Against the same odds as intelligent life successfully clinging to my brain, or a 5th of Vanilla Rum successfully clinging to my cupboard,I somehow finished all my reports before spring break.

And no thanks to the efforts of my alleged loved ones, some of whom made no short work of getting in the way of mine.



That's a file for a report that she's sitting on. I can't tell you how many times I swatted her off that pile of papers, night after night. I finally thought to put out a decoy file on the opposite side of the keyboard, near the beads.

She initially fell for it, but didn't take long to figure out that I wasn't looking at "her pile" at all. When she noticed that I didn't yell at her for playing with the Super Glue bottles, the jig was up. (Or is it jib?) By that point, she could have gone off and glued herself to the inside of the dryer drum, and I'd have been right behind her, with a sheet of Bounce.

The Bounce is Back in My Spring
I'm having a wonderful, relaxing Spring Break so far. I haven't left the house since Friday, except to fetch my daughter from the neighbor's house. Otherwise I've been making up for time lost these past weeks, on a few of my favorite things:

1) Watching...Three missed episodes of NCIS, in one sitting. On Demand. I also caught an episode from a few seasons back. It was the one where Zeva's character debuted, with the air of a mercenary and the eyebrows of a young Ed Asner.

And then there's Tough Love.
And CSI Miami.
And The Mentalist.

2) Knitting...Ingenue. I'm almost done with the body.



I have to ball up another skank of yarn and knit another inch before starting on the bottom trim. I made some adaptations on the pattern, as I went along. It seems that my gauge was off a bit and it's fitting snugger than I anticipated. That snug is working the breastesses pretty well, but in the pooch area I prefer a bit more to be left to the imagination.

3) Realizing...That a garmet knits up much quicker when one has time and opportunity to actually, well, knit on it.

Case not in point...



4) Appreciating...The little things,like a seven year-old who gets herself breakfast in the morning and lets a tired momma sleep in a little.

Who's Got the Biggest Balls of Them All?
As I've gotten older, I've developed an appreciation for music that I didn't really care for when I was younger, such as AC/DC.

This past Saturday night, while watching my Spartans play basketball, I surprised both myself and my husband by bursting into the following:

T.N.T. They're dynamite
T.N.T. They'll win the fight
T.N.T. They're a power load
T.N.T. Watch them explode!

Which reminds me, it's almost time to...

Lock up your daughter.
Lock up your wife.
Lock up your back door,
And run for your life.
The Spartans are back in town.
Don't you mess them around.

Labels: I Work Too, Knit In Progress, Wild aRandoment

These pictures were supposed to be posted yesterday, for Eye Candy Friday. So how about you play along?




I have not been around here much because I have many burdens of the employment variety, the brain-suckage-ness of which has struck me dumb and dumber.

Tired and tired-er.

Bitch and bitchier.

And I really don't want to talk about it.

It's as though I've reached a saturation point, and the warm, moist substance that continues to fall on my head now goes pretty much unnoticed, except for the occasional smear I find inside my shoe.

And I really don't want to talk about that.

Itty Bitty Booty Committee
I have no idea why this picture is sideways.



Anyway.

This is all the knitting that has been accomplished around here over the last four weeks. Two tiny socks. And I only finished the last one today, so I could add a picture for this post.



The Specs...

Pattern: Ribbed sock pattern, made wee-wee tiny.
Yarn: Leftover brownish blend sock yarn.

Otherwise, I don't want to talk about it.

What Once Was Ingenue, is Now Old Again.
In the time I have spent on the knit, unknit and reknit of Ingenue, I could have bred, birthed and raised up my own baby sheep to adulthood, and then knit her and her mother a matching mother-daughter sweater set.

And what I have to show for all that, is not a lot.
And after that, I don't want to talk about it.

The New Face(book)of Friendship and the Spoiling of Time.
Yeah. I joined. Under pressure. I kinda don't get it, but that doesn't keep me from looking at my page several times an hour a day, checking and rechecking for FB's special purpose to be revealed.

Two things I am greatly enjoying about FB: 1) Smartassing via comments with my handful of friends. 2)I stalked out my best friend from middle school and we've been having fun catching up. She is one of the happiest "friendship" memories of my life (yeah, the whole 50 years of it) and the cadence and tone of her written communications feel like home to me. She lives near the cottage and we're hoping to meetup some time over the next few months.

I think a part of me was expecting FB to be like blogging, but more interactive. But it isn't, and never can be. And that's a good thing.

And about the potential (ha) time suck and triggers for latent, obsessive behavior patterns...I don't want to talk it.

Wrapper Up In a Butterfly Net
One thing I can say about blogging that I am appreciating at this moment is the freedom to create obscure subject headings.

Anyway. I certainly have more to talk about, but I am trying hard not to Barf the Brain, as I am wont to do in these increasingly infrequent posts.

So, g'day.

Labels: I Work Too, Knit Done, Pho-Ho', When Knitting You is Hurting Me

Perspective
Yesterday I had a bad day at work. There was no one big thing, really, but several big things. In relation to one another, these things presented themselves with eerily precise un-timeliness. With the combination of perfect choreography and the immediate, negligible impact of each event, it was almost spooky.

Think Tchiakovsky, in a mosh pit.

I was so fried by the end of the day, that as I walked to my car I was overcome with the happy thought: " Yay! It's the parking lot!" You know, like "Yay! it's the weekend!" Except it wasn't. The weekend. It was just the parking lot.

My Big Behind
I'm behind in all things everything.
Especially the knitting, blogging, thinking and drinking.

I did finish one of my baby cable socks. I was supposed to be done with these by early January. They are for my boss who won them in a silent auction. Well, it wasn't a true bid. She asked me if she could pay me to knit her a pair of socks and I told her I'd do it for a cash donation to the charity event. I need to get this task behind me, cuz I'm sick to death of knitting under mandated duress.




One of my Mission Possible '08 goals was to complete this sleeveless sweater that I nearly completed when my blog was two months old. For five years it remained in a perpetual state of Undead, awaiting only side seams.



Every time I took it out to complete it, I thought "ew". When I put it up to me and looked in the mirror, I thought "ew, ew." And after sewing the front and back together, I put it on and thought "Too big. Too burly. Make me want to gag and hurly." Followed by, “Ew. Ew. Ew.”

I approached the final 15 minutes of production with dread. Convinced this sweater was not the one for me, I found myself thinking of potential recipients. When I finished it, I did try it on just as my husband walked into the room.

"That looks gooood..." He said, while wiping a string of spittle from his chin. ::Interpret as: "Those boobs look gooood..."::

With the assumption that my husband was seeing me through testosterone colored glasses, I went to the mirror to see for myself, and was pleasantly surprised at what I saw.

Yesterday I wore it to work as a component of this ensemble, and felt mod and sassy all day long.



