Slacker Blogging Mommy

Wow!

Has it really been over two months since I last posted?!?

So much has happened to cause this lapse. I think a lot of it can be attributed to the late winter doldrums. Also, there has been family turmoil. My step-son decided out of the blue to move back with his mom. I have been researching and planning what to do with the rest of my life (after the kids are all in school, I will go back to work, but not in human resources again). I have taught myself a new skill (kind of)--knitting--after "inheriting" my grandmother's supplies since her arthritis makes it impossible for her now (recently, Grandma became very ill and we almost lost her. She has since mostly recovered, but she is still somewhat weak. I think I started knitting--because it was something she loved and when I do it, I feel close to her in a way. The clicking of the needles is the one comforting sound I remember from a chaotic childhood). I have been reading many novels, feeding my literary addiction when I can. The old computer died and had to be replaced with a new one. And I have been working, which consumes more of my energy than I realized.

Speaking of my job, I must say I love it: not because it is challenging or rewarding, or even easy or pays lots of cash (it doesn't). No, I love it because it is a scientific study in human behavior. My co-workers are mostly poor, hardworking college students or "Lifers"--employees that have made the Club their lifetime career, having worked there for 15, 20, or even thirty or more years. It is interesting to contrast the attitudes and actions of us working stiffs to those of the Members. The Members are the upper 1%: the wealthy. Included in their number are politicians, judges, plastic surgeons, CEOs, professional athletes, and trust fund babies. The contrast is striking. One thing that truly amazes me is just how cheap these rich bastards are. They will save a buck any way they can. One sure fire way is not to tip. Ever. Yep, these elite owners of most of the GNP can't tip a buck to the driver (or waitress, or whomever) even though they probably wipe their asses with 100 dollar bills. However, their cheapness is just the tip of the iceberg. You would not believe the drinking and whoring and drugs these guys do. The Members' Dionysian festivals of sheer debauchery I have witnessed (not to mention some of the stories I have heard from the older employees) are astounding. They make regular old college frat parties look like child's play. Or what liberties these guys think they can take with the peons that serve them. I recently became involved in a battle of wills with one member who tried to persuade me to be his personal chauffeur and date to the clubs. The alpha male in a group he was taking out on the town--showing a good time, he tried to impress them with his authority over peons like me by trying to bribe and bully me with the promise of lots of money to haul his drunk, pompous ass around all night (as his personal chauffeur and escort, of course, a completely official job duty, "part of his membership dues" as he put it) and became pissy and hostile when I declined and stood my ground. I walked away without a tip (obviously) but my dignity and pride intact. Another time a guy (a kid to me, at least ten years younger than me) called me "honey cakes" or something similarly ridiculous, and I had to restrain myself from puking on his feet. Sometimes, when the shuttle is overloaded with drunk basketball fans and they are sardined up to right behind the driver's seat, I can feel them "accidentally" touching my hair (it is one thing to bump into the back of my head, another entirely to run your fingers through my hair--I may not make a lot of money and be working a service industry job, but that doesn't mean I'm stupid: I know the difference.). When this happens, it is impossible to tell who did it as the shuttle is crowded and I don't want myself or the passengers injured as I negotiate the heavy downtown traffic. Many of them feel the need to touch my arm or my back as they exit the shuttle--a pat on the back or arm that lasts just a moment too long. These guys have bought a higher level of piggishness with their money, a lack of manners and class that most men will never be able to afford and can only ever aspire to, I guess. In fairness, they aren't all bad. Just some rotten apples.

Do you believe that this wimpy paragraph of a post has taken me two and a half hours to write? Yes, my boys are high maintenance today. Many fights. Many tears. Many toys banished to the high towers of the entertainment center better known as Toy Heaven.

A twin story and some holiday memories

Can I just say: Thank heavens the holidays only come around once a year. I am entirely spent and partied out. Thus my obvious blog neglect. I haven't even switched to the new improved highfalutin' Bloggoogle yet. For shame.

