Two Sirius

Ok, fine...I'll post...

I had a bit of a freakout a few weeks ago.  It honestly made me never want to post to this blog again...there are just people out there that I don't want my entire life to be out there for them to read.  And I can't get away from them, because it just doesn't work that way.  I don't even want to give them the satisfaction of knowing for sure that I'm writing about them, and as a result, I'm completely aware that what's coming out here is just the incoherent ramblings of a paranoiac, since I'm giving no specifics on what happened.  So now comes the whole "do I move my blog?  Do I keep blogging at all?" Internal struggle. 

I don't even fucking know anymore.  And I'm so tired of worrying and second-guessing.  And I'm about to be hella busy.  The school year is gearing up in less than a week, at which point I'll have to stop being a pretend Cubmaster and start actually doing the real-ass shit that comes with the hot uniform (long shorts and olive green knee-socks?  Anyone?).  Like running meetings and stuff.  And S and I are taking piano lessons together, starting tonight.  And I've finally figured out what the hell I want to be when I grow up, so I'm going back to school.  My first class is the 20th.  I'm only taking 6 credit hours this semester, just enough to get my feet wet and see what I can handle.  It's going to take me FOREVER.  I'll be done with school right about the time when hell freezes over, George Bush finds his ass with the aid of a map and a compass, and Lindsey Lohan manages to stay sober for five minutes at a time.  By the time I graduate, they'll probably have to award my degree posthumously, because I'll have already been dead for approximately 38 years.  This is not only because I'll be working for at least the first little while of being in school...it's also because I couldn't just pick something normal to do with my life and spend 4 years getting some degree to qualify me for whatever that might be.  Nope, I have to pick one of the hardest, most competitive fields out there, with the highest amount of required schooling, the intimidation factor of which, all this time, has kept me in a place where my entire skill set consists of being able to do all manner of things mindlessly secretarial.  I've known for a very long time that it was the only thing I truly felt such an affinity with that I'd be willing to get myself ass-deep in student loans and sit through innumerable lectures, but it isn't an easy road, and I was scared to try.  Still am, truth be told.  Somehow, though, I've found the intestinal fortitude to at least give it a shot.  Go me.  I sincerely wish I wanted to do something else, but I don't, and there you go.

Jury's still out on whether or not I'm going to talk specifically about what that is here.

And then there's work, which is really what got my ass in gear to go back to school in the first place.  My boss is genuinely a great guy, but him aside, I'm sick to death of watching people who are measurably more stupid than I am make 3 or 4 times more money than I do, either because their cousin-in-law is the supreme high muckamuck of some department or other, or because they're blowing someone's cousin-in-law on the side (I'm assuming, judging from some of the worthless carcasses that remain employed there for no discernible reason), or simply because they reportedly have a penis (there is a VERY low ratio of female management in my company).  In the meantime, on any given day I have to fend off several efforts on the part of said cousins-in-law and their respective blowers to get me to do their jobs for them, either by manipulation, attempted intimidation or out-and-out railroading.

Wow.  I am just Little Miss Fucking Sunshine today, aren't I?  Sweetness and light personified.  Maybe I'll try and come up with something amusing to put here later.

Thank You for the Music

Music has always been a big deal to me.  When I was very small, it was enough to just like a song for its beat or its melody, or more likely just because my mother liked it.  But it didn't take long before a song had to be something I felt.  It had to have some kind of personal meaning to me, however insignificant or unsophisticated that meaning was, for me to want to listen to it, even by the time I was 6 years old.  So I hardly ever loved a song the first time I heard it...it had to grow on me.  I'm still like that, and it gets more pronounced as I get older.  But the songs I do love, I love forever.

The first song I can ever remember making me cry was "Leader of the Band" by Dan Fogelberg.  I was maybe 7 or 8 when it was popular.  It made me think of my bond with my Papa.  It also reminded me that he was getting older, and I wouldn't have him around forever.  Listening to the words now, it's still so significant for so many of the same reasons, but I can't help wondering how I understood all of it when I was that young.  I can never make it through the last verse without crying, even now.  Especially now, I guess.  Songs that make me cry are still a very short list, but that one is at the top.

This weekend, I took S to spend the week with my parents.  While I was there, I received the pendant that I ordered when we were planning the funeral - a small silver disc with my grandfather's thumbprint on it.  My aunt is the only other person who ordered one for herself, although the kids (and I count myself among them) went in together to get my Grandma a gold one, also.  Since I got it, I've only taken it off when I've been in the tub. 