And yes, my boobs looked gooood. ::I probably should have stuffed a couple of empty rubber maid bowls in there, in the spirit of fair and accurate reporting. And I don't usually stand that straight.::


P.S. The sweater pattern was an Elann freebie and the yarn is Reynolds Cabana.

Labels: I Work Too, Knit Done

Feh.*

Random Sludge
I’ve been a little under the weather the past week, suffering from some kind of gluey, sinus sludge. And as this substance makes a slow and less-than gracious exit from my body, I can’t help but worry that I'm actually expelling brain glue; essential material for holding together the bits and pieces of my brain. ::With the help of some twigs, yarn and duct tape.::

::But I will say that DayQrunk is my new best friend. MmmMm...How I loves me some warmy orange.::

I’ve also been physically and mentally busy with work and home issues. The worst of the physical work stuff is almost winding down. Almost. I have cranked out three reports in the last two days, with no coming up for air in between.

But the emotional work is yet to come, when our department will have take a hard look at the full impact of losing two full time staff for next year.

The home situation is complicated, and getting moreso by the hour it seems. At the risk of being cryptic, I can only say that we have some changes going on in someone's (not me) professional venue. These are good changes, in light of what was soon to become a dire circumstance. But not so great when considering the wider scope of someone's hopes and dreams and in the interest of optimal family function.

Again, I'm sorry for the vague-y ness,but that's all can say, and really, the whole story is kind of boring. Unless, of course, you’re living it.

Truth be, we are both grateful and relieved for this Timely Save and will not be looking this Blessing Horse in the mouth, any time soon.

It's complicated.
And emotion sucking.
And thought plucking.

Random Dudes on Couches
Meanwhile, College Tumor Boy is home, as of Saturday. Following are stats related his return, to date:

1-Number of jobs applied for.
0-Number of jobs procured.
3-Number of times he has reminded me that his uncle has offered to pay him 200 bucks to powerwash his deck this summer, so no worries if he can’t find a real job.
1-Number of laptops he owns.
0-Number of laptops he owns which have been unpacked and fired up.
1-Number of laptops I own
0-Number of laptops I own, to which I currently enjoy full access.
1.5-Number of boxes of Town House crackers consumed.
1-Number of jars of peanut butter consumed.
13-Number of times I have heard "What's to eat in this house?"
0-Number of unemployed friends currently in town for the summer, with whom he might be able to hang, off my couch. Away from my home.
1-Number of vehicles as yet unpacked of all worldly goods, minus the as-of-yet-unfired-up laptop and a bottle of acne medicine.
1579-Number of times I have said to self “How handy it is that all his belongings are still in his car, in the event of Sudden Homelessness?”
14-Number of hours per day spent listening to screaming sportscasters on my T.V.
5-3/4-Number of total feet taken up on the couch, while sleeping to the sound of screaming sportscasters on my T.V.
5-Approximate hour of the morning he goes to bed.
3-Approximate hour of the afternoon he awakens.
.5-Number of bottles of my hooch he has consumed.
6-Number of times he has used the word “tweak” in describing his observation of my increasingly destabilizing emotional presentation in response to all of the above.
0-Amount of hope in possession, that any of this will be changing soon, except maybe the numbers.

Random Time Passing
I meant to post about this way last week, but I was busy with an unglued brain. So let's just pretend it happened two days ago, and call it good. K?

The weekend with My Circle of Brain was a wonderful treat, but a bit more subdued than our maidenhead voyage back in January.In hindsight, a bit more subdued might be a good thing, in that any attempts to match or surpass on previous crazy, could have resulted in someone getting hurt, or arrested or famous.

And because we were guests in someone else's home, it was probably best to keep Kristi off her high horse, and the sanitary products stuck to the proper side of our underwears, and Kellie from shooting/posting recordings of activities that could get someone hurt, arrested or famous.

But there was plenty of fun to be had.
And good drink.
And, of course, good company.

Kellie did write up a picture-laden, detailed summary of our all too brief time together. Scroll down for a picture of me, popping my freak in a new pair of sunglasses that are just about bigger than my head.

:: The following will make more sense if you read Kellie’s post. ::

In honor of our surviving the weekend together, I have created a new scarf design:

Drama on the High (Neuro) Seas: A Pattern
1) Cast on an odd number of stitches, depending on your width preferences.

2) If you are really confused about how many stitches you should cast on, ask your friends their opinion about how many stitches you should cast on.

3) Argue with each and every solicited opinion about how many stitches you should cast on, then come up with a 4th option, all on your own. Cast on that amount of stitches.

4) Repeat the High (Neuro) Seas pattern (see below) until you reach desired length, but not long enough for someone to use against you in an attempted homicide.

High (Neuro) Seas Stitch Pattern:
1) Row 1: purl

2) Row 2: k3 *k2tog, yo * to last 7 stitches, then knit whatever the fuck you feel like, to the end of the row.

3) Row 3: Purl

4) Row 4: Knit 7, *k2tog, yo* until confused, or something goes wrong, or something goes right when you're sure it should be wrong. Hand project to Sue so she can figure out what is wrong. When Sue tells you what is wrong and how to fix it, *knit any series of stitch pattern combinations that you desire, EXCEPT whatever Sue told you to do to fix it. * Repeat between * * to the end of the row.

5) Row 5: Purl

6) Repeat row 2.

7) Repeat row 3.

8) Rip entire project and swear a lot.

9) Ask three friends for suggestions on another garment that could be made from the yarn.

10) Argue with every piece of solicited input.

11) Decide to give Montego Drama on the High (Neuro) Seas another shot.

12) Cast on an odd number of stitches, depending on your width preferences.

13) If you are really confused about exactly how many stitches you should cast on, ask your friends how many stitches you should cast on.

14) If you are given three different numbers from your three different friends, argue with each opinion, then come up with a 4th option, all on your own. Cast on that amount of stitches. WARNING: The number of stitches for this cast-on SHOULD NOT match any previous number suggested by friends from this, or previous cast-on solicitations. Not following this step could result in...well...never mind. How much worse can it get, really? But still, it helps to write these things down.

15) Repeat steps 1-14 until you run out of yarn, friends, booze or are deprived of oxygen against your will by a trio of known assailants.

16) Cast off and slap self on your very flat ass, 3 times.**

Random Inapprorpriateness

*I never heard of this Feh thing until I started reading blogs.I assume it means the opposite of Squee. Squee is another expression that is new to me. It makes me think of going pee, then thinking you're all done and wrapping it up, then realizing there is still some pee. So you squeeze it out. That is Squee. To me.

**Sorry to be so long in the wind, but just because I’m busy, doesn’t mean I don’t have things to say. Just no time to say them.

Labels: Bitchmom Screampants, From My Loins, I Can Haz Frends?, I Work Too, Unhealth, Wild aRandoment

Last week I brought work home every night. A report. It was a hard one. Not all of them are. But this one was. And there was a deadline.

