Day 335: Flowers. I hate them.

Flowers.

I hate them.

I hate their crinkly cellophane wrapping. I hate their sticky leaves and limp petals. I hate searching the house for a vase, and I hate that when I finally find one and fill one, I always forget to stir in the white powder until after the flowers have been successfully installed.

I hate cutting stems.

My smallest pair of pruning shears have blades at least 18 inches long, and I can never find my scissors.

So I usually cut the stems with a steak knife.

It is really hard to cut stems at a 45 degree angle with a steak knife.

I hate arranging flowers and I hate finding a place to put them

I hate watering them.

I hate it when they wilt.

I hate it when they die.

I had fake flowers at my wedding.

My husband knows all this.

But he does not care.

A few weeks ago, he brought me home a gigantic bouquet of daisies.

I almost killed him.

(Except I didn't.)

Instead, I pointed out the possible gifts he could have purchased in lieu of flowers:
- Chocolate (Fair Trade white chocolate for special occasions or a Mars bar for everyday goodness)
- Chocolate milk (any size)
- Gum (peppermint)
- Art supplies (acrylic paint, canvas, brushes, pencils, erasers)
- Pet supplies (treats, poo bags, accessories)

Yes. I would rather have plastic baggies full of poo than flowers. However, if flowers are absolutely necessary, I mentioned the following as acceptable choices:

- Any bouquet with 5 flowers or less (and no green stuff or baby's breath). 
- Sunflowers
- Something in a pot full of dirt that I can stick outside and let the rain do the watering

When I first drafted the beginning of this post several weeks ago, I thought I was being clever and reasonable.

And then yesterday happened.

Yesterday, my husband had the day off.

When I have the day off, I sleep in. I might clean or run a few errands, but usually I spend the day sprawled on the couch, inhaling book after book, and only getting up when it is absolutely necessary.

That's not what Nathan does.

This is a man who had the day off. He looks relaxed and rested. 

But appearances can be deceiving.

This is a man who came to visit me at work and helped me make Christmas ornaments for the library.

This is a man who borrowed my keys … so he could put snow tires on my car.

This is a man who took out the garbage and shoveled the driveway and cleaned the house.

This is a man who cooked dinner … and cleaned up after.

This is a man who bought me a present … metal grips for my sneakers so I can run with Sam on the icy sidewalks and not be afraid of falling.

This is a man who led small group at our house.

This is a man who drove me to Walmart so I could choose cushions and a throw to dress up our new-to-us couch.

(This is also a man who drove to Oromocto on a snowy Sunday afternoon to pick up said couch.)

This is a man, up late reading, because he reached the climax of the story and had to find out what happened next.

This is the man who teaches me every day what it means to be truly selfless.

This is my husband – the man that I love – for all this and more.

But tomorrow, we will both wake up.

Tired and grumpy.

There will be bills to pay and a budget to balance and laundry to wash and dry and fold.

There will be stress and anxiety and misunderstandings and poor decisions.

We will not always get along.

He will ramble on about cars. And trucks. And four wheelers. And vacuums.

He will interrupt me repeatedly with non-essential facts about any or all of the above topics – especially when I'm trying to read or write.

(He will also play video games, rock music, or loud movies during that time.)

He will put his dirty work clothes on top of my clean laundry.  

He will put my clean work clothes in the dryer so I'm never sure if I'm gaining weight or if my clothes are actually shrinking.

He will steal every dish, mug, and fork that I own and squirrel them away in his truck until spring.

He will grunt when I'm pouring out my soul to him – and then tell me about a sweet muscle car he just saw on Kijiji.

He may even buy me flowers.

(Gasp! The unforgivable sin.)

But you know what?

I don't mind so much anymore.

I think next time, I might even enjoy them.

#FeelingBlessed

Day 333: The Coat

My favorite coat was green.

Not lime green or forest green, but a soft, muted green – the color of distant pines whose silhouettes are almost lost behind a blanket of falling snow.

The coat had stitching the colour of spun straw and reached halfway down to my knees. Its detachable hood was like a cave for my head. I could retreat deep inside its velvety softness, safe from the cold and wind, and observe the world from beneath its faux fur fringe.

The coat was warm and thick and durable and expensive and everything a favorite coat should be.

I bought it on sale at Marks about two winters ago – maybe three.

It's hard to remember now.

I don't usually pay that much for a single article of clothing, even on sale, but it had been a cold winter and I was a teacher who had outside duty more often than not. It was a good purchase.

Since I had never owned anything that nice before, I did my best to take care of the coat.

