Day 24 - Judge My Cake, Paul Hollywood
Yesterday, I heard an asshole (I mean man), talking about how terrible his flight home had been because the female flight attendant taking care of his needs was old, fat, and had a waddle. "I don't want to see that," he said.
I was doing a massage in the next room and so I could just hear his voice as he got adjusted by the chiropractor. I tried to massage my client's head, covering her ears, so she would not hear him and get tense. I wished he were in there getting his mouth adjusted, his stupid brain.
I have never been a flight attendant, but I think it would rival any job as one of the most challenging, both mentally and physically. It's service work, and we should be fucking grateful for every cup of water they offer us, every bag of nuts.
Sorry for all the cursing. I've been worked up for HOURS and the stewing time did nothing for the grace of my vocabulary.
Men can be such dicks. I was not put here on this earth so you could judge my rear end or my neck.
Anyway. I like Paul Hollywood. I like that when he comments on what a woman has done (at least on The Great British Baking Show) he talks about skill and not the size of one's derriere. He judges men and women fairly, based on his standard of culinary excellence, evenly, for the focus is on what the contestants do with their talent, not how the females wiggle when they walk.
If you know bad things about Paul Hollywood, please don't tell me. Just let me stay in the dark. I like it here with me and P.H., and I am grateful for all the wonderful ways there are in this world to make and break bread.