Yeah, I'm here.

I just haven't had much of a desire to blog. I haven't had much time, either.

I miss my dog.

The convenience-store job is good. It's hard work, though, and timing is everything. I've never been much good with time management and that makes things difficult for me. Certain things need to be done at certain times. I think I'm going along just fine, but when something goes awry I'm scrambling.

As the third-shift food-service person, I not only make sandwiches, slice cold cuts, and fill hot-food orders on request, I have to check every scrap of food in my section to make sure it's within its codes for timely consumption. If something hot is going to expire or run out, I need to anticipate the need and get more going so I don't run out. The hot food comes premade and frozen, so it needs an hour in the rethermalizer to come to temperature before I can put it out. I suck at anticipating what I'm going to need. Customers use touch screens to place their orders, and I have to keep those menus current as well.

I rotate out all the stale rolls and put up fresh ones, not only in the loose-roll cases for customers, but in all the sandwich stations. Ditto for the doughnut case. I also have the absurd task of prepacking cookies and pretzels for impulse sale at the register. (I never get this done quickly. I start as soon as it's delivered, but I keep getting pulled away from it to fill customer orders or do other things on schedule. I hate those things!)

Coffee has to be made and kept fresh 'round the clock. We don't have every pot running; we keep roughly half of them going through the night. It doesn't take long, but it's a time suck all the same.

From the minute I walk in the door, I'm making food. I never knew how many people ate late at night. The after-hours cleaning service closes shop at midnight, and all those guys come in hungry. The bars close at 2:00, and there's a stampede of hungry drunks for the next thirty to forty minutes. Spattered throughout is a steady flow of emergency-services folks grabbing what they can when time allows.

By 3:15 a.m., all of the hot food for the start of the morning rush has to be in the rethermalizers and put up on the steam table an hour later.

By 4:30 a.m., every coffee pot has to be filled and ready to go.

By 5:00 a.m., breakfast sandwiches have to be cooked and boxed and in the cases. I have to keep that stuff replenished until the person who mans that station comes in at 6:00 a.m.

From 6:00 to the time I leave, I must not only keep doing all the stuff I listed above, I still need to sweep the floor, wash all my dishes, and clean the deli slicer.

Oh, and then there's spoilage. Everything I discard during my shift has to be logged and entered into their computer system. You can't just chuck a panful of chili. You have to count each measure you discard. Every roll, bagel, and croissant is counted and tallied.

I haven't clocked out on time yet. The Oracle hasn't been on time for work since I started.

And I thought staying awake all night would be difficult. Ha! The difficult thing is finding a minute to use the restroom.

Farewell, Duchess.

My poor Shedder. My poor, poor Shedder.

You're getting the Reader's Digest version simply because I can't dwell on the subject for too long. It just hurts too much.

Despite the anti-inflammatory the vet gave her last week for the arthritis in her knees, the denervation to her legs was rapidly progressing. We figured we'd be lucky if she made it to autumn.

Well, anyway, on Friday night she seemed to be in a fair amount of distress. She hadn't eaten breakfast and her symptoms were similar to what she suffered when she ate stupid stuff like pine cones and Barbie clothes, so I wrongly assumed that she'd eaten something inedible and simply needed time for her stomach to work itself out by sunrise.

The thing is, her stomach distress was so bad she couldn't walk at all. She normally had difficulty moving during these episodes, but it was never this bad. I had to support her hind end to help her negotiate the yard to pee, an unsuccessful folly, but I tried. I called the vet's office before leaving for work and left a message requesting a first-thing appointment for Saturday morning.

The mind is a strange thing. I left work at 7:15 a.m., and as I turned onto our street and into the drive, I thought, "I'm coming home to a dead dog." When there was no "woof" as I put the key in the lock, I knew I wouldn't find her on the sofa where she shouldn't be. The house was too quiet. I found her in the kitchen instead.

When I talked with E. yesterday afternoon, she said it sounded like Bloat, and the symptoms she'd had a number of times over the last four or five years were probably the same thing, just not at a fatal level, perhaps a partial fold or turn of the stomach instead of a full twist. Aaagh. If it's possible to feel worse, I do. My brain is swirling with could've-should'ves.

God, this really hurts. I miss her big brown eyes and her soft fuzzy ears.

Hooray for Independence Day!

