Last night, we had to find an emergency babysitter because my beloved needed to go see The Crue.  Motley Crue.  Yeah, baby.

I had to teach.  During the course of class, I broached the topic that my beloved had gone to see Motley Crue.  My students, who range in age from 18 to 47 and I'm sure do not know what a motley crew is, were amused.  One of them, who works at a local rock radio station, said she'd just had an extra pair of fourth-row seats.  I hate to even tell that to my beloved.

He came home after my bedtime. This morning, I inquired into the status of an '80s metal band.  He said they looked good, except for the guitarist.  He also said he was one of the youngest people there.  Let me be specific:  my beloved and I are not spring chickens. We are officially "in our thirties."  Then he said, "I saw a lot of fishnet and leather."

"Fishnet and leather."  "People older than us."

"Old people wearing fishnet and leather."

"Ew."

People, that's great if you want to go relive the prom days and thrust your fists in air for freedom.  But trust me, if you have ever set foot into a Casual Corner or Joann Fabrics, you do not need to be traipsing around in public wearing fishnet and leather.  I'm sorry. You just don't.

I've entered the gloaming period of my job.  That period between when you tell them you're leaving, for a moment, everyone loves you and thinks you're valuable, and the next moment when they realize they are going to have to do all of your work.  They look at you with a mixture of envy and embitterment.  Go away, their cool smiles say, go away quickly so we can blame all these bugs on you when you're gone.  Now obviously not everyone does that, but there are some...I'd love to listen in on their interior monologues.

It's probably not that bad, but I know how I feel when I talk to someone who I know is on their way out. I often wonder if they were looking, for how long, what they told me they were doing while they were out interviewing, and what a crap thing free will can be when it backfires. 

As for me, I think they assume my mind is sitting on the beach of that day and a half between when I quit this job and start the new one, that lovely stretch of hours and minutes when I am blissfully unemployed with daycare.  Yes, I must set up my home office to make it exquisitely functional, yet easily cleaned as we are still trying to sell This Old House, but also I must watch Dr. Phil at least once, finally paint my toenails and exercise for more than twenty minutes without feeling guilty.  I must call my cousin in California who just had a baby and ask her what it's really like to have two kids.  I must submit my latest short story to at least three contests that I will pay money to join and absolutely not win.  I must take myself out to lunch with wine and read trashy celebrity gossip magazines the whole time.  And I only have a day and a half!  Maybe I should make a list.

One would think this blog is about my family's health issues.  It is not intended to be.  In fact, before the little angel made an appearance in our lives, I had not visited a doctor other than the girl one in several years.  What is it about children?  Are they just walking petri dishes?  Probably.  This last one, though, can't be blamed on the little angel.

Saturday night, my beloved and I ordered Chipotle.  I hate to blame it on them, but there really is no other explanation.  I thought the hot salsa tasted a bit off, but I was starving and scarfed it down anyway.  Around 3 a.m, the horrors began.

I won't go into detail. Anyone who has ever had food poisoning knows it is akin to kidney stones in that you wish you were dead for several hours, then feel fine.  I was most unprepared for the aftermath of severe exhaustion, during which I laid on the couch under a fluffy blanket, watching the little angel out of the corner of one heavy eye, seeing her get into things and helpless to do anything more than yell to the beloved to stop her from choking/knocking a chair onto herself/unplugging the carbon monoxide detector/strangling the cat/chewing wires.  She still managed to take one fall that left a small mark above her left eyebrow - her first bruise.  That is happened on my watch my very well follow me to my grave.  But I was too sick to care at the time.

After a day on the couch, a bottle of lemon-lime Gatorade, some Kaopectate and about sixteen hours of sleep, I awoke this morning, tested my limbs (I've always wanted to say that) and found that I AM FINE!  HOORRAAAYY!!!  I feel NOOOORRMMAAAALL!!!  And normal is good! Normal is great!  How silly I am to not always be  jubilant about feeling normal!  Normal, but afraid of Chipotle.

Well, I've done it. I took another job.  Here are my thoughts, set to the "tune" of Goodnight, Moon.

In a big, white room, there were many cubes,

And lots of people who lunched after noon.

Goodbye, taxes.

Goodbye, faxes.

Goodbye, Ministry of Change Control.

Goodbye, IT director with no soul.

Goodbye, conference room.

Goodbye, off-white cube.

Goodbye, lovely friends that I'm glad that I knew.

Okay, that's as far as I can get. I'm happy for me and sad for them.  I will miss my lovely friends, but then again, that's why God created "lunch." 

Sometimes it's hard to recognize a good thing even when you're plopped right down in the middle of it. Take the little angel. Yesterday, she left the darkened basement of Oz and entered the sunny, educated-teacher-filled annals of the Emerald City.  New toys, early childhood development-type teachers and dietitian-supervised food.  O frabjous day!  Callooh!  Callay!

Was she happy about it?  No.  Does she realize her mama and daddy had her on a waiting list for this place since November?  No.  Does she understand how difficult finding good childcare in the Kansas City core really is?  NO.  SHE HATES CHANGE.

