February 26, 2011
Right now I should be at the Empire Theater Saturday afternoon at the Met production of Iphigénie en Tauride.
But I'm not.
Instead, I am at home, blogging, eating leftover chicken and brown rice and listening to the third episode of the third season of the British program Primeval, before going to the nursing home for an afternoon visit with my Mum.
Around 3.00.
After she finishes bingo.
Because if I was to interrupt bingo, I would be in deep doo doo.
I am thrilled to go to see my Mum.
But how come the afternoon you ask?
Because we have been invited out for dinner at a friend's house and Stephen accepted for us.
I don't mind going out for dinner, but I like my Saturday evening dinner visits with Mum.
As it is with being sick twice in one month, I've missed more Saturday visits than I think is appropriate.
So I'll go this afternoon and stay with her until supper time and then we'll go out for dinner.
Again, another example of how I am a creature of habit and perhaps should seek therapy for my discomfort when confronted with changes to my routine.
I love family activities.
Board games, movie nights, driveway shoveling.
Yes, driveway shoveling.
While we sat inside the warm, coziness of our living room last evening, I made it very clear that the last time I shoveled the driveway alone was indeed THE last time I shoveled the driveway alone.
It took me two hours to shovel it properly, and there wasn't half as much snow as there was last night.
So this morning when I awoke, I looked outside at the piles and piles and piles of gleaming white snow and chuckled inwardly at the knowledge that when my children opened their little eyes and emerged from their cavern-like bedrooms, they would be greeted with the cheery reminder that they would indeed be helping shoveling the driveway.
Whether they wanted to or not.
It was absolutely joyous being outside together, watching four shovels pushing snow this way and that, hither and yon at a speed so rapid I paused for a minute just to bask in such industry.
How quickly people move when they're outside doing something they don't want to do.
And it's cold.
As a reward for her labours, once the driveway was cleared and the car was free of its snowy burden, Emily was allowed to drive the car.
Em wants her licence.
But she doesn't want to take Driver's Ed.
I don't know if she has to or how much insurance would cost if she didn't, so I'll have to make inquiries on Monday.
Imagine having another driver in the house.
Makes me all tingly inside, really.
Title Lyric: Shovel by Katie Herzig
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Friday, February 25, 2011
You dress as if it was the 1970s, You say "Far out man". . .
February 25, 2011
Siruis satellite radio is beginning to give me a seriously big headache.
Stephen loves it!
And that is an understatement.
The station is ALWAYS set to the 70s on 7.
The ONE time it was changed, by Keith or me I think, Stephen comes in from an outing and exclaims,
"The radio is broken! It isn't on the 70s and I can't figure out how to get it back so it's ruined!"
Drama.
Everywhere I turn.
I informed him that it was not broken.
The station had been changed.
One does that with radios sometime.
Especially when one does not enjoy the station the radio is playing at the moment.
I've just never had a penchant for 70s music.
One, I was too young to understand the appeal.
Two, whenever I hear it, all I can think about is a lot of drugs and free, open sex.
Emily is picked up afterschool but before work yesterday by Stephen who drops her off at my office before heading for his class.
She comes bearing gifts. . .a thermos of hot coffee for her exhausted mother.
And intel.
After the customary hi Mum and so on, she then says with complete seriousness in her voice,
"The weirdest music was playing in the car when Stephen picked me up. Some sort of bizarre synthesizer thing."
Um.
The signs are pointing in all the same direction.
Stephen is going to experience some serious or sirius withdrawl when we take the Fiesta back to the rental agency.
At some point in the next three weeks.
Leaving me with only a couple of options.
A 12 step program.
Or the purchasing of the satellite radio monopoly for installation into the Ford Focus.
But not until some ground rules are established.
Primarily that listening to the 70s on 7 is not something that will be a given, a constant, something assumed to happen.
And then figuring out where the good music is so I can ensure as little bleeding from the ears as possible.
Apparently, we are supposed to get somewhere between 35-45 cm of snow today.
Of course we are.
Em has to work.
Stephen and I are going to the Community Kitchen.
Em will have to be picked up from work.
The storm is set to begin sometime around noon.
