Slinging and Hash

My coworkers are so young that I was sitting at the bar after my shift a few months ago, having a beer. The man next to me told me his name and that he was a sound editor at NPR. He asked me what I did, and I told him that I “sling hash here.” The bartender, young enough to be my son, said, “I thought you were a cook. You’re a drug dealer?” The sound editor nearly fell off his bar stool laughing and said, “I think that’s old diner slang.”

But today’s entry is about a different kind of sling. My left shoulder has been bothering me for a few weeks, but the pain has been fully manageable with Aleve and Tylenol… that is, until yesterday morning. I woke up in so much pain that I couldn’t stop crying, and didn’t until I got to Urgent Care.

I couldn’t possibly see how I was going to cook and wash dishes, so I gave Chef a heads up as to what was going on, and could he possibly find someone to work for me? To his absolute credit, for which I will thank him publicly, he told me to get to Urgent Care and let him know what they said. He’d find a way to work it out, even though there was no one to take my place. It created a tiger mom loyalty in me, and by the time I got to Urgent Care, as the tears flowed, I said, “there is no possible way that I can miss work tonight. If there’s any way you could treat this as a sports injury and just shoot it up with something, let’s do it.” If chef was willing to work a man down that night just so I was taken care of, the least I could do was try my hardest, exhausting all possible options, before staying home. I knew that I was going to either be miserable at work or miserable at home, so why not at least try to be miserable and make money at the same time?

The Urgent Care that I went to is incredibly risk-averse, the doctor told me, so he wasn’t allowed to put steroids directly into my shoulder, even though he thought it was the best course of treatment for what I needed in the moment (doesn’t work long-term). Instead, he did a long and thorough physical examination, determining that I had strained my rotator cuff, and that I should get it imaged with an Ortho to confirm it was just a strain and not an actual tear. If it’s just a strain, his recommendation is physical therapy. A tear requires surgery that, from what I hear, is relatively quick and easy, but the recovery is hell on wheels. One of my mom friends said that her son tore his, and just like the friends my age, had a difficult time with it. So I am definitely praying for a positive outcome, and if you’ll pray with me, send good vibes, use black magic, whatever, I’m game. Anything that taps into the power of the universe is fine with me. I know all of my readers can’t possibly believe in God, but even if you’re an atheist, believing in doctors is my first choice as well. Faith doesn’t come without shoe leather, and their work is as close to God’s as I’ve seen on this earth (there’s a reason I donate to MSF every chance I get).

As for the treatment I got yesterday, I chose a clinic that was close enough to walk to work from there, so after an IM injection of Toradol and oral Vicodin 5/325, I actually made it to my shift 30 minutes early, where I briefed Chef on all that had happened, and he thanked me profusely for coming in anyway, especially since my arm was in a sling to take pressure off my shoulder. I don’t wear it while working or typing, but other than that, I don’t take it off. I also realized that 325mg of Tylenol was probably not adequate, so I took an additional one. The doctor said that by the time I got home from work, the Toradol will have worn off, so I took two Aleve as well. Anything to relieve the inflammation, especially since I probably added to it last night. Even with Vicodin on board, everything still hurt like hell, especially after cleaning the kitchen, particularly sweeping & mopping. It was at that moment I thought, “maybe a desk job is for me,” and then I remembered that I was in just as much pain there, because the repetitive strain injuries never stopped, as well as more often than not, having a bad chair that always, always caused sciatica, as well as agitating the arthritis in my back. I absolutely understand that not all offices can afford Aerons, but so far, those have been the only chairs that don’t cause me pain. Even the knock-offs work, as long as they’re good ones and not the cheapest available.

I promise, I’m not snobby about it. Just worried for my own health. Even though osteoarthritis isn’t nearly as bad as rheumatoid, it’s no joke. It makes you feel like a very old person, no matter how young you are. Going from the kitchen to a desk job is just trading one type of pain for the other, equally severe in their own ways.

I definitely need to follow up with physical therapy, because with my level of activity, I’m likely to tear the rotator cuff up real good (if you’e going to do something, do it right).

