Yesterday, we spent the greater part of the morning loading all of my classroom materials into Andy's truck and unloading them into our new climate-controlled storage unit. I found out that I will not have a classroom at my new school, I'll be floating. That means I have nowhere for my 6 bookcases and 500+ books. I am absolutely convinced that if I leave the books in the storage shed in our backyard that they WILL (not might, but will) grow some rare type of toxic mold that would require tenting our entire house and setting off cannister fumigators. God forbid I take them to school before I realized the mold growth. Then we'd have to tent the whole school. Point of this imaginative walk down Devastation Lane? I'm not sure. Apparently rambling aimlessly is catching: thanks Scott. So, I'm storing the books and all my other classroom crap because I don't know what I'm going to have room for. I get a desk, computer and phone in another teacher's room to call my own until Christmas break. Then she's getting booted out of her room for rennovations so we'll both be homeless. I don't know if that means I'll get a room in Jan. but I'll have to share it with her or what. That would be fine by me. At least then I could start moving in some of my things. Anyway, back to my original posting idea...
While moving all the boxes yesterday, I discovered that I am delicious. Specifically, I am delicious to the brand of mosquito here in the Sunshine State. The current count of bites on my person is 27. I'm not laughing. The weird thing? 13 of the 27 bites are on my right thigh. I don't know if several of the darn things got caught in my shorts or what, but 13! On my right thigh only! Holy Benadryl stick, Batman!
Emma was a lot of fun while we were "storing" yesterday. And I mean that literally, she was fun. She helped us with the flat cart. She held open doors, she worked the elevator (pronounced, "alligator" in E language), she held the keys for the padlock. She was awesome. Apparently she used up all the goodwill she possessed while at the storage facility because last night around 6:15 she became about as fun as a 45 year old alcoholic on his 3rd day at rehab. In trying to talk her down from throwing the remote at Max and litter the living room with socks, I decided to discuss her finer points. Give her a compliment. No dice. So, it was bathtime. Baths seem to be the magic elixir for bratty Emmas these days. They are starting earlier and lasting longer than ever. As I've said before, baths don't bother me because at least she confined in a small area and content to stay there for more than 10 minutes. Her parting words to us last night before we threw her in the bathtub to calm her down were, "No, I NOT gorgeous, Mama. You a GENIUS!" Then she crossed her little arms and sat down in the bathtub with a mighty "schlump" like she had just called me a bitch. It was difficult not to laugh when the water sloshed up into her face making her squinch her eyes up and gasp. Exactly. She was pleasant by the time her hair was all wet. I AM a genius.
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