Yes, I've been busy. However, the latest Ideo is up, I've mastered most of the music for next week's concert, and now just have to memorize it. An entire cast of characters stepped out of the closet and are staring mournfully at me. Since they haven't told me what the problem is, yet, I am making no moves to write.

Next week, on my to-do list: two practices, one concert, a voice lesson, decide on the stories I'm buying (or not), continue testing every child in my class to death for the upcoming report cards, and work on at least two rewrites with their authors.

Oh, and somewhere in there I have to memorize the music and do my own writing.

And there's the bathroom. Right.

Oh, and I said I was going to try to make it to the gym this week.

Right.

After this week, I will still have another concert, the report cards, two birthdays, a raid on the classroom by leprechauns, and there's a rumor that my teaching partner is having a difficult time with the concept of returning to school.

Did I mention the idiotic vote on confidence in our superintendent this week? Yeah. And we will either hear or not hear the results based on how the vote goes.

I may have my own little version of insanity, but it doesn't come anywhere close to some of these other people in my district.

However, I would really appreciation donations right now. Any spare minutes you have, you can drop into my little tin cup.

Preferably they're awake minutes, too. I just have this feeling that sleep is not high on my list of priorities right now.

Well, I tried to update this morning. I need mornings to start at the same time but last longer before I have to leave the house. Extend-a-mornings, kind of like those collar thingies guys use to widen their shirts' necks.

I managed another scene in my Buddha meets the Virgin Mary story and 300 words. I start the next scene tonight. Luckily, I even know what it is. I find knowing what I have to write helpful when I finally sit down. Otherwise, the writing turns into staring and being aware of the backs of my eyeballs.

(Oh, fine. And an online game or two just to keep me awake.)

I've added one more practice and a haircut to this week's calendar, dagnabit. However, my hair will look good for the concert, so maybe it's not a total loss. And maybe, just maybe!, I'll have the music all memorized by then. (Tonight's practice in my bedroom does not count. Practices only count if you're with other people who must also sing at whatever the performance is to be.)

In kinder news, the class rebelled intermittently. Part of our ELD unit involves animals, so we've been exploring how animals move: crawling, stomping, padding, whatever. Today they were so wild, I let them be snakes. So, twenty kids on their stomachs, arms by their sides, knees pinned together, and attempting to wiggle towards me.

But there was an owl attack!

None of the snakes survived. They just weren't able to wiggle fast enough.

I don't know about you, but this is how I get revenge. (One of the darlings confided his favorite part was the owl attack. Obviously, I failed somewhere.)

So my revenge, unfortunately, did not last long. I ended the day benching six kids for five minutes, and looming over them threateningly so that they did not sneak off to play. I spent a phenomenal amount of time saying things like, "Put that down! You never wrap so-and-so's neck in ropes! Ever!" or "What do you think you're doing?! You know you're not allowed to cut eyelashes! Even your own!"

Some days it does not pay *enough* to go to work.

However, it hasn't paid to write in quite a while, either.

Eenie meenie miney moe....

Oh, that's right. I'm home. Well, I guess I know what wins tonight, huh.

Another chunk of words on my wannabe Buddhist story. Another little realization, too, that the dog reacts just before anything else happens. (So, hey, an oracle. Do Buddhists have oracles? *makes note to ask my local Buddhist info pusher*)

Some people have infernocrusher stories. I write buddhistinfopusher fiction.

(You know, if you give your fiction fancy names, people think you're cool. I will now bask in my coolness. Pay no attention to the little light that goes on in my mouth when I yawn.)

Tonight: words, but maybe not too many before practice, because yes, there is practice. Since there will also be wine (clears the throat, so it's medicinal. Sort of.) I do not expect much writing after.

In between, I was hoping for dinner, but there is now no water. A leaky pipe was to be fixed, but now it leaks worse, and then, adding insult to the entire nation, the valves froze outside. Fixed that, but if we turn on the pipes again, someone would have to stand bailing duty in the bathroom.

I highly recommend moving out of houses before they hit thirty years old. Buy them at six. Keep them until they're in the late teens, sell. Repeat.

