Aaaahhh.

I'm off work. As in actually OFF WORK. I'd planned to take two weeks off during the break between quarters anyway, which is something for me. But seeing as how Seattle has been hit with snow -- or, if you're the Seattle news media, a BRUTAL WINTER STORM SYSTEM -- I ended up with additional days off. So, not only have I been off since Wednesday, I'm basking in the knowledge that I don't have to go back to work until January.

Hold up, let me say that again: I don't have to go back to work until January.

Before the Bohemian got back, I had told her I'd take some time off. She sighed and said, "Anyu, you always say that. Every year. And you never do." I started to say, "Yes I do!", but then I realized she was right. I do take time off around the holidays, but it's piece meal. A day here, a day there, decided at the last minute. Completely different than knowing you have a solid stretch of time. A day here and there doesn't give you the same mental break. Which I really need, being basically mentally unstable.

So, I'll probably actually be blogging again for a while. I know. Close your mouths.

I even have pictures to post. And not from the Internet, either. Seriously, close your mouths. I even have pictures of a meeting with a totally awesome fellow blogger that should've been posted months ago. Oh well, all the better to surprise you with, my dears.

So. I feel like my whole body has heaved a sigh of relief. Later, bitches, I'm off to play in the snow.

Autoflush: When Innovation Isn't Good

So what is the deal with automatic toilets?

Welcome to the world of the Thinking Blogger, y'all.

You all know my department has temporarily relocated during the sprinkler installation so as to avoid death by asbestos 10 or 20 years from now. The new building has autoflush toilets. You know, with the little infrared beam that decides when you're sitting and when you're done.

(Side note: why isn't infrared spelled "infra-red"?)

Autoflush in my building needs to be recalibrated. That shit's just not working. Either that or autoflush is fucking with me.

At first, I was cool with the new water closet digs. Check out how the seat curves up at the rear, cradling your ass like an old recliner. Nice. So nice, in fact, that I was testing it out, leaning forward and back a little, appreciating the secure feel of the seat, when

FLLUUUSH!

The toilet autosprayed my ass. Literally. Damn it!

Fine. Lesson learned: no leaning around, no testing out the seating arrangements.  (Oh please. Like you've never done that.)  As long as I kept reasonably still on the porcelain throne, things would be fine.

Wrong.

Next trip, I go in, grab one of those paper seat covers -- or as my dad calls them, ass gaskets -- because this is a public toilet, after all. Punch out the center and lay said ass gasket down on the seat. Unbuckle belt, unhook pants, pull down, turn around to sit dow--------

FLLUUUSH!

Shit. Now I'm doing the bare-assed crouch maneuver over this power-flushing, porcelain vessel, the ol' bladder thinks it's time to let loose the stream, and I can't sit down because the toilet has autosucked my seat cover into its watery depths.

Shit. Practice some kegels, straighten up, awkwardly turn back around whilst keeping my knees apart so as to keep my pants up off the tiled germfest under my feet, grab another ass gasket, and repeat. This time, I back way up, so the autoflusher won't read me as "sitting" already.

It worked! I'm sitting, ass separated from the petri dish of a toilet seat by my properly placed prophylactic paper. Relief.  Except ... oh, no. This is turning out to be a Number Two occasion. Fine. Not the most convenient time and place, but whatever.  Like it's never happened to you.

So, I'm done. As the Airborne Rangers say, "Stand up, hook up, shuffle to the door ..." I try to leave (on the count of four), but the autoflush has not kicked in.

I wait.  I wave my hands around. Do a couple of squats.

Nothing.

Some autoflushers have a manual override. In other words, a good old, regular flushing handle. Not these. Auto all the way, baby.

I back way up. I wave my hands in front of the reader, and wait again. Nada. The toilet sits, silently automocking my ass with its feculent cargo. I resort to duck-walking toward the rear of the stall, straddling the toilet, facing the wall, so my pelvis is blocking the reader.

At this point, two women enter the bathroom, laughing and chatting. Great. There is a knock on my door. "Oh!" The woman suddenly stops chatting with her pal, quickly moving on to the next stall. Great. There is nothing to do but the backward duck-walk. My new neighbor can't help but see my rear-facing shoes retreat, unless she's counting ceiling tiles. I'm sure this confirmed her initial suspicion that I am either 1) experimenting with pissing like the boys, or 2) I am packing.  Great.

About this time, autoflush kicks in with a vengeance.

Too little, too late, you porcelain bastard.

