Due to some recent instability at work (insecurity as well) I’m in the process of “putting out feelers” in my field, seeing what’s open, who’s hiring, just in case I need to know. 

Mr. Apron found a terrific-sounding job.  It would be working in a classroom with a team of teachers to support kindergarteners who are at risk of learning disabilities.  Language enrichment all day long, not just during your 30 minute speech therapy session.  Sounds, great, doesn’t it?  So I applied.  And they asked to have a phone interview today!  Turns out it’s only a part-time job — 28 hours a week, and no health insurance.  I needn’t say that amounts to a pretty substantial pay cut, enough so that I can’t begin to entertain the idea of pursuing this any further. 

Then I went into the office after a morning of seeing kids who have June fever — they’re just about bursting to get out the doors and are making their teachers/therapists nuts.  I have scarcely enough time to do my regular paperwork, let alone the extra paperwork I’m doing for a colleague who’s out on sick leave, and we have a staff meeting, where we found out we’re doing our paperwork all wrong. 

And I longed for the other job.  This just about set me into a fit of depression already, but the meeting had started late.  We never finish on time anyway, so I dashed out the door already a half-hour late. 

Traffic, for those who don’t Commute, is determined by exponential factors.  Leave the office at 3:30pm precisely, the trip may take 42 minutes.  Leave at 3:45, it’s creeping up to 48 minutes.  Leave closer to 4:00, it’ll be an hour.  I resigned myself to my fate, and promptly sat on my ass for an hour, trying to decide not to kill the four youths who decided to thin the gene pool by crossing a highway at a leisurely pace nowhere near a light or a crosswalk. 

No one I wanted to complain to was able to talk on the phone.  My sister, a social worker, had to take someone grocery shopping.  My mom was in the basement of a fabric store.  My husband had an appointment.  Eventually, I reached Mom, whose solution was that Mr. Apron should go to bartending school.  As a teetotaler, and the wife of a teetotaler who has never anything beyond Manischewitz brush his lips, I could not begin to fathom where she had conceived such a ridiculous idea.  And told her so.  That always goes well.  As usual, she changed the subject, trying to distract me by telling me about some 3.5 year old client she has who gets speech therapy. 

I reached Mr. Apron, but there was nothing more to be said.  I’m sad about not being able to entertain the idea of the job.  They hurt my feelings at work by asking too much of me and not respecting my time.  And I was stuck in traffic, with two dogs at home fairly pissing themselves.

Finally walked the dogs, one at a time, for ease of perambulation.  The puppy seems to have forgotten how to sit on command, even with a treat dangled in front of her nose and few birds, squirrels, dogs, humans, and cats to distract her. 

Oh, and my wrist hurts — my tendonitis is acting up again.  Because that’s awesome when I’m trying to walk two dogs. 

So I sit down to be productive, to have a little success.  I pull out my brand-new box of invitation-sized envelopes so I can bundle up notecards Mr. Apron and I made for my upcoming craft fair, and start to stack 5 envelopes with 5 notecards.  Lo and behold — Staples’ definition of “invitation size” is different from Wal-Mart’s definition of “invitation size”.  Staples knows you want to chop up a piece of cardstock and slide it in the envelope; Wal-Mart assumes you want to mail 4″x6″ photos.  Since I had already started before I ran out of envelopes, I’m now faced with a dilemma: do I use all the Wal-Mart ones, which are absurdly oversized, but would all be uniform?  or do I dissolve, sobbing, in the dining room table, over the matter of a quarter inch of envelope?

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