Hardly working...

I'm working on a major post, people. I really am. I even set this evening as my personal deadline. But I'm struggling with it, because, well, I'm out of practice, and when you're the boss of yourself and you miss a deadline, it's not like you can get fired from being yourself. I try to do things like insist I can't have ice cream until the post is done, but then I just sit and stare at the computer and think "ice cream. ice cream. ice cream." and then I go get a bowl, and halfway through I remember I wasn't supposed to have any until the post I haven't started yet was completed. And I can't just let it melt, because that would be wasteful. 

And by "major post" I don't mean to make you feel like I have any big news, because I don't. It's a book review of the Fifty Shades of Grey trilogy. There. Now I've told you, so you won't get all hot and bothered wondering what I'll write.

Or perhaps now you'll get more hot and bothered. I can't be responsible for what makes y'all hot and bothered. 

I just said "hot and bothered" three times in a row. How fun.

For productive procrastination, I vacuumed the TV room, did five loads of laundry, and bathed the girl. And it's not even suppertime yet. 

Meanwhile, enjoy this self-portraits, as I am trying to create a photo of myself for my profile picture here that isn't too lame. Since no one takes pictures of me but me, These are as good as they get. So far. Please offer your suggestions. Should I wear my hair down? Lose the orange shirt? (I mean change shirts, not go topless. This is a family blog). Or are you happy to look at one of these for the next six months?

 Teachery. With my Johnson nose extra-prominent (I love my family features, I do. It's just that this photo over-emphasizes it for me. And I also look like I'm about to burst into tears).

Or this one, wherein I played with the color balance to give the illusion of liver failure and intensely blotchy skin. Here I think I'm more angry than tearful, though. 

As always, I welcome your comments, positive or not, and your ads for Viagra. Now leave me be. I have a book review to write.

Summertime!

Grades went in on Monday, so today is my second official day of summer. I thought you'd like to share in the joy that is my to-do list.

Walk the girl to school: done.
Morning nap: done.
Clean the kitchen: contemplated.
Selfish thrift-store shopping: done. Sweet $3 red mary janes scored. Photos to follow.
Mow the backyard: done. I had to restart that poor mower four times, but I got it done.
Pick the girl up from school, walking the dog to and fro: done.
Clean the dining room: considered.
Make a tasty supper that somehow includes broccoli: done. Unanimously voted as tasty.
Sew myself a cute summer purse: done. Photos to follow.

It was a pretty great way to start my summer. Hope your day was full of things you like, too.

Naked Face (with an obscene gesture warning)

The truth is, all three of my long-term romantic relationships were with brown-haired men with red beards. I dated Tom, off and on, for over 8 years (there's a post about him coming up soon, too). We started dating when I was 14 and he was 15, so I didn't know he had a red beard at the time, but by the end, he'd been bearded for a good while. A year later, when I brought Matt home to Hendrum for the first time, Sam at the gas station said "Is that Tom in the car with you??" Um, awkward...No, Sam. That's my new boyfriend who just happens to look like Tom.

It turns out the third time's the charm.

Shaun and I first met because of Dan & Tenessa. Dan and Shaun worked together at WDAY, a local newstation, and I was in D & T's apartment one day (they lived just above me) and saw a photo of this handsome young man with dark hair and a red beard. "He's cute," I said.Tenessa's cupid sensor lit up and they told me about this Shaun Ganyo fellow. I liked him long before we met.

 He had a beard when we started dating. During the 2 1/2 years before we got married, he sometimes went down to a goatee, and shaved it off totally just once. I prefer the beard. My favorite look of his is above, with short hair and a ridiculously long beard. People tend to come up to him and ask stupid questions about it, when it's that long. It makes me happy.

Mostly, he has a beard because he's lazy. Shaving takes work, apparently. But every now and again, he gets his monstrous beard trimmed, or I trim it. Above is Christmas this year. I think we trimmed it because the weekend before we'd gone to his parents' house, and his mom really, really likes it when his beard isn't too crazy.

One of the first things we talked about when he got fired was him shaving his beard. He hasn't shaved it off in over ten years; V's never seen him without it, and we've established I have a clear preference. And he's still lazy. I talked him into keeping the beard, but cutting it way back, to a reasonable length. Above is a couple of weeks ago, out at the lake. Well-groomed, non-ZZTop-ish. 

