.  I have that as well.  

The next night we saw 42nd Street.  I did not sleep through that.  To this day it’s one of my favorite shows.  I’ve designed it twice and seen it at least four or five times.  So fun, but no autographs.  

Of course, with our teacher grading term papers, there was much wandering the streets at night.  

One night we were out and about and met Edward Herrman.  I had no idea who he was.  

But.  

The biggest highlight of the trip was meeting Bob Hope.   It was at least 3:00 a.m and we were just walking around.  He just appeared.  We stopped him and talked to him for about 90 seconds.  He was wearing orange tennis shoes and was with a “bodyguard”?  I asked him for his autograph but all I had was a check and he wouldn’t sign it.  Which I find funny now.  

On one of the nights, we went to Sardi’s.  I remember very little about the dinner and I’ve never been back.  

Then it was time to head home.  

We are driving overnight.  And at some point, early in the morning, one of my classmates, who had really never participated in speech and only had done one show, starts having a vivid sex dream.  We all sat breathlessly, as she moaned and groaned her way down intestate 64.  We never knew if it was real, or if she was just doing a performance.  Finally, she climaxed and all was calm.  We all looked at each other and never spoke of it again. 

I’ll end by saying this.  I love seeing film and photos of NYC in the 70’s and 80’s.  I can’t explain it but that’s how I remember the city.  The smells, the chill in the air, the look and feel.  Those grainy pictures are exactly how it was.  The porn advertisement all over Times Square.  The prostitutes.  The edginess.  The questionable danger.  Scary and fun all at the same time.  

Today the city is in full cinemascope, with color and grandeur.  

But the 70’s and 80’s were a different story.  

PS.  It would be several years later that our drama teacher went back to NYC with students.   We had kind of ruined it for her.  

By doin’ hard work

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Monday, October 20, 2025. 


It’s cold here tonight, in Maine.  We got the first real rain we’ve gotten since June today.  It was perfect napping weather.   Which explains my 2+ hour nap this afternoon.  

This is the first time I’ve written in at least four months.  It’s hard to be creative when you are depressed.  

Depressed you say?  Why should you be depressed?  

Well on June 19th, I was laid off from my job.  It was not a surprise.  Nor was I disappointed when it happened.  It had been kind of a shit show for a while, for various reasons.  

That being said, yesterday marked four months of being unemployed, and I’m still looking for a job.  The job market in Maine is just as soft as it is in the rest of the country.  The job market for restaurant jobs, is even softer.  It’s been a quiet summer for restaurants seeking management.  

I do have to say it’s been one of the best summers of my time in Maine.  When you work in hospitality in Maine in the summer, you do not socialize. You do not see your friends.  You work a million hours and then sleep when you can.  

I was at a gathering for a birthday for a friend about a month ago and someone said, I’m sorry you don’t have a job, but it’s been awesome seeing you this summer.  I’ve attended birthday parties.  4th of July parties.  Pool parties.  I’ve gone to plays.  I’ve had drinks with friends, I haven’t seen in years.  I’ve had dinner on Saturday nights at 7:00, on a patio in Portland.  It really has been nice to see all my friends more in the past four months than I have in years.  

That being said, the bank account is dwindling.  The need to find a job is ever present.  This underlying depression encompasses me every day.  

Find a job.  Find a job.  Find a job.  

I sometimes wonder if my age is working against me.  I’ve read half a dozen articles about entering the work force after 50 this summer.  I conveniently leave off the year I graduated from college.  Whoops a typo.  

Portland and its metro area is a small market.  There are a million jobs making 18 bucks an hour.   When you start to move up the food chain there are far less.  

I have been hesitant to write about this since it happened, because well it’s embarrassing to be unemployed.  It’s easier to hide in bed and pretend that everything is okay.  

Which it’s not.  

Adam has encouraged me to spend more time on my computer.  Looking for jobs.  Writing.  Not napping.  

So here I am.  

It’s so weird to be starting over.  Again.  At 60.  But that’s the cards I was dealt.  

Meanwhile, my amazing, and growing less patient, boyfriend is in the kitchen making us dinner.  I’m writing for the first time in 4 months.  

I’ll keep you posted as things move forward.  

Why, it’s almost like being in love!

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!

I was not in a great space after the 2024 presidential election.

I was in a worse space after the inauguration on January 20th.

Like most of my friends we all coped in different ways. I turned to alcohol and reading.

I kid, I kid. I’d already turned to alcohol.

The one thing I did do, was not look at my phone before bed. I limit my social media access to the 30 or so minutes that Adam takes to shower before bed. Once I’m in bed, I’ve gone back to reading fiction. I’m almost to the end of my 6th book since then.

Not as impressive as my friends who read 6 novels in a month. But I only get about 30 minutes before bed each night. The books are as varied as you can imagine. Gay love stories. Award winning fiction. Best sellers. Historical fiction.

All of this leads me to last night.

I’m currently re-reading Wally Lamb’s She’s Come Undone. It’s a disturbing book on many levels but I’m enjoying it again after reading it 20 or so years ago.

