Every year in July my company does a conference. It’s right here in town, so I don’t need to travel, which is a huge blessing. But it has made me supremely busy for the last couple of days. I like it. I really love being busy. I wish my whole job was this sort of busy work.

I have been sorting content for a huge three-ring binder, and then putting them into the binders, and now I am printing out “Achievement certificates,” woo hoo! Let the fun begin! The thing is, it IS fun. I don’t know why it is fun, but it is. Not roller derby fun, by any means. But it’s better than the norm, that’s all I mean. Having things to do when you are accustomed to sitting at your desk waiting for approval from three different managers is way different than being able to actually use your printer and create a pile of actual binders that you stuffed with content-crap.

So here’s how I am mentally retarded: I was sitting there stuffing binders with this crap, and singing songs in my head. I liked the fact that the pile was growing faster than the piles made by the other people who were also helping. I like being the fastest, the best, the smartest. I am a bit of a show-off. I think the other helpers were annoyed by me. Still, I happily built those binders. Just building binders, tweedle-dee-dee. I am a geek, a nerd and a dork all rolled into one. Building binders is my bidness. Yay, me.

However, there comes a limit. And that limit is called “having to stay until about 6:30 to finish this up.” Nope. I draw the line at working an hour and a half later than usual. Luckily I had legitimate dinner plans last night and could not stay late. The managers’ promises of free pizza could not keep me a’stuffing. I left.

And now, today, I do some more of the same. Stuffing and printing, writing and folding. I am still happy about it. But now I know—be even faster on the output, so they don’t say we need to work late again. I will even have pizza for lunch just to be on the safe side. “Sorry, I had pizza for lunch. Can’t stay.”

Wish me luck! These certificates ain’t gonna print themselves, and these people need to know they have, in fact, earned “Achievement.” An Achievement Award is a fantastic motivator. In most cases it is used for the slow kids. “Good job, honey… at least you were in the race! Good for you. Now here’s a Twinkie for ya. OK. Go away now.”

Conference! It is the most wonderful time of the year. And the most Special Ed, too. And it sucks. That's the most important thing to remember: busy work aside, the actual Conference itself is a bullshit affair and I hate it like I hate bladder infections.