February 18, 2011
Em's visit to the ER was successful.
At least in terms of being medicated.
For what, however, still remains a mystery.
It wasn't what we thought it was, but no one else seemed to have a clue what it was either, so she was sent home with antibiotics, with the express hope that they actually work to address what needs addressing, even if we don't what is wrong with her.
And she was told to keep her March doctor's appointment.
Just in case.
Uncharacteristic for the ER where we live, she was actually in and out in two hours.
Someone should call the CBC.
THAT is newsworthy.
Yesterday I wore a lovely dress that had belonged to my sister in law.
However, Kathryn was smaller than I was.
And shorter.
The dress fit.
It was not snug in anyplace where it shouldn't be snug.
My naturally occurring ghetto booty wasn't anymore pronounced than usual.
But it was a shorter dress than I regularly wear.
And for some reason, there was an unusual amount of static cling.
I got out of the car, and the next thing I know Stephen is grabbing my bottom. . . .
. . . .something I don't usually mind, just to be clear. . . .
because my dress had decided to travel northward.
Putting on display aspects of myself I prefer to keep covered at all times.
Plus I refuse to shave my legs in the winter.
I need all the warmth I can get.
The entire day I worried that everytime I was out and about, everytime I was not sitting in my office, I was flashing the entire campus.
I pulled and tugged at myself enough to make people wonder if I was wearing too small underwear.
And the tops of my knee high nylons were visible to everyone.
Just tacky.
I don't usually wear waist to foot nylons.
I feel like a nylon encased sausage.
But I may have to if I ever want to wear this dress again.
That and carry with me some sort of anti-static spray.
Schools are closed today.
We are under a freezing rain warning.
Give me snow.
Give me rain.
But you can keep your freezing rain.
It's just another word for ice.
And here I am getting up, doing my morning things, discontent in the knowledge that my children are snug as bugs in their beds when I have to brave the elements to teach my one class today.
And me, sick, coughing, sneezing, headache, achy joints, not able to sleep for more than an hour at a time.
There is something so inherently wrong with this picture.
We are still without a car remotely big enough to meet our needs.
Again, Stephen and I love the Fiesta.
We are grateful that we have something to drive at all.
But we are also aware that at this point in our lives, it is unrealistic for us to have a car so small we can't get our kids in the backseat without having them sustain some sort of physical injury.
I called the rental agency, begging, pleading for a larger vehicle.
They promised to get back to me.
One that can transport more than two adults comfortably.
At this point, the dogs have a vet appointment on Monday and we have no idea how we will get them there in the Fiesta.
On Monday morning, if you see a silver 2011 Ford Fiesta shooting down the highway between Fredericton and Oromocto with a dog crate strapped to the roof, containing a barking and frantic Frankie, while inside Stephen fights to keep Tikka in back seat, as opposed to his lap, while I'm behind the wheel trying to not drive into the ditch, you'll know we were unsuccessful in our bid for a larger car.
I really, really, really miss my dog gate.
Title Lyric: Static Cling by Driven Madness
Friday, February 18, 2011
Thursday, February 17, 2011
You’re gonna be in the emergency room.
February 17, 2011
Atonement.
I'm think that cosmic forces are sandbagging me for something I did and was never, apparently, punished for.
The car.
Food poisoning.
Now, the flu.
Meaning I may not have food poisoning at all, but instead early signs of the flu.
The kicker?
I couldn't cancel another class this term and a. live with myself, b. incite riots among my students, and c. keep my job.
So sick or not, coughing, hacking, sore throat, fever, aching joints aside, I will be in my classroom this morning discussing research ethics with my intro methods class.
And showing the end of Milk to my advanced class as a means of setting a social and political context for Tearoom Trade.
Carrying with me a cadre of cold and flu medications, cough drops and hot tea.
It is going to be a very long day.
I've missed so much class time, I have to drop Em off at the Emergency Room this morning, instead of packing an overnight bag and staying with her.
She has a doctor's appointment but not until March and what is bothering her is getting worse.
And the only time she can go to the ER is during the day.
The clinic isn't even an option because they open at 5.00 and by 5.05 the sign that they aren't taking any more patients is up.