Anyway, I have a quick twin story to tell then it is off to my various jobs of fixing lunch, putting fellers down for naps and getting ready for work. I mentioned before my employer's rather tedious requirement of Showering--yeah, it's 12:30 PM and I haven't done that yet. Looks like I won't until around 2-3PM today. C'est la vie!

Okay, back to my twin story...

About four of five days ago, maybe longer (with all the celebrating and working and general running around we have done for the last two weeks the days are all blurring together), Boompas' eye started looking red and puffy. On Wednesday we noticed that it was only getting worse. In fact, as Hubz put it, he was looking rather like Rocky Balboa after one of his rare losing fights. Fortunately, there is a new walk in urgent care clinic in town for all of the inconvenient timing that childhood injuries and illness exhibit (when do kids ever get sick or need stitches during office hours???). So I took Boompas on his first solo (un-twined) outing to the walk-in clinic. It was very strange--for both of us.

At first, he was fine with it: flirting with the receptionist and hopping (his preferred mode of travel lately) around the waiting room. I caught myself several times saying "they're usually... they do this...they don't" when describing him--Boompas. Also, I slipped into every brief conversation I had with anyone that he was a twin. Why, why, why? Why couldn’t I just let him be Boompas in his one solo outing--why did I insist on dragging his twin into it? I tell myself all the time I am raising them as individuals, yet the first chance I get to prove it I immediately set out to diminish his individuality. Shame on me. And Boompas, by the time we actually got into the doc's office he was asking for his twin, "Where Stink? Stink, where are doo?!". In the car on the way home after sitting patiently in the backseat for about five minutes he said, "Mommy. I want Stink. I mit him. Where Stink?" My heart just melted for him. As soon as he walked in the door, the two boys ran to each other squealing with glee and Stink told Boompas, "Take your dacket off!" and unzipped his coat. The whole event really made me realize that even though they may tease each other, steal each other's toys, wrestle and fight they have a very strong bond that I will never fully understand.


****

Some holiday memories I never want to forget:

1) Eighty-Eight Fingers' cover of Feliz Navidad complete with dance moves and singing from the solar plexus. His version rocks!

2) The Fellers Boompas and Stink singing and dancing to Stinkle Bells (their pronunciation) when Santa came to Great Grandma's Christmas Eve party and the smile this brought to Great Grandma's face (she came down with Bell's Palsy right before Christmas--a strange virus that paralyzes one side of your face--and was very depressed about it).

3) EEF helping me decorate the putzy butter cookies: painting on the egg white and sprinkling with (too much--like a mountain of) colored sugar and nuts.

4) The Feller's delight in the holiday. They are almost three now and starting to "Get it" about holidays and birthdays and reasons to have lots of fun.

Have I waited long enough, Doc?

I have written here several times about my concerns for my middle boy, my whirlwind, my three-foot bundle of mischief, my Eighty-Eight Fingers. Never fear, trouble will find him wherever he goes. Just see my last post to update yourself to his latest antics.

So you can imagine my dread at seeing the school's phone number on my caller ID today. Of course it was his teacher. Of course there was another bus write-up (the to-school bus this time just to switch it up a bit) where he apparently scratched another child and left a mark. Of course he has also been showing signs of impulsivity in class including trouble waiting his turn, keeping on task, etc. Of course, none of this is surprising to me.

Very troubling to learn he is injuring kids in his ferocious joviality--for that is what it is to him. Around other kids in an unstructured environment he becomes almost manic in his playfulness, every time. He isn't violent--simply easily overstimulated and can't stop himself, loses control. He is really a smart, sweet kid. But it is like he has no volume dial, no gears, no off switch. He is either awake and full speed or asleep and off. And this world--his world is not equipped to handle that.

So I did the thing I have been dreading, yet I have known is inevitable. I agreed with his teacher to set up the meeting and go forward with the testing for ADHD. I called his pediatrician and she concurred. Do it now. As soon as possible, she said. Then make a follow-up appointment with her to discuss possible medications.