And on that note, it’s time for a nap, provided I can find a comfortable position.

Flavored Coffee is for Young People

This entry is going to start out with a story that seems like a million years ago, but was really only about 17 (I think….). Before I met Dana, I dated a woman that was much older than me, but captured my heart with the simple fact that to her, everything was magic. Just an incredible lightness of being, the art of wearing rose-colored glasses no matter how crappy life got. Her attitude was just #goals for someone as alternately perky and jaded as me. And as different as we were, we were at the same points in our lives- both having just broken up with people we loved despite our differences- realizations that our partners were great people, but not great with us.

It was interesting to see people’s reactions to our age gap. My friends loved her. Her friends hated me, and hate is not too strong a word. They viewed me as the midlife crisis girltoy, and not a fully functioning adult with agency. The worst was judgmental anger from people in an age-gap relationship two years smaller than ours. I wish I had been strong enough back then to just say “bite me” and move on. But I wasn’t. I took everything personally and just hid in my shell.

I don’t think she was immune to judgment, either, because ultimately our relationship ended because she thought I was too young. Maybe I was. Maybe I wasn’t. Hard to tell in retrospect. I just know that I could have handled whatever life threw at us, but if we hadn’t broken up, it wouldn’t have created the door for Dana to open. She became my best friend because in the beginning, we didn’t know each other well at all. I just had to find a new gaggle of friends since most of my friends in Portland were also my then-girlfriend’s, and it didn’t feel like a safe place to fall. The friends I had that were the ultimate support didn’t live there- they met her through phone calls, as archaic as that sounds. I mean, I could still be friends with the ones that were mutual, but it wasn’t my goal to express anger or sadness in front of them, especially since I knew their reaction was going to be a ten gallon jug of “I told you so,” which is always so helpful in a breakup.

But the main thing our age gap provided me was an immense amount of laughter.

We were in Starbucks and she ordered a soy latte. I can’t remember exactly what I had, but if I’m guessing, either a raspberry or mint regular latte. She looked at me and said, “flavored coffee is for young people.” I wish I had been strong enough back then to just say “bite me” and move on.

And now it’s almost 20 years later, and every time I have a flavored coffee… every single time… that line runs through my head. Today it’s French vanilla creamer and dark roast. At 41, now I need to feel like a young person. So there. Flipping the script.

I’m drinking a lot of coffee this morning because even though I slept well, I’m working dish tonight from 1700-2300. I could take a nap, but I don’t want to. I want to watch the first snowfall of the season. It’s just magical, especially since I don’t drive. That way, I can just enjoy the snow without worrying about scraping off my car, or getting into an accident on the way and having to call the restaurant and say “I just slid into a ditch.” Well, unless my Uber driver does. I doubt the bus has that capability. I tend to take the bus in the snow, because if we’re in a wreck, the bus is gonna win.

It’s important for me to stay alive, because no one else is going to update this web site, and Facebook nags me all the time. I have 105 followers on my author page, and I’ll get passive-aggressive messages saying they haven’t heard from me in a while. It’s annoying, but also necessary. I took this job as a cook and dishwasher partly because I needed any job, and partly because my level in IT is “constantly connected to my job, tethered by phone and laptop.” I thought I would have more time to write, but what has actually happened is that I am so physically exhausted all the time that writing has taken a back seat to enjoying sleep and Aleve.™ I am constantly in pain, because I had arthritis before I started cooking, and the acrobatics required on both the line and in the dish pit don’t make that easier. However, I do think it has made my muscles stronger, which helps. More muscle mass has allowed my bones to relax a little, because they’re supported now.

It is not lost on me that I could have a cushy desk job and have a hell of a lot more money, but I am not convinced that I would be any happier, at least not yet. There are things about both blue and white collar jobs that just suck. But I’m never going to learn how to do things in a desk job that genuinely make other people’s faces light up.

