Life in the Slow Lane

There are some things you hope to never discover at 11:30 PM. One of those things is the extreme brightness of a police issue flashlight shining in your eyes. If this happens to occur while you are in your pajamas, falling asleep on the floor because it is an hour and a half past your bedtime and you cannot get to your room, all the more fun.

Today, due to an attempt to liven up a staff meeting to discuss insurance benefits, our department got to dress down. Sure, I ended up wearing a 10 gallon hat, a neckerchef, and winning such stellar prizes as a rubber frog and hideous santa slippers, but I got to wear jeans to work. This was the first time since I said good-bye to my little kiddie-pies that I wore jeans to work. And wouldn't you know it, but this was also the first time that I slipped on my way to work thereby picking up a large dirt smudge, a legion of grass pieces, and a baby snail on my jeans. Now, you might suppose that this would be enough, but no, at lunch, I managed to squirt fajitas all over my jeans. I'm not complaining, no, I would much rather have had all of this excitment in jeans than in one of my limited dry-clean only skirts, but it does seem that maybe jeans are a more dangerous thing to wear in my new life than I anticipated.

If the status of my co-workers' handwriting is any indication, none of you will be able to read my handwriting in approximately 2 years. Imagine a doctor's script, only loopier.

Sometime recently I became an adult. I'm not sure exactly when it happened, but I realized the other day that it has happened. I call people twenty to fourty years older than me by their first name. I calculate exactly how much money I am spending per mile I drive. (And calculating how much money I might save if I don't travel with traffic and stick to the "golden" 55mph that is supposed to give you peak mpg.) College students rank high on my list of unfortunate roommate choices. I make a note on my calendar for a meeting on "understanding health insurance benefits." A package arrives containing a desk lamp and my peers all eagerly gather around to watch me unpack it and plug it in.

Today I learned that there are only a few things that can be communicated over the telephone when neither person speaks a language even remotely familiar to the other. The first thing is: I cannot understand you. The second thing is: You cannot understand me. Knowing when it is polite to hang up is not one of the things communicated.

Although it may seem like it. There is no Walmart, no Target, no discount food place, no gas station away from the freeway (Except for one that I am not sure if it is possible to only get gas there. It seems like once you commit yourself, you are in for a car wash.), and I can't find any malls. I really have wondered if I was nearing the end of the known world during my time here. I went in search of a gas station on what I thought was a major road and as I started climbing up a hill I suddenly realized that there was no place to turn around and then I was going through several tunnels and then I was in a world where I couldn't see what lay on the other side of the road. I went from a sunny day to fog swirling in cold flurries. Eventually I found myself in the make-believe land of Malibu where I managed to turn around and come back. But no, I have not spent all of my time in fruitless search. Yesterday I happened upon a most happy secret that has now made me the envy of everyon

My charge while looking at some mushed up playdough: "And here's Mommy and here are her eyes and her nose and her boogies and her smile and everything."

My official job title (starting Monday here ) is International Correspondence Specialist. As if adding the word "specialist" to any phrase containing "International" isn't enough to cause you to doubt the sanity of someone who deigns to call herself such, it gets worse. International Correspondence Specialist can be abbreviated "ICS". In college, I majored in Intercultural Studies, which also can be abbreviated "ICS". This unfortunate coincidence has resulted in many moments of stuttering as I try to remember which word I am attempting to say. Really, there is no better way to instill confidence in the great knowledge you must possess as a "specialist" than to stutter as you try and say what exactly you are a specialist in. Now you might ask, what exactly does an International Correspondence Specialist do? Correspond internationally, of course. I hope this is another instance where I will become what I already am. Because at this po

Today I heard a really funny joke. Someone asked me about when I was moving and about who was helping me move and I said that I might be moving by myself. The first suggestion they offered was calling a bunch of guys from one of the nearby colleges. If you aren't able to guess, I'm not really the type to go seek out guys I don't know to help me. Then they suggested that they could call a family friend who just happens to be one of the co-stars on the show "The Young and the Restless" to help me move. I can just imagine this guy showing up in his ultra sleek sports car, smoothing down his perfectly bleached hair, and then helping me carry my cat fur infested recliner up a flight of stairs. Um... no. The funniest part, I think, is that there is probably a legion of girls out there who would dream that sort of thing up just so they could spend some time drooling over him. And me... I was just relieved when my publicity shot of him that I got from his parents was ruin

I'm leaving the Slow Lane. After nearly two years of enjoying rows of bailed hay , commenting on strange fashion trends , experiencing the fine line of creepy/friendly of Going Greyhound , celebrating the cleaning of fridges , trying to make sense of a class cancelled on account of telenovela, and the many , many , strange , but true stories of life as a babysitter , I am leaving it all behind. I am boldy going where I have never been before... to the classic 8-5 job. Will my blog turn into some poor immitation of Dilbert? May it never be! But really, I can't spend too much energy worrying about what will become of my blog. My biggest worry right now is "What will I wear?" After nearly two years of having my work clothes be a pair of jeans that hasn't gotten too much baby saliva (or other icky wet stuff) on it and a shirt that won't be ruined if some child uses it like a rope to climb up onto my back, I wonder if I can survive the halls of Normalworkdom. Wel

When kids snuggle close and then wet their pants, does it speak of my success as a care-giver or my failure as a potty-trainer?

For the last 17 years, Summer has always been that time of year between the last day of classes and the first day of classes. Fall was August through December. Spring was January through May. Winter was some unknown legendary state: It went along with Santa Claus, who we all knew, of course, was a myth that some people tried to pass off as real. The idea that these names actually had something to do with the weather and not the school year was slow in coming to me. Since I didn't have the end of school to mark the beginning of summer for me this year, when summer arrived two days ago, I was forced to revert to my days before school. The first day of Summer was celebrated by getting soaked from the garden hose, playing in the mud, and spilling lemonade all over.