School had its moments today, too. I did not quite hit high cranky mode, but came close when I gave my glare 'o death stare to one of my kids who refused to pick up her trash. (Oh, you betcha she changed her mind. So did the kid in the afternoon who refused to write his name on the board. Because he did.)

Do not mess with me the week before report cards are due. At all.

Finally, if god had meant children to know what California standard was being taught on any given day at any given moment in my classroom, he would have posted the damn things himself.

He was very good with the ten commandments after all, and heaven knows the markers and white boards are easier to handle than the stone and chisel he used back then.

Meanwhile, if someone expects to hear my kinders spouting the standards for their grade level, they will simply have to find another teacher.

Grumpy? Me.

Noooooooooo! How could you even think it?

Because of the extra late practice on Thursday night (1A, for those readers who do not follow via LJ), I spent last night and into this morning recovering.

The closest I came to writing is reading the tail end of what I'd written the night before. I'm still in love with the sheer absurdity of the scene, and gosh knows I wasn't planning to make this story absurd. It turned on me somewhere along the line. Still, how can you not love absurdity?

Plus, it made Nelson uncomfortable (and look! He's running away again! Hrm. Another character flaw to point out. Eventually, you have to discover that running from your fears/irritations/whatever does not work. Facing them down is a much better technique.)

(No, don't ask me how I learned this. You live a while, you learn.)

The concert awaits. It will all be over tonight. After this afternoon's set up and practice. It will be so good to have this over with. (Something else will pop up immediately afterwards, like Easter, and then the CD stuff, but oh, well.)

Report cards await next week. After that... well, two more weeks, and I'll have a week's vacation. Of course, it won't really be a vacation. I'm pretty sure it'll be taken up with tile ordering and finding a contractor for the remodel.

This morning hangs over my head a few chores, some laundry, and a bit of practice on the tough bits. Tonight, I hope to do some writing, but that depends on how exhausted I am when everything is over and packed away. I'm looking forward to the whole shebang. It's not all that often we get to sing with a percussionist and a pianist and a keyboard player and a guitarist and a horn of some kind. (I know the guy plays two or three, but not which ones they were. Oh, well.) The ending should be pretty rousing with the other larger choir joining in, along with the soloist Kevin found from somewhere. But they'll all be behind us on the stage, so I'm hoping we can still hear ourselves out of the monitors.

Not a dull moment in my future today. That's for sure.

My worst nightmare did not come true: I did not trip going up (or down) the stage stairs. So, woo! Go me.

But maybe the heels I purchased, even though I could walk in them without falling, weren't the best shoes to stand in for several hours.

Yes, the concert is over. Yes, we successfully sang and were still getting compliments this morning. We ended up reprising two of our numbers at communion this morning because it ran long -- my favorite two, as a matter of fact. So, I won't have any other music in my head for a while, even though we sang other stuff too. And I will be happy when I don't wake up with our songs in my head, and in the correct key at that. I think I've been listing to the recorder a little too much.

Woo! No more recorder in the car, either! (For a bit. I'm sure I'll get back to it when we have to prep for the CD.)

What does that mean for today? Well, it's a return to focus on the bathroom. We're looking at shower doors and floor stuff, since I've decided I really don't want to tile the floors upstairs. It may mean a trip back to Expo in LA. Again. This time, however, I have my tiles in hand. I'm hoping that will make the choices somewhat easier.

Writing will happen tonight. I'll figure out what the next scene is about, because at the moment, I don't know. D'oh. But heck, this road trip across country can't take much more time. He's got to be getting close to Annapolis by now and that's where he makes the decision to contact his abandoned kids.

I can end this story in two scenes, if I just figure out the right two scenes.

It's not the actual writing that gets to me. Not so much now. It's the knowing what to write. The brainstorming. The snap when the right image clicks into place. The aha! as I realize "Of course!"

Now if it didn't take my brain as long as it does. And the brain doesn't wave another story (or two!) in my face as I'm thinking about the current one. (Which it did this morning in the middle of mass, when Father Alex said something that triggered my long-ago abandoned story about the black woman who loses everything she has (meaning family) and the experimental story in the dueling voices of a split personality.)

