Life Goes On

Nothing fun here, folks - move right along...I'm recovering from another 10 hours of driving this past weekend to see my dad.  He managed to fall and break his hip a few weeks ago; but he was sent home from the hospital without surgery because the surgeon thought it might kill him.  So now he is stuck in a hospital bed at home and pretty much what was left of his mind has gone bye-bye.  I brought the 3 oldest with me to see him, hating myself for not getting them up there a month ago when he could understand who they were and could hold a reasonable facsimile of a conversation. 

Too late, too late, too late....

I reserved rooms for us in a decent hotel, knowing that I would need a good night's sleep to drive home.  Especially since I had been up since 3:30 AM the morning we left, because Susie was still sick and tossing and turning at night.  Unfortunately, the other guests on our hotel wing were holding a multi-room bachelor party, complete with running up and down the halls, banging on doors, yelling, slamming doors, etc.  ALL NIGHT.  I don't know how I managed that drive home on Sunday.

But I did, and here I am.  There's no point calling my dad anymore, he can't seem to understand me on the phone.  I had been in the habit of calling and saying hi every day.  So, in a way, it feels like he is dead, even though he obviously he isn't.  I feel guilty, guilty, guilty for feeling as though he isn't really there anymore.  "Dad's doing great - he was really alert this morning and talking!" claims my brother.  But he doesn't remember we visited, and he's talking about things that no longer exist - his defunct accounting business, etc.  He keeps asking to get up out of bed, not understanding that his hip is broken. 

So, yeah, not too much fun.  But I made more peach jam today and signed David up for a lifeguarding course and did my Tuesday drive to Civil Air Patrol.  Life goes on, and maybe that's what feels weirdest of all.

Why I Hate Craigslist

My beloved

Some of you may recall that, last December (while Larry was busy wrecking our house), I indulged in a teeny bit of revenge shopping that involved my finally buying the IKEA bedframe I had been coveting for at least 3 years.  You know, the one Larry didn't like much, averse as he is to all things IKEA and most modern furniture.  Oh, we had tried to compromise for a while - he kept scouring Craig's list for what he thought were similar bedframes that he liked, leaving pictures up on my browser of heavy pieces of furniture, old-fashioned monstrosities of the type that someone's grandparents most likely drew their last breaths in.

Seriously, people, these pieces of furniture all but screamed COFFIN.  If you want to be depressed by the knowledge of just how much ugly furniture exists in this world, just browse Craigslist for an hour or so.  Make sure you have Prozac handy - you'll need it.

Cheaper than a bed frame

The upshot being that, despite having been married for over 20 years, we were sleeping on a mattress on the floor like 2 cohabiting college kids.  All we were missing were the cinder-block bookcase and the lava lamp.  This situation was bearable until Larry turned our living room into a construction zone, at which point I snapped and made a therapeutic trip to IKEA.

Where was I going with this?  Oh, yes, so now I should be happy, right?  I've got my bed frame, Larry put our living area back together, things are great.  EXCEPT one thing - every single night, I tiptoe into our darkened bedroom (Susie falls asleep in our bed every night, because we are lousy parents who can't even figure out how to make an 8-year-old fall asleep in her own bed and we are okay with our ineptitude, thank you very much) - I tiptoe into our dark bedroom and, without fail, slam my hip into the footboard of my long-desired Hemnes black-brown queen bed frame.

Every. Darn. Night.

Sometimes Larry is already in bed, asleep; and, awakened by my cursing, he smiles into the darkness (I can feel it, I swear) with a special sort of pleasure -- you know, that pleasure engendered by the knowledge that poetic justice does indeed exist, if you are but patient enough to wait for it.  He who laughs last, indeed...

[Lava lamp image: ThisNext]

I Want A New Drug

Not a cure-all, apparently

My children are busy trying to push me over the edge with their various summer ailments. I've been up 2 nights in a row with a suffering Susie, who's been running high fevers and complaining of earache and headache and sore throat. Aside from overdosing her with antibiotic ear drops for her swimmer's ear and Advil for her aches and pains, I hadn't done much. Until this morning, when -- having spent several hours last night listening to her cry and expecting her eardrum to burst any moment (all while thinking But it's only swimmer's ear, dammit, what the heck is going on here?) -- I dragged myself out of bed, showered, dressed, and made an appointment at our doctor's office.