And on the heels of that deadline, is another.
And another.

All told, I have to crank out 2.7 reports per week, over the next four weeks, in order to make legally mandated timelines. This is in addition to my other caseload duties. Understand that I'm not whining or complaining about my job. I love my job. I have an important job. And I believe I am really good at my job. I'm just laying out a little context.

So. Friday I am putting the finishing touches on the report summary, which is often the hardest part for me, of writing reports. Although I am pretty good at synthesizing all the information in my head, and coming up with what I think are solid conclusions, my brain doesn't always use language-as-we-know-it as its primary synthesizing tool.

It's hard to explain, really. And it's not like I see lights and hear bells and feel compelled to dance the funky chicken while wearing my husband's underwear, because that would be easy to explain, if not defend. It's just..well...hard to explain.

Anyway. After I spent a few hours translating the summary from the Language of My Brain to the Language of Human Consumption, a co-worker stopped by to talk about some evals that we are working on together. In the middle of this discussion he interrupted himself to ask my thoughts on the recent memo from administration, announcing that next year's budget calls for cutting two full-time soshel werkrs.

I hadn't read it.
I felt like I'd been punched.

Seniority-wise, my job is safe.
Quality-wise, that remains to be seen.

Several times per year I become so swamped and drained and pulled in many directions, that at the end of a given day, I am bereft of further cognitive capability. Sometimes I wonder how I make it home safely, on those days.

I currently am in the midst of one of those "times." That being said, I'm having a hard time visualizing how I will be able to take on another half of a full-time job next year, without someone getting hurt. Namely, me.

But the human spirit is stronger than we think. When I was a kid and we ran out of toothpaste, my mom would invariably say: "There's always one last squeeze in the tube." Oddly enough, over the years that statement has always held true for me, no matter how dire the tubular circumstance. ::And sometimes aided by a pair of scissors.:: And while said phenomenon always works to my benefit, it never seems to go well for the tube.

I am now the tube.

And then there is the issue of two cohorts who could* be out of jobs, come June, which I'm trying not to think about. There are also some related dynamics that I will not be discussing here, but that also add to the stress and emotional discomfort.

Needless to say, I've been more than a little distracted over the last couple of days. This weekend I had every intention of catching up on some blog posting, while my 2008 Intendments are still rattling around the Synthesizers. Orphans.

Friday I came home from work and took a picture of that flower up there, and had every intention of posting it as Eye Candy. In light of the emotional hazing I had endured that day, the sweet little flower just didn't fit into my world as I knew it. So then I had the idea of the captioned pig, to set the tone. Then I played outside. Knit some knit. Drank some wine. Then rinsed and repeated for Saturday.

And now the pig thing seems kind of dumb. But dumb happens. As does rambling.

As for now, my sweets, it's yet another gorgeous day (a weather pattern that I'm finding almost annoying at this point), and I need to go hunt some Cakers Gone Wild. Then maybe take up some knitting on the porch.

And then some writing on a report.
Sometimes stress pays the rent.

*The whole situation will be fluid until June. Even though the threat is real, I would be very surprised if they cut two full-time spots.

Labels: I Work Too, Now You're Whining

::No, a monkey has not flown out of anybody's behind.I really am posting twice within a 3 day period.::

1) Sinus Sklawg- For two weeks now, I’ve had this sinus thing I can only describe as Sklawg. Sinus Sklawg. Sinus Sklawg is stuff. Stuff that mostly hangs around in my head, without really bothering anybody. Every once in awhile, however, the Sklawg comes downtown for a visit. Usually it’s at a most inopportune moment, like when I’m about to make an earth shatteringly profound statement in a meeting of very important people. Wherein I am forced to stop mid-Earth-shatteringly-profound-thought to make a slightly downward urp gesture with my chin, followed by the not so-earth-shatteringly profound thought: “What the hell was that?” When I can finally speak, I sound like I’m channeling a bowl of cream of wheat.

2) Work Sklawg- For months now, I’ve had this work thing I can only describe as Sklawg. Work Sklawg. Work Sklawg is stuff. Stuff that mostly hangs around in the heads of other people, without really bothering anybody. Every once in awhile, however, the Sklawg comes out for a visit, in the form of some uniquely bizarre event or Drop-Everything-Now-And-Perform-This-Uniquely-Bizarre-Task-Which-We-Just-Today-Discovered-Falls-Distinctly-Under-Your-Job-Description. Of course this will occur at a most inopportune moment, like when I’m up to my brainballs in Very Important Report, complete with a heavily looming and non-negotiable deadline. Wherein I am forced to remove my fingers from the keyboard, swipe the zone-induced drool from my chin, and ask the Current-Sklawg-Bearer-Who-Stands-Before-Me “Yeahsss?”. This person could be of student, administrator or co-worker ilk, but always the bearer of the Sklawg has a story/task/bikini-wax-trauma that will top all those that have shadowed my keyboard before them. To date.

At the conclusion of the presented tale, I will make a slightly downward urping gesture with my chin and think: “What the hell was that?” When I can finally speak, I sound like I’m channeling a tube of anchovy paste.

3)Home Sklawg-Let's just say that there's stuff. And people. And urp-like chin gestures. And when I speak, it sounds like I'm channeling an oyster fork in my eye.

Ima Gonna Be a Sock Star!
Thanks for all the support and encouragement on my Intendamental accomplishments and for the ideas for my first sock pattern. I had meant to email personal responses to contributors, but over the last month or so, I’ve been busier than a three-legged River Dancer.

Last week we had a bogus snow day. :: It started out as a 2 hour delay, information which was not relayed to me until I was 3 minutes from the office. One hour into the two hour delay, a snow day was proclaimed. I ended up staying for a couple of hours longer, after discovering that on a real or imagined snow day, there is never a line at the copy machine. ::

Anyway, after blowing half of my first snow day of the year at work, I indulged myself in a little trip to the yarn store, where I picked up a little bit of this:



:: It's called Magico. I think I'll need it.::

After some very careful research ::I compared your recommendations to pattern books I had on hand.:: I decided to go with Ann Budd’s pattern from that book with the socks and sweaters and hats and stuff. To my grave disappointment, once home from the yarn shop, I realized I didn’t have #1 needles, and haven’t had a chance to get out since. At least now I have a plan. And some yarn.


At the yarn store they were having a sale on Debbie Bliss Cashmerino.



I snagged three skeins of the gray and two of creepy yellow.

Cut to the Chase
About Wednesday of last week, I realized that I had a cut and color appointment on the upcoming Saturday, and needed a gift for my stylist. What with a handful of lovely Cashmerino and full access to the internets, what was a girl to do but whip up a lovely something or other?



Isn't it simply Dashing?