Now, I can empathize.  I'm not the best with chaos, either.  But at drop-off on the first day, she started sneaking looks at me. I'd been there for about an hour, filling out forms and such.  It was like she could smell my departure. Immediately, she dropped the nearest toy, crawled with the speed of a cheetah over to my leg, scaled it, raised her arms to heaven to summon God Himself, and howled.  Crocodile tears poured down her face.  She opened one eye for a split second, checking to see if her performance was registering, saw that all was going well, and redoubled her efforts.  One of the nice ladies picked her up.  I waved bye-bye, kissed her hot, teary cheek and told her to be strong.  Then I left, cursing her free will as long as I could hear her howls.  Ah, my little girl. She is going to be very strong-willed - I can see that already! 

But then again, part of me is so happy she loves me best. 

I almost forgot to tell you...the beloved and I are now famous.  My extremely talented co-worker, Bill Rose, has finally posted his lovelies on a Web site.  We're dancing on the "paintings" page. Be sure to take a break from office politics and enjoy a little art.  www.williamroseart.com

I know - I can't figure out why he's a project manager, either. Someone find this man a gallery representative!

Today is the little angel's last day in Oz.  She's going to her new daycare, the Emerald City, for a little visit this afternoon, then she starts there on Monday.

She may be a little sad to leave Oz.  I never thought I'd say it after all the trouble we had in the beginning, but I may be a little sad for her to leave Oz.  I really like her teachers in Infant II.  However, I think the teachers in the older classrooms are a little frightening, so leave we must.

I wonder how cognizant she is of all this activity. I know that for the past week, every morning when we've waved goodbye, she's cried.  She has awareness now that the goodbye wave means that we are leaving.  I'm sure she stops crying pretty quickly after she realizes it won't bring us back, but all I remember is the crying.  I'm worried it will be hard for her to go to a new place. 

There are some lessons to be learned from her, though.  The little angel generally stops crying if she realizes it won't change things, unless her physical needs are not being met.  But for emotional pain, she ends abandons sadness so much faster than I do.  I am still crying halfway to work, long after I'm sure she's stopped.  Interesting how that works.  And we think adults know what they are doing!

My mother asked me a few weeks ago if I minded if she put a photo of the little angel in the local "brag book." I had no idea what she was talking about. It arrived in the mail yesterday.  It's an actual newspaper section of my hometown's weekly local newspaper.   It has all of the kiddos' photos in it, along with their parents and, of course, GRANDPARENTS' names on it.

I turned to page five to see the little angel. It was a cute photo - she doesn't take ugly photos - but looking at her as a stranger would, I noticed her hair looked like it had been through a hay mower.  Since birth, she has had what could only be described as a forelock - one long section of hair that grows, Squiggy-like, right down the middle of her forehead.  I'm always pushing it to the right, trying for graceful long hair, but I realized looking at that photo that it may be time for bangs.

Did I make an appointment with a professional?  Did I even think much about it?  No.  I handed the scissors to my beloved (like I was going to get near her with blades - I have to cut her fingernails, for God's sake) and grabbed her by the chin.  "Cut here," I instructed.  He made a wild swoop just as she turned her head. The cut wasn't what you would call "straight."  I instantly hated it. 

"What????  You can't have buyer's remorse NOW," he said.  "I'm late for my new job."

So off she went to Oz, now looking a bit more like the cowardly lion than Dorothy.  It'll grow.

The office has been very passive-aggressive lately.  Lots of people spending hours documenting how other people screwed up, stuff like that.  There were a few days when it was focused on me, with people calling me into meetings with my boss, telling her how annoying and egocentric I am (moi?), how I never listen to other people's ideas, how difficult I am.  Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating a touch - but just a touch.  It was really focused like a (heh heh) laser beam, Mr. Bigglesworth.

So I dealt with it as I often do, turning inward, feeling picked on and generally sorry for myself.  Complaining and eating more chocolate than I should.  Then the other day, I just couldn't do it any more.  I had reached what my friend M., the Office Oracle, calls the "f*ck it point" (tangent:  why are astericks the pasties of the alphabet world?  It's okay if the whole rest of the swear word is hanging out in the wind like Mariah Carey in a tube top, as long as that darn vowel is covered!).  So yesterday, when the entire department started imploding like an old Las Vegas hotel, I just found it...funny.  Aha!  Hello, sense of humor!  I've missed you since you've been gone.

I took my newfound attitude to my class, where we proceeded to discuss how best to offer solutions in their position essays.   I reminded them that a good position essay always acknowledges the opposition, concedes or refutes it, and then, if possible, offers a solution that supports the thesis while taking into account the opposition. For instance, if the opposition is saying that fixing something will cost too much money, you probably shouldn't propose a million-dollar solution.  Then I thought of work, in which that just happened, and I chortled to myself.  I decided not to tell the 18-year-olds what awaits them in Corporate America.  Let them think we know what we're doing for a year or two more.