**Ramble Warning**

As my Friday post implied, my brain's been a little under the whether. As in, whether-or-not-it's-going-to-make-it-to-June-is-anyone's-guess.

The issues I have been dealing with at work are the kind that eat away at my mental and emotional reserves, and all are related to holes in administrative oversight. In such cases, the poo flows freely out said holes and up the stairs and through the crack under my door, like you'd see in a horror flick. Except I don't scream when I see it bubbling towards my feet. I just cuss a little, under my breath, and open a new, sludge-related file.
When I go through these periods at work, I'm pretty much out of words when I get home. And even if I find a minute to write a blog post, I've had nothing to say. Or maybe I've had too much to say...

In fact, I have to run an early morning meeting tomorrow and should be prepping for that right now. But I'm not.

To top it off, last week was parent-teacher conferences, which gave me two 12-hour days. It was also my husband's birthday, which he is milking the shit out of, a la dinner with his parents, dinner with me, and tonight we're going to see the Blue Man Group. Oh yeah, and I bought him a guitar. A Baby Taylor Spruce Top. ::Happy Birthday Baby. 10 years of Halle-Bopping Heaven, and still going strong!::

And let me tell you, that trip to the guitar store this week, was a mass homicide blog post waiting to happen. I don't have time for the whole story. But I will say that me and stress and med rebound and a warehouse full of musical musicians, musicating on electric guitars just feet away from my befrazzled brain and musically chatty staff not waiting on me, seemingly for hours, is not a good thing.

I finally garnered some attention from a guy who had been smoking a cig in the parking lot when I came in. He still had his coat on, which kind of bugged me. I know. After finally ringing up my purchase, the cig went in search of the free guitar case, and never came back, while two feet away,the guitars jammed on. Then the chatty tattooed guy went looking after the cig who was looking for the guitar case, and then I was really scared because I know how guys look for things. They don't. They just move shit around and say, "Mom! I'm telling you, it's not here."

And I was seriously near ready to start taking hostages tears after the cig finally came back without the case or the tattoo and asked the tall, chatty guy where the tattoo went and he told him that he went looking for him, the cig, and as they discussed this issue at length and the guitars jammed on, tattoo came back with the case and then everybody laughed and hugged and I put the switchblade back into my bra. ::The woman has cup.::

Through the stupor of all this stress, I've noted to my husband that his birthday has taken on the significance of a several-day holiday, now known as Cabanukkah. I'm really joking, but really, not really.

Caker's has been revisited with yet another respiratory issue and last night was wheezing in her sleep. We're taking her to the med center today. Hopefully she won't have to miss the Blue Man Group, because she will be very sad. And so will I. After all, Cabana boy can't miss his own Cabanukkah, right? ::She actually seems much better now and no wheezing is noted.::

Ran A-Went-Went
I finished my 100 miles last week and I hear Run-a-Go-Go has gotten its second wind and is kicking off another round. I'm in. I hope. I bought a new pair of walking shoes last week and they seem to be devouring my feet, from the heel up. They felt fine at the store and are my usual brand, but I think there was a problem at the factory, where a worker accidently left a tiny cheese grater in each shoe.

Here's my updated ticker. I'm feeling kind of proud of my past 100 so left them on there.




Over at the Run-A-Go-Go blog, people have been posting pictures from their travels. Most of my miles came from the elliptical, which is in our bedroom. Here's one of my related views:

Actually, that picture angle is more from where I change my underwear, after a bad day's work. Anyway, I love the shadow of her head.

Knitting Knuggets
I'm a few inches from casting off Spring ::a.k.a. Mimi Long Gone Scarf.:: I'd show a picture but they came out blurry and I'd rather just wait until I'm done.

After that I think I'll finish Cakers' William's Step-Bro, even though it is a wintery sweater. April and May can be chilly. Besides, I made some changes in the pattern and didn't exactly write them down. Much. So I should probably finish before the changes are lost to me forever.

I do have a 14-pack of Berroco's Cotton Twist, winging its way to me as I type, via a most excellent Ebay purchase. The intended purpose of this yarn is Bonne Marie's Ariann.

My Cakers and Heart Breakers
She came clean on the boyfriend thing, although it still bothers me that she was afraid to tell me from the beginning.

Anyway, I tricked her. ::I'm a trained professional, remember. It's what I do. For Higher Goodness and shit.:: She made a picture for the boy next door and showed it to me. I innocently asked if he's her boyfriend. She looked at me most sheepish and said "No. Cody's my boyfriend." Then I yelled at her for being too young to have a boyfriend and if she ever keeps a secret from me again, there will be hell to pay and the subject has not come up again.

Of course, I'm kidding. I was all enthusiastic and supportive and offered to knit him a future-son-in-law sweater. ::It's an inside joke with my son. Every time he mentions a girl, any girl, I ask if I should knit her a sweater.:: I was just testing to see if you were paying atention. 'Cuz I know these Sunday Sundry posts are long and tangly and boring, but it's the only way I can keep up, these days. And yeah, I didn't label this one as Sunday Sundries, so as to lure you from the usual Sunday bloglines skim.

I told you. I'm tricky.

And now I'm tricking myself out of here.

Labels: Bitchmom Screampants, How I Met Your Father, I Work Too, Now You're Whining, Runagogo