My sister is a lobbyist, a rock star in her world. I used to be intimidated by that, until I realized that powerful people love to talk about food, so when I walk into a room, I’m also a rock star. People who have never worked in a restaurant, but whose imaginations are captured by TV shows, love to talk to me. I don’t really like the current slate of shows on The Food Network, etc., because I prefer the old school stand-and-stirs that actually educated people. Emeril before Emeril Live, for instance, even though I watched Emeril Live and learned to love it over time. But I’d rather watch old Julia Child episodes, or Justin Smith, or Martin Yan.

To date, the movie at which I’ve cried the hardest is Julie & Julia, because it reminded me of Dana- particularly the scene where Julia is chopping a mountain of onions to improve her knife skills…. and also myself, because I also had to buy mountains of carrots and celery to improve my own knife skills, and ruin lots of pieces of bread to learn how to flip eggs properly, as well as learning how to mix things like (pre-cooked) macaroni and cheese sauce by flipping it in the frying pan instead of using a spoon. We had a lot of mirepoix in those months. Interestingly enough, even though I am French-trained, the only thing I don’t know how to make is an omelette.

I tried the other day, because my roommate left eggs behind when he moved out, as well as Presidente butter and sharp cheddar. I got closer than I ever have, but it still looked like a waffle cone with cheese at the top (I was doing tri-fold). I need more practice, so eventually it will be off to the store to buy my own butter and eggs, because everything in my own pantry is vegan. This is because eventually, my restaurant will serve brunch, and I think I need to be prepared for the possibility that omelettes will be on the menu, and I refuse to be the only cook that can’t make one. Can’t is not in my vocabulary. I will make a hundred of them if I have to. I just need to invite 99 people to my house to eat the mistakes, which will still taste amazing, but look like a five-year-old made them. This is a problem because I barely know nine people in DC, much less 99. However, if Eight is Enough, I’m sitting pretty.

I just need to ask them beforehand what their views are on flavored coffee.

Mission Accomplished

Getting my passport was a lesson in schadenfreude, except that I was laughing at my own misery, which is infinitely funnier.

My printer broke a long time ago, so I put a .PDF of my passport application on a flash drive and got an Uber to Kinko’s (or whatever they call it now…). We drive up, and it’s not there anymore. There is an empty parking lot where it and the Rite Aid used to be. I’m thinking to myself, “how is it that you did not know this?” And then I realize that I work so damn much that I hardly ever get to the Metro Station area of Silver Spring anymore, and even closer to never go to that Starbucks, which is the only way I would have noticed the absence. So I do what anyone would do in that situation. Give up completely and try not to cry. Not going to Paris isn’t that bad.

Really? No, not really.

I went to said Starbucks and got some coffee (Christmas Blend is excellent this year) and some bagel bites while I swore a blue streak and tried to figure out what to do next. I decided to just show up at the post office, because the passport office guy might be able to print out my document for me.

I get to the post office and they (rightly) laugh at me. I had to fill out another passport application in pen. Unless I set my mind to it, my handwriting is absolutely unreadable… just a carpal tunnel pile of garbage. I felt ten thousand years old, because who writes with a pen anymore? After a few minutes, though, I got into the rhythm of block capital letters, going slow enough not to agitate my wrist… which, by the way, is really, really, really, slow. On the positive side, because I got to the post office very early, they were able to move my appointment up… which was a very good thing. The guy putting the application together asks for my driver’s license, birth certificate, and pictures.

I told him that I’d put on my appointment that I was taking pictures there. He said, “well, you’re going to have to walk to CVS and get them done there, because our camera is out of film.” I’m sorry, WHAT?

I felt like I was in some sort of time travel nightmare, because it was misting, and as I walked, started raining harder, as if I had to run to get to the current century. I walk into CVS, where the nice clerk takes out a digital camera and snaps two standard-issue ugly government ID pictures… although we had to do them twice because apparently, in passports, you can’t smile. I thought about telling him that wasn’t true, that I was smiling in six of my other ones, but decided against it.

