Tuesday, February 21, 2006

Not about work.

I will not post about work.
No matter how much I want to. And some days, I do...

My stress-tanks* are pretty small. If I don't pump them out regularly, they overflow and start polluting all my other holding tanks.** It means small, less potent, but more frequent ventings. I figure this is more healthy than letting pressure build up then erupting like Mt. Vesuvius all over Pompeii, or Pom-Peter, as the case may be.

Anyhow, I talk a lot, so it seems natural that I should vent a fair bit, too. I've never been one to keep my thoughts or feelings to myself. I figure it makes me easier to deal with - what you hear is what you get.
It's not like I'm ever going to grow more quiet as I age, either. Case-in-point, Grandma Friesen. There are some powerful chatty genes at work here. In fact, I think Peter's hoping to go deaf.

Mute, too.

I guess it's no big loss to lose the senses that you use least frequently.
Just so long as grandpa Pete can read, type, click a mouse, see a computer screen clearly and wheel his frail bones to the nearest library, he will be content long into his old age.

For now, though, he gets to listen to "my day at work" stories. For him, and most other teachers' spouses, this is probably the aural equivalent of watching paint dry.
Don't get me wrong, I have stories - lots of them! Good ones, too. The kind that make you want to grit your teeth and go "those NORONS!!!" or the kind that make you all "awwww, that's so sweet!" or sometimes, more frequently of late, "WHAT is this world coming to??"

Today was more of a "you can only try so hard... then it's out of your hands" day.

Sigh. Oh, internet, if only I could tell you without getting dooced.

Maybe when I retire.

*like a septic tank, located between my shoulders and neck on either side. I can actually feel them filling up during the course of a day.
**ie. my "inner peace" tank, my "sense of humour" tank, my "patience" tank etc.
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