 But he hasn't gotten a job yet. And he read something online that said bearded men are less likely to be chosen in a job search when cleanshaven men are also applying. So I gave in and said he could shave it. Last night, with V's help, he cut off the well-groomed red and gray whiskers. In trying to get a picture of him cleanshaven, though, he refused to let me see him unless he was flipping the camera off. So my apologies, gentle readers, for the delicate among you.

But here he is. Would you hire this guy? Would you marry him? 

Here's hoping it unlocks all kinds of employment opportunities. V just calls him "Naked Faced Daddy" now, but if we can call him employed, it will all have been worth it. Besides, it'll grow back right quick, once he's securely working and they like him too much to let him go.

Just like me.



Something rancid this way comes

V and I went out of town this weekend after a very busy Friday. We left Shaunsie home alone and had our own adventures, and wandered home yesterday evening. Mondays are one of my days to sleep in, so I didn't really venture into the kitchen until late this morning. And there was a smell. I mean, a Smell. Like a peach sat in a hot car for a few days, and then you put it on a plate in a small, closed, damp room. Only worse.

At first I thought I'd been watching too much CSI. I could hear Nick say  to Warrick (because in my heart, Warrick isn't dead), "You smell that?" and  Warrick raises his handsome eyebrow and knowingly mutters, "Decomp."

So I looked for the body. The three of us were accounted for, thankfully, and Seven was wandering around by my feet. Ah, the fish! Oh, poor fish. Wait, he's not dead. He was just sitting still. I checked the garbage disposal (ick), took out the garbage, opened and closed cupboards and the fridge, trying to figure out 1. what had died here and 2. where it was, exactly. My mind raced: we've never had mice in this house (knock on wood), and I hate mice with a white hot passion. (I may hate mice more than I hate squirrels. No, I only hate mice when they're in houses. I hate squirrels everywhere.) I swept under the stove. No corpse, but I found that old Martha Stewart's Halloween Issue I thought I'd left at Crystal's.

Then I started to get worried. Hallucinations of smells is a sign of a brain tumor, right? I mean if everything starts smelling like pickles, I'm probably gonna die. But this smell was clearly in the kitchen, somewhere between the sink and the trash, and it certainly didn't smell anything like pickles.

Finally, under a cream-colored kitchen towel on the counter above the dishwasher, I found the source. A baggie with just a bit of raw chicken, somehow left behind from Thursday's supper prep, hidden under the towel. Four days on my kitchen counter was plenty of time for terrible things to happen. I was totally relieved, and totally grossed out, and vowed to keep a cleaner kitchen. For now, I've got four scented candles and some incense going on in there, and I'm gonna go eat some pickles.

Me and my Lazy Eye

In "Go Carolina," David Sedaris, upon hearing from his speech therapist that his lisp was due to his lazy tongue, describes his reaction.

"My sisters Amy and Gretchen were, at the time, undergoing therapy for their lazy eyes, while my older sister, Lisa, had been born with a lazy leg that had refused to grow at the same rate as its twin. She'd worn a corrective brace for the first two years of her life, and wherever she roamed she left a trail of scratch marks in the soft pine floor. I liked the idea that a part of one's body might be thought of as lazy — not thoughtless or hostile, just unwilling to extend itself for the betterment of the team." (Me Talk Pretty One Day).

In April, then, when I noticed in the mirror that my right eye was a little wonky, I figured it just wasn't playing nicely with the other eye. And then I thought maybe it was because of Peter Falk, known for, among other things, his lack of focused eyes. Since he died this year, I figured the universe needed to balance the number of lazy eyes in the world, so I was selected. (This is how I think, people. If you don't know that by now, you haven't been paying attention). At first I was honored, but then I remembered that Peter Falk's eye wasn't just lazy: it was dead (surgically removed because of childhood cancer). So...um, I don't want a dead eye.

Once I saw it in the mirror (and I looked a lot, because it's really distressing and hard to actually see in a mirror), I noticed I was having difficulty focusing, especially when wearing my glasses, and especially when I was tired. Then I noticed that while driving and wearing my glasses, I had trouble with depth perception (which makes sense, if you think about it: if one eye's looking up Broadway and one is looking across, it's hard to judge how far it is to the crosswalk). I started wearing my contacts more regularly. I thought about getting an eye patch. It made me giggle.

(I look more upset than I really am in this photo: I'm just being silly. It's not a remotely flattering picture, but I don't want you to think I'm just blithering on about nothing. See? I look like Peter Falk. Oh, and it's not usually this bad. Just when I'm tired and not wearing my contacts.)