Now THAT is a comment on the state of our health care system in New Brunswick.
I can't tell you what's wrong with her.
Because then I'd be in the ER with head trauma and several broken bones.
The thought of spending time in the ER makes me nauseous.
My mother was a nurse, so everytime we got a sniffle, she packed us off to the ER.
The repercussions of her actions are that I am VERY reluctant to go to to ER unless under the most dire conditions.
An action that cost me more than once.
When she was about 14, Mer was complaining that she had a sore throat.
I did all the things I was supposed to do.
Medicines, cough drops, sprays, etc.
It's not as if I ignore them forcing them to fend for themselves.
And then one morning, at 4.00 am she wakes me up, says she simply can't take the pain any longer and I have to take her to the ER.
An abscess had formed in her throat.
A week later they let her out of the hospital.
In my defense, Mer can be a bit of a drama queen, and has cried wolf many times.
I never know whether or not I should take her seriously when she comes to me with some malady or other.
I don't know how many times I've spent 8 or 12 hours, and in some cases even longer waiting with the kids so they can be seen by the doctor.
Mer is at the ER so often they've named a chair in her honour.
Inevitably, whenever I'm there, a male between the ages of 18-24 is always there ahead of me, and has, in typical male fashion, taken control of the tv remote.
I've watched more TSN at the ER then anywhere else. . .actually I don't watch TSN anywhere else.
I hate it.
Basketball, NASCAR, hockey, football, soccer. . . .I detest them all.
My father was a sports-junkie and the entire time I was growing up, my brother and I were routinely booted from the basement television and whatever we were watching so my father could watch teams of men act like little boys and get paid exorbitant amounts of money for it.
Think about it.
In what other context is it okay for me to touch each other's butts?
Call me an awful mother, but I think at 17 years of age, Em can manage the ER on her own until I can get there later.
And she'll take the remote and change the channel, no matter what is on or who is watching it.
I'd kinda like to see that.
Title Lyric: Emergency Room by Rhianna
Atonement.
I'm think that cosmic forces are sandbagging me for something I did and was never, apparently, punished for.
The car.
Food poisoning.
Now, the flu.
Meaning I may not have food poisoning at all, but instead early signs of the flu.
The kicker?
I couldn't cancel another class this term and a. live with myself, b. incite riots among my students, and c. keep my job.
So sick or not, coughing, hacking, sore throat, fever, aching joints aside, I will be in my classroom this morning discussing research ethics with my intro methods class.
And showing the end of Milk to my advanced class as a means of setting a social and political context for Tearoom Trade.
Carrying with me a cadre of cold and flu medications, cough drops and hot tea.
It is going to be a very long day.
I've missed so much class time, I have to drop Em off at the Emergency Room this morning, instead of packing an overnight bag and staying with her.
She has a doctor's appointment but not until March and what is bothering her is getting worse.
And the only time she can go to the ER is during the day.
The clinic isn't even an option because they open at 5.00 and by 5.05 the sign that they aren't taking any more patients is up.
Now THAT is a comment on the state of our health care system in New Brunswick.
I can't tell you what's wrong with her.
Because then I'd be in the ER with head trauma and several broken bones.
The thought of spending time in the ER makes me nauseous.
My mother was a nurse, so everytime we got a sniffle, she packed us off to the ER.
The repercussions of her actions are that I am VERY reluctant to go to to ER unless under the most dire conditions.
An action that cost me more than once.
When she was about 14, Mer was complaining that she had a sore throat.
I did all the things I was supposed to do.
Medicines, cough drops, sprays, etc.
It's not as if I ignore them forcing them to fend for themselves.
And then one morning, at 4.00 am she wakes me up, says she simply can't take the pain any longer and I have to take her to the ER.
An abscess had formed in her throat.
A week later they let her out of the hospital.
In my defense, Mer can be a bit of a drama queen, and has cried wolf many times.
I never know whether or not I should take her seriously when she comes to me with some malady or other.
I don't know how many times I've spent 8 or 12 hours, and in some cases even longer waiting with the kids so they can be seen by the doctor.