He apologized for not telling me before. I was wearing a DC United soccer jersey and jeans, and I said, “I’m not worried. As you can see, I put a whole lot of effort into this because government pictures turn out badly no matter what I do.” He laughed his ass off and handed me a folder with two pictures that have been approved for use not only with a regular passport, but biometric facial recognition as well. Like everyone else who’s ever had a passport or a driver’s license, I look like a serial killer on morphine.

I walk back through the rain to the post office, where the guy holding my application staples a picture onto it and tells me I’ll have it in two or three weeks. I hand him my debit card and he says, “we only take checks, but you can buy a money order at the desk.”

Let’s do the time warp again……

It’s $1.25 for the money order, and for some reason they start apologizing like it’s an astronomical sum of money, and tell me that if I want, I can walk to 7-Eleven and get one for 65 cents. I tell them I’m pretty sure it’s not going to overdraw my account, and can only imagine what kinds of fresh hell they’ve been through with other customers that they start apologizing beforehand over a dollar and a quarter.

Why didn’t I bring my own check? I literally cannot remember the last time I ordered a box of them.

Mostly because you couldn’t read them anyway.

Life, Abridged

Today has been all about scrambling to find an original copy of my birth certificate, which I thought I knew exactly where I’d put it. It was supposed to be in my top dresser drawer, where I keep all my important documents, like my ordination papers in case anyone needs to get married in a hurry. So far, it’s just been the one. Since I have completely torn my room apart, and I have no other stashes in any other areas of the house, I have decided that I must have given it to an employer and they failed to give it back.

Update: I mailed it to my dad for safekeeping. Total dumbass attack that I didn’t remember. It will be here in plenty of time to get a rush passport.

I need it because my dad and I booked a trip to Paris just after the new year, and then my sister and her husband asked if they could come, too. My dad and Lindsay have been before- not sure about Mathew. Years ago, when I was living in Portland, my whole famn damily went to Paris for vacation, and I could have gone, but there wasn’t enough time to get a passport by the time they invited me, because they thought I already had one.

I did get a passport when I went to Mexico, but the story behind that is my (now estranged, but still Oregon legal) wife accidentally gave it to Goodwill, when I left it in a pair of shorts I threw in what I thought was the laundry pile. I’ve been thinking of her a lot lately, what with the cooking and all. Dana has actual Le Cordon Bleu badges, and I don’t. I would have loved to take her to the real thing. And while I still love her in a friendship sort of way, we’re also estranged for good reason. Mostly because I was a total jackass to her and vice versa. In separation, universally, no one gets away with clean hands.

There’s nothing I’ll ever hold against her, but there’s nothing I’ll ever (ever, ever) forget, either.

But I do remember her a lot, and Paris is a place we both wanted to go, both from the food perspective and the several couples we asked to leave locks on the bridge for us to find when we eventually made it. Those conversations are memories that now make me indescribably sad, because I will indeed experience the divinity of Paris, just not quite the way I imagined.

But then again, I experience the divinity of The District every day, but not the way I imagined, either. It’s a good thing that I now think everything worked out the way it was supposed to resolve. I am glad that we never took a vacation here together, as I love living in a place that doesn’t trigger me all over the place. As I was telling a friend, being with Kat in my early 20’s is the part of my memory that is not so good (we lived in Alexandria, VA), and for that I am grateful.

Many, many people have now given me their recommendations for places to eat, although I hear that I need to go to a cafe rather than a restaurant, because they take forever. I can’t imagine that we won’t go to a restaurant at some point, but it’s a relatively short trip, so we shall see…..

Paris also reminds me of Anthony Bourdain, because I’ll never forget that he stayed in the hotel where Oscar Wilde died, his last words being, “I’m in a fight with the wallpaper, and it’s winning.” Bourdain did the ritual of absinthe, dripping it over a sugar cube, and realized what Wilde meant. 😛

It tastes like Fernet Branca, rich and herbaceous in all the right ways. I know because they sell absinthe without wormwood in the United States. I may or may not try it. I hardly ever drink, so my tolerance for alcohol is incredibly low. But I’m sure my dad, sister, and brother in law all want to hear how much I love them at 0200.