If you know me personally, you will know that I am not a naturally careful person.

But I did my best.

I always draped the coat over a chair instead of dropping it on the floor.

I bought it complementary-coloured gloves and kept its pockets junk-free.

I gave it time and space to dry out between uses.

And when Dave (the cat) jumped on the coat, I carefully pried him off and mourned the almost invisible puncture wounds his claws had left behind.

I loved that coat because while wearing it, I was never cold.

And since I am always cold … I wore it everywhere that winter.

Including to church.

You wouldn't think of church as a particularly dangerous place to bring a coat.

But that Sunday, it was.

I don't remember for sure, but I think the sermon was about sacrifice. Or about giving your best to God. Or about valuing spiritual growth over material comfort. Maybe all three.

Because at the end of the sermon, the pastor asked us to do something unusual.

He asked us to give something away.

Something that wasn't money.

Something we had with us.

Something that was our very best.

I looked at my $2 yard sale boots.

I looked at my $8 Canadian Tire gloves.

I looked at my once-stylish-but-now-worn sweatshirt.

I looked at my beautiful coat.

And I knew what I had to do.

My coat let a tired sigh as I laid it on the steps of the altar.

I wanted nothing more than to snatch it back up again.

But I left church that day without it.

I don't know where my coat went or where it is today.

I don't know if it was given to someone in need or if it was sold for $20 at a thrift store.

I don't know if it's in a landfill or collecting dust at the back of a closet or hugging someone's shoulders tight as it shields them from the winter cold.

I hope it's the latter.

Unlike some (but not all) of the people who gave their best that day, I couldn't afford to replace my coat.

I dressed in layers.

I dusted off a decade-old jacket.

Eventually, I bought a $50 coat from Fairweather (aptly named because it wasn't very warm and began to disintegrate almost immediately).

So I bought two fur-lined man-sweaters for $7.50 each at J-Mart.

I also cried.

But I am warm enough.

And someday, I will have a new favorite coat.

But I will never forget my old one.

If I had chosen to keep the coat, my body would be a little warmer this cold December.

But my soul would be a little colder.

On the day of that sermon, I was wrestling with my faith. Where does the rubber meet the road? If God asks me to do something, will I say yes?

Regardless of our pastor's request, I didn't feel pressured by him or by any of the other parishioners to give up my coat. No one would have judged me if I had left with all my belongings intact.

I don't think God was asking for everyone's coats that morning.

But he was asking for mine.

And so a piece of fabric became symbolic of a life choice that I try to make each and every day.

---

Life is fraught with tension between the temporal and the eternal, the physical and the spiritual. While individual decisions can fall at either end of the continuum, a balanced life works itself out somewhere in the middle.

On the outside, our lives may appear mundane. 
We sometimes share our joys with friends. 
Sometimes we suffer alone. 
We drown in our busy routines.

But on the inside … we walk a tightrope blindfolded, our outstretched fingertips touching heaven on one side and earth on the other, our feet inching unsteadily forward.

One shaky step at a time.

Me, my mom, & my coat!

My parents and hubby and I on an overnight trip to Halifax.

Day 305: Words Part II

Words.

Many of my oldest and most vivid memories revolve around them. Whether they were the address that I repeatedly copied into my home-school kindergarten textbook, or the basic French vocabulary words that my mom wrote on loose leaf and we illustrated and hung like a border around the walls of our playroom, it seems that words have always been a part of my psyche.

My wobbly hand shaping letters and numbers with a dull pencil … 109 Riverside Drive…

A sloppy sun with my mom's neat, cheery printing in the corner … le soleil.

Coloring the computer-printed banners Grandma brought with her when she came to stay over for a week or two every couple of years … Welcome Home, Mom and Baby.

I remember the first time I used written words to change my reality. It was afternoon nap time and our creaky old house was the kind of silent that only those with sleeping babies know. Apprehensive about making noise, but still annoyed at having to take a nap at the very grown-up age of 4 or 5, I secretly penciled my first sentence on crumpled loose leaf: "Why do I hat to go to bed." Then I tiptoed out of my room to give it to my mother.

She graciously accepted my magnum opus and carefully corrected my spelling and grammar.

But I didn't have to go back to bed.

I never forgot that lesson.

---

I also remember the first time I said my husband's name.

Of course, I didn't know it was his at the time.

I was ten years old and wouldn't lay eyes on the man for almost another decade.