Bonfire of the Vanities

So, Male Offspring got back from football camp last night. Teen Demon had to pick him up, as I am still ensconced in my new cubicle with my colleagues, dealing with our recent relocation. Whole'nuther meaning to "close quarters". I thought one colleague was readying to give me a lap dance, but she just wanted to use the printer.

I put my dollar away.

Anyway, my daughter picks up her brother from school. Now, he'd told me he had a surprise for us once he got back. I was curious, as he could not be persuaded to spill the beanage. My phone rings:

Annoying Ring! Annoying Ring!

Me: Hello?

Perky Female Friend of Male Offspring: Hi! Is ____ there!?

Me: No, I'm still at work, he's not with me.

Perky Friend: Oh. Wait! Okay! Can you please tell him that Perky Friend said, "Ohmygod, I sooo can't believe you got a mohawk!"

Me: ... (a mohawk?!) ... Sure. I certainly will. Thanks for calling, Perky Friend.

Perky Friend: OK!! Byeee!!

Oh, this was going to be fun. I live for these times. Doesn't quite make up for the stretch marks, but hey, what can, really?

I pick up the phone:

Male Offspring: Hello?

Me: You got a mohawk?

MO: ...

Me: Mmm-hmm. That's right. You can run, but you can't hide.

MO:  How do you ...

Me: Those eyes in the back of my head? Yeah. Maybe think about that next time. When were you going to tell me about this little styling adventure?

MO:  That was the surprise! That's what I was going to show you! Who told you? Did TeenDemon call you? Man! I can't believe she to--

Me: She didn't tell me.

MO: But ... you're still at work! How do you kn--

Me: How I know doesn't concern you.

MO:  Did Coach call you!? Crap! Coach didn't call you did h--

Me:  I can't believe you did this. You're grounded.

MO:  What?!? But, why -- grounded?! Are you serious?! But ... it's my hair! What about the beach bonfire tonight? You said I could go! It's my own hai--

Me: Gotta go, things are crazy here.

MO: What? No! Wait, I need to --

Me: *click*

Of course, later he claimed he knew I'd been joking all along. Hey, whatever you have to tell yourself.  The mohawk is pretty cool.  He calls it his 'frohawk.

So I end up chaperoning the beach bonfire. The idea is to burn the last vestiges of middle school in a blaze of glory before moving on to the vaunted halls of high school.

Kind of an adolescent cleansing ritual involving fire, marshmallows, and illegal fireworks.

All week I'd tried to get the lowdown on this bonfire business. I thought he called from camp because he missed me. Or at least because he knew I'd miss him. He called to ask permission to go the bonfire. I, of course, had questions about an event involving darkness, fire, hormones, high tide and a bunch of boys fresh from football camp, pumped up on adrenaline and testosterone. (This was before I even knew about the fireworks.) I had questions like,

• Who's sponsoring the bonfire? (I don't know)
• Is it a school event? (I don't think so)
• Well, is it a city event, or just a private party? (I don't know)
• What time does it end? (Um, probably after dark?)
• Who will be there? (My friends)
• Do your friends have names? (You know. Just my friends!)
• Who is supervising? Are parents going? (Probably. I don't know)

Finally, half an hour before the big event, I am put on the phone with someone named Rachel's Mom. (None of us have names. We are all ______'s Mom.) We parents decide to pull together and start this high school thing off with a strong united front. In short, we're chaperoning.

I saw one firework go off a few inches from someone's hand. I saw a kid throw a firework into the fire, and then (get this) reach into the fire pit with his bare hand to retrieve it when it didn't go off. I saw another kid balance on the edge of the fire pit on one foot, while he kicked some logs around with his other foot to "rearrange things". I saw kids pushing each other while precariously bent over to roast marshmallows with what looked like a toothpick.

One kid shot a firework through a buddy's legs. Hello! I mean, seriously, I'm all for fun, but do they not know they could lose a hand? Or an equally useful appendage?  Yeah, Junior, you might want to hang onto that for later.  Just sayin'.

At least they weren't spraying Silly String into the fire, which can ignite the string and blow up the can, just like the warning on the side of the can says. (That, apparently, once happened when another parent foolishly left the room during a birthday party. Amazing what tidbits of information surface when parents compare notes.)

The fact that there aren't more grown men walking around with eye patches and bionic parts amazes me. I didn't see a single girl doing these things. A little testosterone is a dangerous thing, people.