The last cocktail I had was when my sister took me to a Mediterranean restaurant here in DC. I wanted a something that would complement the food, so it was pomegranate and ouzo. I thought it was delightful, but I love the black jellybeans. Lindsay was not nearly as enamored with it.

I’m glad that I will have a passport again. The next dream I have is going to Helsinki for December 6th,fid Finnish Independence Day. I would tell you why, but it’s a long, long story and one that I don’t want to let go…. more than I already have, anyway. I’m sure if you look through my archives, there’s something in there somewhere. But the story reminds me of a dark time in my life, and how one celebrated holiday had to become another, and Finnish Independence Day was available. I basically had to bring a lantern into the dark, and for better or for worse, it came from a country I’ve never studied, and never cared about one way or the other for most of my life. But now, sufficed to say, my love for it is real and it’s deep. Finnish Independence Day threw me a life raft, and I took it.

Plus, Anthony Bourdain went there and now I know some good places to eat, if they’re still open when I eventually make it. I don’t know what I’m doing with my culinary life if reindeer pizza isn’t #goals. I also tend to buy soccer jerseys when I travel, or ask for them if others are going to another country. I would proudly wear the Finnish one for the entire month of December…. although I doubt it would make as many people jealous as my Honduran one. Half my kitchen is Honduran, and every staff member there has said they wanted to steal it when I’ve had it on. I didn’t wear it during service, just over my t-shirt on the way there so I’d have something to wear afterwards that wasn’t covered in food. I had to make sure it was completely hidden, because I don’t think they were kidding.

It feels nice to relax now and be able to enjoy my day off, but I do have to put my room back together after completely tearing it apart in fear that my birth certificate was buried somewhere. I think it’s time to read or watch a movie. I’ll flip a coin.

 

 

Black on Black Grime

I wear Converse All-Stars just about everywhere when I’m not in my Bistro Crocs (chili peppers on one pair, the Swedish Chef on the other). Since I have both black with black trim and brown with tan, there is no outfit I can’t make them match. Most of the time, I wear the preppiest clothes imaginable, the All-Stars and a Mickey Mouse watch just for whimsy.

I took both pairs with me when I went to Houston last October for the anniversary of my mother’s death, and when I walked around her gravesite, Texas red clay stuck to the black rubber like, well, clay… which is probably why it’s still there. It would take a toothbrush to get it all out, but I can’t bring myself to do it. It is as if everywhere I wear them, a piece of my mother comes with me- well, the “dust to dust” part, anyway.

I’ve gotten over the crying every day, and into the stage where I want to be reminded of my mother. However, as strange as it may seem, only in small doses. Seeing her Christmas sweatshirt in my closet? Fine. Randomly running across a piano or hearing solo piano music? Instant meltdown. My neural pathways just can’t take it at this time. One memory leads to another, tangent upon tangent, until I want to curl into the fetal position and hope that makes it all go away.

It doesn’t.

I’m not that far out from the second anniversary of her death. It was October 2nd. Two years is barely enough time to learn to breathe again… at least, all the way down. Sometimes I have to actually remember to exhale. When my fight or flight is engaged, I just keep inhaling until it occurs to me that I might hyperventilate, and that really doesn’t do me any good. It’s uncomfortable at best and frightening at its worst.

I wear an ichthus necklace at all times with her fingerprint as the pattern in the middle. Sometimes, when I feel the most vulnerable, I use it as an “ET moment,” my finger touching hers.

When you have a loved one die, the funeral home will try and sell you all sorts of crap that’s marked up 5,000%. This one thing has been worth it. Of course the fingerprint is taken from the body post-mortem, and I won’t lie that it hurts deeply when I’ve told people that and they say, “that’s creepy.” Well, I’ve never seen any store that makes those necklaces for people who are alive, so as much as you may think it, say it out loud and I am likely to withdraw from you, because this necklace is basically the only thing I have left of her. She willed her piano to me, but in Maryland, I don’t have a place to store it. My aunt has it until I do, and that is equally comforting.

