March 14, 2011
Another sleepless night.
Another cranky Dawne.
I suspect part of it is the end-of-March-Break-returning-to-classes anxiety I have always experienced.
Even as a kid.
That lingering fear, concern that there was something I was supposed to do and forgot to do it.
Except this time it's the outright knowledge that I had a list of things a mile long to do that didn't get done meaning this week is going to be out and out chaos.
Also hovering around my brain is Emily's doctor's appointment this morning.
For MONTHS Em has been suffering from a list of ailments.
Causing missed school.
Not all are physical.
In fact, I don't know if any are actually physical.
Or, the physical pain is a manifestation borne from anxiety and stress.
So, after waiting two months, it's off to the doctor.
My fear?
I'm wrong.
And there is something physically wrong with her.
Mental stuff I can handle.
My mother is bi-polar.
My mother's sister dealt with severe mental health issues.
As did their mother.
And it would seem such things have been passed down the line.
I've battled my own depressive demons.
The 90s was, for me, fighting and conquering those demons.
If this is what's up with Em, I am well prepared.
My arsenal is well stocked with knowledge and strength.
But anything else and I am so far out of my element I can't even see it.
As I do every morning, I got up, put on my slippers, walked over, around, through dogs, and began my trek down the stairs.
And what to my wondrous eyes did appear?
A big, smelly, cold pile of dog shit.
Compliments of Frankie.
I've been expecting this.
While we were away, there was no canine cavorting, and little canine consumption of canine chow.
Once we returned, so did their appetites.
Throwing their waste management systems into complete and utter chaos.
And we are now dealing with the repercussions.
Smelly repercussions at that.
Stephen doesn't deal well with this kind of stuff at any time.
But first thing in the morning?
When he is awakened against his will, kvetching that it is simply inhumane to ask anyone to rise from their slumber before noon?
You have the intellectual capacity to figure out how well he responds to such early morning mayhem.
After spending the morning and afternoon thesis reading and midterm marking, I decided it was time for a break.
Keith had to be to work for 4.45 pm and Em didn't finish until 6.00 pm, leaving me with an hour and fifteen minutes in between the dropping off and collecting of the chicks.
So Stephen and I went for a walk.
Downtown.
It was glorious!
Sidewalks free of snow and life endangering ice.
No winter boots covering my tootsies.
No sneakers either, unfortunately, as when I went to retrieve mine from the basement, they were not to be found.
I suspect they were another casualty of Stephen's let's-give-everything-we-haven't-used-for-the-last-two-weeks-to-the-Salvation-Army.
Although he vehemently denies this.
Funny how he always suffers from memory loss when such things happen.
Not to be swayed from my desire to be outside, I put on my Birkenstocks.
I LOVE my Birks.
With a pair of wool socks, they were just as comfy and warm as sneakers.
A new pair of which will be coming my way this weekend when Stephen replaces the ones have donated to a cause greater than my need to walk outside.
We parked on Queen Street, in front of East Side Board something or other, and began our promenade.
The sidewalks were free of ice and snow, however, the melting of both revealed what lay beneath.
A LOT of sand.
And assorted winter debris.
The contents of someone's over-imbibed stomach outside the club, BOOM!
And given that this is Fredericton, you can bet those streets will be cleaned up faster than you can say supercalafragalisticexpialidocious.
Various downtown shop windows provided more than enough distraction from the littered streets.
Rubber boots, covered with flowers for me.
I've always wanted a pair of rubber boots.
I don't like walking in the rain because inevitably, I end up with wet feet.
Wet hair, wet clothes. . .those things I can live with.
But wet feet are in a category of don't-go-there all on their own.
Furniture, in particular two lovely chairs and a dresser, tantalized me, even though they knew, as did I, that my budget in no way could stretch that far.
But looking is free.
Prom dresses.
No comment.
Jewellery, in particular a pewter and emerald-looking stones necklace at Aiken's Pewter, was particularly lovely.
Books.
ALWAYS books.
Lucky for Stephen, the shops closed at 5.00, if they had even been open at all.
Otherwise it would have been more book browsing than walking.
Downtown Fredericton is lovely, but not large, so within a half hour of beginning our trek we were traversing through residential areas, admiring the Victorian homes, the homes-we-could-never-afford, looking at windows and doors, paint colors and more.
We were transported into a world bereft of marking and dogs, duties and responsibilities.
But alas, all good things must come to an end.
And ours did as we were walking back to the car.
For some reason, habit perhaps, I had taken along my cell phone.
It's ring blasted through my semi-serene state to remind me that I have duties and responsibilities, just in case I had the audacity to momentarily toss such things into the far recesses of my mind.
Meredyth.
Who else would shatter my serenity?
Crisis again.
Crisis dealt with.
Money to be dropped off on our way home.
Shortly after talking with Mer, Em called.
She finished early.
15 minutes early.
She just wanted us to know.
Translation: she-is-finished-and-tired-because-she-didn't-get-home-from-the-staff-showing-until-4.30am-because-of-the-stupid-time-change-and-then-she-had-to-work-at-noon-so-now-she-is-tired-so-will-I-PLEASE-come-and-get-her-asap!
The remainder of the evening, after a delicious dinner of moist, juicy boneless, skinless, chicken breast, broccoli, and a medley of stir fried veggies with just a tiny dab of chili garlic sauce, was spent marking midterms.
Making me wonder if these students were actually in the same classroom I was and if not how come I am having such grand hallucinations twice a week for 80 minutes?
And then bed, to finish, sadly, the latest Alan Bradley book, A Red Herring Without Mustard, an artful crafting of the most interesting latest adventure of eleven year old Flavia Sabina de Luce.
Only to lay awake and toss and turn the rest of the night.
Hopefully, hopefully, once doctor's visits and thesis meetings happen, and maybe even another walk as we have more daylight at the end of the day, I will sleep.
Well.
Fitfully.
Without dreams of clocks that stay at 9.00 am while trying to wrangle teenagers out of an oval shaped pool and calling Ontario when I mean to call Oromocto.
Title Lyric: These Boots Were Made for Walking by Nancy Sinatra
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