Asleep at the Wheel, again...

This time I'll blame not only Molly and D, but DST. It is 7:49 am and I am dressed, fed, over-coffeeed and much too early to leave for the penultimate day. This feeling is so familiar--it's the way I felt after a night of dexs staying up to study for finals. This could--and maybe will--segue into a brief disquisition on Drugs I Have Taken.

Not a lot. Mainly uppers in college and uppers at work and uppers while writing and...you get the point. I had a massive, headbanging explosion on grass once that scared the bejesus out of me, so I never tried harder stuff. But I did drink. A lot. Does that count?

it's called A Tie Dye--and it's not as lethal as it looks

it's called A Tie Dye--and it's not as lethal as it looks
Originally uploaded by By Jane.

Celebrating the Ultimate Sunday before the Final Monday and the Last Tuesday. This was like a giant slushy margharita/bluemoon/dacquiri/somethingsomething. It was very good. And extremely thirstquenching. And didn't make me do anything more stupid that go right out and spent $19 loading a peck (or was it a bushel?) basket with this kinda taffy and that kinda lemon drop and oooooooohhhhhhhh over there are the peanut whatzits that I couldn't get enough of as a kid. Nineteen dollars buys a lot of penny candy, even these days.

In Which I Correct Myself

I misspoke. This isn't my penultimate free Sunday. It is my penultimate Sunday that I go to bed saying, "oh, shit, I've got to get up and go to work tomorrow..." It is the penultimate Sunday before all of my days are free--once again.

I gave my notice two weeks ago. My final day is October 31. I lasted just over six months. This seems to be about average at my agency. In my letter of resignation, I carefully worded it thusly: "I cannot do the job in the way I believe it must be done without putting in considerable overtime, and that is something I'm unwilling to do." What I tell people is this: "The thing about working for a non-profit is that what you give up in pay, you get back in emotional rewards. This job can't be done in a way that would give me the requisite emotional rewards without putting in considerable overtime, and that is something...yadayadayada."

The reality is that the people in charge are clueless about how to engender loyality in their employees. They talk the talk but don't walk the walk. I wonder if they're even curious about why they keep training people who quit in a couple of months. My manager says, "It's a very hard job and a good fit for few people." Well, um, might you want to change that a wee bit? Because Sacramento doesn't have an endless pool of therapists and social workers--and, guys! you're quickly working your way through all of us.

So come November 1, I shall return to my former state of being, not much older, but a whole lot wiser about me and my place in my world.

My Penultimate Free Sunday

Does everyone know what penultimate means, class? Because I am always being accused of using words no one knows. How can that be? Just because I am an over-educated former English major, does that mean I talk funny? Evidentally. Or is that, evidently? I'm never sure.

The Leaves They Are A-Turning

If you click on the little square, you'll see my oak tree. I think.

Why A Wife Leaves Her Husband's Bed...or Kicks Him Out

I am so groggy, I can barely keep my nose from plunging into my keyboard. I want sleep. Good sleep, kind sleep, silent sleep. The kind of sleep I last night did not get (the Latinate form, I do believe).

Molly, the world's best dog, last week began a bout of wee small hours shitting on the living room floor. For those of you who have dogs, you know that this act is always accomplished on the carpet, even when pristine tile is so readily available. And you also know that one pile is never sufficient, when multiple drops will do. We had to break her of the habit fast. So last night, we closed her in the bedroom. Our bedroom. Where she normally spends the night, or so we thought.

A word about dogs and their nocturnal habits. As with so much about her, Molly's sleep style makes us smile. It is based on we know not what. Here's how it goes. She starts off the night stretched out between us on top of the covers. A part of her body must be touching a part of each of us. At some point, she goes to the bottom of the bed. At some point, she goes under the bed. At some point, she gets into the bed, on D's side. All of this is done silently, effortlessly, even I would say delicately, for I am never waked/woked/awakened by her journey.

If I were, she would not be near the bed. This was a condition of getting her, that she couldn't keep me up at night jumping on and off the bed. As our last dog, the beloved Pupi, did until the point when I could no longer take it and left our marriage bed to her and D. For a number of years, we had separate beds. Sometimes separate bedrooms. Yes, dear reader, we were that kind of couple.

But at least I was getting a good night's sleep. Which at my age is no small thing and much to be grateful for and more important than lots of other things one once thought was crucial.

Last night, Molly channeled Pupi. Tonight if she doesn't go back to her former sleep habits, I'm off to the guest room.

Them Boys Do Love Me...

Last week Bonji called me; this week, it was Alexander. My guys.

Just wish they'd speak when they call.

And that it wasn't 5 a.m. my time.

And I guess their moms wish their boys wouldn't play with their cell phones.

But they're only two. My guys.

My Tidy Whitey Drawer

As I was pulling a pair of what the Brits call knickers from the chest of drawers the other day, I saw with a start that all of my underwear is white. How did that happen? Am I really that old? Before anyone rushes to judgment, let me say that my knickers are bikinis. I do not wear those huge old saggy things referred to as Old Lady Pants. But really, Jane, what's with the white underwear? I mean, it's not like you've got a lot of menstrual blood that you're looking to bleach out.

Actually, the tidy whiteys just sorta slipped up on me, in a manner of speaking. My first pair of bikinis--ah, I remember them well--had big black polkadots and a matching bra. Life was never the same after that, and I moved on to pastels and prints and even bold colors (I wore magenta to an interview at the MLA just so at least I knew that I wasn't some boring old professor).

Notice how the word old keeps creeping into this conversation.

The fact is that my knickers are white because...because...because that's how they came in the package of six at Target where I bought them. And now that I've noticed, there's so no way in hell that I'm not going out tomorrow to buy a new lot of colored ones.

Making the move

I'm about to make the move from By Jane at Live Journal to By Jane at Blogger. I hope my faithful fan will find me.

I haven't done all the legwork. My web site is paid for but seems locked into MoveableType hell. I don't know if I'll be able to get my LJ archives onto this site.

Why am I doing this? I dunno. 'Cause I enjoy making life hard for myself?

Somehow I have it in my head that as long as I'm at LJ, no one will read me (other than relatives and coerced friends from time to time. I want to spread my wings, as it were (does saying 'as it were' signal to you that I know I'm committing the sin of triteness?). Blogger seems much easier and friendlier than LJ.

And too, what one writes on and with is crucially important to most writers. Just ask Steinbeck, who once wrote a whole book on the topic. Or George Plimpton, who created the Paris Review Interviews, which always included details of preferred writing instrument, paper, etc. (I do realize you can't ask these people, because they're dead, but you get my point.) I have long been convinced that it is only the lack of the perfect paper and instrument that has stood between me and a vast canon. All of this is to say that Blogger pleases me in a way that Semagic never could.

So I've moved. And now, here I am.