Every orientation presupposes disorientation.
Hans Magnus Enzensberger
Tomorrow begins my slide into the forty-hour time clock. I practiced going to bed earlier – and getting up earlier. Thank you Daylight Savings Time for adding to that effort so nicely. Didn’t quite need losing an hour to get me started, but I’ve had tougher tasks to abide.
I have a feeling that tomorrow night, after I've become completely disoriented in the instructional sessions regarding high school test scoring, I'll go to my youngest son’s baseball game, then stop briefly by the Bunco Bitches Second Tuesday of the Month Shindig. If I'm still awake, I'll write a recap and let you know if I've survived the first day.
Should be most interesting to see how I fare. They already have their eye on me, you see. The day I went for my interview, I was led to a large room with instructions to complete all the things in the folder before me, then left alone. The computer in front of me wouldn't accept my name to log in and if I wanted to proceed, my choices were to sit and stare at the wall or seek out the lady running the show. I came out of the room and saw no one in the hallway so I walked back out the big, closed door I’d been led through, to her office. Before I could say a word she stood up from her desk with a look of horror on her face and in a distressed voice said "You're not allowed to walk around unescorted. It says so on your badge."
I looked at my badge and sure enough, I upside down read "Escort Only." Like I'd bothered to look at that. She marched me back to the dungeon and I tried to lighten it up a little bit. On an earlier form I’d been asked if I could follow directions whether I agreed with them or not. So I said, "Gee, I guess this is an example of the following directions thing." She was not amused.
I didn't smile smugly when it turned out they had misspelled my name in their computer entry.
I need to hit the grocery store today, as I have to pack my lunch. Only 45 minutes for lunch and no place close to the sweat shop to purchase anything. I grew to hate packing sack lunches for my kids—every day coming up with something interesting from a fridge that more often than not held slim pickins’ while awaiting payday. I remember an old Erma Bombeck column, how by the end of the week, her kids got two heels of bread with a pork chop bone in between. I hope I can do better than that.
I've included a picture of that youngest son of mine as this week, I’ll only see him in a uniform. Four games and I get to go to three.
Thank you to all my followers and all it has taken to get to this point. I appreciate you. Batter up!