My heart is overwhelmed with sorrow for the boy, dread for him of the challenges he will face, fear for his future. I think this is the right thing, but I feel so uncertain. I mean the poor boy is constantly in trouble: EEF Sit down, EEF settle down, EEF slow down, EEF don't touch that, EEF don't do that, etc. That can't be good for his self-image. And he certainly can't be getting so overwhelmed that he is hurting other kids. Absolutely not. But I am so not sure of setting him on the path of labels and medication and psych evals at five years old, sentencing him to a life long struggle. It just seems so tragic. And it is my job--his mother--to impose this sentence, for I have no doubt what the outcome of the testing will conclude. It is a hard pill to swallow (no pun intended) for my boy and myself.

Pre-Thanksgiving *fun*

This is not a Thanksgiving post. My Thanksgiving was nice but very anti-climatic. It was more like a Regular Day, except we spent it at my Father-in-Law's where my (step-) MIL made some truly scrumptious food. I am always thankful for delicious food especially when someone else cooks it!

Why was my Thanksgiving anti-climatic? Because it followed what proved to be a truly bizarre Tuesday. The Tuesday before Thanksgiving was fraught with events that alone would have made the day interesting and long and emotional. Taken all together and topped off with a (*thankfully* dead) night at work, it made for a most overwhelming day.

Event I:

Yes, this is another tale in what is becoming a Feller Preschool Saga. Is it any wonder I never leave the house alone with these three little men?

It started like any other Tuesday. The weather was mild, the sun shining. The Fellers were adequately cooperative getting ready for preschool. Everyone was packed in the car and destined for an on-time arrival. All in all, an uneventful trip to the preschool. The trouble began the instant we walked through the door.

I mentioned the Feller's preschool is in the high school where Hubz' teaches. It is a small suburban school, quiet--at least compared to a larger city school. Quiet, that is, until Eighty-Eight Fingers paid a visit. Tuesday was another day in the ever-growing list of days that EEF earned his moniker yet again.

It happened the instant we walked through the door. Boompas distracted me with requests leading to demands to be the one to open the automatic door, even though EEF had beat him to it and we were standing in the doorway in danger of the thing closing on us. EEF instinctively recognized his opportunity for action: Mom was distracted. It was now or never. He reached out his hand to touch the bright red and white devise mounted on the wall conveniently at eye level. The Principal of the school, walking by, sensed the crime and shouted out a warning: Young man, DON'T YOU TOUCH THAT! Of course, his warning fell on deaf ears. To EEF, the temptation was too great. His hand darted out and he pulled down on the appealing white lever. Instantly, a loud blaring noise and flashing lights filled the school. I looked from the principal to EEF, while my jaw dropped and eyes popped from my head, and spotted him just as he covered his ears and dove for the ground. Oh, the HORROR! My son, sweet blue-eyed blond boy, had just pulled the fire alarm. And I, as the mortified mother of such a monster, could not deny the crime, walk away, pretend it was someone else's monster (although, believe me, the thought crossed my mind). In such a small school the principal recognized the wife and children of one of his favorite teachers. Busted. Damn. I walked my brood down the long high school corridors muttering sheepish Sorrys, dropped off the Fellers, and marched EEF out again past the fire trucks and police cars and clusters of freezing students huddled in the entranceways, my head hung in shame. The thought crossed my mind to present EEF to the Fire Captain to confess his crimes, but my overwhelming desire to get the hell out of there overruled my urge to be a responsible parent. After buckling EEF and myself securely our respective seats as quickly as humanly possible, all set to burn rubber on out of there, a sweet little voice pipes up from the backseat: "Are we going to the indoor playground now?" to which I responded in a clipped angry voice that sounded a little as if I hit every word with a hammer: "No We Are Not Going To The Indoor Playground! You are going home and going to BED!" after which followed a twenty minute lecture about why what he did was bad, yada yada yada. Yes, I took him all the way home just to send him to bed and packed him back into the car when it was time to pick up the Fellers and commenced with my lecture. The thing is, he knows not to touch the fire alarm! He goes to school now where they teach him not to touch it. And the principal of the high school warned him not to touch it as he was reaching out his hand. Poor Hubz endured ribbing the rest of the day for being the father of the troublemaker, too.