I was offered many, many of her things… especially clothes from her closet. They were not my style and several sizes too big. She kept a toy chest of all my childhood things, so I took those back. Everything else was lost on me. I don’t want her stuff. I want her.

It’s just stuff. My house fire convinced me of that. Just more I’d have to find a place for that in the end, wouldn’t bring me any closer to her than I am right now. We talk all the time, because I’m not waiting for an answer. There’s nothing within me that says letters deserve a reply…. anymore. I just send thoughts into the ether and hope someone’s listening in all cases, but especially hers.

I am sad and angry that One Mississippi on Amazon Prime was canceled, because especially the pilot got me through some really rough times. For those not in the know, it’s a fictional account of Tig Notaro losing her mother. When I couldn’t reach my own emotions, I’d turn on the show and let them bubble up. The best part is watching the fictional version of Tig experience post-traumatic growth, to know that it does get better over time… as long as “time” is Jeremy Bearimy. If you aren’t a fan of “The Good Place,” time in the show moves so oddly that to display it visually looks like the signature of a person named, you guessed it, “Jeremy Bearimy.” As a sidenote, if a unified theory of everything posited originally by Stephen Hawking is found, I’m pretty sure the writers on “The Good Place” will stumble across it accidentally while writing something else. Cambridge, you’re on notice.

The “Jeremy Bearimy” episode really got through to me because it is also the explanation of grief… how you think it goes in a linear fashion and in reality, it is like finding a nest of tangled necklaces in the back of that drawer you forgot to clean out in 1982… and the chains are so impossibly delicate that you’ll never be able to tease them back out. One minute you’re fine- full of joy, even. The next, you’re sobbing so hard you’re shaking. The best day and the worst day are the same.

I know for certain that I will never take off this necklace, and it is amazing how carefully I watch my shoes to see if the red clay starts to fall off. But even if the necklace breaks and I step in water, rendering my black shoes black again, all I have to do is look in the mirror, and my face will tell me her story…. from the ascender of the J to the descender of the Y…. but mostly, my eyebrows.

Slicing Fear

In a moment, I’m going to show you a picture that will mean nothing to you, but the story behind it changed my life in an instant. I don’t know if I’ve said this before, but we’re opening a second location in College Park, Maryland that’s at least twice as big. Therefore, we have a new executive chef that will oversee both locations. Because the College Park location isn’t open yet, he’s been spending a lot of time with us, just learning and listening. Eventually, things will change, but I admire the fact that right now, he’s just observing the way we work together and taking advantage of teachable moments. For instance, with salads, he taught me to “dress the bowl.” Dressing that is sufficiently liquid (in my case, balsamic vinaigrette…. not sure how well this would work with Thousand Island….) goes around the top inside of the bowl, and the “legs” drip down. This ensures equal coverage over the entire salad, and doesn’t crush the leaves. It’s little things like that where I just kvell, because I am excited and interested by learning.

But tonight, there was this moment… one where I almost had to excuse myself to go cry (in the walk-in). I let myself fall apart for one second, and then got back to work. One second was all I could afford, one momentous thought that my education had changed in an instant. This chef, who I’d spent all of two or three days with, made me feel comfortable enough to say, when he said that I needed to chop something smaller and more evenly, that I had monocular vision.bibimbop I’m not sure, but I think the only other cook I’ve ever told is Dana, because I didn’t want to look stupid.

Or perhaps stupid is the wrong word. Most people have never heard of monocular vision, and therefore, I can explain it all day long, but that doesn’t mean that they get it.

But this chef didn’t even bat an eye. He said, “you can see in 2D, right? Hold the knife and the spring onions closer to your body and look straight down at them so you don’t have to use depth perception.” Tears came to my eyes that I tried to hide, but this was life-changing. It worked. Chef saw that my eyes were watering and he said, “hey, life is just a series of workarounds. You’re going to do great things.” And oh, boy did I ever want to squall my eyeballs out then. To my credit, I did not. But if I think of this conversation as I’m drifting to sleep, I have no doubt that joy will leak out of my eyes and onto my pillow.

