Tired, again.

I have a good client who knows a lot about my personal life. Not because I spew my guts out to my clients, but because I deal with him every few weeks, and he loves working with Mario, AND he knows that Mario is my husband, AND he also recently went through some serious back issues of his own. Every time he calls me, before we get in to how I am going to spend his money this time, his first question is, "How's Mario's back?"

I always update him, let him know how Mario's doing. A few weeks ago, he said, "....and plus this is so hard on you." I laughed, of course this isn't hard on me, I'm not the one in pain, everything in my world is fine!

This client called me again today, and once more, before I figured out how to spend his money, we went through the whole Mario saga update. And again he said, "...but this is hard on YOU, too."

And maybe because I am tired and stressed about work and just generally in a bad frame of mind, tonight I tell you: this IS hard on me. Yes, yes, I have made (not so veiled) comments about missing our sex life, but it is far larger than that. I am tired of seeing him unable to stand upright. I am tired of him getting up three times a night. I am tired of getting home at night and having him not pay attention to me because the exhaustion has caused him to fall asleep on the couch. I am tired of being alone, even when he is eighteen inches away from me. I am tired of every conversation centering around his pain. I am tired of seeing him in pain. I am tired of being alone.

I miss getting a hug, alright? He can't do it because of the pain it causes him. I miss going out for dinner. I miss spontaneous outings. I miss him being AWAKE. I miss every normal fun aspect of the life we had a year ago.

We are planning to go camping in a week....camping is my absolute favourite thing in the world. I resent the fact that I am scared that he will be physically unable to do it. I don't blame HIM, I just blame SOMETHING for taking this joy away from me, from us.

I know Mario lives through the pain alone. But I live through everything else alone, too.

It has been more than six months. It IS hard on me, damn it.

Memories can catch you off guard

It is Saturday afternoon, I am cleaning my house. And just five minutes ago, I cleaned the oak slabs that top the half wall in our livingroom.

And as I ran my hand over them, I suddenly remembered the day Mario and I went to Home Depot, and spent over an hour choosing the two slabs that complimented each other, the two pieces that would look so perfect in our home.

And tears came to my eyes.

Everything that man does, he does for me. I can only hope he knows I do the same. My God I love that man.

We Stand on Guard for Thee

Sometimes, I stumble across clients who I absolutely adore. Actually, that happens on a pretty regular basis, which is why I love my job so much. I make a connection with an individual and magic happens from there. That is not the case tonight.

Tonight, we are holding a Regimental Ball for our local military base. And I can not tell you that, in the planning, I met a person who touched my heart and sense of humour. But I can tell you I met MANY. Tonight, for me emotionally, is literally the pinnacle of everything I have ever done in catering. The Rolling Stones were fun, sure, but this is an honour.

I have been passionate about this event since its very inception eight months ago. I mean, seriously, a Regimental Ball? Pageantry? Dress uniforms? Holy Christ, sign me up. Just on the surface alone you gotta know I was keen.

But then in the planning, I met the most amazing, fascinating people. Probably the nicest people I have ever dealt with. And now that the event is finally here I must confess I am a little sad that I will no longer receive phone calls and visits from them at random moments. They probably think that the reason I keep mentioning that we should make this an annual event is so I can take more of their money. The truth is that I just want to keep them around. Specifically, without mentioning their last names or rank-- they may wish to stay anonymous-- I want to keep J.P., Frank, and Hobson (dude, you never told me your first name!) around.

I remember one of the first meetings I had with my primary contact, a great and funny guy who knows a lot about food (so instantly, hey, you know I'm gonna love him!). I forget how it came up, but I do know I spontaneously said, "Thank you for what you do."

Thank you for taking care of me. Thank you for taking care of people in other nations, who are in a bad situation and just need some help. Thank you for having more courage than I. I am humbled by you.

Now I'm going to explain the title of this post.

Mario and I went to a hockey game this past winter, and it was Military Appreciation Night. All of the families who serve in our city were invited for free, and "O Canada" was performed by a military band and a, umm, military singer (there's probably an official title, but I don't know it, sorry.) Now, O Canada turns me into a blubbering idiot under the best of circumstances. But to look down on the ice, and see our serving men and women, and hear the words, "We stand on guard for thee".... It was just a stupid hockey game but it ended up being one of the most moving experiences in my life.