Event II:

I live in a suburb (hahaha) that borders right on one of the worst parts of the city. The benefit for me is a nice house on a nice street, excellent school district, and responsive police force. The downfall is that the city's crime doesn't care that my house is in BlahBlah instead of the City. All the better to rob from you and deal drugs on your doorstep, my dear. On Tuesday another example of Why I Hate Where I Live and Wish I Could Afford To Move presented itself.

One of my friends, another stay-at-home mom which enables her to also have weekdays off, had stopped by for a rare visit because she lives over an hour away. I had just gotten EEF off to school and the Fellers down for a nap when an older red pick-up truck parked in front of the hospital parking lot that sits kitty-corner from my front yard on the opposite side of the alley (which is technically part of the City--the alley is the border--but the BlahBlah police still respond because if I, a resident of BlahBlah can see it from my house, then I can call the BlahBlah police). The baseball-capped guy pulled out a cell phone, talked on it briefly, and then commenced with flipping through a newspaper, apparently waiting for something. I said to my friend, Shit-drug deal (or something to that effect). How did I know this, you may ask? Sadly, through much experience--for whatever reason that is a popular spot for drug deals and I have proudly narced on many I witnessed there. My friend decided it would be a good time to go out for a smoke. She figured that would deter the drug dealer from completing the transaction with a witness sitting not fifty feet away. How wrong she was. The drug dealer boldly drove up in his silver Caddy, parked behind the truck, lumbered (he was a fat guy) over to the passenger side and accepted money from the driver, all of which my friend on the porch and myself through the window witnessed (except I did not specifically see the money exchange--she did). Silver Caddy drove off and Red Truck stayed, again flipping through his paper. My friend came back in, told me about the money exchange, and I called the cops--stat! I told them Red Truck was still sitting in front of the house. Within minutes, Silver Caddy returned cruising down the alley that borders my house. He had brought presents, apparently. As he lumbered back over to the passenger door of Red Truck, I whipped out my phone and hit redial to the police to inform them Silver Caddy was back. The police hurried over and were able to intercept Red Truck. Silver Caddy got away. My friend and I watched the dancing red and blue lights through my picture window (I bet the architects that designed this subdivision and my house in the fifties never envisioned a day when the picture window would be a tool through which we witnessed a drug bust). Soon after, a BlahBlah police officer knocked on my door and asked if we would be willing to be witnesses--they had busted Red Truck with a ton of Oxycontin--a very strong morphine-based prescription drug favored by the likes of Rush Limbaugh. My friend and I readily agreed and sat down with the officer and gave her our story. People I have told are surprised that I would volunteer so readily to be a witness. They ask, Aren't you afraid the drug dealers will attack you? Drive by shoot you? Harm your family? I think these people watch too much TV. More likely, the drug dealers will decide this isn't an ideal corner for business and take their trade elsewhere. Also, by not standing up I believe I am condoning it and giving the bad guys the nod that it is OK to take over my neighborhood too. No way. They can't have it, not as long as I have to live here.

Another side note to this drama: Silver Caddy had a kid in his car with him. How F**ked up is that?

Event III:

I delivered a long overdue lecture to my step-son where I informed him that my days of riding along in the passenger seat and letting his dad handle him (a strategy I adopted so he and his dad could develop a relationship--since my step-son had lived in a different state and only visited occasionally for summer and holidays--I did not want to interfere). Anyway, he had been here for more than a year, he has been making bad decisions lately, and I could tell he wasn't taking me seriously. So it was time for me to step-up. Just letting him know. I guess it went okay...time will tell.

Alas, my day was not over for I had a job to do. I had to drive richies around and around the glorious downtown of our fair City. Fortunately, it was a slow dead pre-Thanksgiving night. I was able to read a good chunk of one of the Dexter books Dad had brought over (excellent quick reads and now a Showtime Original series).

Another Post and Run...