Worthwhile stories both. And neither goes away completely. Every so often they pop up and demand another look.

But I'm postponing them until my Buddhist trucker is finished.

One. Thing. At. A. Time.

Do it well. Finish. Move on.

Oh thank godbuddhaallthesaintsandstpatrick this week is over. Seriously. I've dragged myself out of bed, but I have no energy or inspiration to do any moving.

The leprechauns arrived Wednesday. Inexplicably, they decided to hide bits and pieces of the toys in the wrong places. (This would be the child-size leprechauns doing the damage there. The real leprechauns are far more mischievious in terms of damage.) I had leprechaun traps manned by kinders hiding under the easel, hordes of kinders trampling through the grass searching for signs of leprechaun life (look on the bottoms of your shoes, guys!), and by the time St. Paddy's Day rolled around, I was done.

Unfortunately the leprechauns had not put in their appearance by that time.

My most unusual accusation of deeds done by leprechauns was the child who ran out from the bathroom announcing that "The leprechaun peed on the roll of toilet paper!"

Um... no. He did not.

After a minor digression into the toileting habits of leprechauns (porta-potties in their suitcases, d'oh, which will now live in leprechaun lore eternally), the announcer was sternly told that should any other "leprechauns" try this trick, they will be sent to the office. (Well, and that should any leprechauns be capable of the trick of peeing over his head that high, I'm sponsoring the first Gaelic Leprechaun/Lakers game.)

All I can say is that every leprechaun boarded a midnight flights to Ireland and that they are completely gone until next year.

When the first grade teachers will have to top the porta-potty info. And good luck to them.

(The spousling claims I should have asked the informer "Where do you think all the gold comes from?", but I just can't imagine getting the kids to even touch gold after that.)

In the midst of the insanity, there were report cards. And assessment, lots of assessment. And the mention of the zoo fieldtrip, so the kids can focus on the next activity.

One. More. Week. And then vacation, where I focus solely on bathroom remodels.

(And family birthdays. Ugh. No wonder I was dreaming about buying Christmas presents for people this morning: there are three birthdays in the next three weeks. I may die.)

To top everything off, Amber gave me an arbitrary deadline of three days for my virgin and the truck driver story. That was Thursday night. I was doing report cards. Last night I died. Today may be writing, but I can't guarantee finishing the tale even if it should take only two or three more scenes.

Oh, and last night, I did tell Amber what she had to do with her not-a-copper-penny story in two voices plus transitional voice. I should get a day of grace for that. Really.

(The Virgin Mary would do it, Amber. You're not going to tell me that Buddha wouldn't want to go head-to-head with her in a competition....)

Thankfully, the guys are gone this weekend. Not too far away, and likely to return exhausted, but hey, I get to think my own thoughts all day long without too many interruptions.

It's the little things.

(And there's no reason to point out that any thoughts I may have today are absolute mush and wouldn't make an ounce of sense. I know that. :P)

Another 400 words on the trucker story, and while the scene is done, the story isn't.

Goddamn story.

Amber gave me an extra day, because she's like that, and I am attempting to comply. There will be writing later. After scrubbing the upstairs bathroom and doing whatever I can to clean up a little more. I have a tile to return, seeing that I couldn't find the store in the dark last night before 6P. And there's the Italian dinner for St. Joseph's tonight, which we are going to, and where we will have to sing. A couple of people are doing solos. Not me.

No, this morning I woke up with a cold. Actually, I woke up sneezing in the middle of the night several times, and that never bodes well.

I'd go back to bed like the dog, but there's church next.

With any luck, however, there will be much resting today. But no naps. Because last night sucked in terms of the tossing and turning and the not being able to sleep until the wee hours of the morning.

And my luck, bad, of course, is holding.

We have a mouse. In the kitchen.

He set the trap off last night (toilet paper tube, flattened on one side, peanut butter mound in one end, suspended over the edge of the counter with a large trash can below) and I tiptoed in this morning to check the can for signs of mouse.

No such luck. I think he managed to push it off the counter when he tried to stick his head in.