They DO stand on guard for thee. Nothing bad will happen to you, because they are vigilant and won't let it happen. And if you just need a hand up, they will offer it. And the places you're afraid to go? They're afraid to go, too,but they go anyway. I love these men and women.

Over the Edge

I will put it on the line right now: not only am I not in My Happy Place, I am certifiably, undeniably, 100% pissed and bitch-tastic. Anyone who wants to back away quietly (without taking your eyes off me, in case I attack) is excused. If you're still here, I'm going in to full on Rant Mode now. You've been warned.

Got in to it with one of the sous chefs today. Every meeting I plan, every menu I confirm, every timeline I have for an event, every decision I make, is published on an event order (BEO). This tells the banquet department and the kitchen what is required of them. And while I DO make mistakes, and I do overlook things by times, I have been doing this for a while, alright? I have a pretty good handle on how to to do my job.

On an average day, I put out eight BEO's. On a super productive day, a day when my phone isn't ringing off the hook and I only work from 8am til 7pm (even though I stopped getting paid at 5pm), I might crank out thirty.

Yesterday was such a day. I got out thirty. And today, I received several phone calls from this sous chef. Let's say, oh, I don't know, thirty. (slight exaggeration, but this is my blog.)

"How come..."
"Why didn't you..."
"Can't you change..."
"You didn't tell me..."
"Where did you get that price..."
"Are you crazy.."

No, I am NOT crazy, I am doing my bloody job. And I'm really sorry that you misunderstood me when I asked for that menu, and I'm sorry that I can not change the date of that menu tasting, and I'm sorry apparently everything I do is shit, but BACK OFF.

My job is hard, okay? You may think that all I do is dress up and eat in resturants all day, but I work my ass off. I have an average of three meetings a day, and receive and respond to, on AVERAGE, almost 100 phone calls and emails. PER DAY. And above and beyond that, I initiate at leat another fifty phone calls/emails. And in the middle of that, I find time to "make friends" with my clients, take care of details that other departments should be responsible for ("Oh, but Jenn, you have the relationship with them, so could you....") and upsell clients to spending more on food and beverage than they planned to. The reason I work late almost every day of my life is that, because I am so busy being on the phone and nudging clients towards the better menu all day, the first chance I actually get to do some WORK is right around 5pm.

I am not the only one with a hard job. I am not the only one who routinely puts in 60 hours a week. All the Banquet supervisors do it, and all the sous chefs do it, too. The difference seems to be that I am the only one who gets shit on every time I turn around. The difference is that, when an event runs flawlessly, there is unending praise for Banquets and the kitchen....the fact that somebody PLANNED this perfect event is never mentioned or considered. The difference seems to be that I completely acknowledge I couldn't in a million years do what they do, but they seem to feel that a small child or drunk monkey could do MY job.

I would never suggest to this particular sous-chef that we trade jobs for the day, because I can't cook. And do I really have to point out what the flip side of that equation is?

I am tired of getting no respect, I am tired of being questioned and berated, I am tired of having to explain myself, I am fucking tired.

It ain't easy being a girl

To say that I have a low maintenance "beauty" routine is putting it mildly. I wear eyeliner, mascara, and lipstick. There. I'm done talking now.

Up until today, my biggest financial scare were those grocery days when you needed to buy cleaning supplies; you can easily spend $150 on Windex, toilet bowl cleaner, oven cleaner, etc, and walk out of the grocery store with nothing to eat for the next week.

But, today, I realized what real horror is. I am, unbelievably, out of deodorant, shampoo, soap, face moisturizer, body moisturizer, eyeliner, mascara, lipstick, AND hairspray, ALL of which ran out this weekend.

Oh God, I won't be able to pay my mortgage this month....

Fear

I will not live in fear. I will not jump when the ice machine drops an icecube in to the freezer. I will not double-check that all the doors are locked. I will not calculate the value of my jewellery, even as I hide it. I will not allow another person to rob me of my peace. I WILL NOT.

Blast from the Past

I checked out my old blog tonight. (For anyone with waaaay too much time on thier hands, it's at http://www.xanga.com/JennBellyshorts ) Regardless, I found this post from last October, and in keeping with my post here today about his poor discs and his arthritis, it seemed relevant....


Sunday, October 22, 2006
Time to move my butt

Five pm, Mario is in the shower, I am still completely unwashed, we are expected at a dinner party at 7 pm. Or at least we think it's a dinner party. It may just be a party. Who knows.