Another post and run:

1) We have completed another day of Feller Preschool. It was a good day because although there was crying on the way in, it wasn't one of my kids doing it. And no crying on the way out either--BONUS! In fact, I was greeted with smiles and Hey Mom! and Mommmmmyyyyyy!!! Another bonus, Eighty-Eight Fingers did not have an Epic Poop again this trip, completing a successful and heart-warming morning. It almost makes up for the fact that I have to spend this evening at work driving around pampered princesses and princes. Oh, and get this: I actually planned ahead for tonight since I have to work and Hubz has an appointment--I prepared a ravioli lasagna for the family to just toss (OK, set carefully or I will probably be the one cleaning up the mess) into the oven for their dining pleasure. You would think they were as spoiled as my clients, right?

2) My job: It is okay, fairly easy. And to answer your question Blue: Yes, I got a fancy schmancy pen in a faux velvet/vinyl case and a whomping three-ring binder of company policies that gives one all sorts of useful information about how to be a successful hoity-toity employee. Take this tidbit for example under the Personal Appearance chapter (I believe that it’s chapter V but who is counting):

Personal Hygiene

Personal cleanliness in not only a requirement of the ***, it is also a social standard. It is essential that all employees bathe/shower and use deodorant daily. Perfumes, colognes and powders that are heavily scented should be avoided (try telling some of the clients that!!!). Your smile is extremely important; therefore dental hygiene is essential. You should brush your teeth daily and use mouthwash as needed. Breath fresheners are encouraged and should be used as needed. Eating candy and/or chewing gum, however is not allowed in public areas of service.

Hmmmm, I am sure getting hungry for those garlic dill pickles in the fridge. Maybe I will fix me up a kickin' tuna sandwich before I leave for work...

Some other useful information includes colors you can dye your hair (Damn! Purple isn't allowed!), the size and amount of rings/other jewelry (no more than two rings a hand), no wrinkled/dirty uniforms (try telling that to my kids--stay away from the kool-aid!), and proper undergarments must be worn at all times. I would like to know if they check this one (Show me your panties--No panties! You are out of uniform and therefore FIRED!).

Coincidentally, I ran into one of my former professors on my first night (Friday-and it was a huge night for them, an open house shindig with over 500 guests) when I was working the extra coat check (their regular coat check room wasn't big enough for that night). He didn't remember me, but pretended he did, gave me the What the Hell Are You Doing Working Coat Check look (I should mention it was an Honors class teaching Dante, The Inferno), so I was obliged to tell him about my humungous family, twins, and necessity for a part-time night job, which caused his eyes to bulge out in shock, a fairly typical reaction to our family size and twin situation. I really should have told him I had Brain Wasting disease or something. That would have been more fun.

I apologize if this is stream of conscienceless rambling, but I have to get cracking. I work again tonight and I must leave early to mail some bills. And tonight I am going to really try to get my hands on and my stomach around some of the supposedly fab free food there. I have yet to try any of it (except the chocolate chip cookies they served at orientation--DIVINE! the best evah! However, I could have used a sandwich--it was over lunch time, I was starving half to death and cookies for lunch just isn't good--or so I always tell the kids).

a teaser and some randomness

What is going on in my life today? (Please forgive the typos, run on sentences, and any other grammar faux pas...I have only minutes to write this before my brain self-destructs.)

1) My family is insane. Certifiable. The most current example of that insanity is a story that deserves its own space and when I ever am able to stop and breathe I will write about the House that Unkie Lost, and the Money--the hundreds of thousands of dollars, and Putting Granny Out on the Street...To Be Continued. I know: you are riveted. My dysfunctional family is a constant source of amusement to me, and soon I will share the wealth (of amusement that is, because the money is gone baby gone). I promise.

2) We had the second day of Feller preschool today. Last week Boompas was the *naughty one* asserting his independence by not wanting to pick up toys or cooperate for story time (the only screaming child in the room full of children when I came to pick them up) and Stink was the Star, the Cute One. So today they had to switch it up: Stink was screaming and uncooperative and Boompas the Star. You know: just so you don't confuse them. Did I mention that both times one of my darlings was the only kid in the room screaming his head off? I guess they like to stand out in a crowd. And the Mommy and Me Time that I get to (ahem: Read: Have To—KIDDING!!!) spend with Eighty-Eight Fingers? Well, let me tell you that is going just swimmingly. First of all, I have not done my homework on what to do and where to take a kid to entertain him for 1.5 hours (especially when it is the coldest day of the year like last week) on that side of town. Last week we spent the whole time driving around town trying to find a library or restaurant with an indoor playground or something--Anything!-- to do. Today we spent only about 15 minutes on the playground when EEF started jumping up and down because he Had to Poop NOW!! even though I took him to the bathroom at the Fellers' preschool right before we left--and by the size of the log he left in the toilet, the was no way it wasn't knocking on his back door at that time. So yes, we spent Mommy and Me Time dealing with the Poop Problem. So much fun.

