Well, well.
School’s closed.
Given that I will be alone at the office and I’d like to save a day’s worth of extra daycare expenses, I’m taking Chickadee in with me.
I’d love to tell you that the extra time with me is going to be just what she needs, but asking for some valium would probably be more realistic….
The last few days have been eye-opening ones for me. This is not to say that I’ve actually learned anything. Oh, no! That would make far too much sense. My eyes have widened merely due to a vague sense of “Oh, crap.” But perhaps someone smarter than myself can glean some lessons from my experience. Or maybe you’ll just point and laugh. Either way.
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I have never been more proud to be female. Nothing says pride like a puppet.
P.S. Enjoy… I am in bed with tissues and orange juice and may not be out for a while.
When my ex and I were married, we never fought about money. I think that’s unusual; most couples fight about money, yes? We never did.
I’m very frugal. I shopped often but didn’t spend much. He grew up poor and really enjoyed being able to “indulge;” he shopped infrequently but tended to get the things he wanted when he wanted them. We had enough money for everything and it wasn’t an issue.
Cue the divorce. For a solid year–while the legalities were pieced together in painful detail–we fought about money constantly. Actually, we paid enormous sums of money for our lawyers to fight about it. What a grand system we have here.
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(Or, My Words Often Come Back to Haunt Me.)
(Or–better still–The Reason I Put All My Spare Change Into the Therapy Fund.)
“Look! I wasn’t raised by wolves today; see how I turned the light off when I was done?”
“I know, I know, I’m the slowest creature on the planet!”
“Wow, that was a BIG one! I’m so charming!”
“I think I’ll just leave that there for the maid! Oh, wait… we don’t have a maid! Mama is the maid! Mama…? You look mad.”
“I already know the answer… we get to do it if we’ve been good. But that’s no fair because we haven’t been good and I still want to!”
“Well I was sort of hoping you just fell off the turnip truck because I think that might mean you’d believe me.”
“Why do you keep saying you don’t negotiate with terrorists? I’m just a little kid!”
“You should cry me a river! Cuz I’m thirsty!”
A lot of you have been asking for more information about this job thing. Even those of you who recognize the need for some discretion have begged me to “just tell us your position” or “give us some hints at least.” And then there’s the lovely person who sent me the strangest email I’ve ever received. It suggested–amongst about a hundred other disjointed, poorly-structured, random and vaguely disturbing thoughts–that I am too “wimpy” to say what I’m doing. (I suspect the sender believes that taking their prescribed lithium is also wimpy.)
Anyway. There’s lots of compelling reasons not to go into it.
1) I found out mid-sandwich the other day that an obscure factoid about me had been passed around (with some glee, sounded like) after one of the senior staff members googled me. I don’t think my coworkers will be reading here, but I didn’t think some inconsequential thing I did a couple of years ago was going to be lunchtime fodder, either.
2) Then there’s the part about how I could tell you what my position was if I had any idea. Let’s just say I’m in a pretty unique spot, where basically they said “we need this and this for sure… and maybe this other thing, and possibly some of this other stuff, and potentially this and this and this if you’re up for it.” I keep telling people that it’s like being on The Apprentice. Every day is different. I have yet to be bored. It’s great! But very hard to describe, even if I wanted to.
3) And finally, let’s recall the main reason I blog: to complain. Work hasn’t given me anything to complain about, yet. Sad for the blog, yes, but rather better for life in general.
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Chickadee: Mama, how many days until vacation?
Me: Well, let’s see. You go to school the rest of this week, and then next week. Then you’re off for a week.
Chickadee: How many days is that?
Me: Hmmm… 9 days until no more school.
Chickadee: And then it’ll be SUMMER! YAY!
Me: Uhhhh… no. It’s winter break, honey.
Chickadee: Aww, man!
It is very difficult to continue dancing with your daughter and belting out a heartfelt “I love everybody / Especially you!” while your son keeps bending over and backing into you while giggle-demanding “Smell my butt!”
Can you feel the love?
So, uh, sorry about that entry last night. I’m having a wee little problem that sometimes occurs when your hormones are outta whack.
No, I’m not talking about the PMS-ish mood swings (many thanks and big smooches to those who were unfortunate enough to encounter me last night) or the other bizarre symptoms that the hormonal rollercoaster sometimes creates. I’m talking about the circle of hell that rhymes with beast. (Men: this is your cue to run.)
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… was the joy of procuring a sitter so I could run out to the pharmacy RIGHT NOW on the off chance that it will keep me from sticking my head in the oven.
Let’s see; sitter, prescription… that’s a lotta cash and no chocolate. Hmph.
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