There will be another attempt today, but seeing that the spousling and middle child will return, I do believe it will be something more... lethal.

All I know is that I will not be the first one down to the kitchen tomorrow. The spousling will have to wake up and retrieve dead mousie for me first.

Spouslings are good for things like that. Of course, then you have to listen to the descriptions of valiant behavior when faced with smashed mouse parts, but I will be happy to comply.

It's a small price. Really.

Ewwwwwwwwwwwww. Gross out.

Dead mousie first thing this morning. Followed closely by my unsung hero's retrieval of sad dead mousie, and a thwarted attempt to dispose of said dead mousie in my trash compactor.

NO WAY.

I have not been this girlie in a loooooooooong time.

(And keep those dead mousies away from me because if someone teases me with one, I shall pitch a major fit, based on this morning's reaction.)

Ten Things That Make Life Unbearable:

1. A steam burn on the top of your index finger. Ow. Owwwwwwwwww. Owowowowowowow.

2. Getting up in the morning.

3. Did I mention the burn?

4. Inability to remember if I wrote this week.

5. The Cold. *coughsneezesnortsnorthacksnort*

6. Two more rehearsals today and two performances tonight.

7. Performing with the teens, when I am so not in my teens. (Note to self: see if Kevin will let me stand by the piano to sing, rather than up in front with the girls.)

8. Owie finger. (Did I mention it's my right hand?)

9. Performing with an ice pack the size of my hand on a burned digit.

10. Realizing I may have to buy something to fit the damned dress code for our group tonight, and being unable to cross my fingers because, doh. Burned finger. Owwwwwwwww. (A fingerectomy! That's it!)

11. Being a woman of very little brain.

12. Out of coffee.

13. Having your baby turn eighteen today.

14. Moaning about an owie fin...

Ten? Oh.

Okay, the cold that insists on sitting at the bottom of my lungs and reaches up every so often to make me choke and sputter is old.

I realize he hasn't been a house guest for all that long, but seriously? A week is long enough when you're dealing with an unknown squatter who has dragged all his aunts and uncles and cousins (and third cousins twice removed for good measure) in with him.

As far as I can tell, they've started a fire in the fireplace down there, but forgot to open the damper. Next I suppose they'll be inviting in any passing germ for their little happy commune.

Whining? You betcha. The finger? Oh, that is so yesterday.

There was singing last night. Lots of it, and thankfully, not all of it ours. We sang three songs, and got a lot of compliments. I do believe we have the best blend of all the groups that performed.

But still, it was great to hear the variety -- everything from traditional Latin to African (with the congas, and I so loved that!) to upbeat to spirituals to very modern stuff to tight harmonies.

Such a wealth of listening pleasure.

Our little group celebrated the end of the concert season with a trip to PF Changs. I didn't get to bed until 1A, and of course, there was no writing.

But this also means that the pace should settle down a little. I hope. I hopeIhopeIhope.

Today's chores are cleaning, preparing for a quiet birthday celebration with Alix, since she wasn't home this weekend earlier. And there should be some writing.

Some.

And finding another market for a story. If I plan on getting one out each day this week, that should make me feel like I'm accomplishing something, too.

Plus, it would be good to feel like a writer again.

So I was sitting here taking my usual internal poll -- dishes? bathroom? clear desk? -- when I noticed the Writers of the Future envelope sticking out of my left-hand paper pile (because yes, there are two.)

What the heck? I didn't have a submission there this quarter.

So, I rip it open, admiring the postal date (March 24th, it's only been in the pile for oh, say, three days...) and discover my crit from K.D. Wentworth on my Patchwork Girl story. One entire page on why it didn't proceed onto finalist.

A. She wanted more explanation of why Tess becomes the half-flesh person, rounding out the kind of person she is for the reader, and inserting it far earlier.

(This makes perfect sense, actually, although I don't know I would have thought of it on my own. The reasons why she takes on these repairs can indicate a very different kind of person, which would color the ending.)

B. She didn't find the ending satisfactory, because Tess proves to be an unsympathetic character at the end. She gives up her heart so that she can fight Jivin for custody, thereby separating her more from the rest of humanity.