It was after an evening service at church. My family had just started attending there, and we were still getting to know the congregation. After sitting primly through the sermon, we kids had whooped it up – wading in the icy stream behind the building and throwing fallen apples at each other in the deepening twilight. I remember that the light in our crowded minivan glowed orange, then faded with the snaps and clicks of everyone putting on their seatbelts.

My father asked us if we remembered meeting someone part of whose name meant "no" in Old English. He meant René – one of the parishioners he'd hired to work with him at his shop. But I remembered another name.

Nathan.

When I said it, the word tasted strange in my mouth. Thick, like someone stirring cookie dough or kneading bread.

My dad agreed that the name "Nathan" also fit his criteria. As I listened to him explain that "nay" was another way of saying "no", I had no idea that one day I would share my life with a man named Nathan.

Although I mulled over many names of people I met in the coming months and often pored through baby name books in search of unusual and exotic names for my pets, stuffed animals, and fictional characters (I once had a hamster named Marcellus), that memory is the only one I've retained of the first time I've ever said someone's name.  

But that doesn't mean that other names don't have particular associations.

Dave is a deep, quivering half-sound, like a vibrating guitar string.

James sounds like wind chimes or Christmas bells – clear and infinite.

Jane sounds like bells ringing too, but tinnier, more like a doorbell or a phone.

Laura is also a bell, but a rich, single peal instead of several smaller ones.

Alice is a colour – sky blue.

Not all names and words hold strong associations for me. For those that do, I'm influenced by the physical shapes of the letters themselves, by a word or name's resemblance to other words, by a word's resemblance to the sound that it makes, and by the person or circumstances that I associate a name or word with. Sometimes it's a clear case of onomatopoeia (a word that sounds like a sound); other times the connection is less clear.

Nine is associated with the minor keys on a piano.

Triangles are always orange. I think I have Journeys in Math to thank for that.

Attack stands up straight then springs forward, slavering.                                                            

Gnarled is as whorled and knotted as the tree branches or hands it describes.

Sometimes, I have to think for a long time before I realize where a particular association came from.

For example, every time I write the word scudding (a word primarily associated with the movement of clouds across the sky), I hear a dull "untz" like someone beat-boxing. This confused me for quite some time, until I remembered Sonic II – a Sega GameGear video game that my family owned when I was young. Sonic had to gather emeralds along his journey to face Dr. Robotnik and rescue Tails. During the second level, Sonic has to bounce on springs hidden in the clouds – springs that sound almost exactly like "untz".

L-i-g-h-t-bulb. (Gru impersonation.)

I think that is what makes words so special. While dictionary definitions are stable enough to allow us to communicate effectively, language itself is fluid and nuanced and intensely personal.

When two people are watching a movie, they may bring different emotions and perspectives to the table, but they see and hear exactly same thing.

But when two people are reading a book, they could be having two completely different experiences.

As an aspiring author, I try to make my readers see what I saw, feel what I felt, and (in some of my more graphic posts) smell what I smelled.

But I will always fail.

Because words are at the same time universal and individual.

And that is what makes them beautiful.

Are there any words like that in your life?

Day 303: Words Part I

It has been a long time since I've posted.

I've missed it.

It's hard to believe that in less than a month, I will have frittered away one third of the time that I allowed myself to reach my goals.

Back in January, I blithely typed these words:

Here are my professional goals:

Have at least one published book on the market

Be a locally-recognized artist

Earn a living wage from my creative work

My personal goals are more fluid, but include investing in my marriage, living healthier and happier, and renovating our basement apartment.

Ha! Oh, to be so naive and optimistic. Let's consider the professional goals first, shall we?

I have four book ideas (two novels, one picture book, and one non-fiction), and I've brainstormed characters and settings, outlined plots, and written and re-written sentences and pages and chapters ... still nothing.

Many writers compare the publication of a book to giving birth. If that's the case, my books are still unfertilized cells, ripening silently in the dark as they wait for the big event.

I have created a few works of art - and sold one. Others are still WIPs (works in progress). I have a dedicated art room, but I still feel afraid to commit pencil, ink, and paint to actual paper and canvas.

It's an irrational fear, I know.

But the work of my hands is never the same as what I see in my head.

I know that practice makes perfect, but ... repeated failure is hard on the soul.

So ... day after day ... I procrastinate.

Night after night, when the sun sets on my beautiful art room full of blank pages and empty sketchbooks, it gets harder and harder to pick up a pencil.

And, while I do make about a grand a year from writing book reviews for Thriving Family, that's far from a living wage.

My progress towards my personal goals is much more encouraging.

