R is for ...

Retirement!

Yesterday was my last day of work. I'm officially retired. Well, from the law. I don't expect to ever retire from mommyhood. I'm not sure how I feel about this end of my legal career. Mostly excited. I think. If it sucks, I can look for another job later. But I really want to try this retirement thing out. So, in order to push myself firmly into the pro-retirement camp, I thought a celebration was in order. Unfortunately the confluence of events leading up to yesterday evening resulted in a busy husband and busy friends so that my celebration was a celebration by one, me. Even Lady Bean was asleep by the time I amped up the party. Which sounds a little pitiful. And, if I had taken a picture ... leftover office funfetti cake, topped with a brownie from a box mix, a half a glass of wine because that is all I had left, and a bestselling vampire romance novel, for teenagers ... well, my celebration may have actually been a little pitiful. But it's all good. I have years no-work-in-the-morning-I'm-retired weeknights to yuck it up with full glasses of wine and bestselling vampire romance novels written for adults!

Unusual

Today is the first day of school and this morning, while I was driving to work, I was behind a school bus. The bus driver must have been lost or confused or high because at each corner where there was a kid, she would put on her lights, stop, and ask which school the kid was attending. The kid would answer and she would shake her head no. Then she would turn off her lights and drive away. Well 'away' to the next corner where another kid was standing. Wash, rinse, repeat. I was stuck behind the school bus for thirteen very long minutes and seven stops where she never once picked up a kid.

After getting away from the bus, I was on my way. Two blocks further, I had to stop at a red light. While waiting at the light, I noticed something in the road. It was a toupee. There was a toupee just sitting on the ground in the middle of an intersection.

Q is for ...

Qat:
\ˈkät\ noun
a shrub (Catha edulis) of the staff-tree family cultivated in the Middle East and Africa for its leaves and buds that are the source of a habituating stimulant when chewed or used as a tea.

and

Qaid:
\kah-eeth, kahyth\ noun
(in North Africa) a Muslim tribal chief, judge, or senior official; a Berber chieftain; an alcaide.



I love playing Scrabble. Even as a kid with a limited vocabulary, and shit for spelling (which actually, as an adult, has not gotten any better solely due to my reliance on spellcheck), I loved playing Scrabble. In the last few years my love has turned a little more cutthroat as Joan opened my eyes to Scrabble strategy.

Now don't get me wrong, my strategic skills are pretty cheesey and I don't think I could do very well in a Scrabble tournament as my memorization skills are only surpassed in lameness by my spelling skills. Which is a roundabout way of saying I can't remember fancy words and if I can remember them, it doesn't matter because I can't spell them. Nonetheless, in my attempt to expand my strategic skills, I have memorized several words that start with Q and don't require U. Such as qat and qaid. Both of which can be pluralized (pluralized, probably not a real word) with an S but are flagged by spellcheck. Go figure.

P is for ...

Progress, or, to be truthful, lack thereof.



My progress has been sucktastic due to many things. But, um, basically it's due to the fact that I just haven't been knitting. Not with my ladies and not at home. I haven't been knitting at home because of another P. Phelps, Michael Phelps. I have found it difficult to knit when I am bouncing up and down on the couch, or, someone around me is jumping up and down screaming "Go Michael! Go Michael! Go!" at the television. Crazy, yo sé.

One might think I have a Summer Olympics addiction, and one might be right. I love me some Summer Olympics. From the beach volleyball (which IS a real sport, thankyouverymuch Husband) to the decathlon, I love it all. But I especially love it when there is drama. Real drama. Not some corporately created schlock. Dara Torres kicking ass at 41? Awesome! Tyson Gay failing to qualify for the 100M? Holy crap! Michael Phelps going for eight. Booyah! America can fence? Who knew! Needless to say, I have been glued to these Olympics. I have DVR'd these Olympics and re-watched performances. Hell, I even have googled the athletes to find out what they have tattooed on their bodies ... and for the record, the Olympic rings was a cool tattoo the first ten times I saw it, but now? They are the Olympic athlete tramp stamp.

So P. It is for pathetic progress. But it only happens once every four years, so that's okay.

Alternatives

Sunday afternoon I needed to do some work and had Lady Bean with me. I had left the house in a hurry and didn't have a blanket. In the car, however, was my Clapotis. I grabbed Clapotis as a "just in case" baby blanket, never figuring I would need it, as I planned for LB to sleep the entire time I was working. She, however, had other plans. Plans that were the opposite of sleeping. I still managed to get a lot of work done though because Clapotis, it seems, is brilliant in the rolling on the ground and amusing the baby category.




I'm not sure that Clapotis will ever be the same after its romp with Lady Bean and I'm really not sure how I feel about giving LB a hundred dollar baby blanket. But I am sure that she loved it, no, LOVED it, all caps, all the time, there was that much love.

A while back one of the woman we knit with had a baby and several people in the group knitted individual squares which were made into a baby blanket. I knit an anchor square, but had initially thought about doing a lacy square. To say this idea was frowned upon would be a HUGE understatement. One would have thought that knitting lace for a baby blanket was tantamount to child abuse. There was much concern for little fingers and toes and the lace holes. After watching Lady Bean cavort with Clapotis, I am going to go out on a limb and say that this concern was misplaced.