I'm really thinking about this one. There's something I truly like about Tess' decision to become less human by relinquishing her weak heart. The ending may very well not work as it is written, but I still think I'm on the right path. I just haven't nailed my intent. And that holds true for nailing my intent down for myself, the first step, and secondly, for the reader.

So yeah. Another rewrite, but after more pondering to see what I really want to have happen in Tess's decision. And while the ending may appear flawed, I'm thinking the actual flaw appears before then, when I spell out her intents and motivations for this choice.

Bottom line, though, I do need to keep Tess as a sympathetic character. And that's something I truly do want.

However, I love getting this critique and the bird's eye view into the editorial eye. It's something that I can't do for myself, although I seem to have a knack for it with other people. If I do eventually sell this tale, it'll be because of K.D.'s comments.

Now, back to the dilemma at hand: dishes? bathroom? desktop?

(Oh, and it's sooooo quiet around here: spousling accidently took his evening meds, so he's asleep because of the sleeping pill, dog appears to be with him, and middle child is snoozing for an hour before he has to go to school.

I love the silence, and I simply don't get enough of it.)

Dishes. Because the brain can mull while cleaning them.

I have the unsettling feeling that most of the words that I wrote last night will not stick.

This is what happens when you have a challenge to accomplish, an unfinished piece that you think you might be able to twist in the right direction for the challenge, and you stir the two together.

If it isn't meant to be, you will know it.

Usually the next day.

I haven't reread what I wrote last night, but the twist now appears out of nowhere, the mother has lost most of her spunk, as does Stella, the little sister, and Maia, the big sister, turned sappy on me.

And it seemed like such a good idea at first.

Still, there are a few bits that will stick. Mom's first comment as the girls are retrieved from the air lock -- "You are both grounded for the rest of my life!" That's going to stick, because really? That's a mom thing. Or it's a me mom thing. You can do anything dangerous you want, but not until after I'm dead. Thank you.

(Now if only Mountain Goat boy would listen....)

But gosh, I love these characters, and I love this story so far, and I love the spunk. I'm sure Maia needs to learn the lesson she acquired last night, but maybe not in the manner I've written. There will be more staring until the words blur tonight.

Oh, and shopping at fabric stores, because the slug has another prom in the works, (three! three this spring!) and while I am not required to make a dress (thank god), I am required to sew a little cap or long-sleeved something to go over the strapless dress. (Because this prom is a Mormon prom, and she's going with the kid she grew up with from down at the end of the corner, but who moved to Utah two years ago. I used to worry about whether or not she'd convert, but when she told me: Mom, I don't want to be Catholic, why would I want to be Mormon?, I decided I didn't have to worry about it for a while longer. So, yeah. Now only if she decides she wants to marry one.)

But I hate the sensation of knowing that it's Not Right, and giving myself a full twenty-four hours before I look at the story again may kill me.

Stay tuned. The story may accomplish something that my kids, thus far, have failed to achieve.

Not as much wordcount as last night -- I polished up the story a bit, decided that maybe the end isn't quite as badly off as I feared, and snuck in some foreshadowing. Then I commandeered a couple of readers and mailed it out.

(Chance, not you because you weren't online last night when I got online. You want it, scream.)

Then it was to bed, weird dreams, including one where I dreamed I was male (and that's never happened before. How about the rest of you? Any sex changes in the dream state?), and then up to take the slug to school.

Yesterday, I accomplished the acquisition of fabric for the little jacket I have to make. This afternoon, I think, will be pattern fitting while we determine if it needs alterations. (And another flea leap: has anyone priced patterns lately? When 40% off results in over $10, we're talking serious money. Maybe the machines that fold the damn things to fit inside those envelopes have gone on strike, and they're all hand-folded and stuffed.)

I've had caffeine, sugar, and chocolate, and normally that would keep me going for a while, but my system just crashed from the sugar high. All I want is my bed.

The house is dead silent, for which I'm grateful, but that's because everyone else is dead in bed, including the dog, and the sleepy ions are getting to me.

I could go back and nap, right?

Good. That's what I thought.