Male Offspring missed all these pyromaniacal goings on, as he and New Girlfriend were sitting on a piece of driftwood, the 'frohawk silhouetted against the sky, watching the sunset. Well, they would've been, had the sun been visible. They were actually sitting on a piece of driftwood watching the various and sundry shades of grey swirl around. Pacific Northwest, people. I was actually proud -- okay, fine, smug -- that he didn't get sucked into the frenzied drama.

Next up, high school.

Today I Didn't Have Time to Sneeze.

So the whole work relocation thing is ... well, it is what it is. I forgot to eat lunch and forgot to go to the bathroom. Which is a good thing, because I probably wouldn't have had time to wipe my ass anyway.

I decided when I started this blog adventure that dishing about colleagues is bad form, plus can probably get you fired, and cause people to throw rocks at your house at night. So no down and dirty on that front. Suffice it to say that close quarters and impossible deadlines topped with offering a public service with a smile is a recipe for folks to flip the fuck out.

Luckily, I've been through basic training and a child with colic, and am able to draw on those experiences for perspective. I mean, it's not like I'm up at 3am for the 8th round of breastfeeding, or lowcrawling under barbed wire and tracer rounds, right? Not really worth getting one's panties in a bunch. In my last job, I was the only female working with a bunch of ex-military and IT guys in an old concrete building on a former Russian army base. We had no central heat, no window screens, and our bathroom was a toilet in the cleaning supply closet. We had no sexual harassment policies, 12 hour days were fairly common, and my boss was known to yell things like, "Where the fuck is my CONTRACT?!" or "So I need you to go to Bosnia. Tomorrow. "

It was more fun than it sounds.

Anyway, it's been interesting this week. Office Dynamics are fascinating. And entertaining. It's all in how you look at it. And, my current boss is not among the numbers of those flipping the fuck out, so it's all good.

OK, time to go watch Dick with the daughter. Hmm. 1972, 2007 ... big old Dicks in the White House. The more things change the more they stay the same.

Are We There Yet?

Yes, still alive. No, I am not off on a secret love tryst. Crap.

What I have been doing is 1) dealing with various teenager issues. Don't ask. 2) helping to relocate our entire division to other locations, because contractors are having to install sprinklers for the next 10 weeks at Ye Olde Place of Employment. When did we find out about this move? Last Friday. When was moving day? Yesterday. Where am I today? Work. (No, my job does not normally involve Saturdays, as the state does not like to pay overtime, and I work for the state.)

Damn, yesterday I should've been getting an additional salary as part of the Facilities crew. I even have the cool boots. I and one of my colleagues moved shelving units, file cabinets, tables, and all the personal effects. We hooked up computers, faxes and printers. And no, we were not moving across the hall -- I'm talking moving to a completely different building. Actually 2 different buildings. Basically, we hustled. And now, I and 3 of my coworkers are cramped into one room until fall.

Let the Office Dynamics begin. Whee.

Actually it felt good to do some physical work for a change. Then, when I got home, exhausted, the whole Summer Solstice Endless Daylight thing got me pumped up even more, and I mowed the entire lawn.

Today my back feels like someone mowed it.

This morning my Teenager: Male Type left for football camp. He's going over the mountains to Eastern Washington. This should seriously be a separate state from Western Wa. The Cascades are like a freaking border, politically, physically and weather-wise. He will get to experience heat. I'm insanely jealous. I mean, are you telling me the coaches couldn't have used an assistant? Kind of a Mom-Friday? Would it have killed the boy to have his mom there at football camp?

Also, now that he's getting up there in years, and has moved from middle school football to the high school football, where the almost-men play, AND because he has raised his level of studenthood and studiousness to new heights this year, the boy deserved a pair of football gloves. There are, I've learned, many types of football gloves. It's not like you can just go in and ask for "football gloves". Oh no. And have the pimply faced sports store employee smirking in his superiority? I don't think so.

The Man Child is a Running Back and working on his receiver skills, so there is a certain glove for that. The palms are sticky like fly paper. I bought middle of the road gloves, which are $45. WTF?! That and the cost of the camp and the friggin' snacks should buy me some heavy loyalty and chore-doing on his part. Maybe he'll even kiss my ring. Anyway, he tried the gloves at practice yesterday, and pronounced them "pretty sweet."

Oh, the aforementioned Son has a new girlfriend. As of the 8th grade "graduation" dance last night. This is not the same new one from 2 weeks ago. Thankgawd it's not that fast little trollop who's been tailing him all year. Anyway, more on the Girlfriend Chronicles later, it's actually a pretty good story.