I went to the optometrist in July, for my yearly check up. I told her I was worried about this wonky eye business, and as she examined me, she kept saying "Huh." Not like "Excuse me, what did you say?" but more like "Huh; that's weird." Now there are many things you don't want professionals to say while they're looking your direction. For example, you hope your dentist doesn't say "Oops" during a root canal; you'd prefer your ob/gyn doesn't say "Sweet holy Moses!" at any point at all....and you don't want your optometrist to say "Huh...." over and over.  It turns out that it's really not normal to develop a lazy eye as an adult. It's almost always a childhood affliction, and important to correct right away as the brain is developing. My old brain is fully developed, though, which is why my focus and depth perception get messed up so easily. And why it surprised Dr. Optomitrist.

Anyhoo, Dr. O sent me to an opthalmologist; Dr. Opthalmologist seemed to think my laziness was unimpressive (which, frankly, was a bit disappointing), and I likely just need to do some exercises of some sort, or perhaps some motivational activities to get the right eye back on board as a team player. To learn those, though, I have to go to an eye muscle specialist (whose fancy title I don't recall). The eye muscle specialist is in high demand, and also not local, apparently, because he's only here one day a month. Which means I can't see him until late November. By then, my right eye could have just migrated right out of my head, for all I know. But I guess we'll wait and see (ha! Vision humor!). I'll keep you posted, even if you don't want me to. Peter Falk would want it this way.

Mail call

One thing about sending a letter or better everyday to the same person is I become very concerned with repeating myself. My life is not all that fascinating (said the blogger...ha ha ha...), and though my craft supplies are extensive, I still strive to mix things up in most any way I can think of. Here are 5 recent letters, ready to be stamped and mailed. They come from a boxed set of blank cards I found at Michael's; I love the rich colors. But different colors do not make interesting enough distinctions after a while, I find. So I practice my best penmanship on one address, then make my letters blocky and s   p   r   e   a   d    o    u   t  for the next one. I wish I had mastered calligraphy, or at least practiced more. Or could at least find those fancy pens. Must search through more crafting boxes!

(The return address IS repetitive, I realize, but it's a self-inking kinda thing that I just rediscovered, and it makes me happy. So much for mixing things up.)

ps: I've almost reached my 106 posts goal! Wheeee!

List #10.5: More mediocre but heartfelt gift ideas!

Thanks for tuning in for part #2. If you missed part #1, go here first. Thank you for your patronage.

4. As I mentioned in earlier gift posts, gift cards are pretty lame, overall. But if you're out of time, sometimes it's the only thing you can do. In this case, consider something out of the ordinary. Target & Amazon are really fun, sure, but not especially memorable. I mean, I've appreciated every gift card I've ever received, but I don't remember what I bought with hardly any of them. Consider Sock Dreams, who will e-mail your gift card to your recipient. On the other end of the spectrum, consider an Ax-Man gift card. I'm not sure if they even sell gift cards, but Tenessa once gave me a fancy handwritten slip of paper that said she'd buy me $25 worth of stuff from Ax-man. This meant we got to go together (and do you have ANY IDEA what $25 will buy at Ax-man?) and share the joy. So, so much joy.

3. Perhaps you're broke, or trying to save up for rhinoplasty, or just don't know where you put your wallet. That's okay. Look around your house and find something your recipient would enjoy. Now, I'm not talking about cleaning out your dryer's lint trap for your sister, here, unless she's really into that. But perhaps she has always loved your silver dollar key chain, or has never read your favorite novel. There is nothing wrong with a used gift, especially if it is well loved by all parties. Be careful to avoid lovingly used items such as toothbrushes or panties, though. Wait...it depends on the recipient again. Never mind.

2. Consider simplicity. My friend Joel used to (and may still...we haven't talked about this in awhile) go to a bookstore on December 23rd or 24th and do all his shopping in one afternoon. I adore this idea: any decent bookstore will hold all kinds of inspiration and something for everyone on your list.

1. Go big or go home. This can create all kinds of awkwardness, but really, isn't that what the holidays are all about? Scrimp and save all year and/or take out a new credit card and buy ridiculously extravagant gifts for everyone on your list. Trips are almost always breathtaking, for example, and couldn't your mail carrier use a week in Vegas? Your mother-in-law may only buy you socks and underwear every year, but that doesn't mean you can't get her a 300 carat sapphire pendant that makes that Titanic necklace look quaint. It may raise eyebrows, but I guarantee she'll never forget this Christmas.