My marriage is happy and healthy. Without sounding too mushy, I am blessed to share my life with a man who is supportive and encouraging, looks for opportunities to spend quality time with me, and loves me in spite of my many faults (even if he does sometimes call people bad names while he's driving).

He also cleans kitchens and bathrooms and cat litter bins and wakes up early on a Saturday morning so I can spend three hours doing his makeup.

Take one man, add tissue paper, a coffee filter, makeup, fake blood, and voila! A zombie is born.

As well, although Halloween led me into some unfortunate dietary indiscretions, I have gone from being unable to run for longer than 2 minutes straight to running a 5K in under 40 minutes. I've also remained (mostly) gluten-free since January except for the occasional Monkey Cake and the odd delicious slice of my dad's self-proclaimed "man bread".

However, the basement renovations are not going so well.

Thanks to the puppies, the basement is much, much worse than it was in January. My pink carpet has lovely brownish-yellow stains that no amount of scrubbing has been able to remove. The carpet in the bedroom is now a bare cement floor, and the grey paneling on the walls has been destroyed beyond repair by puppy paws, teeth, and slobber. The linoleum in the hallway is cracked and fading and held together with duct-tape and bricks. The stair carpet has been clawed into a field of green string and unraveling ends by the same cats who vandalized my carefully painted window sills.

I still have a hard time leaving my beautiful ground floor to descend into its cold depths.

But, since January, I've also realized something unexpected.

Life-writing is my personal GPS system.

By committing words to the screen, I can freeze my thoughts for long enough to see where I've been, where I am, where I'm going, and how to get there.

By choosing words to narrate my journey, and sharing those words with the world, I give myself both accountability and direction. I see my life in a different light. More able to see things from others' (and God's) perspectives. More likely to live in the present while still working towards my long-term goals. Less likely to succumb to the tyranny of the urgent or to procrastinate and waste time doing useless and meaningless activities.

In the past week, I have been thinking a lot about words. Their impact on my life, how they sound and feel, and how I use them - both in life and in writing.

But I also have a tired zombie-man lying on my parents' couch, waiting to go home (also known as the land of no WiFi). So I will leave those thoughts until tomorrow.

Enjoy falling back tonight! 

I know I will relish that extra hour relaxing under warm quilts on a soft bed, going to sleep by the orange glow of the electric fireplace, and waking up just in time to see a stringy glob of drool stretch all the way down from Sam's slobbery face to mine, soaking my hair and pillow and reminding me that life at its best is messy and filled with surprises. 

Day 242: Two Sides to Every Window

My favorite part of living upstairs is the light. For the first four years of our marriage, Nathan and I lived in dwellings that were darker and damper your average hobbit hole … minus the whole "round door" perk. Also, we did not eat second breakfast (except on Saturdays) and we don't have hairy feet (except for Nathan).

We bought our house for the windows - those blessed apertures that let in sun and sound and fresh air - and after over a year of ownership, we finally get to enjoy them.

In case you didn't notice, I love my windows.

That is … all except one.

My picture window.

My picture window is the oldest and most venerable window in the house. It is the only one without screens, and it doesn't have a slidy part that you can open and close. It has an ancient, fringed blind and horrid, lacy curtains. The caulking around it cracks and mildews, and the sill already needs to be re-painted. But that's not why I hate it.

My picture window is a serial killer.

It lures birds to fly towards its gleaming brightness … and kills them dead.

Its latest victim was a beautiful hummingbird that expired on my front deck just this weekend. Granted, that's not the grossest thing I've found on the front deck. (First prize in that category was a pair of man's boxers. I think (hope) that the construction workers were using them as a rag). But it was certainly the saddest. Its tiny body was a shimmery grey-green, its flightless wings stretched stiffly towards the sky, and the ants were already beginning to eat out its eyeballs. It was fast becoming part of the earth.

I wouldn't even have noticed it if Sam hadn't tried to eat it.

Which brings me to my next thought.

Dogs are disgusting.

While I was painting (I was very bored, and one can only recite Shakespeare to oneself or have imaginary French conversations for so long), I composed this beautiful little poem about his nasty little habit:

In Which a Great, Baskervillian Hound Eats Cat Poo

Crunch, munch, my favorite lunch

While my owners are a-sleeping -

When I hear snores, I'm through the door,

And down the stairs I'm creeping.

Sniff, snuff, I'm in luck -

A fresh deposit's just been laid!

More than scrumptious squirrels or David's hurls,

This is what I crave.

                                  

Dig, dog, some choco-logs!

I tuck them all away.

