These are tough days to write: after a full day of work and another three hours of class the last thing I feel like doing is engaging my brain. There’s a lot to talk about: sports-wise, the Padres need to win four in a row to keep the playoff spot that seemed so sure a month ago; Cal continues its teasing ways on the gridiron; the NHL is about to kick off again. In popular culture, Comic-Con is staying in San Diego, the big town with a chip on its shoulder (this is front page news, and our editorial cartoonist has a smug superhero announcing “Take that, Anaheim” — like it was a personal attack). Life goes on outside the little neat lines I’ve drawn around it: schedule waits for no one.
I get very mixed messages at work: this is the highest priority until the next directive comes along. I’m not sure I’ve ever said it out loud but I don’t envy my boss the added responsibility with just a fraction more authority that goes with that particular job. Being the control freak that I am it would no doubt drive me nuts to know that my performance was being judged on the merits of others.
It’s funny that that’s exactly what’s bound to happen in real life, though. theVet has mentioned more than once that her vested interest in seeing me in presentable clothes is a reflection on her more than it is me, and every child is a mirror of the adults in their life, likewise. Right now of course it’s as easy as picking out the right clothes (and for me the dilemma of matching shirt to pants and socks is solved by figgy’s insistence on wearing dresses), but before much longer the behavior and demeanor is set by our tone. If the kid is crazy what does that say about the adults?