I forgot to request when we ordered them that the impression be taken from my Papa's left thumb.  This was important to me, because he was left-handed, and very proud of it.  The fact that I'm left-handed also, that I inherited this from him, was a big part of our bond.  As it happened, they used his left hand without my having to ask.  My cousin J saw the traces of ink still left on his thumb.

This whole grieving process has been very odd.  It's been everything I expected, and nothing I expected.  It's been easy in ways I never thought it would, and difficult in ways I never anticipated.  Just before the funeral, my aunt Mary (whom I had just met that day, which is another story altogether) commented that she couldn't believe he was 92.  She'd never felt older.  I answered that for me it was just the opposite...I felt 5 years old.  And I felt that way for weeks after. 

Now, I've gotten to a different phase.  I'm moody, I'm petulant, I'm having all these emotions that I can't name and have no clue how to deal with.  It seems that now I feel like an adolescent.  It's progress, I guess, and maybe that's all grief is...a kind of regression, and then growth again. 

I visited the cemetery on Sunday for the first time since the funeral, and I stayed for 2 1/2 hours.  Just talking to him.  For the past several years I have been, since he couldn't do the talking anymore.  But he used to.  Anyone who knows me would tell you that I am NEVER at a loss for words.  I can talk to anyone about anything, and you might have a hard time shutting me up.  My Papa was the one exception.  With Papa, he did the talking and I did the listening.  I liked it that way.  I never realized until I was at the cemetery on Sunday how those roles had reversed, and how out of my element it's always made me feel to visit him in the past several years, after he stopped being able to talk, and to have to tell him the stories, to have the burden of entertaining him and filling him in and saying something interesting and amusing and insightful.  That was always his job.  At some point it became mine, but it's never really been something I've been comfortable with.  I wanted his voice and his stories.  Not mine.  And I wanted the snippets of songs that he constantly sang.  But they've been gone for years.  This love of music, though - this NEED for music - is also something that was passed down to me from my Papa.  It was so obvious to everyone who knew him, and his favorite songs stayed his favorite songs all of his life.

I do know that so many of the songs that have meant something to me up until now have taken on newer and deeper significance.  What I saw in them before seems superficial now.  I'd imagine that it's going to be like that all my life.  I'll pick up new songs along the way, and the old ones will develop a patina, just getting richer and more nuanced all the time.  And some of those songs are the very same ones that were his, which is a comforting thought.

There are worse ways to cope. 

Hot for Cubmaster

I got asked out the other night!

A Cubmaster from another pack (actually, he's a former Cubmaster...he just stepped down) called me the other night.  I couldn't figure out for the life of me what he wanted, but my best guess was that he wanted me to help out with the monthly Roundtables or something (Roundtables are when the different leaders in a district get together and discuss plans for the upcoming month's den and pack meetings). 

For the life of me, I can't figure out why he wanted to go out with me.  He's met me twice.  The first time was at Mom and Me.  I was camping.  I had no makeup on and mud spatters up to my knees.  The second time was on Memorial Day during a Scout function.  I had on my Cubmaster uniform which, I assure you, is NOT hot.  The shorts have an elastic waistband, for Christ's sake.  There is not one single flattering thing about it, and when you're as short as I am, you just look like a chubby Boy Scout.  It really isn't pretty (unless you like that sort of thing, in which case there are WAY bigger issues).

Anyhow, this guy apparently didn't mind all that, because he noticed that I didn't have a ring on, and he also seems to have gone to quite a bit of trouble to get my number in the first place.  That's some flattering stuff, right there.  He did take the news that I have a boyfriend very gracefully, and the conversation ended on a nice (if somewhat awkward) note.

I felt bad having to turn him down, because he is a nice guy.

On the other hand, my ego has been insufferably large ever since.  It's nice to know I've still got it, even if a) I'm utterly bewildered by what exactly "it" might be, and b) I have no intention whatsoever of actually USING it.

Red Light

You always hear that you grow up to be your own mother (for women) or father (for men), but I have yet to hear someone say "oh, I'm EXACTLY the same kind of mother as mine was to me!"  Most people think they're completely different from their own parents.

I haven't decided what's true for me.  A little of both, maybe.

The warning tone I'd hear in my mom's voice when I was getting out of line is the EXACT same one I hear coming out of my own mouth when S acts up.  It's like someone lodged a sound chip of my mother somewhere behind my uvula (don't you just love that word?), and her voice, phrases and tone all come out of my mouth and I hear myself parroting her with dead accuracy.  If I could imitate everyone the way I find myself imitating my mother when S is about to get in trouble, I'd make a killing as an impersonator.  I probably use her same gestures and expressions, too, although I don't really look very much like her.  Or maybe I do.  I've never been able to decide that, either.