Back up I go; they'll never know …

Except for … my soggy beard of grey.

*Note: Sam does not actually eat squirrels. He does, however, consume David's vomit (if he finds it before we do).

This morning, I constructed what I considered to be an insurmountable barrier between him and the poo. The litter box is under the stairs, hidden behind a 4x4 pressed-wood board with a cat-sized hole cut into the bottom. It is attached to the wall by a pair of swivel clips. This morning, I turned Sam's crate so it was perpendicular to the wall, pressed up against one side of the board. The cats and I could squeeze by to get into the other part of the basement, but Sam couldn't. I also braced the other side of the board with five or six concrete pavers. Quite confident of my plan, I promptly forgot about it. Even when Sam disappeared for a while, then re-appeared at the top of the basement steps, I suspected nothing.

But then he swooped in for a cuddle. His breath reeked of feces.

And when I looked closely … there was litter between his teeth.

Blech.

I cleaned his out his mouth with an old rag and went downstairs to try to construct another insuperable barrier.

Honestly … there are some days why I wonder why people keep dogs as pets. And then I remember who I am and what I've done … (laughs hysterically).

But seriously, dogs are built-in forever-friends. They think you're fantastic (as long as you feed them), are delighted by the smallest kindnesses (a quick belly rub or a wee bit of bacon every now and then), and they want to do whatever you want to do whenever you want to do it.

Recently, I have been making an effort to be more active. And although exercise isn't really his forte, Sam has been my constant companion in this endeavor. We've trekked quite a few kilometers together in the last month or so. He makes me feel good because, slow as I am, he's even slower. And as hard as I pant, he pants even harder. Although we only run in the cool hours of the early morning, I know he's approaching his limit, and when I start running longer distances, I'll have to leave him at home.

It's at times like this that I miss Kia's indefatigable energy.

But there are two sides to every pane.

Windows bring death … and light.

Dogs eat all sorts of disgusting things … and are your faithful friends.

Circumstances are never all good … or all bad.

Unless you're a hummingbird, that is.

And if you are: Stay AWAY from the windows.

On that note ... happy Back-to-School tomorrow for everyone who's going!

Postscript: Since beginning this post, our serial-killer window has claimed another victim. Has anyone else had this problem? How can you fix it?

RIP

Day 241: Autumn Musings

Long has autumn been my siren song.

I love the low rays of morning sun, the brisk afternoon breeze that lights the first trees on fire, and the nighttime chill that shrivels plants, fogs windows, and encases quite ordinary puddles in paper-thin panes of frosted glass. These separate elements join together in a rousing, desperate, half-whispered song that makes autumn my favorite time of year. If the summer sun lulls me to sleep, then the fall wind wakes me up. It makes me want to dream higher, dig deeper, and go farther than I have ever done before.

All this is well and good when you're an unattached teen with apple-pie-in-the-sky dreams, few responsibilities, and no idea what twists and turns the road of life is going to throw your way. But when you're underemployed at an unfulfilling job, rooted in place by a house and a husband and a car payment (or two), the autumn sirens sing in vain. Instead of inspiring passion and zest for life, their song woos and wounds and wrecks the hapless sailor on the rocks.

Long has my blog been silent.

I tried to write several times during this short and busy summer, but the sentences that slithered onto the screen were as bitter as a rotten grapefruit. I was angry and discouraged. I regretted the choices I'd made about my education, and I was all too willing to place the blame for my circumstances on God and on the people around me.

On that first July day that smelled like fall, the crisp air froze my heart instead of freeing it, and the fragile thread of trust that kept my hope intact was overwhelmed by sadness.

The worst day was in August.

EI called me on my half-hour lunch break, and I spent the first 25 minutes fighting with them over money I wasn't even asking for, and the last 5 minutes crying alone on a hill in front of Royal Road Elementary School while the trees whispered my secrets to the wind and my co-workers wondered why my face and eyes were red when I came back in to work.

On my afternoon break, I planned to craft an angry, bitter post about how unfair my life was.

But I was interrupted … by a phone call that offered me not just one job, but several … and I got to pick the one that was perfect for me. It is hard to describe the relief that washes over you when your fear-burden finally breaks open and there is nothing but sunshine inside.

Friday was my last day of painting. I left with two schools full of friends, half-a-dozen enthusiastic references from co-workers and supervisors, and the promise of a summer job next year. I drove home under squashy, marshmallow clouds that scudded across the sky, driven by a brisk autumn breeze. 