And really pick up around 3.00 pm.
And we are still without snow tires.
I supposed the upside is that we won't have to replace our snow tires next winter as planned.
A six week hiatus from driving is one means of stretching out your tire wear.
Bring on the snowshovels!
Title Lyrics: 1970s by Abefeldy
Siruis satellite radio is beginning to give me a seriously big headache.
Stephen loves it!
And that is an understatement.
The station is ALWAYS set to the 70s on 7.
The ONE time it was changed, by Keith or me I think, Stephen comes in from an outing and exclaims,
"The radio is broken! It isn't on the 70s and I can't figure out how to get it back so it's ruined!"
Drama.
Everywhere I turn.
I informed him that it was not broken.
The station had been changed.
One does that with radios sometime.
Especially when one does not enjoy the station the radio is playing at the moment.
I've just never had a penchant for 70s music.
One, I was too young to understand the appeal.
Two, whenever I hear it, all I can think about is a lot of drugs and free, open sex.
Emily is picked up afterschool but before work yesterday by Stephen who drops her off at my office before heading for his class.
She comes bearing gifts. . .a thermos of hot coffee for her exhausted mother.
And intel.
After the customary hi Mum and so on, she then says with complete seriousness in her voice,
"The weirdest music was playing in the car when Stephen picked me up. Some sort of bizarre synthesizer thing."
Um.
The signs are pointing in all the same direction.
Stephen is going to experience some serious or sirius withdrawl when we take the Fiesta back to the rental agency.
At some point in the next three weeks.
Leaving me with only a couple of options.
A 12 step program.
Or the purchasing of the satellite radio monopoly for installation into the Ford Focus.
But not until some ground rules are established.
Primarily that listening to the 70s on 7 is not something that will be a given, a constant, something assumed to happen.
And then figuring out where the good music is so I can ensure as little bleeding from the ears as possible.
Apparently, we are supposed to get somewhere between 35-45 cm of snow today.
Of course we are.
Em has to work.
Stephen and I are going to the Community Kitchen.
Em will have to be picked up from work.
The storm is set to begin sometime around noon.
And really pick up around 3.00 pm.
And we are still without snow tires.
I supposed the upside is that we won't have to replace our snow tires next winter as planned.
A six week hiatus from driving is one means of stretching out your tire wear.
Bring on the snowshovels!
Title Lyrics: 1970s by Abefeldy
Thursday, February 24, 2011
I know what he likes for dinner.. . .
February 24, 2011
So far, this week has just been plain busy.
Not psychotic.
But busy enough that when I stumble through the door at 6.00, all I want to do is crawl into my pjs and warm socks and read a book until someone calls to me that dinner is ready.
Um.
Part of that is accurate.
I do stumble through the door.
I am greeted by the unconditional love and admiration of my puppies.
I certainly change from my work clothes to my pjs and warm socks.
And then I head to the kitchen because if there is going to be anything for dinner, it's gonna come from the exhausted labour of these two hands.
Last evening was no exception.
Through the door, boots not even off, I am greeted with the standard phrase confronting all mothers when they are at their most exhausted.
"What's for supper?"
Do I look like a walking menu?
Have I installed, by the couch for your convenience, a drive thru menu complete with voice box so you can place your order without interrupting the Full House marathon you've been watching?
I didn't think so.
All I can do is hope that one day in the distant future, I will live to enjoy the sweet taste of revenge when my own children come to me complaining about how their children think they are drop down menu providers.
And I will sip at that revenge as if it is a fine wine.
Savour it, even.
But until then, it looks as if I will have to continue to spend the car drive home mulling over what I can present for dinner that will not cause Stephen to remark, "Chicken. Again. Oh."
Normally, I am prepared for the meal time conundrum.
On the weekends, or late Monday afternoon, I will cook several meals at the same time, so all I have to do in response to the inevitable, "What's for supper?" is just walk to the fridge and take out whatever I have prepared in advance.
Last weekend, however, I spent most of my time lying horizontally on the couch wondering if it was actually possible to cough so hard your lungs actually go come out.
Or if you sneeze often enough, will brain matter actually appear?
Or in my case disappear?