She loved the Clapotis holes. Her fingers and toes were drawn to the holes like white on rice. In fact, she amused herself for thirty solid minutes by slipping her fingers and toes in and out of the Clapotis holes. She screeched like a monkey at the holes (I found this a bit trying but she totally enjoyed it), she cackled like a loon at the holes, and she even cried when I took Clapotis and its glorious holes and put it away. So, my point, if I actually had one, which really, not so much, but whatever. My point? Don't be afraid of the lace blanket for babies. Obviously your don't want a hole big enough for the head (even I can figure that one out). But smaller holes? Finger and toe holes? Brilliant!

Dammit

So the one day when I don't have the camera and I don't have my cell phone with its camera is, of course, the one day in which Crazy brings me a new present! Could this be the start of another run of presents?

Confused

It seems that I gave birth to a screecher monkey. A cute drooling screecher monkey, but a screecher monkey nonetheless. I'm not sure that my eardrums will ever recover. The dog feels the exact same way. I thought we received sign language books and DVD's as a way to learn to communicate with LB before she could speak. Now I realize it is because we, and everyone within a sixty mile radius, are now deaf. I've tried squelching the screeching (trying saying that real fast, squelching the screeching, squelching the screeching) with duct tape but that didn't work (FYI, all the drool prevents stickage). What, you have a suggestion? A way to stop the incessant screeches? If only I could hear you over the permanent ringing in my ears.

Preparing for Joan's Arrival

Twists and Turns

I am all over the place with this one. On Friday, I gave Crazy my letter of resignation. I gave her two weeks notice and planned on saying sayonara on August 15, 2008. I had wrapped my brain around this and was finally comfortable with the decision. I had made peace with resigning. Which may seem surprising as I have bitched and moaned about this place for the last six years, so you'd think I would be turning cartwheels at the idea of leaving, but not so much. I'm okay with leaving Lady Bean in day care. I don't think day care is evil and your child will be screwed up for life. I like working, though not necessarily at my current job, and the thought of not working, well, it was a bit nauseating. Also, I love my daughter to bits but spending twenty-four/seven with her (or anyone)? Also a bit nauseating. But whatever, I got over it and was ready to move on. Stay-at-home-mommyness, here I come. But, considering I work where I work and with the people I work with, it should come as no surprise that I couldn't actually outright resign. NOTHING IN THIS PLACE IS STRAIGHTFORWARD.

I feared that once I gave my notice, I was going to get kicked out of the door on the spot and not be eligible for our bonus. Or, maybe Crazy would be all crazy and how-dare-you-leave-after-all-I-have-done-for-you and the last two weeks would be pure torture. But this is not what I got. No, I got a oh-no-I-am-going-to-miss-you-what-will-we-do-without-you-can-you-work-part-time-for-a-little-longer-while-we-replace-you-we'll-pay-you-lots-more. Yes, in case you got lost in that run-on sentence, I was asked to work part-time at a decent hourly rate, a rate better than what I make now, for an extra two weeks. Even though I was told I couldn't work part-time EVER, AT ALL, when I was setting up my maternity leave and at that time I was only asking for a few weeks part-time at my current el-cheapo salary rate. ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

Initially I was thinking all NO, FUCK NO, I AM NOT DOING THAT. I planned to quit and quitting I will be. But then I learned that my COBRA insurance was going to be well over five hundred dollars a month (To which I replied, "The hell? I'm the young one. The one that had the baby, not the near death experience. The healthy one. ARE YOU LOOKING AT THE RIGHT PERSON'S RATE?" And was told, "Yes. I am looking at you. Suck it."). So now I am all conflicted.

I could work three hours a day, several days a week, for two weeks and pay my COBRA for the time I will need it and maybe even have a few bucks left over to feed my addiction. Heck, I might even be able to feed my other addiction and buy some yarn (yah, yah, I don't need it, whatever) for Mystery Stole 4. I'd even get to knit during the day since my home time would be during the long afternoon nap (oh knitting how I miss thee). But then I would STILL BE HERE. I busted my ass and cashed in all sorts of favors to make things work out child care wise to get us to August 15, which now would seem somehow lame, like I am a big whiner crying all "I just need to get to August 15" when in fact August 15 is now a regular day of no import. Not that I would need to tap anyone else, in order to make this work, Boo would swoosh his schedule around (yet again for like the eleventygillionth time). But I would be missing him on the days I do work since we would be passing like two ships in the night. There is also the chance that Crazy would find out I am looking at a real part-time job. I did tell her I am looking for something part-time but I forgot to mention that I was looking right now and that the job I have my eye on is the part-time version of one that she applied for and did not get. So that could be bad. Real bad. The job is a political appointment and she could, well, I dunno, she could do something and that something would be bad. But even as I type this drivel, I think, asshole, you want to work part-time, so what's the real downside? Crazy? Dealing with jailbirds? Actually having to work?