Another similarity is that my mother never talked down to me.  It's not that there were any blurred lines between adult and child - I knew for damned sure who was in charge - it's just that she understood that I was capable of more sophisticated conversation than many adults gave children credit for, and she spoke to me accordingly.  She was also very matter-of-fact, and careful of hiding her own emotions and opinions when she didn't want them to color mine, which was most of the time.  She was always authoritative, but respectful of me as a person and an individual.  The way my mother talked to me (and still does) is something that's carried over quite a bit into the way I parent S.

There are other things, though, that are nothing like my mother.  My mother was a neat-freak.  If she wasn't working, she was cleaning.  I don't remember her ever sitting down and vegging in front of the tv or reading a book. 

Me, not so much.  We don't live in filth.  I do vacuum regularly, the bathrooms aren't swamps, and the kitchen stays clean.  But the stuff that drives my mother crazy - a stack of papers on a table, books on a dresser, toys in the dining room - doesn't even register on my radar.  I just don't mind clutter, as long as it's not dirty, there isn't stuff lying on the floor and I know where things are (which I usually do).

I don't know if it was because of the constant cleaning thing or not, but my mother never played.  EVER.  We talked a lot, and enjoyed each other's company, but I don't remember ever playing a game with her.  She never let loose, she never got silly, she never goofed off with me.  And I don't use the word "never" in a figurative sense.  I do mean NEVER.  By the time I was a teenager, nothing made me feel more proud and accomplished than on the rare occasions when I made my mother laugh out loud.  She just didn't do it all that often. 

Not only am I not that kind of mother, I'm just not that kind of PERSON.  I'm a huge dork.  I am not above sacrificing personal dignity for the amusement of myself or others, including (although definitely not limited to) S.  He and I goof off all the time.  We're always stringing together words that rhyme but make no sense, dancing together to whatever music happens to trip our zizz-wheel, or doing things with our faces that would have other moms making dire predictions about their kids' expressions freezing that way permanently.  S and I laugh together every day.  And we play games, and we read to each other. 

The title of this entry actually does have relevance, in case anyone was wondering...it's taken from a song by a very talented but fairly obscure artist named Jenny Labow.  Lyrics here.

Today

- I have to do a 35-minute tempo run, which involves starting slow and gradually speeding up, then slowing back down

- I'll probably have a picnic lunch at a local winery with my friend T

- J has a friend coming into town, who will be spending the night with us (not in the same bedroom, you pervs)

- I have floors and bathrooms to clean

- I won't be going clothes shopping like I planned, having already spent my clothing and accessory budget for this paycheck (and I'm damned happy with what I got, thankyouverymuch!)

- I have to go to the store to get more coffee and some other things...but DEFINITELY more coffee

- The fridge needs cleaning out

What's on today's agenda for you?

No Sleep Tonight

I can't sleep.  Since I started running, that barely ever happens anymore, but here the fuck I am, wide awake.  And I can't sleep in tomorrow (today?) either, because I have a 7-mile run that I need to do before the sun comes up and kicks my ass.

Our neighbors had a crawfish boil yesterday - they do at least one a year - and it was fun, but I'm now completely stuffed.  Between that and the not sleeping thing, I'm fully expecting my 7-miler to suck. 

We're not really doing anything glam this weekend.  I'm just happy to have the extra day off work, frankly.  We went and saw the new Spiderman yesterday, and weren't all that blown away by it.  It was ok.  On Monday, we'll go see the new Pirates of the Caribbean.  It's a tradition of ours to go see a movie on holidays, partly because what the fuck else is there to do? 

I mentioned briefly, several entries ago, that S didn't test into his school's Gifted and Talented Program.  This shocked the living crap out of me.  I realize every mother thinks her child is The Most Brilliant Ever, but not every mother has a 7-year old who's reading on a middle-school level with full comprehension, or who can give you driving directions to literally almost any city in the US off the top of his head, so I'm pretty sure that thinking S is a genius-child isn't just me being a mother.  The letter that I got telling me that he didn't test in didn't include his results, so I made an appointment with the Gifted and Talented specialist to find out more.  When I told The Ex this, his response (accompanied by what I'm sure he thought was a gentle and compassionate manner) was thus:

"Now, if he turns out not to be gifted, are you going to be ok with that?"