Mer is at the ER so often they've named a chair in her honour.
Inevitably, whenever I'm there, a male between the ages of 18-24 is always there ahead of me, and has, in typical male fashion, taken control of the tv remote.
I've watched more TSN at the ER then anywhere else. . .actually I don't watch TSN anywhere else.
I hate it.
Basketball, NASCAR, hockey, football, soccer. . . .I detest them all.
My father was a sports-junkie and the entire time I was growing up, my brother and I were routinely booted from the basement television and whatever we were watching so my father could watch teams of men act like little boys and get paid exorbitant amounts of money for it.
Think about it.
In what other context is it okay for me to touch each other's butts?
Call me an awful mother, but I think at 17 years of age, Em can manage the ER on her own until I can get there later.
And she'll take the remote and change the channel, no matter what is on or who is watching it.
I'd kinda like to see that.
Title Lyric: Emergency Room by Rhianna
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Whoa, it's too much work for me. . .
February 16, 2011
As I have said many times before, I am a creature of habit.
To the point where it may actually be unhealthy.
And if I ever have the time, it may be something I'll contemplate.
This morning, coffee brewing, dogs fed, Reilley given his daily dose of coffee cream, I go to the cupboard to retreive my Fibre 1 cereal.
Every morning I eat my cereal with balkan yogurt.
I don't really like milk, and the yogurt gives my morning fare crunch and substance.
Alas, there was no cereal in the cupboard.
Okay.
Fine.
I'll go the basement.
There's another box in our little cupboard that houses the overflow not deemed necessary to be upstairs by Stephen.
Searching through the cupboard, moving things aside, digging behind empty jars I keep for pickles and jams I intend to make, I find nothing.
Nada.
Not a box of fiber cereal to be found.
Well, this put me in a bit of a quandry.
What to do? What to do?
I had to resort to Plan B.
Black bread and organic peanut butter.
Something I enjoy, absolutely.
But I really wanted my cereal and yogurt.
And maybe I need to consider therapy for the rigidity of my habits.
Just maybe.
Stephen called the rental agency today to beg, plead, give away a child or three for a bigger car.
We'll know by the end of the day if they'll have anything.
If not, we'll continue to squeeze and squish ourselves into the Ford Fiesta.
And we still haven't figured out how to get the dogs in there.
Tikka isn't the problem.
Frankie, however, when excited has been known to drop a big, stinky load of poop in the back of the car.
In our car, we can live with this.
In a rental, ummm. . .not so much.
Especially a rental where the dogs could probably drive the car themselves, and there isn't room for a dog gate even if we wanted to put one in there.
Although the idea of putting in the dog gate and then the kids behind it has a certain level of appeal.
I am still struggling to catch up at work.
Marking, marking, marking, marking, and more marking.
300+ emails in my inbox that scream at me everytime I even go near my email.
Midterm coming up shortly.
Summer student funding application to be filled out.
Conference in May rushing at me like a freight train and me still not analyzing any data let alone writing a paper to present.
I need a 50 hour day and the ability to function on an hour of sleep.
Anyone know how that could happen for me?
Last evening, I asked Stephen if he would stop at a drug store and pick up some gravol.
My bout with food poisoning cleaned us out and I didn't want to take any chances if there happened to be a repeat performance.
He did exactly what I asked.
Brought me home gravol.
But this was a special version of gravol.
Suppositories.
Now what the hell am I supposed to with those???????
Title Lyric: Work by Hockey
As I have said many times before, I am a creature of habit.
To the point where it may actually be unhealthy.
And if I ever have the time, it may be something I'll contemplate.
This morning, coffee brewing, dogs fed, Reilley given his daily dose of coffee cream, I go to the cupboard to retreive my Fibre 1 cereal.
Every morning I eat my cereal with balkan yogurt.
I don't really like milk, and the yogurt gives my morning fare crunch and substance.
Alas, there was no cereal in the cupboard.
Okay.
Fine.
I'll go the basement.
There's another box in our little cupboard that houses the overflow not deemed necessary to be upstairs by Stephen.