So I didn't have my usual cadre of homemade meals ready to heat and serve.
You can bet that next time, no matter how sick I am and whether or not my little family gets an extra helping of germs with their Dijon chicken, I will have those meals prepared.
Because there is nothing quite so disconcerting than talking with your film class about how Dirty Harry set the stage for the contemporary cop film while, in your mind, you're ruminating about what to have for supper and did Stephen make the brown rice ahead of time because it takes at least an hour to cook and there is no way I'm eating dinner at 8.00 pm because he didn't make rice in advance.
We're still driving the Fiesta.
No family sized car, or car-big-enough-for-two-adult-size-teenagers-two-adults-and-170-pounds-of-dog anyway.
Last night, after arriving home from work, Stephen turns and looks wistfully at the silver Fiesta so small is barely takes up any room in our driveway, and comments that he is going to really miss it when we have to give it back.
It has "pep."
Moxy.
And no, we are not buying it.
Purchasing a second car has become an undercurrent of debate and tension in our humble little home.
Stephen wants one.
I don't.
Given how much time, money and effort Stephen puts into maintaining one car, if we had two, I'd never see him.
Plus all I can think of is two sets of all seasons, two sets of winter tires, two cars to obsess over regarding oil and filter changes, two gas tanks to fill, double the car insurance payments, and the list goes on. . . .and on. . . .and on.
Not to mention how I couldn't live with myself over the stress and anxiety I'd experience about contributing further to the pollution of the environment.
Further, this car, as do most cars nowadays, has all sorts of unnecessary gegaws and doodads that do nothing to contribute to the actual running of the car.
They are aesthetics only.
Like the little button that changes the color of the dashboard light from green to blue to red to purple.
Stephen and the kids love this little button.
Me, I see it as the first thing that would have to be repaired even though it serves no purpose in the overall functioning of the car.
Colors.
It's the little things that amuse the smaller minds.
Title Lyric: Wants for Dinner by Ciara
So far, this week has just been plain busy.
Not psychotic.
But busy enough that when I stumble through the door at 6.00, all I want to do is crawl into my pjs and warm socks and read a book until someone calls to me that dinner is ready.
Um.
Part of that is accurate.
I do stumble through the door.
I am greeted by the unconditional love and admiration of my puppies.
I certainly change from my work clothes to my pjs and warm socks.
And then I head to the kitchen because if there is going to be anything for dinner, it's gonna come from the exhausted labour of these two hands.
Last evening was no exception.
Through the door, boots not even off, I am greeted with the standard phrase confronting all mothers when they are at their most exhausted.
"What's for supper?"
Do I look like a walking menu?
Have I installed, by the couch for your convenience, a drive thru menu complete with voice box so you can place your order without interrupting the Full House marathon you've been watching?
I didn't think so.
All I can do is hope that one day in the distant future, I will live to enjoy the sweet taste of revenge when my own children come to me complaining about how their children think they are drop down menu providers.
And I will sip at that revenge as if it is a fine wine.
Savour it, even.
But until then, it looks as if I will have to continue to spend the car drive home mulling over what I can present for dinner that will not cause Stephen to remark, "Chicken. Again. Oh."
Normally, I am prepared for the meal time conundrum.
On the weekends, or late Monday afternoon, I will cook several meals at the same time, so all I have to do in response to the inevitable, "What's for supper?" is just walk to the fridge and take out whatever I have prepared in advance.
Last weekend, however, I spent most of my time lying horizontally on the couch wondering if it was actually possible to cough so hard your lungs actually go come out.
Or if you sneeze often enough, will brain matter actually appear?
Or in my case disappear?
So I didn't have my usual cadre of homemade meals ready to heat and serve.
You can bet that next time, no matter how sick I am and whether or not my little family gets an extra helping of germs with their Dijon chicken, I will have those meals prepared.
Because there is nothing quite so disconcerting than talking with your film class about how Dirty Harry set the stage for the contemporary cop film while, in your mind, you're ruminating about what to have for supper and did Stephen make the brown rice ahead of time because it takes at least an hour to cook and there is no way I'm eating dinner at 8.00 pm because he didn't make rice in advance.
