The fridge across from the workbench at the bakery has started emitting these high pitched sing song noises at completely random intervals. Sometimes it will be a half hour before I hear one, sometimes they go off every two minutes. They're not loud enough to be piercing, but they do get obnoxious after a while, or they would if they didn't change keys frequently.
The first day I thought I was going to get a migraine and die, but afterward, my brain started getting acclimated and decided somewhere in between alien craft siren and whale communication the fridge is definitely singing.
It seems to get noisier when there's music on.
Don't ask me why! I work alone a lot damn it!
I may in fact be going legitimately bananas.
Sara and I definitely sang back to it on friday night.
I don't see how you can do a job like mine and not give the large, weird machines you depend on human attributes.
The Oven: BRUCE.
He is big and beefy, kind of dumb. Get's angry fast and you have to work around whatever the hell he feels like doing. You can trick him into doing something for you, but you have to make him think it's for his own benefit.
The Mixer: Marge.
Dopey, crotchety, not nearly as old and decrepit as she pretends to be. She just wants you to do EVERYTHING for her. If you aren't looking though, she's really quite fast and efficient.
The Scale: Pepe.
Pepe is french. Pepe is annoying. Pepe does not ever say for sure what he's doing. You get very frustrated with Pepe and say fuck it, we're going to do this anyway.
The fridge doesn't have a name yet. It still freaks me out a little. Perhaps it will be Ping or something.
I wrote a short story last week. I am editing it today and throwing it at a contest tomorrow. Perhaps it will win. There's got to be some reason my mind does things like lend personification to kitchen appliances.
Wouldn't that be nice?
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Fur-Fur-Furious up in here
While blabbing about anything and everything is my most forefront forte, I never truly recognize my own verbal cavalcades until I am at work.
During the daily baguette-a-thon is when this trait is at its finest. For some reason, around seven in the evening, when the night baker(s) have about an hour to wail on shaping the next day's number, all the usual topics of conversation are exhausted-i.e. weather, daily pre-work misadventures, culinary philosophy, rants on coworkers, spousal commentary, etc-and I find myself simply opening my mouth and letting streams of no consciousness whatsoever pool onto the kneading bench.
Tonight of course, I was finished yowling about how much my fucking back hurts, how the apartment I looked at today may as well have been the inside of a nuclear chimney for all its appeal, the masochistic ego dances of the lizards in my kitchen, the essence of the perfect caramel espresso milkshake, how difficult is it for a biped of even incomplete cerebral development to clean the fucking dishpit at the end of its shift, I stumbled upon my last reserve,
"Hey...Bob wants to be the green man for halloween this year, and he's totally buying faun pants!"
Ahem.
While my sister in "no pain no pain" stared blankly across the bench at me, I veered off toward the personal crises the faun pants had brought me to earlier in the day, "What the fuck am I supposed to be this year?"
Still no response.
A few beats, during which the folding of the couches around the maggot-shaped bread dough was audible enough to make me gulp, and then in a much tinier voice,
"Maybe a faerie...or a sprite of some kind..."
Sara guffawed.
"No," she shook her bandana, "any of the retail girls can be sprites, pixies or whatever, but I don't think that's something you could pull off."
"Eh?"
"Something darker, something bigger...a fury perhaps. One of the three...you know?"
A fury.
So I go home after I finish my bake. Bob and Scully pick me up in a tiny black rabbit with two surfboards bound to the roof. They reek of salt and sexwax and euphoria. I am charbroiled with jealousy.
Still...a lady can't be truly furious when she knows full well her sweetie's been busting six day work weeks for six in a row now, plus she has plans to go to boston on sunday and catch up with anybody she can. Er...does that mean a lady doesn't get even she gets sloppy?
A fury certainly doesn't.
After the tired, salty boy went to bed, I sat down and plied that most excellent search engine (starts with a g...) for a refresher on my Greek Mythology.
Goddesses of vengence, sisters of punishment, snake haired, blood sobbing, crow feathered justice mongrels with not only the taste but the birthright of blood after the Titans took down their Daddy.
The three: Tisiphone, Alecto and Megaera.
The original avengers.
But vengence is bad says good karma student Jess. We shake our fists at the nasty wasties and placate our darker impulses with the assurance that mister asshole will get his and mistress fucktard will be royally whomped a la universal energies.
Still...even with an entire week of Laurie Cabot's teachings about how even the slightest thought can have power, isn't it sometimes lovely to let your imagination go completely off the rails? Don't you sometimes just want to imagine the douche-bag who cut you in the whole foods line is going to get shat on by a goddamn albatross in the parking lot? Don't you want to believe, every time a dirtbag spooks you on your long, shadowy walk across the parking lot/alley way/street/park/etc that wild cobras will spring out of the sewer grates and lay into him like that japanese dude goes at nathan's hotdogs?