Searching through the cupboard, moving things aside, digging behind empty jars I keep for pickles and jams I intend to make, I find nothing.
Nada.
Not a box of fiber cereal to be found.
Well, this put me in a bit of a quandry.
What to do? What to do?
I had to resort to Plan B.
Black bread and organic peanut butter.
Something I enjoy, absolutely.
But I really wanted my cereal and yogurt.
And maybe I need to consider therapy for the rigidity of my habits.
Just maybe.
Stephen called the rental agency today to beg, plead, give away a child or three for a bigger car.
We'll know by the end of the day if they'll have anything.
If not, we'll continue to squeeze and squish ourselves into the Ford Fiesta.
And we still haven't figured out how to get the dogs in there.
Tikka isn't the problem.
Frankie, however, when excited has been known to drop a big, stinky load of poop in the back of the car.
In our car, we can live with this.
In a rental, ummm. . .not so much.
Especially a rental where the dogs could probably drive the car themselves, and there isn't room for a dog gate even if we wanted to put one in there.
Although the idea of putting in the dog gate and then the kids behind it has a certain level of appeal.
I am still struggling to catch up at work.
Marking, marking, marking, marking, and more marking.
300+ emails in my inbox that scream at me everytime I even go near my email.
Midterm coming up shortly.
Summer student funding application to be filled out.
Conference in May rushing at me like a freight train and me still not analyzing any data let alone writing a paper to present.
I need a 50 hour day and the ability to function on an hour of sleep.
Anyone know how that could happen for me?
Last evening, I asked Stephen if he would stop at a drug store and pick up some gravol.
My bout with food poisoning cleaned us out and I didn't want to take any chances if there happened to be a repeat performance.
He did exactly what I asked.
Brought me home gravol.
But this was a special version of gravol.
Suppositories.
Now what the hell am I supposed to with those???????
Title Lyric: Work by Hockey
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
You need some medicine, and then it's off to bed!
February 15, 2011
I had a headache this morning.
Actually I had one all night.
I took three acetaminophen and jumped into the shower at 5.30 am.
But they didn't work.
Still, I ate my standard breakfast fare: fibre cereal with Balkan yogurt and coffee, still ignoring the headache.
Made lunches, made supper, did dishes, got dressed, took the hounds out, still ignoring that headache.
And the stomach cramps that appeared to sing harmony with the headache.
While driving the kids to school, my body was getting mighty tired of me ignoring it.
So it started to fight back.
Vehemently.
Instead of driving to the university, I drove home.
Cancelled classes, again, because it would appear I have either the flu or food poisoning.
My bet is on food poisoning.
I've had it before.
Know the symptoms.
Stephen gave all of us food poisoning when he served us uncooked and improperly washed fiddleheads.
The degree of vomiting and diarrhea was directly correlated to how many fiddleheads were consumed.
I consumed a lot.
Meaning I was really sick.
Today's encounter with food poisoning seems to have struck only me, leaving me to conclude that turnip left in the fridge for ten days shouldn't be eaten.
No matter how good it looks.
Or that it didn't possess any particular malodorous scent.
I feel plain and simple gross and yucky.
Not to mention pissed off and annoyed.
And whether or not I have to go to work tomorrow with a bucket hanging from my neck and two pairs of Depends covering my ample booty, I will be teaching tomorrow.
Count on it.
Our car will be repaired.
This means that the damages are less than 80% of the value of the car.
Very, very good news indeed.
Stephen had to sign some forms today and in the process was informed that while the car will be repaired, we won't be getting it back as soon as I had hoped.
March 14th at the earliest.
Now we have to see if the rental agency can provide us with a somewhat larger vehicle.
Not The Behemoth, but not the Little People Fiesta either.
Em keeps banging her head everytime she gets into the back seat, and Keith is tired of practicing yoga poses in the back seat.
Especially the pose where you cross your legs behind your head.
Back to the bathroom.
Title Lyric: On Being Sick by William H. Gardner
I had a headache this morning.
Actually I had one all night.
I took three acetaminophen and jumped into the shower at 5.30 am.
But they didn't work.
Still, I ate my standard breakfast fare: fibre cereal with Balkan yogurt and coffee, still ignoring the headache.