We're still driving the Fiesta.
No family sized car, or car-big-enough-for-two-adult-size-teenagers-two-adults-and-170-pounds-of-dog anyway.
Last night, after arriving home from work, Stephen turns and looks wistfully at the silver Fiesta so small is barely takes up any room in our driveway, and comments that he is going to really miss it when we have to give it back.
It has "pep."
Moxy.
And no, we are not buying it.
Purchasing a second car has become an undercurrent of debate and tension in our humble little home.
Stephen wants one.
I don't.
Given how much time, money and effort Stephen puts into maintaining one car, if we had two, I'd never see him.
Plus all I can think of is two sets of all seasons, two sets of winter tires, two cars to obsess over regarding oil and filter changes, two gas tanks to fill, double the car insurance payments, and the list goes on. . . .and on. . . .and on.
Not to mention how I couldn't live with myself over the stress and anxiety I'd experience about contributing further to the pollution of the environment.
Further, this car, as do most cars nowadays, has all sorts of unnecessary gegaws and doodads that do nothing to contribute to the actual running of the car.
They are aesthetics only.
Like the little button that changes the color of the dashboard light from green to blue to red to purple.
Stephen and the kids love this little button.
Me, I see it as the first thing that would have to be repaired even though it serves no purpose in the overall functioning of the car.
Colors.
It's the little things that amuse the smaller minds.
Title Lyric: Wants for Dinner by Ciara
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Two rolls of Scotch tape. . . .
February 22, 2011
I do my best work in the early morning.
So this morning, I was up at 4.30 am so I could finish the grant application for student funding that was due today.
And finish marking the interviews that I so needed to hand back before my students decided mutiny was an acceptable option.
I love the early mornings.
No people, no demands, no phone calls, no emails, all I have to do is take the dogs out, feed them, ensure that Reilley is given his daily portion of coffee cream so his morning screeching is short and sweet, and then the rest of the morning. . .at least until people start trickling out of their bedrooms, is mine.
The peace and quiet.
Ability to think.
Get things done.
I used to be able to work in the evenings.
But now, once 8.00 pm rolls around, I am so ready to start shutting down for the day.
In fact, last night I think I was actually in bed at 7.00pm, and completely asleep by 8.30.
Wild and crazy.
That is so me.
Yesterday also involved our second visit to the vet with Tikka.
Luckily, we were able to leave Frankie at home, with Keith.
Because taking the two of them to the vet, when it is not necessary, is just not my idea of a good time.
The barking, the raising of the hackles, the muzzle . . .
And that's just Stephen.
Frankie is an entirely different story all together.
The vet is no longer completely certain we're experiencing a return of the sarcoptic mange.
Much to Stephen's relief. . . .sort of.
He was concerned he was going to contract mange as Frankie enjoys the odd lying prostrate all over Daddy's pillows.
He's started referring to it as THE mange.
His obsession was becoming over the top.
Cleaning.
Wiping.
Spraying.
And nothing was free from the vacuum.
Not even the dogs.
Because vacuuming Tikka and Frankie in the hopes of ridding them, and us, of the purported plague made him feel better.
But, if it isn't sarcoptic mange causing Tikka's red, itchy ears, what the hell is it?
After using Scotch tape as a scientific means to obtain a swab from Tikka's ears. . . who said everything has to be technological. . .the vet looked under the microscope and came back with her verdict.
"I don't know."
Her closest approximation was something akin to a yeast infection.
In Tikka's ears.
All I know is we're back to cajoling her into taking the submarine sandwich size capsules along with the fluorescent pink pills that make her pee every five minutes.
It's to the point that as soon as she hears a pill bottle, vitamin or otherwise, she comes running thinking that soft, chewy pill pockets were coming her way.
Of course, Frankie is always hot on her heels knowing that if Tikka gets a pill pocket, he'll get a pill pocket.
Without the pill, of course.
Em's taking medication, too.
I had to warn her to not take Tikka's accidentally.
Imagine what THAT would be like.
Title Lyric: Scotch Tape by Lynn Anderson
I do my best work in the early morning.
So this morning, I was up at 4.30 am so I could finish the grant application for student funding that was due today.