3) Tomorrow I begin my fab new job with a scintillating three-hour general orientation. Yes, I am wondering what in the bloody hell they can go on about for three bloody hours. Because it is an Elite, Exclusive club, do they give us a lesson in manners--all Yes Sirs and No Ma'ams and where to set the salad fork? Oh, and for this grand spectacle of an orientation, we cannot wear jeans or loungewear (my typical uniform). No, we will be seen during the Tour so we must be all scrubbed up. I don't remember the last time I was all gussied up before noon...Is it a bad omen that I am knocking my new employer and I haven't even clocked and hour there yet?

Drive, Driving and Driven and the gifts we unknowingly give ourselves...or not

Again, it has been almost two weeks since I have written. A lot has happened...

I saw a movie once (oddly I don't remember which movie, the title, the plot, nothing but this scene) where a couple of kids were filming an empty brown paper bag caught in a cross wind between some buildings. The bag was blown this way and that, up, down and in circles, battered and torn in the strong gale. That is how I have felt lately. There is so much happening, and I feel tossed about here and there, barely able to get my bearings. It is not all bad things going on: rather, it is bad and good and in-between--just a brutal onslaught of life from which I have been powerless to escape, merely reacting to the force of it like a helpless, lifeless sac.

Or have I, like the lifeless bag, allowed the forces of this earth to breathe life into me? Because it seems that in this ruthless flurry of activity, it has once again been decided, for various reasons as a proactive approach to resolve some lingering issues that have been brought to fever pitch in this recent storm of activity that I will get a part-time job.

I want to take a moment to interject how strange, how funny, life is. When you are a young adult, no more than a grown up child really, and you make certain choices, who could know that those choices in one way or another open up or close so many doors for you in the future? Despite having a child just after graduating high school, I went to college. During my final years of college, I married a man who married me despite the fact I had a child out of wedlock (I really hate that term, but there it is embedded in this language of ours). When we got married, I thought I was so lucky to have found a guy who would take in damaged goods like me. Little did I know I married a guy with a work allergy. So I went to college full-time and worked two to three part-time jobs at any given time to make ends meet because my husband was always off work for some imagined work injury or some such boloney. And I was apparently the only one capable of cleaning the house, also. So I worked hard when I was married: I wanted the family, I wanted the degree, and I wanted my employers to like me. In my senior year, I found a part-time job with perfect hours for me and paid decently even if it seemed somewhat unorthodox--School Bus Driver. The bus company tripped all over itself to hire me. Let's just say that although there are a few retired old ladies and men driving bus, the majority of drivers are people who for some reason or another can't hack it in a real job. And there is a very high turn over rate--meaning, it is a job that goes through employees with a quickness. It is not a very glamorous job. Think about it: you are driving around a self-contained three-ring circus on a sugar high. Spit balls, paper airplanes and dozens of children teasing and fighting for the whole two-hour shift twice a day--what could be worse? For the bus company to get their meat hooks on a real live Magna Cum Laude college grad....well, it was like pennies from heaven. They soon took me under their wing. After I graduated, I worked as a stand-by driver for a while, then as trainer, then an assistant in the dispatch office, then the Charter Dispatcher/Payroll person, salaried, full-time. I did not immediately apply to graduate school, as I should have to get the credentials I needed to practice in the field I earned a degree in. Instead, as I achieved in school, earned my degree plus honors, and earned promotions and praise at my job (even if it was just at the bus company), I also earned something else, something priceless--a sense of myself--self confidence. In my newly discovered self-confidence, I realized my marriage was a farce. I was carrying too much of the load; it was holding me back. I finally realized he did me no favors when he married me and I was not damaged goods. I had something--many things: talent, a brain, and a desire to win. So I moved on. Unfortunately, it wasn't back to grad school--it was into full-time employment with the bus company so I could support my daughter, and myself but eventually, it was away from the bus company. Don't get me wrong--I have occasionally taken some steps backwards and far off the track (such as Eight-Eight Finger's so-called-father). But even as I walk backwards on the path, get lost and make wrong turns, I have the value of the correct choices I did make to bolster me, to be my platform and key to something better. I was pregnant in high school, yes: but I graduated at the top of my class nonetheless. I was a single mother, then married to dead weight in college: but I graduated at the top of my class, landed a career (kind of) and shook off the baggage nonetheless. I have chosen to not only succeed, but to be the best I can at whatever happens to be buttering my bread. The funny thing is, it is like an unconscious drive. I don't remember ever consciously saying: hey, I'm a winner. Of course, I do remember berating myself for being a loser on occasion, and it was well deserved. I have made some grievous mistakes. But I think I am going to take a minute and say: good job MacBoudica; you've done all right.