Made lunches, made supper, did dishes, got dressed, took the hounds out, still ignoring that headache.
And the stomach cramps that appeared to sing harmony with the headache.
While driving the kids to school, my body was getting mighty tired of me ignoring it.
So it started to fight back.
Vehemently.
Instead of driving to the university, I drove home.
Cancelled classes, again, because it would appear I have either the flu or food poisoning.
My bet is on food poisoning.
I've had it before.
Know the symptoms.
Stephen gave all of us food poisoning when he served us uncooked and improperly washed fiddleheads.
The degree of vomiting and diarrhea was directly correlated to how many fiddleheads were consumed.
I consumed a lot.
Meaning I was really sick.
Today's encounter with food poisoning seems to have struck only me, leaving me to conclude that turnip left in the fridge for ten days shouldn't be eaten.
No matter how good it looks.
Or that it didn't possess any particular malodorous scent.
I feel plain and simple gross and yucky.
Not to mention pissed off and annoyed.
And whether or not I have to go to work tomorrow with a bucket hanging from my neck and two pairs of Depends covering my ample booty, I will be teaching tomorrow.
Count on it.
Our car will be repaired.
This means that the damages are less than 80% of the value of the car.
Very, very good news indeed.
Stephen had to sign some forms today and in the process was informed that while the car will be repaired, we won't be getting it back as soon as I had hoped.
March 14th at the earliest.
Now we have to see if the rental agency can provide us with a somewhat larger vehicle.
Not The Behemoth, but not the Little People Fiesta either.
Em keeps banging her head everytime she gets into the back seat, and Keith is tired of practicing yoga poses in the back seat.
Especially the pose where you cross your legs behind your head.
Back to the bathroom.
Title Lyric: On Being Sick by William H. Gardner
Monday, February 14, 2011
It is I, Captain Vegetable, with my carrots and my celery. . .
February 14, 2011
Happy Valentine's Day!
When you love someone all year round, and tell them that, instead of waiting for one day a year.
Although watching all the men come out of Sobey's this morning with bouquets of roses was kind of funny.
Stephen thought they were atoning for something.
I replied there would be lots of atonement if they didn't get those $29.99-promised-to-last-for-at-least-five-days bouquets of roses.
And that's all I have to say about the card manufacturer's holiday.
Stephen has been struggling a little bit with the new Simply for Life eating regime.
His biggest struggle is the absence of his fourth meal.
The one that happens after I go to bed and before he does.
That usually includes a very large sandwich, with fat, sodium and nitrate filled cold cuts, cheese, hot mustard, and kolatch bun or black bread.
The meal that prevents him from getting a good night's sleep, meaning he's tired and cranky and crabby in the morning.
I have noticed that when he abstains, fights the temptation to fill himself with what are supposed to be the fixings for Keith's lunch, he's far more pleasant in the morning.
That alone is worth the effort of keeping him on task, focused towards his goal.
Nonetheless, in spite of a couple of lapses, he lost three pounds this week!
Yeah Stephen!
Stephen is fully committed to losing weight.
But he's not necessarily committed to eating some of the things he's supposed to be eating.
Or when he's supposed to be eating them.
Yesterday, we are slipping and sliding through the back roads of southern New Brunswick, on the way to visit my brother, and I'm trying to cajole Stephen into eating some carrots to keep him fueled for the afternoon.
Cajoling didn't work, so I stepped it up a notch to shoving them into his mouth while be bobbed and weaved amid the ruts and potholes.
If he's doing this, he's doing it right.
Last evening, I awoke with a start.
The kind of start that makes you realize that something is not right, off kilter, not of the norm.
Upon opening my eyes I was greeted with complete and utter darkness.
No nightlight.
No blue alarm clock ticking down the seconds, minutes, hours until I have to begin the process of getting my happy little family out of bed and ready for the day.
No delta wave sleep music to keep us happily ensconced in the land of Nod.
No power.
Not a smitch.
I staggered out of bed to look out the window only to see that the entire neighbourhood was engulfed in darkness.