And finish marking the interviews that I so needed to hand back before my students decided mutiny was an acceptable option.
I love the early mornings.
No people, no demands, no phone calls, no emails, all I have to do is take the dogs out, feed them, ensure that Reilley is given his daily portion of coffee cream so his morning screeching is short and sweet, and then the rest of the morning. . .at least until people start trickling out of their bedrooms, is mine.
The peace and quiet.
Ability to think.
Get things done.
I used to be able to work in the evenings.
But now, once 8.00 pm rolls around, I am so ready to start shutting down for the day.
In fact, last night I think I was actually in bed at 7.00pm, and completely asleep by 8.30.
Wild and crazy.
That is so me.
Yesterday also involved our second visit to the vet with Tikka.
Luckily, we were able to leave Frankie at home, with Keith.
Because taking the two of them to the vet, when it is not necessary, is just not my idea of a good time.
The barking, the raising of the hackles, the muzzle . . .
And that's just Stephen.
Frankie is an entirely different story all together.
The vet is no longer completely certain we're experiencing a return of the sarcoptic mange.
Much to Stephen's relief. . . .sort of.
He was concerned he was going to contract mange as Frankie enjoys the odd lying prostrate all over Daddy's pillows.
He's started referring to it as THE mange.
His obsession was becoming over the top.
Cleaning.
Wiping.
Spraying.
And nothing was free from the vacuum.
Not even the dogs.
Because vacuuming Tikka and Frankie in the hopes of ridding them, and us, of the purported plague made him feel better.
But, if it isn't sarcoptic mange causing Tikka's red, itchy ears, what the hell is it?
After using Scotch tape as a scientific means to obtain a swab from Tikka's ears. . . who said everything has to be technological. . .the vet looked under the microscope and came back with her verdict.
"I don't know."
Her closest approximation was something akin to a yeast infection.
In Tikka's ears.
All I know is we're back to cajoling her into taking the submarine sandwich size capsules along with the fluorescent pink pills that make her pee every five minutes.
It's to the point that as soon as she hears a pill bottle, vitamin or otherwise, she comes running thinking that soft, chewy pill pockets were coming her way.
Of course, Frankie is always hot on her heels knowing that if Tikka gets a pill pocket, he'll get a pill pocket.
Without the pill, of course.
Em's taking medication, too.
I had to warn her to not take Tikka's accidentally.
Imagine what THAT would be like.
Title Lyric: Scotch Tape by Lynn Anderson
Monday, February 21, 2011
A little bit of resolve is what I need now. . .
February 21, 2011
All was not as planned yesterday.
I actually didn't get to meeting. Bed was more appealing and necessary as I haven't been sleeping well this last week.
Stephen did go, though, so I didn't feel as guilty as I could have.
I managed to get myself out of bed around 1.00 pm, and came to the conclusion that I was just tired of being sick and in bed, and I was going to get up and get something done.
That I was not going to bed in the evening without having accomplished something.
Resolve.
I had it.
And I knew how to use it.
I marked interviews until Stephen came home.
At which time I said that if we didn't face the elephant in the room, the small-car-dog-dilemma, we were going to continue to live in absolute misery until our car was returned.
So, we put on our coats, hats, mitts, scarves, leashed the hounds and put them in the car.
They were the car.
Just enough room for the two of them to squeeze in there without getting their tails caught in the door.
Just.
I drove, as Stephen had to act as bouncer.
Arm across the space between the two front seats, he was on guard for the entire drive.
Frankie and Tikka didn't know what to do with themselves in such unrestrained quarters.
There wasn't much they could do, given there wasn't any room, however, they are a creative duo and I wasn't willing to even contemplate what kinds of chicanery they could get up to.
Of course, because we wanted to take our dogs out, our usual spot was out of order.
Trucks either bringing in or moving out hay driving up and down the road we normally walk on.
We had to find another spot, which usually isn't a problem at the potato research center.
But it was yesterday.
First off, if I was working up there, Monday to Friday, 8-4 or whatever the working hours are, I'd refuse to go to work until they properly plowed the roads.
Snow I don't mind.
