"Do you feel faint or bloody?"

The title of today's blog comes from an experience I had on Tuesday night. As many of you know, I go give blood regularly. I have no tattoos, have not lived in Great Britian, have not exchanged sex for money, have not had sex with a man who has had sex with a man, I don't shoot illegal drugs into my veins... have not had sex in Great Britain with a man who has had sex with another man and received drugs or money for the exchange...

I'm probably one of very few people on this planet who meet all the stringent and overly sensitive/restrictive requirements the American Red Cross outlines for blood donations. I've blogged about this before. God help me if I ever go to get a tattoo.

Anyway, I went on Tuesday, after not having gone for more than six months. Normally I would give every 8 weeks the way we're allowed to. Because one never knows when someone may need my pint.

After I was done, I sat at the table to enjoy a water and chat with the Girl Scouts from our elementary school. These five fine young ladies were there helping with the blood drive to meet a badge requirement.

"Do you want a juice? Would you like some cookies?"

No, but I would like a nice cold water. Then the best question ever was asked of me by a little strawberry blonde lady.

"Do you feel faint or bloody?"

-dead-

Are you kidding? Did you just say that? "What does that mean, Do I feel faint or bloody?"

"Well, are you going to pass out, and is your puncture wound leaking. Faint and bloody."

Makes sense.

"Uh, no. Neither. Thank you. Pass the cookies."

Turns out these girls are in sixth grade, so they are half way in age between my kids. And they knew Jessica. One of them started prattling on immediately about her. "I remember when she was in the sixth grade play and she wore this funny hat and a cape!"

Another said "And last year she was grandma" (I told you this was a role she'll never live down).

"She's friends with my sister. They're in the same grade. My sister says she's the smartest and funniest person on earth."

I find out who the siblings are, and I know each one of them personally. I smile and laugh and write down their names so I can tell Jess that she has a sixth grade younger sister admiration society.

One of them didn't have an older sibling. She is the older sister to one of the kids I chaperoned on a field trip to Plymouth Plantation last year. I told her that I adore her little sister and it was a sincere pleasure to meet the big sister...

She smiled and said "My sister thinks Geoffrey is funny." So they tell Geoffrey stories instead of Jess stories in this house.

Well, yeah. Don't we all think Geoff is funny. Don't we all.

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This was a busy week in (a)musings land. Lots and lots going on at work, some good, some bad, some confusing. But nothing I will blog about in specifics because I know from the experience of good friends that work bloggage without blessing equals termination. Suffice to say, it wore me out. I can't hardly imagine how my boss G feels. I'm hoping she had an excellent night out with her husband tonight. To make up for an emotional week.

Geoff made it all the way to this past Wednesday without having to be sent to the principal's office.

That, my friends, is a record.

Geoff normally has landed in the principal's office (or vice principal, depending on who can take him) during the first full week of school. This time we made it almost (but not quite) a full month. He overheard things that he misunderstood, got mad, accused his teacher of being a "lousy" teacher (in front of the whole class) and got himself busted down to the office. From there, things got worse. He freaked out and refused to be compliant or apologize, and ran out of the building and into the bus circle while busses were coming in. So that got him banned from the bus for the day. Not cool. But he's better, has rounded up his emotions, doesn't feel badly for yelling at his teacher. He's kind of like "Maybe You're Right" by Barenaked Ladies or "Not ready to make nice" by Dixie Chicks. He's sorry but not sorry. It was a draining couple of days here dealing with him and his righteous anger.

It could be worse. I thank my lucky stars.

Jess has decided she is going to join the literary magazine, the chess club, and the German club. For a kid who wouldn't participate in any middle school activities, she is building up quite a CV at the high school level. I forsee needing an after school sitter for Geoff.

Gonzo is still Gonzo... barking at Brodie but dealing well with being here. He's a good boy. He likes to get in our bed in the middle of the night. I start him out on a nice warm pile of old blankets that I've set up as a dog bed but he's all "uh, no?!" and gets in our bed a few hours later. Usually a spot reserved for Jack, who doesn't seem to care that Gonzo is in his space so he plops his hefty and furry ass up in the bed too. Which means no room for me. I end up kicking them both out... and a few hours later they're back.

Grrr.

On that note, I feel my bed calling me names. Or calling my name. Not sure which. I'm heading to sleepyland. I'm off on a rocket ship...