The dogs took my getting up and looking out the window as an invitation to go outside, so I had to take them out for their early morning ablutions.
Eerie it was, outside, no lights, no movement, I couldn't even see the snow falling, only feel it.
And then I realized the repercussions of no power in the early morning.
No fan.
No delta sleep music.
Meaning the only sounds to cut through the silence was the abhorrent, annoying, revolting, obnoxious, beastly sounds of Stephen's snoring.
With nothing to drown out the symphony of stifled nasal passages, I had no choice but to pop in my earphones and listen to my ipod.
It was more likely I was going to fall asleep listening to Pink and Rhianna than Stephen's snoring.
Sad, that is.
Pop music for listening to while cooking, shoveling, walking as the means of trying to locate entry back into the land of Nod.
It didn't work.
Imagine.
4.30 am the power comes back on and after I reset the clock and alarm clock, I go back to bed for an hour before the day begins.
Nap time later?
Count on it.
Still no word about our car.
I dreamed we got it back.
We'd better.
Or heads will roll.
Title Lyric: Captain Vegetable from Sesame Street
Happy Valentine's Day!
When you love someone all year round, and tell them that, instead of waiting for one day a year.
Although watching all the men come out of Sobey's this morning with bouquets of roses was kind of funny.
Stephen thought they were atoning for something.
I replied there would be lots of atonement if they didn't get those $29.99-promised-to-last-for-at-least-five-days bouquets of roses.
And that's all I have to say about the card manufacturer's holiday.
Stephen has been struggling a little bit with the new Simply for Life eating regime.
His biggest struggle is the absence of his fourth meal.
The one that happens after I go to bed and before he does.
That usually includes a very large sandwich, with fat, sodium and nitrate filled cold cuts, cheese, hot mustard, and kolatch bun or black bread.
The meal that prevents him from getting a good night's sleep, meaning he's tired and cranky and crabby in the morning.
I have noticed that when he abstains, fights the temptation to fill himself with what are supposed to be the fixings for Keith's lunch, he's far more pleasant in the morning.
That alone is worth the effort of keeping him on task, focused towards his goal.
Nonetheless, in spite of a couple of lapses, he lost three pounds this week!
Yeah Stephen!
Stephen is fully committed to losing weight.
But he's not necessarily committed to eating some of the things he's supposed to be eating.
Or when he's supposed to be eating them.
Yesterday, we are slipping and sliding through the back roads of southern New Brunswick, on the way to visit my brother, and I'm trying to cajole Stephen into eating some carrots to keep him fueled for the afternoon.
Cajoling didn't work, so I stepped it up a notch to shoving them into his mouth while be bobbed and weaved amid the ruts and potholes.
If he's doing this, he's doing it right.
Last evening, I awoke with a start.
The kind of start that makes you realize that something is not right, off kilter, not of the norm.
Upon opening my eyes I was greeted with complete and utter darkness.
No nightlight.
No blue alarm clock ticking down the seconds, minutes, hours until I have to begin the process of getting my happy little family out of bed and ready for the day.
No delta wave sleep music to keep us happily ensconced in the land of Nod.
No power.
Not a smitch.
I staggered out of bed to look out the window only to see that the entire neighbourhood was engulfed in darkness.
The dogs took my getting up and looking out the window as an invitation to go outside, so I had to take them out for their early morning ablutions.
Eerie it was, outside, no lights, no movement, I couldn't even see the snow falling, only feel it.
And then I realized the repercussions of no power in the early morning.
No fan.
No delta sleep music.
Meaning the only sounds to cut through the silence was the abhorrent, annoying, revolting, obnoxious, beastly sounds of Stephen's snoring.
With nothing to drown out the symphony of stifled nasal passages, I had no choice but to pop in my earphones and listen to my ipod.
It was more likely I was going to fall asleep listening to Pink and Rhianna than Stephen's snoring.
Sad, that is.
Pop music for listening to while cooking, shoveling, walking as the means of trying to locate entry back into the land of Nod.
It didn't work.
Imagine.
4.30 am the power comes back on and after I reset the clock and alarm clock, I go back to bed for an hour before the day begins.
Nap time later?
Count on it.
