Fried Knitter Brains, ala mode

Okay… I remember replying to one of the Yarn Harlot’s blogs about writing with the idea that writing was like ripping your brains inside out through your ears, tenderized forever, then thrown on a barbecue to be dissected, sampled, and bitterly critiqued by the mean judge on Top Chef.

If that’s true, then editing is like having the left-overs minced, mixed with eggs, sugar and fat, then deep-fried with churros and served with ice cream.

I think this last book has fried my brains stupid, because I can think of either nothing to blog about or everything to blog about.

On the nothing front?
I’ve got 3/4 of my edit done. Yee-freakin’ haw.
I made myself cry today with a particularly poignant moment in the book. I’m relatively proud.
I’ve got bags under my eyes you could put a tag on and ship to France. Well, it is that time of year.

On the everything front?
Today when I was mid-book report spiel, a kid bolted from her chair, stuck her head in my giant trash can, and yacked up stomach acid that originated in her toe-nails as the class and I watched horrified, half-expecting her feet to start sticking straight out and spazzing like a cartoon character. Uhm, that was a first.

The Big T got ditched by his cooperative learning group in drama because he’s different. Sometimes my own self-involvement submerges itself in greater subtler sorrows…this would be one of them. But he’s a tough kid–and better socialized than most of the kids in his special ed class, and I think his sweet, glass-fragile soul will refuse to shatter. I, on the other hand, am traumatized. Fucking kidshits–I know for a fact this act will come back to haunt them.

I have back to school night tomorrow–in case any of you are thinking that we teachers look forward to standing up in front of the entire parent populace and pimping our classes to parents who are sure we are picking on their poor widdo gang-members and destroying education with our cynicism…well, no. Not a picnic. I dread it every year. (And yes. I AM destroying education with my cynicism…it’s part of the great plan of middle-management overthrow to anarchy, why do you ask?) Seriously–there will be some great parents out there–and I’m pretty sure that until last year, that would be all that I would expect to run into. Now? Now I’m putting on my lead-lined big-girl panties because I’m sure somewhere out there is a razor toothed bitch-on-pumps who thinks I’ve done her baby wrong. What a difference a year makes…

I’ve had to pick up two kids after school in the last two days. This turns what is normally a 1/2 hour commute after I pick up the young-uns into a one-hour or sometimes 1 1/2 hour commute (if there is, for instance, a ginormous accident in the intersection RIGHT BEFORE YOUR HOUSE causing you to turn around and go two miles out of your way, that is…) and the young ‘uns are so damned exhausted it hurts. We’re having ginormous melt downs every morning and I’m declaring Friday Young ‘Un mental health day and taking the day off. It’s kind of a bummer–I’ve been on a roll–I probably could have lived without it, especially because I’m taking one on te 28th (Mate, the kids and I are taking a Happy 40th to us kind of trip and making it a 3 day weekend.) But they’re really tired, and their childhood is too short to burn them out because of my dumb-assed drive.

And that’s about it…if you don’t count the fact that the Cave Troll just ran in wearing my capri jeans over his head and pulling the waist out like a hula-hoop. I mean, damn, if that’s not an exit line, I don’t know what is.