The good news is…I made it to the tire fix it place….
Today’s blog post: The one in which the unfortunate band director asked all the 8th graders to stand so he could call out their names….got to the first kid and said, “Um….uh…..I know this….uh….maybe if I start from the other side….” Poor bastard.
On the other hand, it added some welcome comic relief. Junior High band concerts aren’t exactly as exciting as when Taylor Swift comes to town.
I’ve been absent. I knew it would happen, and when it would happen. I was powerless to stop it. Standardized tests do not just give themselves, you know.
Disclaimer: I DO NOT, for one single minute, compare my blood, sweat, and sometimes tears, preparing and giving this stupid test to 400 kids, to the backbreaking toil done by the teachers every day for the entire year.
Every year I learn delightful new facts while giving this test:
- Gloves should be worn to unpack the tests after delivery from Austin. Reason: at least two Pearson employees packaged my tests. They were both dark haired. One straight, one curly. *gag*
- No matter how well you train folks, somebody thinks they have a better way.
- 99.9% of your teachers will do everything perfectly, but that’s still overshadowed by the one idiot who, well, is an idiot.
- While I didn’t see the tests, I do know that they must have been really interesting. ”Try this at home” type of interesting because I had to tell a kid, “sorry, you can’t write that down to try at home.”
- Telling kids they can’t talk at lunch is cruel and unusual punishment. For me. I cannot even imagine how hard it was on the poor kids!
- You can lose, like, a whole pound a day giving these test. For real!
- When you are testing in 32 separate rooms, it never fails that all 32 test administrators will have to go potty at the exact same time. (So you can prepare in the future, that time is 9:30.)
- Animal crackers come in really noisy packages.
- Somebody will break something the night before the test. Glasses, arms, fingers….something. Mark my words.
Sometimes my soul just needs Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire.
I tell the folks at Walgreens that, yes, I’ll wait for my prescription. Really, I always leave and come back.
I always read the new Danielle Steele novels.
My dog has REALLY long toenails. Talons, really. I’m too lazy to cut them.
When I’m really hungry I sneak a spoon of peanut butter from the jar. It’s the best.
I kick my husband when he snores. Right in the back. It works.
My shower is disgraceful, but that’s ok, because I don’t have my glasses on.
It’s hard to blog when things get hard at work. I don’t want to end up being one of those bloggers who complain about their jobs and how much they hate everybody. I believe this, too, shall pass. Because it always does.
We have our job fair today. It’s an annual production we put on for the community saying, “look how good and prosperous we are? We have thousands of people wanting to work here, and we can afford to hire the best of them!”
We always meet in a local grocery parking lot and carpool over to the job fair. I am always disgustingly early and end up waiting forever in this parking lot. Today, I catch up on the blogs I’ve been to exhausted to read (boohoo).
As it gets light and I look around, I see all these folks, dressed carefully in suits and skirts, early like I am. They look nervous and anxious and I realize they are headed to the job fair too, and pretty soon I’ll be shaking their hands as they hand me resumes done in tiny 8pt fonts so they an fit their entire lives on one page.
I feel ashamed. Ashamed that I’ve been depressed all week about this job of mine. Any one of these people in this parking lot would be happy to trade places with me, even if it means getting spit on everyday (and it unfortunate does). I love my job. I love my kiddos….even THOSE kiddos, and I like being able to support my family and my Coach purse habit.
So I’m over it. For now…
Last summer, when my husband insisted we bring home FOUR feral kittens, I thought he was crazy, we were crazy and that our house was about to become extremely crazy. He insisted they would not all stay with us because they were so wild, and I was relieved by that prospect.
Not anymore. Little boogers kinda grow on you. Even after all the “crazy cat lady” jokes I have had to endure. My team at work recently celebrated my birthday with cat themed everything. It was pretty bad.
Only recently Mr. Darcy and Mr. Wickham have started coming to us and begging to be scratched.
Friday morning, as I was rushing out the door to work, I noticed Mr. Darcy looking mighty smug at the foot of the stairs. Glancing down, I found the horrifying reason why. The largest and nastiest rat I’ve ever seen was lying dead at his feet. “Little bastard!” I said to that naughty cat. Then I loaded my car and went back into the house to deal with it (because I love my husband and didn’t want him to have to mess with a dead rat when he got up). I rushed in to grab the broom and dustpan and went back to the foyer. Mr. Darcy ran past, dead rat in mouth, and flung that thing a couple of feet into the air. He then joyfully pounced on it and picked it up to fling again. I was in no mood (is anyone ever in the mood for flying dead rats???) so I yelled some things at him that included names and language I cannot repeat here, shooed him away and disposed of the body. I left the house with a bewildered Mr. Darcy staring at me.
That was the last time I saw him. He has decamped. More than two whole days have passed and still no Darcy. Is it my fault?
I own one dog and five cats and was complaining the other day because they cost a fortune in flea prevention. Now one is missing and I feel horrible.
I hope Mr. Dacry is just living up to his namesake and will come back to me because he realizes that he loves me, just the way I am. Sob.
The very first time Mr. Darcy came to sit on my lap.
Mr. Darcy, being stealthy. Christmas tree never knew what hit it.
Mr. Darcy is Batman!
You know how they say curiosity killed the cat? They were referring to Mr. Darcy. We have always said he would be the one to get into trouble because he is the bravest and most fearless. Basically, the stupidest.
Not 5 minutes after I posted this…Mr. Darcy comes running home after being trapped in the neighbor’s garage, the moron! Not the neighbor. Mr. Darcy. The neighbor deserves a gold medal after having that goober in his garage.
Mr. Darcy is now pulling a Scarlett O’Hara at the food dish….”As God as my witness, I’ll never be hungry again!”
Obviously I don’t feel guilty about the rat anymore…
The husband brought his Lara Croft: Tomb Raider DVD to watch in bed. Wonder what kind of mood he’s in….