Before telling a family story involving a cheating husband and a baseball bat, STOP and consider if this relative is likely to take it as an instructional!

Pray she laughs it off.

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Dear Boss Lady:

The majority of the items in "my" to-do basket are either items I have already addressed (and now it's your turn) or items that make no sense (most of your notes to yourself).

How is it MY basket?

--Admin

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There are definite perils to being an unexpected, late-life baby--far more perils than perks, if you ask me. I always seemed so much younger than my cousins, and their children were babies compared to ME. I was only thirteen when I lost the grandmother I adored; most of my peers had their grandparents well into adulthood.

That's the worst of it, really. I find myself lately with a sharp awareness of time. My cousins are now becoming grandparents. My sister's black curls are now spun silver fluff. My niece is old enough to drink and lives in Nebraska. People who were children when I started at the library have graduated, gone to college, joined the military, or even married.

Somehow, for all the changes in my life, I don't feel any different. I am still my sarcastic, daydream-y, heathen, autistic self. I wonder if this is how Jack Harkness feels--an unchanging point in time?

It's an illusion, I know. Maybe everyone reading this feels this way. I doubt anyone wants to admit that time is sneaking up oh-so-quickly.

It is what it is. Someday, even "my kids" from the library will be gone, many not even footnotes in history. While we always live in the memories of those who love us, how long does that last? How many generations remove the average person from the oral record? My family's active memory goes back to my maternal great-great grandmother, and all I really know is that she had red hair. Of her parents I know nothing, even though I carry their blood in my veins.

How long does memory last, if no one outruns time?

I will miss you Uncle Dean....

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My supervisor is an educated, accomplished woman. She has studied yoga in India and choreographed Broadway shows in New York City. She is also 30+ years my senior.

So, why is it that every time I catch her in a screwup, I suddenly find myself facing a belligerent nine-year-old?

Case in point: some Very Important paperwork has gone missing. It is absolutely imperative that I find it so I can resolve a problem with an important account. I know I didn't take it; hell, I was at the dentist when the office was moved. That leaves only two people: my supervisor, and M-the-Elder.

Since it IS my supervisor's company, after all, I asked her if she knew where the papers had been stored. "I don't know. Ask M. She touched it last. I didn't do it!" Even over the phone, I could hear her crossing her arms and sticking out her lower lip.

So, I asked M-the-Elder, who told me where she had left the originals and remembered that she had made a backup copy and locked it under the register drawer. Then, she said that the register had been full the last time she saw it.

I unlocked it and looked under the drawer. Empty. Of course.

This morning, I relayed this information to my supervisor. She hemmed and hawed for a bit, then sulkily said, "I guess I should have left well enough alone, but I got impatient."

See? Nine. Sounds just like my niece when she was that age.

So, I now get to dig through every piece of paper in this office and the one upstairs. My supervisor is even digging through some things she took home (!).

Am I an admin, or a babysitter?

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So, in recent weeks I have been informally adopted as a secondary mother figure by a couple of Aspie girls. I am at once honored, bewildered--and scared shitless. Each girl is the only person in her family on the spectrum, so apparently they look to me as a role model for an adult Aspie female.

I have never in my life wanted so badly to be someone else. I am a massive screwup in so many ways, and sometimes I think I would be a better example of how NOT to be an adult! They need a role model who is worthy of emulation, but for some unknown reason they chose me. Eep.

I suppose the easy way would be to steer them towards the writings of Temple Grandin and Rudy Simone, but they are both so sensitive.... I don't want them to think I am brushing them off, you know?

I guess all I can do is the best I know how. Gods help us.

To M-the-Elder: You have every right to be angry because your best friend called you a slut. I am not going to lecture you--right this moment, at least!--but I do think you should sit down and have a talk with her. From the way I have seen her act around you, she seems envious.

T M-the-Younger: You are not clingy, and if you can go over the admin's head to report the incident DO IT.

...Conveniently, I can nickname the pair of them the M&Ms....

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