I finished it Saturday night, not long after I gave my beloved stylist a packet of freshly minted photo note cards.

The stylist loved the cards, and I'm not too broken up about being stuck with some Cashmerino wrist warmers.

::And yes, we have no thumb stubs. After a pathetic attempt on the first one, I gave up. Evidently, when it comes to knitting thumb stubs, I’m all pinkies.::

Maybe Cute, But She Snow Bunny.





::Photos taken off the Auto mode. No idea what setting though. I just twirl and shoot. I'm guessing snow shots are a safe bet for this methodology.::

Labels: I Work Too, Knit Done, Pho-Ho'

Butt Beans 2, Human Beans 0.

Today I sent a pass for a student, but the student didn't show at the designated time. After waiting 10 minutes, I make a quick run to the mailroom, then the loo.

When I return to my office, this is the scene that greets me:



Look closely at the, um, hole:



See the gray pencil marks?
Someone took a pencil to my bean hole, then left.
No note.
No call.

That's been the essence of this entire week, people.
Random acts of Buggery.

P.S. The bean remains.

Labels: I Need Therapy Thursday, I Work Too, Pig Booty

Fear have big eyes (sic)- Serbian Proverb

Before the school year started, I had bouts of anxiety in anticipation of several significant changes in my workload, including an almost full turnover in my caseload.

At this writing, the shit has left the launching dock, but not yet hit the fan. And my best estimation indicates that the fan will be shat as early as Monday morning.

But really, I'm ready.

That doesn't mean I still can't be missing the sweet and gentle clarity of this:



p.s. I'll be reposting my last post. My pictures disappeared, and I know why. I blame myself.

Labels: eye candy Friday, I Work Too

Lessons From a First Grader
I always face the new school year with a bit of trepidation, but most years I'm mostly excited about going back. As I mentioned a while back, this year the usual trepidation has been raised to levels of true anxiety, with no real basis, other than a few changes in the work environment. And any other work-related horror the mind can conjure, at 3 a.m.

And I really should know better.

In my 13 years with the school system, I have faced/overcame/survived some very intense, short and long-term professional challenges.

But just as every year is different from the one before in terms of unpredictable stressors, each school year also guarantees at least three specific, predictables: A beginning, an end and lots of breaks in between.

Segue Alert:

This past weekend, Cakers and her father hatched a little plan for her to go tubing. Alone.

When I heard about this plan, I immediately put to it, a gentle kibosh.

To Cakers I said: Ummm. This is something that daddy and I need to talk about for a couple of days, then decide together. ::i.e. Tubing, my ass.* With assorted, flying monkeys.::

To Cabana, I said: Tubing, my ass. With assorted flying monkeys.
She's too young. I mean, technically she’s still in kindergarten.
She needs to practice more with a grown-up.
Behind a paddle boat.

For one day, I held firm.
Then, late Saturday, Cakers asked again.
Her dad then approached me, in private, and made an appeal.

She really, really wants to do this, he said, then promised to go really, really slow.

It was a spectactular, late summer evening. The water was like glass, with nary an enemy U-boat or warship in sight.

So, armed with the knowledge and conviction that my husband loves Cakers no less than I, and would never put her in harm's way, I found the courage to let go. Or at least the courage to let her go tubing.

That’s not to say that I wasn’t scared.

I was.
Terrified.
And thrilled.
And proud.
And even a little envious, of her sense of adventure.

But mostly I was terrified.

Initially this post was going to be about fear. You know, about poor me, having to go back to work with all those big, mean scary changes. And how my big, mean husband and little, mean daughter committed against me, that heinous act of emotional terrorism.

Heh.

But after I uploaded the pictures to the blog and started to write, a totally different story emerged. A lesson, if you will.

A lesson for the mother olden,
From her little daughter golden.

You see, the pictures depicting Cakers' little adventure on the high seas no longer looked like a scary venture, but instead reminded me of the phases of a typical (and survivable) school year, for me.

And it goes something like this:

1)The Fresh start. Note the hair, all flowy and light. And the coy little smile, nervous-yet-excited.



2) It gets Dicey. After a month or two, the year begins to reveal its true potential, forwarning the need to hang on and hunker down.



3) The Occasional Slap Upside the Head, When You Least Expect It. Self explanatory.



4) The End of the Trail . By that last day of the school year, this is pretty much how I feel/look. Flat and weary; with my hair stuck to my brain.



5) But Then... It's summer. Again.



And then I realized it was gonna be all right.


******
p.s. Please click pics for enhanced perusal.

p.p.s. I meant for this to be a Labor Day post, but my labors yesterday were happily redirected.

p.p.p.s. Where'd my baby go?

*Has great google potential.

Labels: Cottage, I Work Too, Now You're Whining, Passages, Scary Shit

*You'll have to read yesterday's post for reference. But you don't have to comment. But you can. If you want.

I really need to clear the blog cache in my brain before moving on to a fresh, clean summer, so I'm just gonna let her spray.

Cue Alice Cooper, circa 1972
Wednesday was my last day of work for the 2006-07 school year. For the first time in years, I was actually ahead of schedule in completing my final duties. What a great feeling it was, to know that I was not going to be the Last Day Old Maid, sitting amidst a pile of "to-file", while office mates bid me summer adieus on their way out the door.

Earlier in the day I was not so confident I would be out on time. I had scheduled a very important meeting in another district. The Family of the Purpose of this meeting assured me that they had made arrangements to take a taxi to the meeting, were expected to arrive early. And I know this to be true, because I saw the taxi at the Purpose's house as I drove myself to the meeting, and per my estimation, they would be early. So, I get to the meeting place, and wait. And wait. Finally there's a phone call to say the taxi had a flat tire and another was coming and all would be even later.

They did make it, and the meeting went well, despite the time limitations. No harm, no foul. ::What the hell does that mean?::

Fast forward to my final drive out of the parking lot,after completing all my last day chores. I have my window down and am about to crank some Freddy Mercury/David Bowie, when I hear a weird slapping noise coming from the outside my car. Sounds like a flat tire.

I get out. It looks good. So I figured I was just being a little sensitive because of the event earlier in the day. But it was still kinda weird.

I get home, pull into the garage a smidge too fast, and harshly bump my front right tire off of the cement step of the garage entry to the house. I've scraped tire on that mutha many a time, but this was no scrape.

This was the all-weather, radial version of a Uranus Surprise.*

Yup. I popped a hole right in my tire. I don't think I've ever had a flat tire. Ever. Yet, 30 minutes earlier, I was pretty sure I did have a flat. But I didn't. And even earlier,I was practically related to a flat tire event.

There's got to me some universal meaning to this.
All I can think of is that sometimes, it just blows.

And Then
My husband is a self-employed contractor.
My husband has been self-unemployed for several months now.

His line of work is quite fickle, and even the most trusted intention or promise of a contract can fall apart at the last minute. He's had a few nibbles these past weeks, but no purchase orders.