We went to E's house yesterday for a maaaahhhvelous picnic. I worked midnight shift at the convenience store, stopped for Sunday mass, and arrived home at 8:30 a.m.

Before crawling into bed (leaving strict instructions for The Oracle to wake me no later than 11:00), I assembled the cole slaw I was taking along.

I vaguely remember The Oracle coming into the bedroom to wake me. I was sooooooo tired, because my planned nap before work was destroyed by my neighbor's premature fireworks display. Normally I don't mind fireworks. I'm not the poopy-headed neighbor who's going to call the cops when someone has a backyard display. What made last night's display annoying was that it was not only a day early, but the kids flat-out refused to go to bed. The Oracle and I spent the better part of an hour trying to get their butts to bed, and I lost an hour of precious sleep.

I lost the remainder of it because I was simply too aggravated to drift off. I hate that. I simply waited there with my eyes shut and my back to the clock until The Oracle told me it was time to get up. Drat.

So, anyway, I was sleepy. And, once again, with all of our running around to get ready for E's, we were -- once again -- over an hour late. And since we were an hour late, the food we were supposed to supply was also an hour late.

And as I voiced my regrets over going to mass and falling asleep, E simply said, "you took care of your spirit and took care of your body."

And that's why I'd never swap her friendship for anything in this world.

New Tricks for an Older Dog

Today was my first hands-on day at my new convenience-store job. I had a two-hour orientation last Thursday which amounted to a detailed tour of the facility.

Of the five hours I worked today, three were spent in front of the computer viewing several training videos. I was relieved to see that the videos were actually well made and not the torturous swill that I'd viewed in many training sessions with 9-1-1 or EMT class on a variety of subjects.

The room in which the computer was located was rather frigid. As one who is first to overheat and perspire, I'm okay with that. Today, however, after three hours and no feeling left in my butt, I was reduced to shivers and chattering teeth. I was grateful for hot soup on a 95-degree day.

Immediately after, I took my quiz on store safety. The only question I missed was the location of the designated employee smoking areas, something -- as a nonsmoker -- I admit I ignored during orientation.

Today's hands-on training surrounded the store's knife-handling and deli-slicer certifications. It's weird having to re-learn something after doing it your way for twenty years.

When it came to the slicer, I gained a whole new respect for those folks behind the counter at the supermarket. I had a horrid time trying to make my left hand keep pace with the stuff coming off the blade. My product didn't come out in neat little stacks as I thought it should. It was haphazard and crooked, and the manager quickly "prettied up" the customer's purchases before weighing, bagging, and tagging them.

All in all, it was a fun day despite feeling like I'll never remember it all.

When I go in Thursday, I'll be making coffee!

"Clique-ish Little Girls...

...Meet Mama Bear" will be coming to theatres soon if I don't get my ire under control.

Poor Precious Daughter. There are two girls roughly her age all within a half block of our house. Well, actually, there's a bunch, but most of them are a bit older and, therefore, better than Precious Daughter and these two other girls.

Girl H. lives on our street. She's a really nice kid, and I get along well with her mom. H. is the youngest of the three. As a result, she's easily influenced by Girl B. (aka the Blonde-haired girl, Precious Daughter's one-time best friend.)

I say "one time" because Girl B. and Precious Daughter had a bit of a falling out over an incident which stemmed from a lovely afternoon where the two girls went for a walk. The deal was that they were to go around the block only, and they were to stick together. A short while after they leave, Precious Daughter comes home crying without Girl B. Long story short, Girl B. met up with one of the above-referenced older girls who coerced her into poking about for lost balls in the golf course bordering our neighborhood. Precious Daughter, knowing she wasn't permitted to go there, came home instead. When I grilled her as to the whereabouts of Girl B., she told me. I, Evil Mom, called Girl B.'s father and let him know where his daugher was and why Precious Daughter came home without her.

Ever since, Girl B. has been in a snit because she knew she wasn't permitted in the golf course but went there anyway. She blames Precious Daughter for the grounding she got for her misbehavior.

Today, Girls H. and B. get off the bus and head to H.'s house. Precious Daughter wants to catch up to them, and they ran away from her. Once again, Precious Daughter comes home crying.

Now, what I really want to do is loon on this snot-nosed Girl B., because I know she's the one that instigated the running away that hurt my baby's feelings. Precious Daughter and Girl H. get along just fine.