Time's a-wasting, people. Get to work, get your gifts done, and then eat some cookies and drink some 'nog. May your gift giving be even more rewarding than your gift receiving.

Photogenic

I really do love taking pictures. I love capturing a moment on film (or digitally), and I love how a photo can bring back a memory (or even help me maintain a memory).

But I am ridiculously cheap. I mean, it's pretty silly. Spending a large amount of money on myself, especially, is not easy, unless it's for travelling, or education (I had little trouble going $20K into debt for college and grad school, for example). But clothes? I bought one $7 shirt last year, and kept it in the bag for two weeks because I felt guilty, and thought I should return it. In the end I didn't, because it's flattering and great for work, but it wasn't easy for me, because on Mondays at Saver's I can get seven shirts for that amount of money.

Mercy, though, I like taking pictures. As Shaun says, "You fancy yourself a shutterbug." I just love learning the tricks of an individual camera, and figuring out how to make it record exactly what I want.

These two attributes of mine, my cheapness and my shutterbuggery, are somewhat opposed, though. Our first digital camera, bought just after V was born, was small and sweet, and fun. But it wore out. Our next one was a spare my in-laws had, when there was a Christmas overlap gift of a digital camera. I'm still using that one, but it's getting more and more difficult to turn on: I lick the batteries, I press buttons, I whisper sweet nothings in its camera-ear; nothing seems to do it. (Can I get camera viagra anywhere?)

At the same time we got the in-laws cameras, Myra got a hand-me down Nikon from some dear friends who were upgrading.  I acquisitioned it, since I am the family member most skilled in improvsing repairs: It needed the battery closure to be held shut with duct tape, and I'm more than happy to duct tape anything, especially if it means I get a decent camera out of the deal.


Now, though, that battery door has come off completely, and it's just a huge production to try to make even one photograph happen in either camera. I've been using Jess and Brad's Olympus OM 35mm,and I really love it, truly. At the same time, now I've got film and development to worry about, and I have to pay extra to get the photo CD in case there's anything worth sharing online....

So I'm starting, regretfully, to be in the market for a new camera. My sister has an amazing, breathtaking, ridiculously fancy camera that would make photos of Shaun's toenails look like art. I'm not sure we can afford such a camera, but perhaps then we should save up until we can. I love the idea of a digital SLR.

Dear readers, have you any suggestions? Is digital photography so last year? Should I invest in $1000 camera if it means forgoing potential dental work for a year? What's a reasonable amount and what are minimums you look for in a digital camera? Or, contrarily, if you've got a digital camera to give away, or to sell real cheap, I'll be more than happy to take one off your hands. I promise to give it a good home.

Crushing guilt. As usual.

So I've always been good at feeling bad. I still feel bad for dumb things I did in 1st grade. What is wrong with me? That can't be normal. See? I feel bad for feeling bad.

Shaun's illness has offered lots of new opportunities for guilt. Guilt for serving sodium-laden food all these years. Guilt when I crave (and can eat) carry-out pizza. Guilt when I forget to start the sodium-free pot roast, so he has to have a salt-free peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Again.

Then there's the generalized guilt: Guilt for not blogging more, guilt for posting whiny blog posts like this one, guilt that V watches too much tv, guilt that I don't get my papers graded faster, guilt that I don't write more letters/eat more vegetables/go to the library more.

And I know all the stuff about forgiving myself, and moving on, and taking steps to let go of guilt. And I feel guilty for not doing them.

Mostly, I'm posting about all my guilt so that I can get it out of me, air it out, and move on. We'll see how well that works.

Caramel Apple Debacle

How to make caramel apples.

1. Get your mom to bring you an entire paper grocery sack full of the apples from her backyard trees.2. Scrounge in your own backyard for suitable sticks. Not too thick, not too thin, not too gross. Gnarly is good, though.

3. Shove sticks into apples. (It's not as hard as it sounds).

4. Warm store-bought caramel on very low heat. Act smug, thinking to yourself of all those complex, candy-thermometer requiring recipes you read about online. Home made caramel is for suckers with more time than you.

5. Dip apples in caramel. Swirl them around, get them good and coated. Place on waxed paper.

6. Watch caramel pool around the bottom of the apples. Think about what this means. Imagine smushing it back up onto the apple when it cools a little more.