With the high hopes of work later in the summer, we decided to take our vacation right away.

Anyway. Thursday. Cabana gets a call to see if he's available to take a job, with more details available Monday. ::Which means it's still not a sure thing.:: In the meantime, another shop is pretty sure they are going to need him to take two jobs, but they aren't entirely sure that they yet have the jobs to offer. In another meantime, still on Thursday, another guy calls to see if Cabana can take a seat ::that means sit at a computer and work on a job.:: in his shop for a couple of days, to finish up some easy detail work on a rush order.

This last item will give us some nice financial wiggle for vacation. A vacation we're postponing for a few days, with high hopes of Cabana being able to accept a couple of jobs, and turn down a couple of more. I'm not complaining at all, because he needs the work, but the timing is fuckily weird.

If he does get the work, he'll bring his computer to the cottage and squeeze in some vacation around the clicking. He may be able to handle all communications from the cottage, via email and phone, otherwise he'll need to commute once or twice. In order to correspond via email, he'll need my laptop from time to time. ::His work computers are work horses and don't have modems. We only have dial-up at the cottage.::

Butt Then
My laptop is fucked in the head. Evidently she picked up some nasty bug last time we were at the cottage, on dial-up. I don't know what the hell Mc*afee was doing as this bug was crawling up my back portal, without benefit of booze, lube or foreplay, but apparently, once this bug gets in, has the ability to temporaily disarm the McIffy.

The laptop is now at the cleaners and we won't know the verdict until late Sunday night. But if Cabana gets these jobs, we can't go on vacation without email capabilities. Outside of the base issues just described, I need my laptop.

And before sending the laptop to the cleaners, I spent hours fussing over her, cleaning and running ad-ware and spy-ware and going through the motions of believing that McIffy can do anything. It was kind of like taking care of a sick baby.

Thursday night, when I should've been drinking and resting up for my one and only stint as room mother, for Cakers' last day of Kindergarten, I was up late backing up my hard drive, in case she was going to need full frontal and ass-al lobotomies. And I was drinking.

::I was going to include my morning at Monster Kindergarten in this post, but it has the potential for too many complicated off-shot musings. I will say that by the time 1:00 a.m. Friday rolled around, and I was still backing up photos from my laptop, I was kind of wishing I hadn't volunteered myself for Kindergarten Mom. See, even the digressions on the topic are complicated.::

The only other computer available to me is a very old desktop. It's slow. It blocks shit that shouldn't be blocked. It blocks 90% of attempted photo uploads on Blagger, and instead gives me a Pop-Ups Are Blocked message, even after I Unpop the Blockups. It only lets me into AOL Webmail on even numbered dates, between the hours, er, minutes of 3:03 and 3:11 a.m. pst. It seeks permission to enter any and all websites, any and every time. And appears to be stone deaf, as it doesn't respond to any of my commands to knock that shit off.

And it's also pretty much Cakers' computer for her Dizney.com pleasure. While she's a bright girl, she's not quite understanding the concept of Eminent Domain.

On a positive note, I haven't killed anyone. Yet. I think that's a pretty positive start to the Summer of Uranal Surprise.*

And Then
I'm almost Effed Oh on the charity sweater.
I'm almost thinking about blocking Ariann.

On a Positive Note
I may have mentioned here, more than once, that I'm kind of not very physically coordinated. Well, I've got some good news on a newly developed, lifelong skill ::or what's left of it. My life.::

I can now sneeze and pee at the same time.
In fact, I do sneeze and pee at the same time.
Every time.

That's what I call Assure thing.

Labels: Boobs and Pee and Poo, I Work Too, Now You're Whining, Tales of a Klutz, What the Hell and Oh Yea

Absquatuknitting
I have not yet blocked Ariann. And/or my boobs. I don't know where my life goes these days. I do know that it hasn't gone blocking.

A long, long time ago, I pledged five items to the very worthwhile Dulaan Project over at Mossy Cottage.

I'm not sure when I made this pledge, but I do recall thinking the July 1 deadline seemed like months away. Okay, maybe it was months away. But it seemed like months away, using Football Standard Time.* And then I kind of absquatulated from thinking of it again, until a couple of weeks ago.

I also kind of absquatulated from my duties to post this button on my sidebar.



I think a good place for the button on my sidebar would be where the Run-A-Go-Go button is. You know, for the event that expired April 1?

::Sidenote to Ryan: I've been trying to make myself feel better by reminding me that I'm a pretty small frog in this international knit pond and therefore am taking comfort in the knowledge that you've been getting lots of big-ass press from the big-ass frogs, representing all time zones, real or imaginary*.::

Most important is that I will deliver.
That is the most important thing. Right?

My first Dulaan item is this children's sweater from Jil Eaton's Minnies.



I chose this pattern because it matched the yarn I wanted to use ::Gjestal:: and it seemed like something I could whip out real easy.

Rip out real easy is more like it.

I can't even begin to explain how it was that I could not follow this simple, 10 stitch chart. You'd think I'd figure it out by looking at it. Me too.

Actually, it was that confidence of my ability to "play it by eye" that tripped me up in the first place. I actually know exactly what happened, but it's too embarassing to say. Yes. There are some things that are too embarrassing for me to share here. Plus, if I tell the whole story, I fear that people will suspect I am too stupid to be entrusted with the care of a five year-old child, and call protective services.

If I tell the whole story, some of you might determine that I am too stupid to live, and start a knitblog fundraiser to get me a well-deserved mercy killing. ::Ke*vork*ian is my statemate and he used to offer intrastate discounts...::

I finally wrote the damn chart out, row by row. By the time I cast off for the back, I was doing pretty well without chart or row-by-row instructions. But when I started the front, I started up the same play-it-by-eye mistakes.

Visitation Absquatulation
I'm pitifully behind in email correspondence and blog visitations and comments and facial hair maintenance. ::Last week I found a pube growing out of my nose. Not my nostril. The top of my nose. Age is a mother plucker.::

I have three days left of work before summer hiatus. I'm not really all that excited because The Three Days of What Lies Ahead is going to be the equivalent of being behind in the 4th quarter of a championship football game in that: 1) I'll be intently focused on goals 2) Time will feel like it's passing slowly but, 3) I'll also know the constant sensation of running out of time. 4) There will be lots of interference. 5) When it's all over, I'm going to smell real bad.

*Football Standard Time: You know how your husband/boyfriend/cable guy says he'll be ready to leave/eat/install cable line as soon as the game is over? And then you ask, "How long?" And he says something like "There's just 12 minutes left in the last quarter?" And 30 minutes later you ask "How much longer?" only to learn that there are still 9 minutes left? That, my friends, is Football Standard Time.