Still no word about our car.
I dreamed we got it back.
We'd better.
Or heads will roll.
Title Lyric: Captain Vegetable from Sesame Street
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Go get your weekends on. . .
February 13, 2010
This is one of those weekends where you come out of it at the end realizing that it was actually busier than the five days you spent at work.
I was out of the house by 10.15 am yesterday and didn't walk through my front door again until almost 9.00 pm.
The day was wonderful.
Don't misinterpret my analysis.
I started at the nursing home to visit Mum.
Knowing I wasn't going to be there for my usual supper time visit in no way means I won't be there at all.
I went for lunch.
I had also brought a copy of my book for my mother.
Giving it to her was one of those moments that you wish you could bottle and cherish forever.
She looked at it, and looked at it, and looked at it and then looked at me and said, with incredulity in her voice,
"This is your book."
I can imagine, at first glance, she was wondering why I had given her a book called "A Sociological Study of Scholarly Writing and Publishing" when I usually bring her crime novels.
She was just thrilled.
Simple as that.
It was wonderful.
She read the dedication and acknowledgements, perused a few pages.
And just smiled.
That is the best reward for the work I put into getting this book organized.
My parents, my kids, my husband all provided so much support and love, sacrificed so much, that, in all honesty, they all deserved their own PhDs.
A book seems like a very small thank you.
Now Stephen, he is getting his own PhD.
If I have to sit beside him while he writes every. frickin'. word.
After the nursing home it was the opera.
As predicted, it was wonderful.
An opera about Nixon's visit to China and his meetings with Chairman Mao.
Henry Kissinger.
Pat Nixon.
Mrs. Mao.
No doubt it was different than the more traditional operas I've seen, but I really liked it.
We're going again in two weeks.
In fact, we're experiencing a dilemma regarding which, of the six remaining operas of the season, we want to see.
All of them, but $50.00 for both of us to attend is a bit pricey for us right now.
So we've decided to see three more.
Which ones remain to be seen.
Dinner at McGinnis' Landing afterwards.
When we go out for dinner, the most elaborate we usually get is Swiss Chalet.
So this was a treat.
We both had the SFL approved meal of Cajun steak with either brown rice and broccoli or salad.
I had the rice and broccoli, Stephen the salad.
My steak: rare. I wanted blue, but I didn't think Stephen would be able to watch me eat it.
Stephen's steak: well done.
What a horrible thing to do to a beautiful steak.
Turning it into shoe leather.
I even had a glass of wine.
And then I did something I shouldn't have done.
A SFL-Neil prediction was proven to be true.
Apparently, once you change your eating habits, it's hard to revert back to your previous eating habits, even if your reversion is brief.
It was a peanut butter cheesecake.
Absolutely glorious on the way down.
But it's visit didn't sit well.
I never thought I would come rue eating peanut butter cheesecake.
I did though.
I rued alot.
The best part of yesterday, however, was walking into the theater and seeing Emily adorned with the new Empire Theater head wear.
In addition to wearing the standard baseball-like hat bearing the Empire Theater logo, each and every theater employee was wearing a gnome hat, in celebration of the release of Gnomeo and Juliet.
Had it not been for the movie title at the bottom of the hat, these hats could have been misconstrued by dunce hats.
Red and blue dunce like caps dotted the Empire Theater landscape.
When the usher came in during the opera to do a theater check, all you could see across the bottom of the screen was a cone head.
Making me laugh during times of the opera that weren't necessarily funny.
But Em was the best.
In all her 17 years, I have never, ever seen her look so absolutely miserable.
And keep in mind she has Mer as a sister, so misery is as common as breathing.
I'm working on getting a picture.
But that may be as difficult as getting a picture of the Loch Ness monster.
Today is just as busy.
Quaker meeting.
Then right after meeting, no pot luck even, we're heading out to my brothers.
In the Fiesta.
Could be an interesting drive.
But easier than driving The Behemoth, which, for all its bells and whistles had the worst shocks of any vehicle I've ever been in.
And I've been in some doozies.
After Jerry's, back home and then off to the nursing home for my Sunday evening Antiques Roadshow/Creatures visit.