If you look at the picture closely, you’ll see that everything is not exactly perfect, but such a vast improvement that I can’t wait to get back to work and keep trying. I know my chef well enough to know that perfection is not the goal, excellence is. But I want at least a few moments of perfection for myself…. which I got today, actually. About half  to 70% were completely without fault. Of course I want that ratio to go up, and it will. I just need to practice over and over (and over and over). Because of this, my own chef (as opposed to the executive chef) wants me to go to the CIA, where he went. I don’t think it’s for me. Learning on the job has been much more rewarding than taking classes, because plenty of people who’ve already done the same sorts of programs are in charge of my education now, and I would find that just about anywhere I cooked.

It is enough to have people in my life who truly see me with both eyes.

Blah, Blah, Blah, Computer

Today I have a bit of nerd advice, and a bit of what’s been going on the last few days.

Nerd Alert

When my iPad Mini got really, really old (as in, I could no longer download current version of apps or iOS), I took a chance on the cheapest Kindle Fire (7-inch, 7th generation). I thought that if it was terrible, I could either return or re-gift it. I have not been disappointed. It’s not the fastest tablet in the world, but it’s also not a $400 Facebook machine. I also have a 10 inch regular Android tablet that I got last Christmas, but I went to Houston and the gentle, careful hands of the TSA ripped that bitch to shreds. I contacted Amazon about it, and there was nothing they could do.

The whole reason I wanted a 10 inch tablet was to completely replace my laptop to make my backpack lighter, but I got over it. There’s just nothing close to the feel of a full-size keyboard, and the newest Synaptic touchpad driver has a feature I can’t live without. There’s a checkbox in the settings that says “turn off touchpad when mouse is detected.” I wish I could say you can do this in Linux, but I honestly don’t know. I tried installing Ubuntu Mate and the driver for my Realtek wi-fi card isn’t out yet, except for downloading it from GitHub, which is hard to do when you don’t have access to a wired connection. Besides, I like taking Microsoft Ultimate Word Games with me on the go. Addictive. Perhaps I’ll end up installing Ubuntu Mate alongside Windows so that I can check every once in a while to see if the driver has been added to the kernel. I know that to most of you, that won’t mean anything. They’re just geek words that come across as “blah, blah, blah, computer.” That’s OK. To the three readers to whom it does mean something, you’re welcome.

Having the option of my laptop or my small Kindle Fire with Bluetooth keyboard is invaluable, because what I love about it is, in fact, its size. I can fit it into any bag I carry, even the smallest purse (shut it- I always carry a purse or backpack so I don’t look like I have tumors in my legs) if I’m willing to type on the screen. The Amazon keyboard is better than any of the others I’ve tried.

Last night, though, my Kindle Fire became even more invaluable, because I discovered the hack online where you can add the Google Play store and get out of the Amazon universe, whose catalog of apps is limited and also sucks. Apps specifically written for Amazon OS are just a poor ripoff of actual Android apps, and they’re buggy AF. Also, I don’t think I’d purchase another 10 inch Android, and this is because most of the apps are coded for phones and thus, not designed to stretch to a large tablet, anyway. The Google suite is fine. Everything else is a crapshoot.

I’d rather have a smaller tablet than shell out the big bucks for an iPad. Again, way too expensive for my purposes, which is just mobile e-mail, Facebook, and WordPress. My phone is actually a shit ton faster than my tablet, because it has a quad-core processor and mind-blowing graphics… but it just doesn’t have enough screen real estate. I also noticed that my phone has more space than I thought it did, so I moved my 128 GB expansion card back to my Kindle Fire so that I could download the crap out of Amazon Prime video and music, plus Netflix and Stitcher. Even with all that, it will take me forever to fill it up, which is exactly the point. If my 32 GB phone fills up, I can always add a different expansion card for cheap. But mostly, I’d rather use my tablet and save the battery on my phone, unless I’m taking pictures. I haven’t really tried it out, but I think the camera on the Fire is only front-facing for video calls (which reminds me that I need to install Google Hangouts). I could have made the whole Amazon universe thing work if it wasn’t for one app. I use LastPass, which is a plug-in for all browsers on a desktop, but a full browser replacement on mobile devices, basically Chrome with LastPass already built in. Before that, I was using Silk (the Amazon web browser), and just logging into the LastPass web site every time I needed one of my passwords. When that started to drive me bonkers, that’s when I started looking up how to hack a Fire.