This annoyed me on so many levels, I didn't know which one to start with.  First of all, it implied that he had never actually MET our son.  S is who he is, and a set of test results doesn't magically change the molecular structure of his brain cells.  It also implied that I was out to make S something that he wasn't...like I was going to try and strong-arm him into the Gifted and Talented program when he didn't actually belong there, just so that I could have some kind of bragging rights as the mother of this designer-brand child.  Barf.

All that aside, though, it's none of The Ex's damned business what I am and am not emotionally ok with, and I find it very invasive and squicky when he tries to go there, which happens way more often than it should.  God knows he didn't lose any sleep over how I was coping with things when we were married.  Why start now?

So I made the appointment with the specialist.  She was actually quite glad to see me, because apparently she'd really like to put the test results in the notification letters, but for reasons known only to themselves, the Board won't let her.  It annoys the crap out of her, so she's always glad when a parent comes looking for more info.  She showed me the test that they use, and told me his results and what they meant.  Basically, S tested right on the razor's edge of borderline.  When I actually looked at the test questions, I was kind of surprised that he scored as high as he did.  Maybe that sounds awful, but I know S's strengths and weaknesses, and the test couldn't have been more geared toward his weaker points if it had been custom-made.  It required a lot of abstract problem-solving, and S is very much the practical, point-A-to-point-B kind of thinker.  He just doesn't do as well with the more nebulous stuff.  So in a way, he's actually even more brilliant than I thought he was.

The specialist and I had a brief discussion about him, some of his characteristics, interests and abilities, and she basically told me that he probably does belong in her classes, and that he'll be retested in a year.  In the meantime, I probably don't have to worry too much about him getting bored with school (which was my main concern with him not meeting the test criteria for Gifted and Talented), partly because it's early on yet and partly because he does have a wonderful teacher who knows where he'll need extra stimulus.  He's in a multi-age class, which includes both first and second grade, so he'll have the same teacher next year, which is great because she already understands him.  So the specialist was able to address my concerns, and I left our meeting more or less satisfied.

A couple of days ago, Mr. Will-You-Be-Ok-With-It-If-S-Turns-Out-Not-To-Be-Gifted informed me that he wanted to have S privately retested during the summer.  Apparently he knows someone who does this for a living, and she's willing to give him "a very big discount."  It would still cost The Ex several hundred dollars, but supposedly the full price would normally be a couple of thousand(!), even though I was told by the school specialist that to have that exact same thing done would cost - quite coincidentally - several hundred dollars.  Whatever.  Technically I can't stop him if he does it during his time with S, and I have better things to do than fight him on it anyway, but I think it's over the top and unnecessary and I told him so.  The discussion pretty much ended with me telling The Ex that I really don't think it matters that much one way or another whether S waits until next spring to be retested, but that if The Ex insists on having it done he'd better make sure that whatever test it is will be one that they'll accept as a qualifier for the program, or he'll just be wasting S's summer vacation time and his money.  He responded that this was a really good idea (since apparently he had not considered whether or not dropping said money and putting S through the whole testing process again would serve any actual purpose), and he'd call the specialist the next day. 

Whether he did that or not, I don't know.

Celebrity Attraction

So yesterday I went to the doctor.

We won't talk about that part.

My vajayjay was scheduled to get top billing for the day, but it wound up getting upstaged by the very scrumptious Coach bag that I was carrying - a small tote in white leather.  It's my absolute favorite, and I love that bag beyond reason.  I can't say I was ever a purse girl before I discovered Coach, but now I'm pretty much hooked.

The nurse that was weighing me noticed it first.  "Beautiful bag!  Is it Coach?"  She took a closer look at it, oohed and aahed a bit, and then took me back to the exam room.  She stopped another nurse on the way back there.  "Look at this bag!"  At which point they BOTH oohed and aahed.

The nurse who was in the room for my hoohoo check noticed it too, and by the time I had gotten back into my clothes and regained some semblance of my dignity, all of the girls at reception were demanding to see it too, talking about which ones they had, showing me someone's really cute pink and white twill Soho flap hobo (yes, I can actually tell you off the top of my head the names of most of the more recent styles - sad, I know), and pretty soon we were ass-deep in the kind of conversation that only certified Coach whores are capable of having.

This is the first time that's ever happened to me.  Coach bags are pretty much the norm around here for anyone 30 and up, but it's mostly soccer moms carrying the exact same signature tote as everyone else just because it's the Thing To Do (granted, there's a signature bag I have my eye on, but it's not a tote, and it's not just because everyone else carries signature...if anything, the fact that it's all over the place is a big reason why the ones I have so far AREN'T signature).  I've never seen another bag like my white tote on anyone else, and although I've had one or two casual compliments on it, I've never really gotten into a whole involved, purse-obsessed discussion.