Labels: Bad Sports Metaphors, Charity Knits, I Work Too, Knit In Progress, Now You're Whining, When Knitting You is Hurting Me

It is still Friday, right?



Today at work, I embarked on a mission to eke a month's worth of overdue paperwork from the last four days of the school year.

On a related note, the seven remaining brain cells in the room have been assigned to overseeing the safe transport of a glass of wine from the table, to my lips, then back again.

A real post is on the way.

Labels: eye candy Friday, I Work Too, Pho-Ho'

Okay. So I’ve been cranking out these behemoth-o-mongo evaluation reports, one after the other, day after day, week after week, with no respite in sight.

Today, while taking a break from the write/print/proof/rinse/repeat cycle, I decided that I needed a little somethin’ somethin’ of the sweet variety. The only thing available within grunting distance, however, was a Jelly Smelly from my little candy-assed friend

Except the pig had other ideas.
An exception to which I took exception.
And a jumbo paper clip.



So there I am, sitting in my office, in all my dignified, professional glory, digging a jelly bean out of a pig’s ass, with a paper clip.

So I could eat it. ::The jelly bean, not the ass. Ass.::
Which I did. But only after a careful balance of probing, manipulation and gentle shredding.

For different reasons, perhaps, I think we both found the experience rather gratifying.

Have you made an impact, today?

I Needed Therapy Wednesday, Too
Last night I was on my own for dinner, so decided to visit the local grocery store salad bar. While working my way through the accrouements, I heard myself say, out loud and very, “What the hell are you talking about?”

To no one.

It just goes to show how people deal with stress in different ways. Some get their freak on. Others get their crouton.

Lettuce pray.

Labels: I Need Therapy Thursday, I Work Too, Pig Booty

It's Ear Candy Friday
Finding this C.D. for $5.99, was the only good thing that's happened to me this week. Well, besides tonight's takeout of orange chicken and sauteed green beans and rangoon. Oh, and some wine. I think. No. That was last night. The wine.


I am having quite a stretch of shit-for-jobs. And outside of a day's lull here and there, I foresee no end in sight until June 7.

Anyway.

Last night I found myself at the neighborhood pharmacy. Our neighborhood pharmacy is of the national-chain ilk, except it's small and neighborly, with dangerously crooked floors and a faint smell of musty, from roof leaks gone by. Despite the element of national-chaininess, I loves me some neighborhood pharmacy. ::I got lots of stories of old neighborhood pharmacy living, from standpoint of child customer, and later, adult employee.::

In a moment of stress-based distractibility, I took to wandering the aisles my stinky, bumpy, neighborhood pharmacy. I fondled back scrubbers, re-contemplated the meaning of Midnight Blue Mascara, re-considered starting an Easter basket collection and re-read a brochure about lady holes that smell like rotted carrot tops, such as found in the bottom of the vegetable bin. At least that's what I think it was talking about.

And when I saw this new-to-me CD on the display, I recognized it right away as the perfect little sumpin-sumpin my cheese-shredded brain was seeking.

I was not disappointed. This man's voice has always been able to move me to tears, but singing these classics, umm mmm, it's like a blankie for my soul.

You can sample the CD here. Unchained Melody is my fave right now, but there aren't any cuts I would kick out of bed for eating carrot tops.

What She Said
Yesterday Cakers asked me, in all earnestness, if we could please get Bella's Kitten Maker fixed, so she can have kittens. I don't know why, but it kind of made me want to cry. ::I know. Big deal. These days I cry at sight of dryer lint and Valerie Bertinelli.::

Work, Work, Work, Work, Work, Work, Work.
I'm taking tonight off to dance and sing and drink, a bit. But the rest of my weekend belongs to the bitch in the briefcase.

Labels: eye candy Friday, I Work Too, My Daughter Scares Me, Now You're Whining, Too Tired for Pudding

**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

Last month (I think?) Concate had a contest that involved writing a post about A Typical Day in your life.

About a week before I read about the contest, I had already started a post I cleverly titled Bring Your Blog to Work Day. When the contest was announced, I had planned on entering it, of course.

But I didn't.

I'm glad you asked.

I didn't enter the contest because my typical days are so atypical that every time I sat down to finish the post, based on Typical-As-I-Knew-It, the Atypical-Assedness of said Typical would rear its ugly, um, ass, and what was Typical just the day before was suddenly Untypicated, which made pounding out a post on Typical, atypically complicated, or otherwise explanation intensive. It was kinda like trying to write a Spider Web.

If you've ever tried to write a spider web, or even looked at one, you'll understand what I mean when I say that it can feel a bit overwhelming, if not impossible. And before I knew it, the draft post was buried under 6 gazillion other draft posts, the publishing of which you will likely never see.

Since I have nothing else to write about and the upcoming week appears to have Typically Atypical potential, I'm just going to dive in.

ATypical Day
The Job: I am a school soshul werker at a large high school in the suburbs. Most of you may not know what that job Typically entails. When you find out, let me know.

There are many professional faces of school soshul werk. Some school soshul werkers are what we call "general education" soshul werkers, who work with general education students who need some sort of support, through 1:1 counseling, group work and behavioral consultation. I used to perform this kind of service when I worked at the elementary schools. It was kind of nice and kind of not. The "kind of not" part was that a school of 300 kids provides quite a pool of potential clients who are often signed up for services by non-clinical types (school principals) who would do so without consulting with me and therefore, had no real idea whether or not it was an appropriate referral.

See? One paragraph into this thing, and I'm already describing the wrong Atypical day.

I am now what is called a Speshul Ejacayshun Soshul Werker, which means that my caseload is comprised of speshul ejacayshun students, who need soshul werk support as identified through their individualized speshul ejacayshun plan, known as an Eiie-EE-PEe. This is a complicated process, an explanation of which I will not heap upon you. In other words, I still get screwed, only with more K-Y pomp and ceremony.

I typically have 20-30 students on my caseload. The level of service for each varies, but again; complicated and dull. I will say that the caseload numbers are meaningless at face value. In other words, one service assignment can weigh more than the total of six others, in time-intensive units. Yup. There I go again.

All that being said, here is the meat of my duty: ::Heh. She said duty.::

1) See clients as mandated by their respective Eiie-EE-PEes.

2) See clients above and beyond as mandated, as need arises.

3) Consult with teachers regarding behavior issues on above mentioned clients.

4) Consult with administrators who handle discipline on above mentioned clients AND speshul ejacayshun laws that protect said clients from being kicked out of school willy nilly.

5) Perform speshul ejacayshun evaluations on students in my building, with Emoshunal Disterbince, Awtism, AyDeeAychDee and Turette. Some students are already in the system, and the evals are re-evals to determine ongoing eligibilty. Others are referred for evaluation for the first time.

6) Attend lots and lots of meetings on these students. In the spring, I also attend meetings for students coming to me next year.