Last night the main character Deloris, is taking an English class at a community college. They are given a writing prompt to write about a daily activity that brings them pleasure.

I read the sentence. And stopped and thought to myself, what daily activity brings me pleasure. In fact I didn’t go back to reading till I made a decision.

For me it’s doing the dishes.

It’s not that I enjoy it. What I do enjoy, is that it brings Adam joy.

When we are home together, Adam almost always makes dinner.

It’s a several hour project. He cuts and chops. He bakes desserts. He preps for other projects.

It usually starts with a cocktail, and I cue up NBC nightly news. Then Wheel of Fortune. Then Jeopardy. Then I move to my computer to write. He piddles in the kitchen enjoying the process.

He uses all the pots and pans. All the measuring cups. He uses all the cutting boards and knives.

Around 10:00 he’ll announce “Five minutes.”

This is my cue to set the coffee table with cloth napkins and silverware. I get the wine glasses. Open the wine and pour. We toast and then he plates dinner, on par with a Michelin starred restaurant. The garnishes, the plating, all spectacular.

Then we head to the living room, cue up whatever show we are watching and before either of us takes a bite we toast and say we love each other.

This is our ritual.

We finish eating, sometimes finish our show, before Adam falls asleep on the couch.

I quietly get up and head to the kitchen, to do the dishes.

It never takes long, even though sometimes it’s a mess.

I get everything into the dishwasher that can go in it. I handwash the rest. I scrub down the counters and clean the stove top.

30 minutes to an hour later, I’m sitting back on the couch with a cat in my lap, a night cap on the tables, and I get to watch what I want for an hour.

60 minutes later, I tap him on the leg and tell him it’s time for bed. He’ll stir and come down to myside of the couch and sleep on my shoulder for another 20 minutes or so.

Eventually he gets up.

He goes to the kitchen and always calls out “Thanks for cleaning up, babe.”

It always makes me smile.

After almost 17 years I never mind.

Last week I even cleaned up for a dinner party that he had with friends that I didn’t attend.

Washing dishes, is the one task I do that gives me pleasure, because it makes Adam happy.

I got the horse right here!!!

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

From 1st grade to 5th grade, my stepfather, worked for my aunt and uncle on their horse farm.

We lived in a trailer they owned at the front of the property, and then moved to a modest house, two lots up when I was in second grade. I have no idea what my father thought of the situation. As a kid, it was perfect.

My Aunt Birdie and Uncle Conley owned the horse farm that most of our little neighborhood, Paynes Depot, bordered on. 80+ acres of farmland, if I remember correctly. They raised tobacco and thoroughbred horses, As a kid, I couldn’t have picked a better place to live.

Their farm, provided hours of exploration on our bikes in fourth and fifth grade, including their tobacco barn, which we’d been told was haunted. Even better their house had a pool and a trampoline. What more could a little kid want. In the summer, we spent so many days at their house. Literally swimming all day, then we were told to jump on the trampoline to dry off, and then we’d get lunch. It seemed like this happened every day, but it probably wasn’t as often as I remember.

On the days it rained, sometimes, my aunt would still let us come up to their house and play. I’d play the barbies, in their playroom and I sit at the piano and pretend that I knew how to play. It was a dream as an 8 year old to learn to play the piano. I asked and asked and asked to for us to get a piano. We were offered one when I was in fourth grade, but my father wouldn’t pick it up.

Alas, I didn’t take lessons until I was in high school, a little late to be starting something like that.

The summer’s in Paynes Depot really were special.
As a 6 or 7 year old, I attended day camp for the girl scouts. My aunt was a girl scout leader and sleep away/day camp was held at the back of their farm. We’d ride our bikes back to the camp and do the crafts with the girls. I still remember making plaster molds of our hands.

We explored all over the place. The train tressle, just like in Stand By Me. The old house on the other side of the tracks that had clearly once been a stately home. I was amazed at the number of fireplaces in the house. We played in the creek, but were told to beware the snakes that were poisonous. (Yes, I know it’s venomous, but we were told they were poisonous). The hayloft, was also a special place, were you could disappear into play for hours at a time, regardless of how hot it had been.

My aunt’s farm had a Volkswagen beetle that was kind of junked near their horse barn, and my father caught me looking at the girlie magazine I found under the front seat once, when I was supposed to be helping get feed for the horses.

The days in Paynes Depot, were wonderful. The nights were another story that I’ll delve into another time.

All of this is brought up, by the photo I found tonight. I’m pretty sure I’ve posted it before, but my uncle raised and trained racehorses and the photo shows a race we attended that his horse won.

I remember this photo being taken clear as day.

It’s nice to be reminded of the good parts of my childhood.

I was in 2nd grade when this photo was taken.

That’s my mom with her arms on my shoulders. By Aunt Debbie to her left. And my Aunt Birdie and Uncle Conley are two places over. He as a hat, and she was a blue blouse.

Who knew they raced horses in the winter.\