Weekends.
Go figure.
Title Lyric: Weekends by Down with Webster
This is one of those weekends where you come out of it at the end realizing that it was actually busier than the five days you spent at work.
I was out of the house by 10.15 am yesterday and didn't walk through my front door again until almost 9.00 pm.
The day was wonderful.
Don't misinterpret my analysis.
I started at the nursing home to visit Mum.
Knowing I wasn't going to be there for my usual supper time visit in no way means I won't be there at all.
I went for lunch.
I had also brought a copy of my book for my mother.
Giving it to her was one of those moments that you wish you could bottle and cherish forever.
She looked at it, and looked at it, and looked at it and then looked at me and said, with incredulity in her voice,
"This is your book."
I can imagine, at first glance, she was wondering why I had given her a book called "A Sociological Study of Scholarly Writing and Publishing" when I usually bring her crime novels.
She was just thrilled.
Simple as that.
It was wonderful.
She read the dedication and acknowledgements, perused a few pages.
And just smiled.
That is the best reward for the work I put into getting this book organized.
My parents, my kids, my husband all provided so much support and love, sacrificed so much, that, in all honesty, they all deserved their own PhDs.
A book seems like a very small thank you.
Now Stephen, he is getting his own PhD.
If I have to sit beside him while he writes every. frickin'. word.
After the nursing home it was the opera.
As predicted, it was wonderful.
An opera about Nixon's visit to China and his meetings with Chairman Mao.
Henry Kissinger.
Pat Nixon.
Mrs. Mao.
No doubt it was different than the more traditional operas I've seen, but I really liked it.
We're going again in two weeks.
In fact, we're experiencing a dilemma regarding which, of the six remaining operas of the season, we want to see.
All of them, but $50.00 for both of us to attend is a bit pricey for us right now.
So we've decided to see three more.
Which ones remain to be seen.
Dinner at McGinnis' Landing afterwards.
When we go out for dinner, the most elaborate we usually get is Swiss Chalet.
So this was a treat.
We both had the SFL approved meal of Cajun steak with either brown rice and broccoli or salad.
I had the rice and broccoli, Stephen the salad.
My steak: rare. I wanted blue, but I didn't think Stephen would be able to watch me eat it.
Stephen's steak: well done.
What a horrible thing to do to a beautiful steak.
Turning it into shoe leather.
I even had a glass of wine.
And then I did something I shouldn't have done.
A SFL-Neil prediction was proven to be true.
Apparently, once you change your eating habits, it's hard to revert back to your previous eating habits, even if your reversion is brief.
It was a peanut butter cheesecake.
Absolutely glorious on the way down.
But it's visit didn't sit well.
I never thought I would come rue eating peanut butter cheesecake.
I did though.
I rued alot.
The best part of yesterday, however, was walking into the theater and seeing Emily adorned with the new Empire Theater head wear.
In addition to wearing the standard baseball-like hat bearing the Empire Theater logo, each and every theater employee was wearing a gnome hat, in celebration of the release of Gnomeo and Juliet.
Had it not been for the movie title at the bottom of the hat, these hats could have been misconstrued by dunce hats.
Red and blue dunce like caps dotted the Empire Theater landscape.
When the usher came in during the opera to do a theater check, all you could see across the bottom of the screen was a cone head.
Making me laugh during times of the opera that weren't necessarily funny.
But Em was the best.
In all her 17 years, I have never, ever seen her look so absolutely miserable.
And keep in mind she has Mer as a sister, so misery is as common as breathing.
I'm working on getting a picture.
But that may be as difficult as getting a picture of the Loch Ness monster.
Today is just as busy.
Quaker meeting.
Then right after meeting, no pot luck even, we're heading out to my brothers.
In the Fiesta.
Could be an interesting drive.
But easier than driving The Behemoth, which, for all its bells and whistles had the worst shocks of any vehicle I've ever been in.
And I've been in some doozies.
After Jerry's, back home and then off to the nursing home for my Sunday evening Antiques Roadshow/Creatures visit.
Weekends.
Go figure.
Title Lyric: Weekends by Down with Webster
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