Time flies like an arrow. Fruit flies like a banana.-Groucho Marx

Last Friday I was walking past the high school at the very time the varsity basketball players were being dropped off to catch a bus for the big game. Regional finals.

As I stood at the curb of the drive-way and watched the mom-driven cars with the win-driven passengers pass me by, I started to cry. Even though the brief surge of emotion caught me off guard, I quickly identified the source. Time.Flying.

See, I'm having trouble wrapping my pea brain around the fact that it was just over a year ago that I wrote this post about my son's last high school basketball game of all our lives. The game that set in motion the Perpetual Snot Fest That Was My Face, well into June.

I can't believe that it's coming up on one year since I started drinking heavily planning my son's graduation open house, plans that included a little Trippin'Down Memory Lane .

In about six weeks my son will conclude his freshman year of college and come home for the summer, to bug the ever lovin' shit right outta me. ::He's a colossal HBO hog.:: But the real emotional kicker for me has been The Cakers getting her draft papers for kindergarten, in the mail.

My baby. Starting kindergarten (providing she passes the physical). And me just pretending it ain't so. See, I know how this story ends, as described above. Only by the time she goes to college, I'll be feeble-minded. And off my rocker to boot. Late-onset Post-Traumatic Scrapbooking Disorder, they'll call it.

I have been preoccupied lately with this time thing. I've been feeling like that last clip in the final episode of Six Feet Under, where they fast forward through time for each of the characters,while Clare drives away at the speed of car. That's how I feel. I'm Clare's car. Same ol same ol, while the rest of my world is flying by, and eventually away.

Ack. I really wasn't going to get so fucking dramatic today. My original thoughts for this post were about my chronic fear of getting old and catching the same Mom Butt Disease that the lady on the Pizza commerical has. You know, the one who sprints down the street while carrying a pizza? They make it look like her life is so busy that her husband can't stop the car to pick up a pizza. The real story is that her husband is trying to leave her and her ol' lady khaki ass.

Getting Into My Pants.
I'm done with the pants, except for some weird ass shit I gotta do with the waistband. I have been putting this off for two days, and I'm sure I'll go five. But here's what I got so far:



The hole for the waist cord is about as gnarly as the crotch hole. I didn't use the cable cast on this time because the yarn ends up on the wrong side of the needle and, well, I didn't really care.

The Question
Is Cheesy Blogging better than No Blogging At All?

All right people. It's official. Work is kicking my ass. Again. I knew it was coming. It happens every year at this time, in the world of speshul ed. Because I blew my I-Can't-Blog-Good-No-More whine wad on The Test, I thought I'd take a more subversive tact, which is to distract readers from the lack (absence?) of interesting, current fodder, by linking to a past post which may be unfamiliar to new readers, and hopefully forgotten by youse faithful.

In fact, it was one year ago today that I pulled my first official cheese post, by rerunning a post from the previous year; an ode to my husband on his birthday. ::Happy Birthday Honey. Zoom.:: I won't link to that, because even I have my cheese link limitations. But it is a good read. Both times (i.e. March 22, 2004 and 2005).

An Asside: Has anyone else noticed that crime shows on TV are starting to borrow story lines from Scooby Doo episodes? Can you spell Saturated Market?

Labels: Deep Shit, Passages