I'm back, although probably school intermittent again.

There's a lot that was keeping me off: school preparation, of course; a sense of failure re: the Clarion challenge that I didn't make it through the last week; frustration with my ability to let stories and their plots get away from me; despair over the lack of selling anything (Heck, everyone else has, damn near, what's wrong with me?); and finally, the nerve stuff going on in my left arm. I've raised the chair height to keep that arm at a less than 30º angle, and I still have to pause frequently to shake the tingling out of my hand. Lovely.

Still, the issue is better today than it was two days ago, so I have hope that whatever I did to the left arm (probably moving all that classroom furniture around a couple of times) is not permanent.

I know it's time to pick up the laptop again when I have dreams of having an entire first page of a story in my head that I only manage to record bits of, and that when I wake up, I only have the first sentence and the impression of what the second contains.

Or buckets of the other weirdly detailed ones, and heaven knows, I've had enough of those to fill a few psychiatric sessions on a couch.

However, the focus now is on the next issue of Ideo. Amber and I got the entire site moved over to the new server, so that's cleared up. From today on, it's all about html and Photoshop.

And I'll be glad when this issue is put to bed. I do enjoy the process, particularly the Photoshop end of things. I'm even happier when it's done.

Finally, I've been socked in the head about how close WorldCon is and have been planning appropriately. I can't believe I got so off-base with school, that it was forgotten so thoroughly. Luckily, I'm driving to Anaheim this year. That's all I have to say.

Things not to do on the first day of school. (Or the night before.)

1. Roll over and say five more minutes.

Yeah, it was more like forty, which meant fifteen minutes to throw myself into clothes, imbibe coffee and hit the road.

2. Upon arrival, lock yourself out of your classroom.

Yeah, the janitor loved that one. It's only the third time in the last week.

3. Open the door.

Parents and kids can get in that way. Who would have thought?

4. Set anything upon the table I call my 'desk'.

Oh, let's be honest and just call it the Black Hole of Fillmore. No, it's not black. No, it doesn't appear to be a hole. Surprise!

5. Realize that the bus tag you just finished making (with all those little details like no bus today or tomorrow...) doesn't have a name.

Of course not. Nor do you remember which child's name should be on it. Wednesday, I will have a game of Russian bus roulette.

6. Smile.

Mostly because if it's a child, it will encourage them to talk to you, and if it's a parent... oh. Same problem.

7. Not ask if there is anyone else with milk money.

Of course, I had to make another trip.

8. Have two or three children named identically.

Corollary 1: Or have six children whose names begin with the same letter. This year's letter was A. Apparently.

Corollary 2: Angels rarely are. (It's tough to live up to perfection.)

9. Wear sandals and step into the wood chips.

Ouch.

10. Most importantly, the night before the first day of school, decide to drive on a small incline into the setting sun only to discover the roadway blocked by those big yellow cans filled with sand.

A. The car will not thank you for the adventure. B. There's a lot of sand in those things, mixed with a lot of rocks. Which explodes.

Note: However, the immediate sandstorm is impressive, and reminiscent, possibly, of land mines in Iraq. I don't recommend the first-hand experience, though.

What's worse than getting a rejection?

How about getting a rejection for a story that you'd forgotten that you'd sent out? So when the rejection appears magically in your inbox, your first thought is that they've been surveying your writing files and are now preemptively rejecting stuff you hadn't sent.

Well, except for the part where you had.

Up until then I was extremely impressed with the slush reader of that particular magazine, and how proactive he was.

Today was better, sort of, in a way. Not counting the fact that the car bled antifreeze all over the driveway this morning which necessitated a trip to the mechanic's. And then I did get locked out of my classroom again. This time by the other janitor, so when Ron, my personal door opener shouted, "AGAIN?!", I could lay the blame squarely on Nelson.

Whew. Saved.

I'm redefining 'quiet'. Quiet is that time of the day when my mainstreaming child from the SDC is not there. Children may yell or talk loudly or behave as though they are outside, but! Since my mainstreamed student isn't actually present, that is 'quiet'. Not quiet is when that particular child arrives screaming and crying "No!", "I won't!", "I don't wanna!", and "I wanna go home!"