Eldest daughter left for QueerFest this morning with her two friends, Cello Boy and Piano Boy, whom she basically hooked up. Cello Boy has been one of her best friends since we came back to the States. Obviously, he plays cello. He also conducts. He recently turned 21, and has basically been getting his Ho on since he turned 19 and moved to the city to attend college. He is now figuring out how to get his drink on. Daughter, who shuns alcohol of any type, was on the phone last night giving directions on crossing the street safely and instructing him to get somewhere and get some food into him. Then i hear her groan, "OhmyGAWD -- no! Tequila is not your friend! And it does NOT go well with vodka. Seriously. Ask my Mom. She imposed a tequila limit on herself. There's a reason for that." He started singing after that, apparently, then told her to relay his love and devotion to me. Gotta love him.

Piano Boy is younger, just graduated high school, has been out for about a year, mildly religious, but "in a good way" whatever that means. Great kid. Anyway, long story short, daughter gets these 2 together, but Cello Boy is basically in it for fun and prizes, while Piano Boy really likes Cello Boy. But, surprisingly, turns out Piano Boy can pretty much fend for himself. Asked the daughter point blank if Cello Boy was safe, if he got tested regularly, if he was a player, or into relationships. Daughter told the truth. Cello Boy got pissed, daughter told him to get over it, he pretty much saw the point. Piano Boy set his boundaries, and they're all going to Queer Fest today.

Daughter fully expects to get dumped for greener pastures today.

When she met these guys (separately and a year or so apart), she fancied they might be "prospects". They're both scathingly hot. Of course they are. They have further confirmed for her that All the Good Ones Are Gay or Taken.

Tomorrow she and Cello Boy are leaving for Leavenworth WA for the Summer Symphony there. As daughter is the rehearsal pianist for the symphony, she gets the whole shebang at no cost to her. Leavenworth is weird -- it is basically a reproduction of the Bavarian Alps here in the good old US of A. I mean, it's beautiful, I like it, but ... I don't know, it's just weird. I mean, after having lived in Germany, it's just strange to go to this Pseudo-Bavaria. It's not Disneyesque or anything, but ... I don't know.

Anyway, the man-child is off to warmer climes, the daughter is off to a Cascade paradise. Not liking them too much at the moment.

So, that leaves me and Teen Demon.

Luv y'all! C U L8R! 2 gr8 2b 4gotten! Let's def hang out over summer!!! Kewl!

Sorry -- been looking at the new yearbooks too long.

I Still Need a Clone.

Wouldn't it be fabulous to have a clone so you could split off responsibilities and do life better?

Seriously. I do the single-mom thing. With teenagers. The ex is now 12 time zones away, so not the kind where Dad has them Tuesdays, Thursdays, every other weekend, either.

So, teenagers, full time job, two big dogs (one with separation anxiety), the requisite housework, meals, bills, a lawn, and a 1955 house that doesn't exactly maintain itself.

A clone is called for.

An assistant won't cover it. You spend more time training someone than it's worth. If I had time to train someone, I wouldn't need a clone.

Plus, you'd need multiple people: chef, cleaning person, dog walker and poop cleaner, chauffeur, gardener, work assistant ... and if one of those guys could also pinch hit for discipline and handling teenager issues, that would just make it a veritable party in my book.

Of course, those people would require salaries, and decent ones, too, since their jobs would be no picnic. If I could afford their salaries, I wouldn't need a clone.

Some folks say a partner makes life easier, but I don't know. Again with the training, for one thing. Relationships take work, we all know that. If I had time for something extra like a relationship, I wouldn't need a clone, now would I? Plus, it's someone else to cook for or who leaves the seat up or whatever, and then you've got to factor in time to shave your legs and file your toenails. Wait -- maybe I'd actually have time to fit that in: the partner could mow the lawn or cook, while I shaved the legs. Hmm. However, a relationship requires mental energy of all sorts, and I'm thinking I don't have much mental anything left to go around these days.

No, I've thought about this, and I really just need a clone. Not the kind that gets born as a normal baby, where you've still got to change their diapers and basically train their ass like any normal kid. No. That defeats the whole purpose of a clone.

Plus, when they do grow up, they look better than you, because they're you ... 25 years younger! Fuck that. No, my clone would be another me, the grown-up version. Insta-Clone. And none of that Mini-Me business, fuck that too. I'd be the Mini-Me, as I would then have time to work out, if I had a clone.