7. Realize this is not working.

8. Feel chagrin about step #4. Mutter about this turning out to be a sucky thing to blog about.

9. Blog about it anyway.

10. Find candy thermometer. Look up "homemade caramel apple recipes" on line.

Late autumn/early winter plans

I am famous at our house for having big plans and then getting terribly disappointed in myself when those big plans don’t come to fruition. In many ways, I epitomize my Grandma Minnie’s saying, “The road to hell is paved with good intentions.” Anyhoo, I thought I might be more likely to actually accomplish things if I wrote them down and shared them publicly.

· Think of something easy and impressive for Shaun to be for Halloween (hint: send suggestions. Stat).
· Make this lovely blanket. My sister’s allergic to wool, so she won’t steal it from me, and that’s always a plus. I have some already, but also welcome your donations of sweaters that are at least 75% wool. In case you were wondering.
· Get the air conditioner out of our bedroom window. You’d think I wouldn’t have to write this down, since it's almost November. But you’d be wrong.
· Meet Violet, my friends Josh & Tami’s daughter, who was born in freaking May (“freaking” because I cannot believe how bad of a friend I am, having not yet met this child).
· Make curtains for the family room. (We have nasty bent up blinds right now, and they have really started annoying me).
· Write at least two blog posts a week, with a few about crafty things I’m working on.
· Make some Christmas gifts, and only post about ones for people who don’t read this blog.
· Clean the house: we’re hosting Thanksgiving.
· See my cousin Deron with new lungs. And my friend Heather. Then figure out why I know two people waiting for lung transplants.

This last one isn’t really in my control, but it’s something I’m desperately hoping for, so I’m listing it anyway. I’ll post more about Deron in the near future (unless he objects).

Okay, I think that’s it. Thanks for listening. And feel free to hold me to these with enthusiasm: badger me, ask me in public, demand results. That’s why I told you, after all. Help me help myself.

And keep your hands off my wool blanket.

Pajamas

Oh, the joy of a newborn baby: that soft, soft skin, the fuzzy hair, the cute little outfits. When V was first born, I didn’t mind much at all when she’d wet through or spit up, because there were 2,000 sweet baby outfits she was never gonna wear out anyway. Each clothing change was an opportunity! Look how cute she is! Isn’t that daaaarling? Dresses with ruffles and flowers, tartan skirts with black turtlenecks and knee-high biker boots, tank tops with shiny lettering: the kid had the most stylish (and diverse) wardrobe on the block.

Now, when it’s time to get dressed in the mornings (10 am or so, ‘round here), I usually ask V what she wants to wear. In the last few weeks, her answer has consistently been “Pajamas.” Sadly, that’s usually what she stays in: with no daycare, V is free to wander the house for days at a time, wearing the same jammies as the day before. Essentially, we’re too lazy to dress the child, and she doesn’t seem to mind.

Sometimes, though, a good song comes on the radio, and she’ll gaze up lovingly at Johnny Cash, pull on her pink cowgirl boots, and dance until her hair gets frizzy. Despite our best efforts, our daughter is discovering her own style. And though it scares me a little, I kinda like it.

Happy December Fool's Day

We had big plans of spending our Saturday with Auntie Jess and cousin Will. We were going to have homemade pizza for lunch, dance around to Christmas records, and try to do a photo shoot for Grandma Myra's holiday card. But then winter showed up.

For years I commuted 72 miles each way to work. In five years, I missed perhaps 3 days due to weather: a remarkable feat, considering how close we are to Canada and therefore the artic circle (please don't correct my geography. I'm writing for effect, not accuracy). Sometimes I had to hold my breath and hope the road was under me; once, a semi jacknifed right in front of me, crossing into my lane before slamming into the ditch.

I was proud of this driving record: I could drive in anything, and I told my students as much repeatedly. As a college with 75% of the population living on-campus, this school NEVER closed for weather, and I didn't want them to get out of class because I chose to live far away. But in 72 miles, I had to drive through three counties, each of which viewed plowing differently (the middle one felt it was completely optional. All season). For a time, when I had a sweet Honda CRX, the floor had rusted through, so the only thing between me and the elements was a thin piece of carpet, which quickly soaked through and froze to my pantsleg during the winter drive. Every day was an adventure, and I had no cell phone, either. I imagine these are the stories I'll use to convince V she has it easy in about 12 years.