7) Some of those meetings are arranged and run by yours truly. These meetings are known as Funkshunal Behayveeyor Assessmints, whereupon we put the student under a psychological microscope and pretend we know what we are looking at and what the student needs. I then type it up all perty and share with friends and family. This year, every time, to a student, I finished writing up and distributing the plan, the student has left the school district.

8)Consult some more with teachers and administrators and diagnostic evaluation teammates. ::I've been in the school biz for 13 years. There are lots of rules, which take years to learn and even more years to comprehend. I'm becoming the crazy oracle lady on the block, cause I know some obsure yet relevant shit.::

In addition to the above non-descriptive duties, ::Heh, she said duties.:: I am also a member of the district's Awtism Specktrim Disodor diagnostic team. When a student is suspected of ASD, my team is assigned to do an assessment. I kinda sorta volunteered for the job after kinda sorta being begged and then threatened with being assigned anyway. There are no perks except that I get out of my building, I get to meet some very interesting and amazing kids and I feel like I'm performing a vital service. I actually very much enjoy this part of my job. I would enjoy it much more if it didn't entail three or four more evaluations per year than what I was promised when I was shanghaied volunteered for the job or if I were relieved of some of my other job duties. ::heh::

There are still more tiers to this web, but it's just too damn complicated and truly not worth it. Let's just say that whatever I put in writing as A Typical description, will be double trumped by something totally unique and unexpected and ATypical, which requires drop-everything levels of attention.

And before you feel too sorry for me, remember that I get summers off. I also get paid well compared to my contempories who work year-round in agencies. Without snow days. ::gasp.::

The Ride. If I take the expressway, on a clear pavement day, it can take me anywhere from 18 to 25 minutes to drive to work. The highway I travel is quite hazardous under even the mildest, icy or snowy conditions, on account of the multiple overpasses near or over water. On bad days, I travel the city streets, which takes anywhere from 25-30 minutes.

Here's a shot of my daily morning blur, out the driver's side window:



The blur of the parking lot:



I know that picture sucks, but there were people around and I was not going risk being labelled anything weirder than I already have legitimately earned, amongst peers. You might notice the squiggly red things in that picture. Those are lights on the buses that are lined up, dropping off students. I really wish I could give you a clearer shot of the buses, because many mornings that view provides me with an odd, diesel-infused inspiration to start my day.

And so it begins:



That's my desk, about mid-morning. Since I don't have Typical days on my job, it's hard to walk you through what I do. First thing in the morning, I grab a cup of coffee and look at my calendar. A couple days a week I try to get in client contacts ::I have to see them so many times per month, as Eie-Ee-PEe dictates.:: It works best for my brain, to see a bunch in one day, as each contact requires specific paperwork followup and it's easier for me to do it in batch. If it is such a day, I plan out my contact schedule and put out passes demanding the respective student's audience, which will be delivered to them throughout the day. I then fill out a little schedule, which reminds me who's coming when. If an emergency arises, I will pull the passes for the hour, or rest of day, depending.

After perusing the calendar and passing out passes, I get out my little pile of saved intra-department mail envelopes and pore over the crossed out names of previous recipients, looking for my name as well as names of friends and family, etc.



Sometimes these envelopes go to other districts, so I also check for any familiar names from outside our little mail circle. This task was much more exciting a few years ago, before they threw a bunch of old envelopes away and replaced them with new, boringly blank ones. There was one envelope that I saved for a few years, because of some amazingly, weird-ass synchronicitious pattern in list of addressees. But after awhile I forgot what the pattern was and couldn't recognize it again, so I put the envelope back into rotation. ::It may have been related to names of people who died. I know. I put it back.Okay?::

This here is a shot of the view that actually got me thinking about the Take Your Blog to Work Day.



About a month ago, I was furiously trying to finish a report, that had to be in the mail that day. This is a legal parameter that I must follow. Tres important. No excuses. Blah blah.

So, I shut my office door and stick some paper over the upper window. Putting the paper over the window does not stop people from coming into my office. It does slow them down a little, as they have to take the time to peek over the top ::If their stature allows.:: before knocking.

The blocked view is mostly to curb my visual distractibility. My office is in the guidance office, next to the nurses office ::many students mistake me for her personal secretary.:: and during certain times of the year ::scheduling::, there are many students waiting to see someone other than myself, hovering outside my door.

So there I was, on a Friday afternoon, sitting in my office under the pink-papered-properties-of-a-placebo-affected-delusion-of-being-the-only-person-in-universe, typing away on this report which MUST be in the hands of some mail person by the end of the day, when I see a pair of non-adolescent feet* standing at my lower window. Then I hear a knock.

A teacher enters and tells me about a significant issue with a student. After hearing the story, and considering my current need to complete this report, I send the teacher to a higher authority.

This story repeats itself about seven times throughout the afternoon, with about seven different staff people, regarding seven different students. Being the experienced, professional that I am, I aptly defer and deflect all potential ramifications from myself and proceed with my report writing.

Now, it sounds like I handled the situation with calm and reason. And the teachers with whom I was conversing likely perceived me in the same light. But they were wrong. And so are you.

Because after about the third showing of sensible shoes at my lower office door window, I developed what I can only call a Post-Dramatic-Stress-Response. And from that point on, I could hardly concentrate on the time-sensitive-task-at-hand, because I could not pry my eyes away from that lower window, because I knew there would be more.

More feet. Coming for me.
News-bearing feet.
Advice-seeking feet.
Black-hole-brain-sucking-feet.
Pushing, er, kicking me over the edge of emotional propriety.

At one point, I jokingly told a particular bearer of good shoes and bad news that I was fixing to hang a sign outside the door that read: If the keyboard's a-tappin', Don't come a-rappin'. Said bearer did not find that funny, nor did he take it as the good-natured hint to leave me alone, as intended.**

But I did finish the report. And come Monday, I went on a soshul werk calamity-fixing-bender. And all was right with the world. Until it wasn't.

Because the nature of my job is that it has no nature.

But I really need to get going, and so do you.

Just a couple more things.

Here's my bookshelf.



I tidied it up for the picture. ::I'm a slob, but it works for me. I don't apologize. There is no right or wrong way to live, organizationally-speaking. That's all I'm saying on this subject.::

On the shelves are important manuals and reference tools which I use in my evaluations. Also are some things for students to look at while not listening to a word I say.

Here's a close-up of the topshelf. Some angels and my Kurt Gibson cup, from back when I still had a crush on him. Before I knew he was dummern a bench of bald, aging jocks.




This is my stack of evaluation files. Typically ::Heh. She said Typically.::
in a year, I will have assigned to me, anywhere from 15 to 20 evaluations. At this moment, I have 15 on my docket, to complete from now until June. I've already completed about 10, this year. Many of these were what I call "unpleasant surprise" evals, in addition to the half-dozen Awtism Spektrim evals I knew could be coming. But there's no whining in baseball or jobs that give you the summer off.