My version of clone would share all my knowledge and memories, therefore, my clone would know my schedule, deadlines, who has a school conference or sporting event, when the grass was last mowed, the grocery situation, when taxes are due ... you get the picture. I wouldn't have to explain anything.

My clone would be "fire and forget" -- send her off to handle something, and then forget it, knowing she'd have that shit covered.

My clone would not mind handling the more distasteful jobs -- she'd pick up dog poop and figure out the taxes. If one of the offspring has lost his/her mind, I'd pick up the dog poop, and send the clone to deal with the teenager.

It's all about options, with a clone.

And, check this out: since my clone would be genetically me (basically) she'd share the same love and commitment to the offspring. No feeling guilty about a new partner taking on child rearing tasks for my kids. No worrying about the kids having to deal with that whole step-parent thing either -- they're already used to me, no new dynamic, it's just Mom. Again. They'd be the clone's kids too, in a twisted but convenient way. All of the help, none of the drama. If my clone wants to have sex with someone else, good for her! Just be back in time to pick up the offspring from track practice.

In fact, now that I think about it, with a clone, I might have the time and energy for a relationship after all. And if the partner has a bout of temporary insanity, guess who will be heading out to the coffee shop with a book, while the clone deals with any pouty partners? Now that is genius.

Anyway, I am seriously waiting for this technology. I will even name my clone Dolly in honor of the sheep, I'd be so damn grateful to the scientists who could give me a clone like that.

Budget Crunching My Life

This is Official Budget Crunch time here at my place of employment. Our fiscal year runs from July to July.

• Last day of the fiscal year: June 30th.
• Day the Powers That Be cut us off from purchasing shit on our own budget lines: April 13th. Friday the 13th this year, to be exact.

We'll see what the day brings. We do tend to get some drama going on up in here, what with some of my coworkers occasionally going postal and all, so Friday the 13th could be interesting.

So, yeah, they cut us off 2 1/2 months beforehand so they can get shit straight over in the budget office. It wouldn't be so bad if we were up and running on July 1st. But no, it also takes some time once the new fiscal year begins to open up next year's budget.

All this to say it's a royal pain in the ass. Luckily I have set up most of my vendors to do orders directly, circumventing Budget Office Approval & Processing, so I get a May 30 deadline for those direct dealings. Because I'm good like that.

Anyway, been working 12 hour days mostly this week. I'm dreaming spreadsheets. I have mostly random thoughts to offer today. Nothing coherent. Like:

1) Putting on a cold bra in a cold house is fucking torture. Seriously, it's a bitch. Ladies, you know what I'm talking about. Just starts the day out bitchy for you.

2) Why do some zits start out way the hell underneath your skin and turn into a dormant volcano? Dormant meaning that shit isn't going anywhere. I mean like when you wake up, and half your jawline is actually swollen. Seriously, like your profile is all fucked up, because it looks like you have a 4-inch tumor. Or like you've been in a bar fight. That actually did happen to me once, where I got clocked in the jaw by a member of the Hungarian mob for protesting when they beat the shit out of one of my firefighter buddies -- he made the mistake of dancing in the cage, without knowing that a couple of the working gals had reserved it -- but that's a story for another day. Anyway, my jaw pretty much looks like that, except there wasn't tequila behind it this time.

3) Why do dogs eat shit that tastes nasty? Batman has had another Gastro-Adventure. Apparently, those fake firelogs make a fine meal for a dog. Now you know that some ground up black flammable chemicals pressed into a log shape has got to taste nasty, even to a dog. I can see that road-kill might be perceived as tasty to a dog, while being repulsive to me. I get that rotting trash might be some high-living to a dog, whereas it would make me hurl. But a grainy chemicals? I could even see a dog tearing the paper off and shaking it around, but eating it? He probably ate 1/3 of the log. Puked twice the next morning. That was some of the strangest puke I've ever seen, but we won't even go there. Anyway, I added that to my WTF? canine files.

OK, back to the grind. I just found out that the buyer up in the budget office doesn't want to approve my proposal at a cost of $7,800 through my vendor, which would cost from $43,400 to $58,800 with her vendors. WTF? What is it with state institutions? I miss my old job where I actually had some power to make decisions. Especially if those decisions were no-brainers that benefited the company.

>sigh<

Oh, and I still haven't done my taxes. Shit.