The daughter changed all that, of course. I'm no longer willing to take risks like I did when it was just me, and not much seems worth venturing away from our cave-like home. We have the luxury, of course, of not having to use outside childcare, though this means it can sometimes be days before V goes outside at all. This winter, I'm working to fix that, with big plans of boots and snowpeople and just plain winter shenanigans.

But today, our first big storm of the year, at most we'll venture to the backyard. Pizza with the Auntie and cousin will wait, while we adjust to our transformed landscape and snuggle up in front of the tree.

Any normal blogger would now post a lovely wintery photo to show you the aforementioned landscape, but I haven't gotten that far yet today, so instead you get this: proof that we encourage all kinds of bad habits. Right after this photo, she had a whiskey sour and a cigar while cursing the 18 year old age limit on casino gambling.



Stay warm, dear friends, and may all your scratch-offs be winners.

Halftime report

No photos (out of shame/lack of noticable progress), but an update for those of you keeping score:

Papers graded: 20 (out of 80. gross.)

Midterm grades calculated: 20 (the last 20! Whee!)

Thrift stores visited: 4

Thrift items purchased: 2

Loads of laundry done since last night: 5

Loads of laundry put away since last night: 0

Songs on the radio sung along to loudly: 2 (long black veil and when the saints go marching in)

Trash bags filled from the living room: 1

Donation boxes filled from the living room: 1

Hours until I'm no longer home alone: 20 (or so)

The last time I was home alone, which was just a couple months ago, when I was working on the garage sale, I had so much to do I didn't think much of it. The time before that, about a year earlier, I was so tired I just needed to sleep a lot. But today, I feel completely torn. On the one hand, it is fabulous to go thrift store shopping and not feel rushed to get home, and I love watching just the crappiest TV and eating junk food without having to wait until naptime or negotiate (or share) with anybody. It makes me pine, just a tiny bit, for the year I was single before I met Shaun, when my time was my own and I was as balanced as I'd been in a long time. But it also (as absences should) makes my heart grow fonder: I miss V's voice and tiny hugs, and I like to sleep beside Shaun so much more than to sleep alone. Which is good.

That reminds me, I have some caramel rolls to eat up before tomorrow. And a room to clean. And miles to go before I sleep.

Only the truly lazy need apply.

About a year ago, my mother brought us the Best Thing Ever Invented: a purple dinosaur (Triceratops, I think) that shoots bubbles out its mouth. No more huffing and puffing. No more dripping bubble wands. Just pull the trigger, listen to a slightly louder than necessary motor whirring, and wait for the magic of bubbles to begin.

For parents as lazy as we, nothing could be better. And just look at the joy on that baby's face.

In other news, bubbles photograph beautifully in our house in the early evening. Who knew?

Freebird!

When Guitar Hero first came out for Playstation, I overheard one of my students telling the guy next to him about his job at Best Buy. He said with more disdain than I felt necessary: "Man, all these 30 year old guys come in and buy Guitar Hero, and tell me how they stayed up all weekend to beat it over at their friends house. If I'm still doing that when I'm 30, kill me. Don't these guys have anything better to do?" So I smiled at him politely and said "You're describing my husband and many of our friends," and then turned and rolled my eyes and gagged myself with a spoon. Why do I reveal my soft underbelly to their judgemental little brains?

So, uh, if you wanted to see this family socially, you're gonna have to come over and bring your X-Box guitar because we've got game. And don't expect much conversation, because we're concentrating very, very hard on our solos. (Psychobilly Freak out, anyone?) As a very minimally experienced classic rock girl (particularly with the song selection in Guitar Hero II), I have a disadvantage, so feel free to challenge me to a duel. But when the Johnny Cash version of this game comes out, I'll be the Queen.

For anyone still reading, V's surgery is set for Thursday, April 12th. We have to be at the hospital at 6 am (why does everyone need to be there at 6 am? Don't doctors like to sleep? At least the anesthesiologist must like to hit snooze a few times). Here's a link about her condition, for the curious or the morbid, or both. After check-in, we'll meet with various people involved, and they hope to begin the procedure by 8 am. We can't be with her during this part, but I think we can be with her as she comes out: the surgery takes 1-2 hours. Grandma Myra's coming around 8, and I finally decided to take the day off of work. I don't teach until 1 on Thursdays, but I don't imagine I'm going to have much to offer my class that day after hours at the hospital.

So if you get a chance, think of us on Thursday, and send us healing heart vibes, or something. In the meantime, practice your Sweet Child O' Mine. We'll be ready for you.