Sometimes I forget that God is in the business of growing up our souls for heaven, not building castles for our bodies here on earth. While my body spent the summer doing manual labour, and my mind spent the summer resting, my soul spent the summer being molded by the potter who makes all things well.

This autumn, the sirens call in vain. I mean to be contented with … "the mixed novelty and familiarity of snowdrops this January, sunrise this morning, plum pudding this Christmas." – C.S. Lewis

Me thinks it's time to buy some hot chocolate, bake some gluten-free cookies, and go apple-picking with a certain handsome man and an incredibly cuddlesome Newfoundland dog.

PS. Handsome man is also cuddlesome, but reader, we are never gonna go down that road!

Happy Fall!

Day 195: Missing Work

There are days when I am tempted to miss work.

Not sick days, mind you. If I'm actually sick, I'm more than happy to spend the day drugged and lying on the couch with a good book and a honey-lemon tea (made by Nathan, of course).

Except when I'm teaching. If it's going to take more than four hours to prep for a substitute, I drag my hacking, shaking self to work anyway and try to only cough on the bad kids.

Just kidding.

But seriously ... sometimes on quite ordinary days, life kicks you when you're down and makes even the very thought of work overwhelming and unbearable.

And you have to decide ... to work or not to work?

One of those days was last Thursday.

I'd already made the decision to re-home Kia. Of the almost 3000 views my ad had garnered in 3 days, more than a dozen people had contacted me. One of them was the manager of the House of Dogs (grooming salon/doggie daycare). We had met (I liked her), she had met Kia (and fallen in love with her), and Kia had already spent a day at daycare (and enjoyed it immensely).

But Thursday was the day that Kia was going home for good. I was supposed to bring her stuff with me in the morning, but I was running late and would have to drop it off after work. So when a staff member came out to help me lift everything, there was only Kia.

He took her leash. Since I am the primary dog "care-giver" in our home, Kia walks best with me. Even when Nate tries to walk her, she insists on walking by my side and obeying the commands I give to Sam.

As the man gently led her across the parking lot, Kia kept looking over her shoulder to see if I was coming. I got back in the car so she couldn't see me. When they reached the door, he pulled it open and they both stepped inside. The door had one of those special "slow-closing" hinges, and at the last minute, Kia changed her mind and headed back out to the parking lot. The door closed around her middle.

The whole thing lasted only a second or two, but it carved itself painfully on my memory.

Kia, physically trapped between two worlds, was not in distress. Her ears were perked forward, her mouth gently open, her eyes bright and expectant. Her tail swished back and forth, softly painting the air behind her. She was waiting. Waiting for me to come join in on her next big adventure.

Not this time, babe.

It took every ounce of self-control I had not to march into the shop and demand her back. But what would I do? Take her home and crate her? Skip work and spend the day together? But what then? Tomorrow I'd still be in the same situation as today.

When I looked back, the man had already freed her and she was happily perched at his feet, waiting for a treat. She'd been given a golden opportunity. Another chance at life. And I wasn't going to let my emotion steal that away from her.

I put the car in drive and pulled out onto the road. I was already crying.
To work or not to work?

To work. Fortunately, I was painting bathroom stalls, so I could cry quietly in private. I ate silent tears all day. But when we brought Kia's belongings in the evening, she looked so content that I knew I'd made the right decision.

I still missed her, but all was well.
Then life kicked me again today.
But this time, it kicked me in the ankle instead of in the heart.

I woke before 5:00, showered, ate breakfast, and let the dog out. Because of the heat, I've been keeping Sam in the basement while I'm at work (we don't have air conditioning and the basement stays cool all day). I was running late, so I didn't bother to turn on the light before I carried his water bowl downstairs.

That was a mistake.

I fell.

I missed a step and my ankle turned.

Water went flying as the bowl and I careened down the steps and into the wall. Sam showed his deep concern by barking at the top of the stairs and then coming down to lick the water off my legs. Then, as if trying to be helpful, he picked up the metal water dish (which is quite heavy) and carried it down the last few steps. But instead of setting it down on the basement floor, he started carrying it back upstairs.

I say started because the bowl didn't make it all the way up.

He dropped it. Without warning. On my hand.

Suffice it to say that an hour later, I am sitting in the sun room with a sore wrist and a frozen bag of assorted peas on my ankle.

Sam is snoring at my feet ... occasionally farting happily to himself.
He is so weird.

To work or not to work? That is the question.
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer through
A day of pain or to take precautions against more serious injury...

I called in sick.
Happy Wednesday, everyone.

But mums... I did not means to make you fall...