Sometimes I mind that the ENTIRE rest of the world carries Coach, too, but at times like that, our collective fixation is fun.

TMI Alert

I'm going to the doctor today to have my girly-bits checked.  All of you guys who shudder at the idea of prostate screenings can quit your bitching...I can tell you that doctors are equal-opportunity torturers, and speculums are instruments of Satan.

My transition last night to Cubmaster involved no face-paint whatsoever.  I think I'm kind of disappointed.  But we did sign up enough new Tiger Cubs to make a small den, and I'm hoping the Fall rally brings in more boys.

As soon as I was transitioned and the former Cubmaster had me step up as the new Cubmaster, one of the boys yelled (sarcastically, but in fun), "so what are you going to do NOW, Ms. Cubmaster?"

That is a damned good question, I have to say.

Killing Me Softly With His Song

S is in his room with his keyboard on auto-play.  I don't know who the hell picked out the songs that are on it, but if I wanted that child introduced to elevator music, I'd definitely be living my dream right now.  A second ago, it was belting out something by The Carpenters (God help us all), and now it's - literally - "Killing Me Softly."  Extremely apropos.  And for awhile, he had it playing "Auld Lang Syne" and was singing along in this high, operatic vibrato.  It was hysterical.  Does anyone even KNOW the words to that song, besides S?  And I don't mean just the part that you sing on New Year's Eve.  He went through several verses of it.  No idea where he picked that up.

I did 6 miles this morning.  I had a fantastic 3-miler earlier in the week, but other than that, I'm still pretty much sucking.  My motivation gets low toward the second half to 3/4 of a run lately, and I don't really know what to do about it other than to keep running and hope it passes. 

I've seen some fun things on my runs recently.  Last week, there was a green turtle in the gutter that apparently crawled up from a nearby flood-drain-faux-creek-thing that runs along the edge of our neighborhood.  It was really cute, just sitting there with its front feet (paws?  What the hell do you call them on a turtle?) on the curb, staring up at me, wondering what manner of fucked-up thing this odd human was doing.  I was afraid it would get out in the street and get hit by a car, so I picked it up and took it back over to the aforementioned flood-drain-faux-creek-thing and put it on the edge of the water.  It was gone when I came back around that way a little bit later.

Today toward the beginning of my run, I saw a large tree that had been very thoroughly and expertly toilet-papered.  Since I'm getting a sexy new cell phone this week (it's RED!!!) - one that I will actually let me pull my pictures off of it onto my computer, unlike the piece of shit that I currently have - I've decided to start a new thing here where I post a picture of something that caught my eye on my weekly long run.  I won't call it a meme, because it's a pretty sure bet that it's NOT going to take off and spread like wildfire and become the Next Big Craze of the Blogosphere (god, I hate that word), but it'll be fun.  For me, anyway.

In other news:  J is dropping hints.  Good things to come, a surprise, been thinking a lot about our relationship, he's so happy, loves our life, loves our family, etc.  We briefly got into this discussion a couple of days ago, and J said, "In fact, I know I'd be a fool..." 

At which point, right on cue, S came running in to tell me something. 

Hmmmmmmmm...

Ohh, crap...

I have a new direct supervisor.

I don't know who it is yet.  All I know is that a) she's female, b) she's someone that I'm at least acquainted with, and c) she's probably not someone I consider a good friend of mine.

I do not do well with female supervisors.  I have no idea why (my life would be much easier if I could figure this one out), but the women I've reported to have never liked me, with almost no exceptions.  Male bosses, I do just fine with.  Especially if they're middle-aged or older.  Again?  Not sure what the deal is with that. 

I'm taking deep breaths.  I'm waiting to find out exactly who it is.  There ARE one or two women that I think it might be, and I believe I could handle working for them.  I think they would probably be able to handle working with me, too.  There are also the one or two that I will literally quit on the spot if I'm asked to work under them.  And then there's Everyone Else, whom I am willing to give a fair shot, with some reservations.  It's not going to help one bit that whoever they are, I'll definitely know more about the job than they will, and we'll most likely both be pretty aware of that.

I'm worried enough to be considering where else I could find a job.

ETA: I just found out who it is, and thank goddess, she's the ONLY one that I really truly think I can handle working under.  I have craploads of respect for this woman.  Now, here's hoping she doesn't gradually come to hate me for reasons known only to God, herself and all the rest of the female supervisors I've had.