But this was a melange of ice and slush and snow and ruts big enough to hold an oil tanker.
Imagine the thrills we experienced in the Fiesta.
We finally decided to park the car and walk down this little used road that connects to the Draco Road.
We didn't anticipate any traffic, as the road, outside of two slim walking paths on either side, was completely covered in ice.
A veritable skating rink.
Watching Frankie try to run and leap and chase and cavort on this sheet of ice was worth the price of potentially falling.
He just couldn't figure out how come he couldn't get all his legs working together.
Tikka stood on the sidelines, shaking her head, murmuring, "amateur" under her breath.
And it was COLD up there.
No trees to act as windblockers and acres and acres of empty fields meant Dawne should have worn her hat no matter how hard a time she has keeping it on her head.
And I asked Stephen if it was cold before we even left the house.
Of course, he claims he's been going through andropause for the last decade, so an accurate teller of weather he is not.
I should have known better.
Nonetheless, cold or not, the dogs had a good run and we were able to spend the remainder of the day in a bark-free house.
Hoo-rah!
Because Em was one bark away from severing their vocal cords.
I now believe I'm losing weight.
I didn't believe it before.
But at this very moment, I am wearing a pair of pants I've had in my closet for years, and have never worn.
In fact, this pair of pants is friends with two other pairs of pants and two skirts.
None of which I have ever been able to wear because they were too small, or I was too big, or both.
A friend gave them to me.
And in a bag they have been at the bottom of my closet.
Until today.
All three pairs of pants fit.
The skirts are getting close.
I tried on the dress that I wore when I defended my master's thesis in 1998.
It fits.
Again.
And this morning, after my regular Monday morning weigh in at Simply for Life, I reached my second goal.
Gone.
Never, ever to return.
At least not on this body.
Anyone else who wants them can have them with my blessing.
Title Lyric: Resolve by The Foo Fighters.
All was not as planned yesterday.
I actually didn't get to meeting. Bed was more appealing and necessary as I haven't been sleeping well this last week.
Stephen did go, though, so I didn't feel as guilty as I could have.
I managed to get myself out of bed around 1.00 pm, and came to the conclusion that I was just tired of being sick and in bed, and I was going to get up and get something done.
That I was not going to bed in the evening without having accomplished something.
Resolve.
I had it.
And I knew how to use it.
I marked interviews until Stephen came home.
At which time I said that if we didn't face the elephant in the room, the small-car-dog-dilemma, we were going to continue to live in absolute misery until our car was returned.
So, we put on our coats, hats, mitts, scarves, leashed the hounds and put them in the car.
They were the car.
Just enough room for the two of them to squeeze in there without getting their tails caught in the door.
Just.
I drove, as Stephen had to act as bouncer.
Arm across the space between the two front seats, he was on guard for the entire drive.
Frankie and Tikka didn't know what to do with themselves in such unrestrained quarters.
There wasn't much they could do, given there wasn't any room, however, they are a creative duo and I wasn't willing to even contemplate what kinds of chicanery they could get up to.
Of course, because we wanted to take our dogs out, our usual spot was out of order.
Trucks either bringing in or moving out hay driving up and down the road we normally walk on.
We had to find another spot, which usually isn't a problem at the potato research center.
But it was yesterday.
First off, if I was working up there, Monday to Friday, 8-4 or whatever the working hours are, I'd refuse to go to work until they properly plowed the roads.
Snow I don't mind.
But this was a melange of ice and slush and snow and ruts big enough to hold an oil tanker.
Imagine the thrills we experienced in the Fiesta.
We finally decided to park the car and walk down this little used road that connects to the Draco Road.
We didn't anticipate any traffic, as the road, outside of two slim walking paths on either side, was completely covered in ice.
A veritable skating rink.
Watching Frankie try to run and leap and chase and cavort on this sheet of ice was worth the price of potentially falling.
He just couldn't figure out how come he couldn't get all his legs working together.
Tikka stood on the sidelines, shaking her head, murmuring, "amateur" under her breath.
And it was COLD up there.
No trees to act as windblockers and acres and acres of empty fields meant Dawne should have worn her hat no matter how hard a time she has keeping it on her head.
