Now to figure out a way to back it up in case it goes kaput again (that one drive holds six years' worth of photos -- around 10,000 at this point -- plus my entire iTunes library, which contains the not-results of the not-thousands-of-hours' worth of rendering my computer did not do while not ripping my DVDs).
On the school front, Bulldozer is still sick and was over it today. Nothing bad -- a little grouchy, and he did pull M's hair (but she's been teasing him -- grabbing his stuff and giggling as he vocalizes his displeasure -- so it's been coming) and wouldn't go to PE. Superhero wasn't too keen on that, but the worst thing he did was throw my glasses (which I stepped on -- d'oh! (they're okay now)) and push at his desk...though not for trying, I will say.
Meanwhile, M's label maker is broken. I have tried all the troubleshooting things that Dymo suggests, so I mentioned today that I'd take it home and go at it with some rubbing alcohol and a Q-tip.
"I think we have some in the cupboard," Aide J said.
"Hmm...I'll look, but I only remember cotton balls," I replied.
Bulldozer came, interrupting my quest, and then I went back and foraged. I found some old cotton cleansing pads from a student I had several years ago and an old toothbrush, but no Q-tips.
"I think we have some Q-tips in there," Aide J said, grumpily, giving me a look.
Flummoxed, I said, "I really only think we have cotton balls."
I was then the victim of dirty looks for quite some time, especially once I took advantage of Bulldozer working independently (hallelujah!) to add some Swiss Family Robinson vocabulary to his Mighty Mo, having learned my lesson when I asked Former Speech Aide A to add stuff for Charlie.
And then I realized...it's like the day I didn't want to get run over by a car.
Y'see, with a personality like that, you aren't allowed to know more or better unless they are actively sucking up to you.
When I was about five, I was walking with my grandma to the park near my house. We were at a fairly large intersection. We were on the southeast corner of the intersection. On the northeast corner was a Catholic church and school; on the other corners were houses.
We had to cross from the southeast corner to the southwest corner. My grandmother, for some inexplicable reason, was watching the light on the northeast corner by the school. When that turned green, she proceeded to start crossing AGAINST A RED LIGHT AND TRAFFIC to the southwest corner.
I was five, but I knew the rules. I protested. I was ignored. I was essentially dragged across the street. Halfway through the intersection, with several cars honking at us, she realized what she did and froze, then continued to cross.
(Five is too young to be contemplating your doom by being squished by a car, by the way.)
Anyway, when we got home, my grandmother proceeded to tell the story to my dad.
I, foolishly, was expecting at least sympathy, if not outright praise for knowing that you didn't cross when the light was red.
(I was five, remember.)
I was, instead, sent to my room for being disrespectful, because I'd protested about crossing the street. Because I hadn't wanted to be roadkill.
Had my grandmother been intending to show off how smart I was -- or, more to the point, what a great grandmother she was for teaching such good life skills to her granddaughter -- she would have told the story with pride. Instead, because she wanted to be the Expert, I ended up in trouble.
Anyhow, you'd think I'd be able to escape the Martyr Complex personality type someday. They seem to come by an awful lot though.
Here's a terrifying thought: Maybe I attract them.