Grabbing my purse, I said, "Susie! Let's go! We're seeing the doctor in half an hour!"

 "What about me?" asked Brian, who was sitting at the dining room table and reading the comics.

 "What ABOUT you?" I asked back, rushing around looking for my phone and my sunglasses.

 "Don't I get to go to the doctor, too?" he asked.

 "Why? You're not sick," I said.

Maybe I should have noticed these.

Folks, the look that registered on that poor kid's face all but screamed I guess I really am on my own here.

"I've been using David's old CRUTCHES for 5 DAYS," he said.

 "Oh, oh that," I said, my sleep-deprived brain registering that I might have just dropped the ball in a major sort of way. "Um, tomorrow - I'm taking you tomorrow.  We, uh, need to make sure the swelling is down before the x-ray is taken.  Yeah, that's it - the swelling."

"Oh, okay, then," said Brian, turning back to the paper.

Kids!  They're so trusting.  But they shouldn't be.

Just felt like a little music here...

Editor's Lament

Well, when I can spare time from my busy schedule of blogging and avoiding housework, I have been perusing careerbuilder.com and monster.com for gainful employment.  What I have discovered is, despite having had a real job requiring real skills for the past 4 years, I am still not remotely qualified for any of the positions in my field that are posted on those sites.  You see, a typical job announcement reads as follows:

Requirements: the ability to produce an entire magazine (including but not limited to brainstorming innovative, Pulitzer-worthy article topics; producing fresh content daily for magazine website and its Twitter/Facebook/Pinterest/Vine accounts; overseeing production of print layouts and web graphics), while directing a team of people to help you do same.  Minimum 100 years experience doing similar work needed.  Working familiarity with every single computer program known to man required. 

Yes, something like that...

Someone tell me - where are the jobs for moderately skilled people with a few years experience in their field?  Whither the introverted copy editor with the unerring eye who checks galleys and proofs?   Must we all be creative team leaders?  Who the heck is on the teams, anyway?  I never see job openings for those positions.

Also?  If you foolishly upload your resume to one of these websites (in order to apply for a job for which you are not even qualified), you will receive phone calls and emails from EVERY SINGLE INSURANCE COMPANY IN EXISTENCE, offering you a marketing position.  Even though you are not looking for a sales job - no, not one bit.

The worst part is, I know I'm needed out there, people.  Just look - on Tuesday, The New York Times (the gold standard so far as quality journalism is concerned) published this headline:

Three Men, Three Ages.  Who Do You Like?*

As far as I'm concerned, that is a blatant cry for help.  Who is writing their headlines, anyway?  Honest Toddler?


*Three Men, Three Ages: Whom Do You Like?  You're welcome, NYT.  Call me.


[image credit: EagleiOnline]

Nostalgia

Well! Our summer fun has come to a CRASHING halt, what with Susie's case of swimmer's ear and Brian's sprained ankle.  What really bugs me is that I PAID GOOD MONEY for swimming lessons for Susie this year, just so she could swim in the deep end with everyone else without my having to worry (much).  That great idea really came back to bite me, didn't it?

What's that?  How did Brian sprain his ankle?  Gosh, wouldn't it be nice to know?  Unfortunately, that will always remain a mystery.  Apparently,  he woke up in his sleeping bag at the Boy Scout camp-out this past Sunday morning and couldn't put any weight on his foot.  We don't know if he was sleepwalking (he's done that a few times over the years, and let's just not think about the scenario of his wandering into the woods at night in the mountains of West Virginia) or if he slept on it funny, or what.  The upshot is, he gets to hobble around on David's old crutches whilst enjoying just a little too much the privilege of being waited on. 

Golly, I miss band camp.  Those were the good old days, weren't they?