For an hour.

This would also be a child who supposedly does not talk.

Oooooooookay.

I got patted on the boob by a kid who needed my attention. That's new. The last couple of years it's been a pat on the butt. Remember the good old days when they'd tug at your pants or skirts?

Yeah. Not any more.

Today I successfully took everyone's photo twice -- once for me and once for the computer. Everyone made it through the computer time and no one used their mouse like a channel changer. Only two children cried over the computer. (One only because he wanted computer games and he was not getting the games' part here.)

No one got lost from my class, although two first graders migrated to the wrong bus and were seeing all the sights in Fillmore, but not going home. One of my kids complained that he hadn't done any work, and he couldn't go home until he had. ("Yes, you did. Remember groups? Remember the drawing? Remember name writing? That's called 'work' here." "Oh.")

When another child began to make car noises, telling him to park the vehicle (a red rectangular block) was enough to stop him speeding all over town.

Yes, we kinder teachers are amazing.

For my next trick, I am going to fall over in a heap. Just watch.

*puddle of Marsha spreads*

Careful. I'm probably sticky and I don't remember the last time I washed my hands.

One more day.

(And then all next week, but I'm not dwelling on that. However, I can't have the sub do Green Eggs and Ham for me, so that means... yes, I must do it Wednesday, before I leave for Anaheim.)

Recipe for Green Eggs and Ham:

20 gullible children, more or less
1 dozen eggs
I pound ham (sliced lunchmeat, frex, chopped)
Green food coloring

Crack eggs as usual, but sneak in drops of food coloring as you stir. This requires some dexterity. Also spin story about how not everyone has access to green eggs. You can't just go buy them at the grocery store. You must have a supplier who owns green chickens. (Yes, they believe it! D'oh. This is the age that also believes in tooth fairies, teachers are perfect, and that Mrs. Sisolak will come pick them up at their house and bring them to school in their jamies if they don't get up in a timely fashion in the mornings.)

Add ham. Stir. Pour mixture in electric skillet. Discuss how green it is.

Discover which kids are brave and adventuresome. These are the ones who will try it, rejoice that they like them, and go home to demand green eggs and ham from Mom and Dad.

(Count your blessings I didn't teach you the frog game where the prize are the special flies. We have a great story for preparing flies for human consumption.)

As far as writing goes? Not so much. I have a new story that should have been written by now, but it's one of those ones where I have plot and theme shaping up, and the characters, so far, are ho-hum generic stick figures with strings named Mom and Son.

(Note that the puppeteer is missing.)

I hope to find what makes them dance soon, because it's *gasp* hard science fiction.

I think I only have one of those in me for my lifetime, so I've got to make it good.

Boob pat count for the past two days: 0 (See, if I just stop bending and squatting....)

Ass pat count: 5.

So, as I was standing beside my favoritest machine in the whole world, halfway clad in a crisp blue paper top, while having my boobs compressed to the depth of a quarter inch by a complete stranger, I suddenly realized:

No one has published the definitive work on mammogrammed breasts.

I visualize it similar in nature to Lady Cottingham's Pressed Fairy Book featuring a variety of breasts captured out of their native habitats. There would be impressions of left boobies, right boobies, and the ever-so-rare (based on my experiences, for in all these years of pressed boobydom, it was a first for me) the double booby press. We would have vertical and horizontal impressions, perhaps even a "Where's Booby?" search in an homage to Where's Waldo?

I'm sure it would sell.

And maybe even find a market for refrigerator magnets, seeing that's one way to prepare for these encounters with x-ray machinery. (Personally, I prefer practice with ice blocks, so that I can duplicate the goosebumps as flesh presses against cold glass. YMMV.)

Of course, in terms of equality, I suppose one would have to produce a sequel offering images of pressed men's bits.

Drop me a note, guys, (or women, should you have a guy close to hand, so to speak) if you'd like to volunteer your... um.... services. For the greater good of mankind. Naturally.