By the way, for those not in the know, hacking is not a bad thing. If you think it is, you’re thinking of cracking, which is hacking with malicious intent. Hacking makes things better. I know I’ve told this story before, but it’s so funny it bears repeating. When I interviewed at Alert Logic, one of the questions was, “what is the difference between hacking and cracking?” I said, “hacking is an attempt to make software better to suit your own needs. Cracking is generally software written by 13-year-old script kiddies to see how much damage they can do to a network in the shortest amount of time.” The interviewer said, “that was great. Can I use it?” Unsurprisingly, I got the job.

Life Update

Yesterday was the second anniversary of my mother’s death. Lindsay had some great ideas as to places I could visit that would mean a lot to her, but I just couldn’t even. I spent the day doing my usual, which is lying in bed with my laptop and watching movies and TV shows. I ended with the episode of The Newsroom where they report that UBL has been killed. I absolutely squalled my eyeballs out, which is generally how I cry. I put on something that I know will elicit tears and then just transfer into whatever it is I need to cry about for real. It’s a concrete way to make sure my emotions don’t stay bottled until the Mento drops over the Diet Coke.

Especially because I take medication for my mental health, sometimes I am not so good at being able to tap down far enough to show real emotion. It’s not that the emotion isn’t there, just harder to reach and bring to the surface. I’m not a walking zombie or anything. I still feel. It’s just that the highs and lows are more muted, which is invaluable most days. When I’m not taking my meds, I get angry and/or cry over damn near everything. But there are some days when all I need is a good cry. I finally wised up enough to let myself have one.

Today, I’m going to work at 1500, something also invaluable because it takes my mind off of everything else, and I do mean everything. I can’t work without total and complete focus, because the stakes are too high in terms of injury. Dan said she was worried about me- “just look at your arms!” I said, “would it help if I said it was worth it?” I do wear my Kevlar wrist guards that she gave me, but they honestly just can’t compete that well. Perhaps I need to buy a chef’s coat, but even those are only three quarter sleeves. I just have to wear the badges of my profession and realize that they are part of me. The only thing with which I see a true problem is that I have burned scars into the tattoo on my left forearm and my right wrist. It remains to be seen whether that will carry lasting damage, because it’s hard to tattoo over scar tissue. But the next one I’ve planned has been in the works for five years, and will be placed nowhere near anywhere I can get burned. However, it will be expensive artwork, which is why I haven’t done it already, and only two people in the world (and the artist, obvi) know what it is. Let’s keep it that way, at least for now.

In other news, I’ve finally gotten over my need to spill my guts over grief regarding the living. Separation just isn’t important anymore. I still think about Dana every day (how could I not, working in a kitchen?), but it’s only good things. I wish her well, and that is the sum total of my feelings about that. I made my peace (piece by piece by peace) regarding Argo, and that’s the end of that. I’ve finally reached a place where I just don’t think about it. It is what it is… though I also remember her often and wish her well, too. Both women still carry enormous weight in my heart, but it’s clean, pure, white light. In Argo’s case, I am comforted by the fact that we sleep under the same modicum of sky, and that is enough for me, because she once called me her goddess of the moon. I highly doubt I still am, but I’d like to think so in moments where I remember how badly I screwed things up. In both cases, I have forgiven them completely for what I perceive was done to me, but I still haven’t forgiven myself for what I perceive I did to them. It’s strange how that takes so much longer, considering I live with me.

But the plain truth is that there are no do-overs, only begin-agains. I’ve gotten used to it by now. There have been so many times in my life where I’ve just had to say, “OK, Mrs. Lanagan. What’s next?”

It’s kind of fun waiting to see.