Why am I recollecting about all this at this particular time? It is because it is my history, the platform I built for myself, that I landed this particular opportunity. I never would have scored this new job if I had given up, dropped out and sunk into the depression of a failed marriage. I put some hard work into this life (haha and on my birthday on a whim I paid the extra $20 to renew my long-dormant CDL). And it seems I am reaping some small reward for that now. I applied to this job soon after it was posted on a local job board. By the next day, the Human Resources manager had called me three times, leaving frantic messages for me (wouldn't you know it was the one day I am out of the house with the little guys--their first day of preschool. I think the first time he called I was in the process of freezing my ears off on the playground with EEF thoroughly enjoying mammy and me time). The guy called again (his fourth or fifth attempt) just as I was getting the little guys back in the house to schedule an interview for Friday. I checked on the job board later and the ad had already been removed. Strange. And the interview was the strangest I have ever been to. Like any interview, I drove to it anxiously, taking deep breaths and rehearsing the pat answers to typical interview questions. But he did not ask me any questions, really, not any of the typical interview questions. Actually, he spoke to me as if it was a second interview, as if I was already hired. He was merely explained everything he could think of about the company. And half-offered me a promotion to front desk and veiled references to management somewhere in the future in the process as I sat and nodded and made the required uh-huh, uh-huh, oh, of course! noises that signaled my understanding and interest in what he was saying. It was like it was understood and already decided I would be working there. Weird, really weird. What is the job? Well, it is not rocket science, and even the HR guy said he knew I could do the job in my sleep (hopefully not literally as that could prove quite dangerous!)-- A chauffeur/shuttle driver for a high end, elite health club/hotel for the wealthiest of the wealthy. It seems like it is going to be a really low stress job, just keeping the customers happy, driving them to and from events in town and whatever. Lots of ass time, free food (the chef used to work for the Queen of England). They provide the uniform. Perfect hours--the shift doesn't start too early or end too late. And tips in addition to wages. It is not official, of course, the background check must come back clean, but he made it clear that if it did I could start as soon as next week Friday for their big open house event. Wow.

Why me? Let me put on my Recruiter/Human Resources hat (my last professional experience before divorcing from professional work to stay at home with the Fellers) for a minute here: because I have a degree, professional experience, I can talk to big-shots without embarrassing management (hopefully!). So, a payment long ago when I was such a child--how could I know that the degree and driving experience, enduring and excelling in those areas that seemed like such a little thing, just what I had to do to get bye then, has opened the door to a perfect opportunity for me now? Spoken like a real B.S. college grad: I have a really good feeling about this job....

Has the wind died down, or just shifted direction? Because for the first time in quite some time, I feel like I have some direction, there is some foundation beneath my feet. We will see...If nothing else, I will no doubt gather some interesting stories from my clients. And I love new stories.

Hopefully now that I am done looking for work and have shopped for all the birthday presents and planned and executed all the birthday parties and events for the time being, I will have some time to post some Feller/ EEF stories this coming week.