Instead, I'm trying to channel my mother. I know she'd have an excellent way to remedy the situation without alienating Girl H.

Mom? You there?

Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

What the heck? How did it get to be so long since I last posted?



It's been goofy around here. My deposition dry spell finally brought us to the now-or-never breaking point, so I applied for and was hired by a local convenience-store chain to work their 11-7 shift. It's not what I want to do for a living, but putting Her Nibs in day care makes me nauseous. I'm sure a day-care center would take care of her and keep her safe, but the thought of someone else savoring all of those delicious baby moments -- instead of me -- makes me sad.



The store manager is at least ten years my junior, but she seems to be sensible. She only lost a few points when she brought that difference to the forefront by commenting, "You worked for Clover? My mom used to take me there!" I guess I should be thankful that she at least heard of them.



I seriously considered a return to my old job with 9-1-1, but I really don't know whether I'm emotionally prepared for that. First, their twelve-hour shifts would seriously hinder The Oracle's seasonal basketball schedule; second, I'll probably end up being fired for refusing to work their forced overtime.



The Oracle has also a couple of career-related speed bumps ahead. He is contracted through his employer to his current company, and after ten years of a happy relationship in his position, the company selected a different firm for its staffing. Whether the new firm will hire The Oracle and his peers remains to be seen. This has me extremely nervous, and it's another reason why I applied for the convenience-store job. I figure that, if nothing else, we'll obtain health insurance in 60 days.



How did it get to be almost Father's Day? In my infinite, impulsive, lack of wisdom, I decided to invite the family for dinner on Sunday. So, instead of crisis cleaning to prepare for guests, I'm sitting her posting on Blogger. I am clearly a woman of skewed priorities.



Knucklehead is still going along. She's very wobbly in her hindquarters, but she's showing no signs of pain or discomfort. It's like she doesn't even realize it's happening. As long as she's continent, I think she'll get along fine.



My kids' school year is almost at an end. Their last day is Thursday. We'll have a ten-day lag between the end of school and the beginning of summer camp and the new set of complaints that will surely come with it.



And now it's time to pick the kids up from school. I hope to write more soon.

Baloney!!!

I'm sorry. I haven't visited much in recent weeks. I'm not particularly busy, but I haven't had a lot of computer time, either. Get in, check email, check CrackBook, edit a little, get out.

Thankfully, I have had a few jobs over the last couple of weeks. Small jobs, but I'll take any work I can get.

Something in our house smells really bad. It smells like old balogna. I have a bad feeling that it actually is bologna, because I threw some stale stuff out a few days ago. Knucklehead may have filched it from the trash and buried it somewhere in the living room. It's not uncommon to find chunks of stale Italian bread stuffed down the sofa cushions or buried in the laundry. Goofy dog.

My poor goofy dog. There's definitely something in the works (or not working) with her hindquarters. She's showing definite signs of weakness in her stance and her gait. Thankfully, she's not showing signs of pain. Unfortunately, getting her to the vet isn't an option because, quite frankly, the money isn't there. It sucks. The vet's office used to work with customers a bit, allowing customers to pay bits at a time - especially for surgeries and other costly things - but they no longer do that. I guess he's been burned quite a bit and can't do that any more.

The school year's coming to a close. The kids' last full day is 6/10, and they have half days through 6/17. They'll have ten days off before starting a summer day camp on 6/28. (I wish I'd fully understood the depth of the dog's issues before signing them up for camp last March.)

Precious Daughter is mightily protesting the camp. "Camp sounds booooor-ing," she says. Boring? I think not. Tennis, basketball, swimming, and crafts are just the tip of the iceberg. She still balked. I told her I wasn't going to let her spend another summer parked in front of the TV whining about how bored she is.

Mighty B. has another baseball game tonight. I'm not looking forward to providing snacks, mainly because I never got anyone signed up for it. (For all the good it does, since last week's parent dropped the ball.) If I do this snack-organizing thing next year, I think I'm going to take up a collection from all the parents and just buy a season's worth of juice pouches and cookies and bring them myself each week.

B. also has a make-up game tomorrow night. He's going to be one tired and ornery bear on Friday morning.

I'm sorry for being such a pessimist today. Hopefully my next post, whenever it comes, will have a happier tone. I hope all of you are well!

Yeah, I know. I'm a slug. I have pictures on the camera and haven't uploaded anything to here or FB. I will. Eventually.