And I asked Stephen if it was cold before we even left the house.
Of course, he claims he's been going through andropause for the last decade, so an accurate teller of weather he is not.
I should have known better.
Nonetheless, cold or not, the dogs had a good run and we were able to spend the remainder of the day in a bark-free house.
Hoo-rah!
Because Em was one bark away from severing their vocal cords.
I now believe I'm losing weight.
I didn't believe it before.
But at this very moment, I am wearing a pair of pants I've had in my closet for years, and have never worn.
In fact, this pair of pants is friends with two other pairs of pants and two skirts.
None of which I have ever been able to wear because they were too small, or I was too big, or both.
A friend gave them to me.
And in a bag they have been at the bottom of my closet.
Until today.
All three pairs of pants fit.
The skirts are getting close.
I tried on the dress that I wore when I defended my master's thesis in 1998.
It fits.
Again.
And this morning, after my regular Monday morning weigh in at Simply for Life, I reached my second goal.
50 pounds!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Gone.
Never, ever to return.
At least not on this body.
Anyone else who wants them can have them with my blessing.
Title Lyric: Resolve by The Foo Fighters.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Stuffy nose and runny brain. . .to jumpy to stand still. . .
February 20, 2011
Outside of taking the kids to work in the morning, having a shower, changing the bed, and getting groceries with Stephen, I spent most of yesterday in bed.
The only day since I've been sick where I didn't have to get up and stay up for the day.
I slept a little bit.
Finished The Weed that Strings the Hangman's Bag.
Excellent book, by the way. I strongly recommend it. But read The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie first.
I just can't seem to sleep for more than a couple of hours at a time before my inability to breathe through my nose and the hacking cough wakes me up.
Or I am experiencing mind shattering leg cramps because the dead weight that is a sleeping Frankie has been leaning against me all night.
Return my car and be well.
Is that really too much to ask for?
I'm at the frustrated part of being sick.
The space in between oh-no-I'm-sick-and-just-want-to-rest and I-don't-think-I'll-ever-be-well-again-and-this-will-be-my-lot-in-life-for-ever-and-ever-but-I-have-things-to-do.
Where you do things because you're feeling well, and then all of a sudden your body reminds you that the control you think you have is tenuous at best, and really just non existent.
Your body will do what it wants to do.
And if it wants to rest while you're in the middle of marking interviews, tough shit.
Rest it is.
So, today I will attempt to do both: rest and work.
Balance.
In an effort to move past whatever obnoxious virus has taken up seemingly permanent residence on my insides.
Grocery shopping when I'm feeling well is a challenge.
When sick, I approach grocery shopping the way Gordon Ramsey approaches lazy, poorly trained, unprofessional chefs in his kitchen.
There were several instances, while we were attempting to negotiate through the throng of shoppers who thought it was perfectly fine to stop in the middle of the aisle for a chat like long lost friends who just saw one another yesterday, or fuming at the woman bogarting the red peppers and honeycrisp apples to the point where no one was able to get near enough to even see how many peppers and apples were available for purchase, where I looked at Stephen and said "if you do not move me away from here, I may do something I won't regret."
I wanted to throw a full fledged, all out Gordon Ramsay inspired temper tantrum of astronomical proportions because I was just sick and tired of being pushed and pulled, bounced back and forth like a ball in a pinball machine all because I wanted my regular brand of coffee and I wanted to get out of the grocery store before I, in a fevered state, start pushing aside grocery carts and people with reckless abandon.
Fever, plus congestion that is so intense I may only be alive because I'm breathing through my hair follicles doesn't make me amenable to the woman who was hovering around the cold medicines like a helicopter over a landing pad.
Don't get between me and my Buckley's night time cold pills.
The fact that they don't work for longer than a couple of hours means nothing.
Two hours is better than nothing.
We could have left the grocery shopping for Monday, but I have other things to do on Monday.
If I was better organized, I would make sure I went grocery shopping when there weren't so many people around.
I was also worried the kids would start eating one another if we didn't replenish the necessities.