Spring Hopes
Spring is knitting along quite nicely. I will share more in a couple of days, including answers to the multitude of questions left in comments, regarding this project.

But no, it's not a hammock or a hair net or a hootchy spring cho-cho cloaklet.

*In winter, this means the feet are wearing suitable shoes or otherwise not flip-flops.

**There are many delicate, political issues related to soshul workers working in what is referred to as a "host environment," which is another way of saying "you're a fish out of water and therefore you sometimes flop around and smell badly."

P.S. There are two extra, unintended commas in this post. I went back for them, but now I can't find them. And I have to pee. So I'll let them bee.

P.P.S. I don't usually work on Sundays, so therefore would not Typically Take my Blog to Work today. That means....oh, never mind.

Labels: I Work Too

...Bring long work hours.

J is for Job



You may not know this, but some time during the last few weeks, I picked up a second job: Baby catcher. In fact, I'm damn sure you didn't know this because I didn't figure it out until just a couple of days ago.

Normally, my job entails the random crisis.

Lately, my job has entailed the random Normal. Very random. In fact, Normal and my PeriPausal menstrual cycle seem to be on the same schedule. Spotty. Nearly every day, for the past month, something has happened at work that requires immediate, emergency level attention. As in put-down-the-coffee-cup-mid-sip important. As in kick-the-current-client-to-curb-mid-whine important. As in Somebody-Catch-the-Baby! important.*

Now, if my job description included baby catching as the primary responsibility, I know that I would try to be the best little baby catcher I could be. Without complaint. The problem is, my job description includes only the random baby catch, which means I have many other very important, non-crisis oriented responsibilties, to people who won't give a rat's ass about babies falling from the sky when my report is late and/or crappily written. Or why I'm not seeing my other clients, or calling parents, or scheduling the last team meeting of the year ::shit, note to self for Monday. Schedule last team meeting for year, falling babies notwithstanding.::

Initially my J was gonna be for June. Right now, June is nothing to me but another looming deadline I feel I will never meet. Of course, I will. Meet it. But people, I'm gonna be in a world of hurt getting there. But for now, all I'm asking for is one or two days of working under Normal advisories.

If I get that, then I'll know it's gonna be okay.

Knitting Knuggets
As of this afternoon, I've finished all pieces to The Cakers heart motif sweater. This picture was obviously taken before sleeve two was born. It looks just like the first one.



Hopefully I'll soon have my third (just third?) Completed in 2006 item in the sidebar. Ugh. Ya know, it's amazing how much knitting you can get done if you actually sit down and, uh, knit.

I keep promising I'll be back and I keep really meaning it. Really. But now I gotta go. Oh, Baby. I really do.

*I started this post Thursday night. I just heard about Brittny dropping her baby a few hours ago, from my husband. I blame myself. I need to keep my mojo under lock and key.
**Actually, I've started a couple different posts this week. I don't know where it all goes, people. And on that note, I've been to a grand total of three blogs over the past week. I think I may have even commented. Sorry if I'm missing anything big.

Labels: ABC, I Work Too

In the world of speshul ed, Spring is the proverbial season for Stuffin'the Bunny, i.e. I'm busier than a nine tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. ::Okay, there's no proverb about stuffing bunnies.::

In my world of work, deadlines are not to be trifled with and no excuse for being late, wrong, lately wrong or flat out stupid, will be accepted. Temporary declines in overall hygiene and appearance are not only acceptable, but expected. Otherwise, you're a slacker.

For me, this busy time means balancing my day between writing reports for looming deadlines and being available to my adolescent clientele. The latter trumps the former during the workday. This means I'm bringing the paperwork home. Every night.
In fact, I should be working on a report right now because it needs to be in the mail to parents by Monday.

But I'm not.

I've said it before that I kind of like it when it gets a little crazy at work, for a while anyway. Usually this giggin' on the wiggin' occurs when I'm able to just barely stay on top of it. It's a feeling of crazed competency. But I only get that special feeling when it's a fair fight. Right now it doesn't feel like a fair fight. I'm overwhelmed. And I'm not giggin' so much. I'm probably not even making much sense.

I'm way behind on my Blog Reading and emails and last night knit for the first time in a week. So, if I've missed reading about something real important, I'm sorry.

With the lack of anything else of interest to talk about, I have no choice but to bring you another Cakers story. ::To those of you who commented on The Cakers "old soul" two posts ago, I have kind of an interesting esoteric tale, but am not real comfortable posting it here. I hope to answer youse guys individually in email. Soon. ::

::No Really::

Arachna Kid
From a very young age, I have been afraid of spiders. Not phobic or anything, but if I'm caught by one, unaware, I experience the involuntary Oh-My-God-Oh-My-God-Oh-My-God-I-Almost-Touched-A-Spider dance. Once I became a parent, I did learn to kill, but only to save my child's life. While I never became totally comfortable with it, if I could get the kill without having to look at it much, or feel any crunching beneath the paper towel, I could easily move on, with minimal shudders. .

Earlier in the week, The Cakers is in the bathroom screaming. "Spider! Spider! "

My husband was not home, so I'm the reluctant hero. When I get to the bathroom, I see my girl on the toilet, and a spider on the wall, about two feet from her now curled toes. Not that I consider any spider attractive, but there are some spiders whose appearance strongly suggests "Stay the fuck away. Bitch." This was one such spider. It was not only huge, but it's legs were weird. The ones in the front were much shorter than the ones in the back, and they all bowed forward, like crab legs. I'm pretty sure it was the kind that flies into your face if you make eye contact.

Using my well-honed Spider-Face-Death-Differential-Math skills, I decide I could get the girl off the can with nobody losing they mind getting hurt. And then we would just report it to daddy when he gets home.

The Cakers was not thrilled with this plan. She wanted the bastard dead. After a tearful discussion, she relented and allowed me to scoop her up and out of the room.

Fast forward to bedtime. As I'm walking toward her room to tuck her in, she comes out of the bathroom. That's when I remembered.

"Did you tell daddy about the spider?"
"No. I killed it." She said. Way too casual.
"You did?!? How?"
"Well," she says, in her best, My-Mom-Is-A-Lameass-Chicken-Shit-And-Left-Me-No-Choice-But-To-Become-A-Spider-Slayer-At-The-Tender-Age-Of-Four voice, "I got a washcloth. Then I covered him up. Then I looked under the washcloth to see where he was. Then I pinched like this (she shows me pinching). Then I looked and saw his leg all crunched like this (she demonstrates by bringing a fist to her armpit) And he was dead."

Then she turned for her room and went to bed.

So, at least we know she's not an old Buddhist soul.

Now I gotta go.

May all your bunnies stuff real good.

Labels: I Work Too, My Daughter Scares Me