Said unknown party is being held at least partially in Mario's honour, as today is his 55th birthday. My friend Robnoxious didn't realize that Mario was "that old" and commented, "Jenn...you gold digger!!" (all in good fun, of course, he knows I worship Mario.) (Besides, if there was any gold to be dug, I'd be writing this from a beach instead of our living room!)

Yup, Mario is 19 years older than me. SO WHAT. I love him, he loves me, we have our life, our dreams, our house, our pets, our bad habits, our good habits, our fascination with Criss Angel to sustain us. We are a normal couple. People who glom on to the age difference (and they do exist, although Robnoxious is not one of them) always amuse me. What, like I'd be better off with some 36 year old guy, just BECAUSE he's 36 ? No thank you.

Would I prefer that Mario was my age? sure, but only if it meant we would have more time together. I mean, there are no guarantees in life, and either one of us could be hit by a bus tomorrow. Why not just accept love when it comes?

So I will gladly be cast as the gold digger. And he can proudly say he has a trophy wife.
And then we can both piss ourselves laughing.

It takes a stranger

Well, we got the results back from Mario's MRI, and his consult with his doctor. One herniated disc, one "compromised" disc, and arthritis in one hip. Christ.

He began physio on Monday, we'll see how that goes, it's really our last option before surgery.

The Stranger in the title of this post isn't a stranger to him, only to me. Against my express wishes, tonight on the way home, he also stopped at his chiropractor. "Witch doctor", Jennifer once again said under her breath.

Guess what the chiroprctor told him? "I am so proud of you, Mario. After five months of excrutiating pain, you are STILL walking around, you are STILL going to work every day, you haven't let this stop you from doing what you care about."

Oh.

Sometimes, I forget to be proud of him.

Sometimes, it takes a stranger to show me.

Vanity

Friend sent me some pictures from six years ago. And I'm sorry but my first reaction was, "Oh, I was so pretty!" I literally can't believe how much I have changed since then.

I don't say this so that my friends will rush with an outpouring of favourable comments on my appearance. (so don't even bother, Kelz!) I am not a vain woman but I am human. Seeing those pictures shocked and depressed me: I am approaching forty, and it is all downhill from here.

I pray that, as I continue to evolve, I will eventually be able to look in the mirror and see only the inner beauty coming through.

The Real Kitchen

Just watched the season premiere of "Hell's Kitchen". The show itself was pretty brutal: crappy food, unorganized kitchens, Gordon Ramsay freaking out waaaaaay too often to be entertaining.

The reason I am hooked on this show is that it shows a kitchen in the way most people will never see. I'm sure, to the uninitiated, the cries of, "Yes, Chef!", "No, Chef!", "Right away, Chef!", "Thank you for telling me my food is shit, Chef!" must seem cheesy and forced. THAT'S what makes me chuckle.

Let me tell you: the whole Yes Chef / No Chef thing? That's real. It is a little known fact that chefs literally give up thier names when they get their own kitchen. I have known my Chef for six years, and I consider him a close, personal friend. And if I have called him Stefan five times in the last six years, I'd be surprised. Hell, I have called his house on social occasions, and asked, "Is Chef there? I mean, is STEFAN there?"

They don't choose to give up their names, ok? That's just part of the traditions in a kitchen. Traditions I know and love well. And just to make it clear, the way Gordon Ramsay acts, with all the swearing and belittling, is not the norm. But it's pretty close.

I think people somehow believe that a kitchen is some kind of magical kingdom of careful tasting, adjusting, and general creation of art. And it IS those things, when we have time for it. Culinary professionals usually do spend a small part of their day playing with food. But when we have to get 700 meals out in the next 20 minutes, it ain't any place for pussies, ok? So shut up and get the asparagus on that fucking plate NOW, alright?

I watch Chef and the sous's, and I am humbled by all five of them. They take, umm, ingredients and half an hour later come back with delights which have often brought me to wordless tears, simply because I did not have the words to describe that soft kiss of angels on my tongue. To paraphrase Dooce, they hold spoons out to my face, and I reach in and taste rainbows.

Miscellaneous kitchen facts:

1. There is only ever one chef, even if there are five people who share equal education and credentials; only the person who actually runs the kitchen, the Executive Chef, is ever referred to as Chef. There is a soft exception to this when you also have a pastry chef (which I do). The pastry chef is given ALMOST as much public respect as the Chef himself. But in the kitchen? The pastry chef is just another sous chef.