I have to be well today, at least enough to get myself to Quaker meeting and afterwards, pull together an application for government funding to hopefully enable me to hire a student over the summer, and mark interviews for my advanced methods class.
Government funding is always a crap shoot.
Last year I applied for five students with the hope of getting one.
It worked.
Then.
But maybe not now.
Let's hope.
Otherwise the other book project I have on the go will never be finished.
Yes, the other book project.
The one I don't talk about because then I'd have to admit that I may be in way over my head until I can get a sabbatical to be able to finish it.
A sabbatical is sounding really, really good right now.
And I really, really hate marking.
Like grocery shopping, it's something I don't even like when I'm feeling well.
Title Lyric: Oh, the Congestion by Piebald
Outside of taking the kids to work in the morning, having a shower, changing the bed, and getting groceries with Stephen, I spent most of yesterday in bed.
The only day since I've been sick where I didn't have to get up and stay up for the day.
I slept a little bit.
Finished The Weed that Strings the Hangman's Bag.
Excellent book, by the way. I strongly recommend it. But read The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie first.
I just can't seem to sleep for more than a couple of hours at a time before my inability to breathe through my nose and the hacking cough wakes me up.
Or I am experiencing mind shattering leg cramps because the dead weight that is a sleeping Frankie has been leaning against me all night.
Return my car and be well.
Is that really too much to ask for?
I'm at the frustrated part of being sick.
The space in between oh-no-I'm-sick-and-just-want-to-rest and I-don't-think-I'll-ever-be-well-again-and-this-will-be-my-lot-in-life-for-ever-and-ever-but-I-have-things-to-do.
Where you do things because you're feeling well, and then all of a sudden your body reminds you that the control you think you have is tenuous at best, and really just non existent.
Your body will do what it wants to do.
And if it wants to rest while you're in the middle of marking interviews, tough shit.
Rest it is.
So, today I will attempt to do both: rest and work.
Balance.
In an effort to move past whatever obnoxious virus has taken up seemingly permanent residence on my insides.
Grocery shopping when I'm feeling well is a challenge.
When sick, I approach grocery shopping the way Gordon Ramsey approaches lazy, poorly trained, unprofessional chefs in his kitchen.
There were several instances, while we were attempting to negotiate through the throng of shoppers who thought it was perfectly fine to stop in the middle of the aisle for a chat like long lost friends who just saw one another yesterday, or fuming at the woman bogarting the red peppers and honeycrisp apples to the point where no one was able to get near enough to even see how many peppers and apples were available for purchase, where I looked at Stephen and said "if you do not move me away from here, I may do something I won't regret."
I wanted to throw a full fledged, all out Gordon Ramsay inspired temper tantrum of astronomical proportions because I was just sick and tired of being pushed and pulled, bounced back and forth like a ball in a pinball machine all because I wanted my regular brand of coffee and I wanted to get out of the grocery store before I, in a fevered state, start pushing aside grocery carts and people with reckless abandon.
Fever, plus congestion that is so intense I may only be alive because I'm breathing through my hair follicles doesn't make me amenable to the woman who was hovering around the cold medicines like a helicopter over a landing pad.
Don't get between me and my Buckley's night time cold pills.
The fact that they don't work for longer than a couple of hours means nothing.
Two hours is better than nothing.
We could have left the grocery shopping for Monday, but I have other things to do on Monday.
If I was better organized, I would make sure I went grocery shopping when there weren't so many people around.
I was also worried the kids would start eating one another if we didn't replenish the necessities.
I have to be well today, at least enough to get myself to Quaker meeting and afterwards, pull together an application for government funding to hopefully enable me to hire a student over the summer, and mark interviews for my advanced methods class.
Government funding is always a crap shoot.
Last year I applied for five students with the hope of getting one.
It worked.
Then.
But maybe not now.
Let's hope.
Otherwise the other book project I have on the go will never be finished.
Yes, the other book project.
The one I don't talk about because then I'd have to admit that I may be in way over my head until I can get a sabbatical to be able to finish it.
A sabbatical is sounding really, really good right now.
And I really, really hate marking.
Like grocery shopping, it's something I don't even like when I'm feeling well.
Title Lyric: Oh, the Congestion by Piebald
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