And can't you help wondering if that time you actually kifed the pen the waitress brought with the check because you keep forgetting to get them when you're out, and dammit if you never have anything to write with on you, and you wrote your grocery list out on a receipt with a broken crayon last week is really worth the migraine you have today, or the dog's pyrotechnically inclined sphinctor, the splinter under your frigging fingernail, the chunk missing from your engagement ring, the sleepless night thanks to some unidentifiable new pain in your anatomy?
I mean come on!
It's enough to invoke anyone's personal goddesses of "fuck you, world! i'm staying home today!"
I mean if nothing else, they lead an army of harpies, and who doesn't want a flying legion of ripshit old ladies with bird claws and superhuman justice glands at their back?
Well.
I do.
During the daily baguette-a-thon is when this trait is at its finest. For some reason, around seven in the evening, when the night baker(s) have about an hour to wail on shaping the next day's number, all the usual topics of conversation are exhausted-i.e. weather, daily pre-work misadventures, culinary philosophy, rants on coworkers, spousal commentary, etc-and I find myself simply opening my mouth and letting streams of no consciousness whatsoever pool onto the kneading bench.
Tonight of course, I was finished yowling about how much my fucking back hurts, how the apartment I looked at today may as well have been the inside of a nuclear chimney for all its appeal, the masochistic ego dances of the lizards in my kitchen, the essence of the perfect caramel espresso milkshake, how difficult is it for a biped of even incomplete cerebral development to clean the fucking dishpit at the end of its shift, I stumbled upon my last reserve,
"Hey...Bob wants to be the green man for halloween this year, and he's totally buying faun pants!"
Ahem.
While my sister in "no pain no pain" stared blankly across the bench at me, I veered off toward the personal crises the faun pants had brought me to earlier in the day, "What the fuck am I supposed to be this year?"
Still no response.
A few beats, during which the folding of the couches around the maggot-shaped bread dough was audible enough to make me gulp, and then in a much tinier voice,
"Maybe a faerie...or a sprite of some kind..."
Sara guffawed.
"No," she shook her bandana, "any of the retail girls can be sprites, pixies or whatever, but I don't think that's something you could pull off."
"Eh?"
"Something darker, something bigger...a fury perhaps. One of the three...you know?"
A fury.
So I go home after I finish my bake. Bob and Scully pick me up in a tiny black rabbit with two surfboards bound to the roof. They reek of salt and sexwax and euphoria. I am charbroiled with jealousy.
Still...a lady can't be truly furious when she knows full well her sweetie's been busting six day work weeks for six in a row now, plus she has plans to go to boston on sunday and catch up with anybody she can. Er...does that mean a lady doesn't get even she gets sloppy?
A fury certainly doesn't.
After the tired, salty boy went to bed, I sat down and plied that most excellent search engine (starts with a g...) for a refresher on my Greek Mythology.
Goddesses of vengence, sisters of punishment, snake haired, blood sobbing, crow feathered justice mongrels with not only the taste but the birthright of blood after the Titans took down their Daddy.
The three: Tisiphone, Alecto and Megaera.
The original avengers.
But vengence is bad says good karma student Jess. We shake our fists at the nasty wasties and placate our darker impulses with the assurance that mister asshole will get his and mistress fucktard will be royally whomped a la universal energies.
Still...even with an entire week of Laurie Cabot's teachings about how even the slightest thought can have power, isn't it sometimes lovely to let your imagination go completely off the rails? Don't you sometimes just want to imagine the douche-bag who cut you in the whole foods line is going to get shat on by a goddamn albatross in the parking lot? Don't you want to believe, every time a dirtbag spooks you on your long, shadowy walk across the parking lot/alley way/street/park/etc that wild cobras will spring out of the sewer grates and lay into him like that japanese dude goes at nathan's hotdogs?
And can't you help wondering if that time you actually kifed the pen the waitress brought with the check because you keep forgetting to get them when you're out, and dammit if you never have anything to write with on you, and you wrote your grocery list out on a receipt with a broken crayon last week is really worth the migraine you have today, or the dog's pyrotechnically inclined sphinctor, the splinter under your frigging fingernail, the chunk missing from your engagement ring, the sleepless night thanks to some unidentifiable new pain in your anatomy?
I mean come on!
It's enough to invoke anyone's personal goddesses of "fuck you, world! i'm staying home today!"
I mean if nothing else, they lead an army of harpies, and who doesn't want a flying legion of ripshit old ladies with bird claws and superhuman justice glands at their back?
Well.
I do.
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