2. A sous chef is the exact same as the executive chef, he or she has the same education and credentials. They just don't run the department. I bring this up, only because of a conversation I had with a client today. He wants to set up a meeting with me and Chef in July, so I pointed out that I don't know Chef's schedule, he may be on vacation at that time, so if he's not available, I could get the executive sous chef. No no, that wasn't good enough for the client, he wanted CHEF. Which leads me to point number 3.

3. Literally ninety percent of what you eat in a restaurant or a banquet, the Chef had NOTHING to do with. A Chef's job is to run his kitchen and teach his cooks and apprentices. The sous chefs run most of the actual cooking and menu creation, with the guidance of Chef. And once they are up to Chef's standards, he pretty much lets them do what they want. He still knows that everything that leaves the kitchen will be attributed to him, so he is very concerned with the quality, but did he COOK it? Noooooooooooo.

4. You can tell someone's relative rank in a kitchen by looking at their hats. From an apprentice to a second cook to a first cook to a saucier to a sous chef to a Chef, the height of the hat determines their rank.

5. Those folds in a chef's hat? Each fold represents one way that chef knows to cook eggs. The more folds, the higher rank of that cook / chef.

6. These rare people practice an art. It is not a job you come to lightly. You come with passion, dedication, the surrender of normal life, and a great palate.

7. I could not imagine my life without them.

Fleeting

Sunday, Brian fell asleep in the car. The sun was both strong and warm, and he succombed to its pull.

While driving, I watched him in quick glances. Cheek tight against the upholstery, his entire body limp,his hands loosely curled in slumber.

His hands. Still childishly rounded, all soft surfaces, no visible bones. Perfect, soft hands. And as I watched the shadows dance across them, I was thankful that his hands were shown to me. Soon, like every aspect of his appearance, they will begin to change, slowly metamorphasize into their adult form.

But I got to look at my baby's hands in the light.

In other gardening news

(See, I knew I wanted to tell This Story, but I didn't want it to interfere with my Brian Story.)

I'm out gardening this afternoon and I slowly realize I can't see properly out of my left eye. I am growing my hair out, so unruly hair blowing in to my face is nothing new. I swipe blindly at my head and keep going. Ten seconds later, it is obvious the hair still isn't gone, I swipe again. I blink repeatedly, but I can still half see something at the top of my eye and it's making me bonkers. I rub my eye and blink again. Still no improvement. I put my fingers to my eyelashes and realize there's something in them. I carefully work my fingertips to the base of my eyelashes, grasp firmly but gently, and pull.

What comes out is a handful of blood and some kind of black flying insect I can't even identify after being mashed in my hand.

Bleed??!!?? It was one of the weirdest medical moments of my life. I'm in the garden, bleeding from my eyelid. I immediately came inside, much to the general horror of my family; Mario and Brian both seemed to think that my natural clumsiness had finally gotten the best of me and I had blinded myself with a trowel or something. So I'm standing in the livingroom, with blood essentially pouring out of my EYE, saying, "No, it's cool, I just got bit my something. Like a bear."

I hav no idea what it was, although I think I have eliminated mosquito. All I know is that it is eight hours later, my eye is swollen, and it frigging HURTS where I was bitten. Therefore, no eye makeup for Jenn in the morning. Hope my co-workers are ready for that nastiness.

At least this much is done

Today, I planted the small bed by the front door. It has become a ritual for Brian and me to stroll the aisles of a local nursery, with no preconceived notion of what we want this year, and simply pick whichever annuals speak to us.

Because the bed was only planted six hours ago, it's understandably looking a little bare. But with time, sun, and a bit of luck, it's going to fill in quite nicely. The reason I wanted to talk about this small gardening moment centers around Brian.

As a scrapbooker, I have a pretty good grasp on colour and how different hues can work together. Still, in the front bed (other than the year I planted vegetables!), I have always played it safe, always chosen traditional colour schemes. One year it was two different shades of purple, last year it was red and white, blah blah blah, you get the picture.

This morning, after Brian and I had quickly perused the entire selection, he went back to the pretty blue lobelias. "I want this, Mummy. And", quickly striding two aisles over, he pointed to the shocking orange marigolds, "I want this. And maybe something white."

Blue. Orange. A splash of white.

Why does he instinctively see what I must study? Loving this kid, can't believe he's actually mine.