Not A Critic

Normally, and I do mean this in the most general sense, I am not a critic of art, literature, music, etc. I do have my likes and dislikes, as most people do. Those certain things that draw us and others that repulse us, but I do not think that puts me on the level to be able to judge. Really, who can say what creative impulse is good? Having said that, I just have to say something here regarding a classic I just finished reading, Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë. Really, what is all the hubub, Bub? I read this book and for the most part felt a general disgust for the main characters Catherine and Heathcliff. A great love story? Perhaps his love for her was great. Her love is questionable, I think. And really, if a love is so great, would it turn you into such a bitter and hateful person as he turned out in the end. I don't know. Anyway, I always got the general idea that this book spoke of one of the greatest loves in literature and it left me wanting. ~shrugs~ Maybe I am just a cynic?

I thought, "The ant can't."

Today, as I awaited the arrival of my caffè macchiato while sitting outside in the warm sunshine and the breezy breeze, I watched an ant. It seems the small ants called in the big guns because this black ant was larger than the rest. He was dragging what looked like a flake from the crust of a coronetto. This "flake" as I call it for lack of a better word was 1 cm. X 1cm. He actually walked backwards, dragging his burden (or was it a treat?) behind him. At one point, he stopped, let go of the flake, and stomped away. I thought perhaps he grew fatigued, frustrated, and had given up. I think he thought twice about it and after about six inches, which I think would be the equivalent of an eighth of a mile in people terms, he returned to the tidbit. It must have been too sumptuous to leave behind. I watched for a few seconds as he tried first to push it and then tried to lift it over his head. He could not, so he resigned himself to the dragging and the walking backwards. Why at that moment did I want to help? Why did I want to relieve him of his burden by doing it for him? As this fleeting thought passed, my husband, burdened with our coffee drinks, sugar packets, and stir sticks, arrived and diverted my attention just long enough to lose the ant. I wonder if he ever made it to his hole, the one he calls home.

Offended

I sit ready, pen in hand hovering above the lightly lined page. Any second now. Any moment it will come. The muse will shine upon me and I will write! But no, it is not to be. I have offended her, I believe. Perhaps it was because I tore up so many pages of poetry (it was horrible stuff really) and threw it in the trash when I was a young tike in my very early teens. MUSE! I am sorry. Please give me another chance!

Procrastination

There is not a soul in the office. I should be gone too, except for the teeny tiny fact that I need every hour of my leave for my "vacations" in May and August. So, here I sit waiting for 2:30 to roll around so I can take advantage of the fify-nine minutes we can leave early if we don't utilize liberal leave. What I should be doing right now, instead of blogging, is completing a letter to my in-laws for my DH to take with him.

***It is now September 28th and I never finished this post. This bit of information absolutely cracks me up.**

How I know

I felt wonderful this morning, upbeat, happy, uplifted, healthy. I got into work and it was all sucked from me. I feel heavy, down, depressed. I absolutely have to find something else to do with my life. It is so obvious this is the wrong place for me.

A Day Just For Me

Friday I felt under the weather, thought I had caught a tad bit of the hubband's ick. It seemed like a very good idea (even though I was symptom free) to take this quiet and unassuming Monday off. I need my rest. I need some me time to fully recuperate. As my alarm went off, and even though I was wide awake, I decided to stay in bed and have a day to myself. Ah, the thought of it! No cooking for anyone but me and only when I get hungry. No answering questions, no commitments, no obligations. No one hogging the television.

Then, approximately twenty minutes after my grand decision, the hubband's alarm goes off. I tell him my plan and he agrees. "That's a wonderful idea!" he chortles. I sigh and continue my quiet and pleasant reverie. I know I have about an hour before Mr. Crash wants his breakfast and I plan to not move an inch until he makes me. At approximately six Crash wants breakfast. I get out of bed, stretch, scratch my belly, scratch Crash's back and head downstairs to make coffee and feed him. The hubband approaches me with, "Look at my eye." EGAD MAN! His eye was a puffy, swollen mess that was completely blood read. It looked painful. It looked hot. It kept tearing, big wet rivulets of water running down his right cheek. Ugh.

My first thought took me to a couple of situations that occurred yesterday. First, he gets a wee bit of sawdust in his eye. No biggie, right? He washes it out and no problem. Secondly, he is eating Kettle brand Jalapeño chips and proceeds to wipe the very same eye with a finger covered in the salt from the bottom of the bag. OK, still no biggie, it burns but he flushes his eye and he is good as gold. And now, this. I cannot help think the worst; he has scratched his cornea. We cannot get him an appointment with family practice, it's full. They suggest an appointment tomorrow OR the emergency room. He opts for waiting it out. After all, he flushed his eye, took two aspirin and was feeling better. I pat him on the back and tell him I am going to start "my" day and head for the bed where I stay until eleven.

I prepare my lunch and sit with him while he plays Assassin's Creed (see what I mean about hogging the television?). At this point, his eye is irritated. He is uncomfortable but tolerating it. In fact, I would even go so far as to say he was ignoring it. I start prompting him that even though he seems to be tolerating his eye well we cannot be sure that it is not scratched. I insisted he eat and get himself to the E.R. to have it checked. I WAS truly concerned about his eye, his vision, infection, scarring. I certainly was not trying to get rid of him so I could watch a couple episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. C'mon, you absolutely know I would be pacing the floor until his return.

Then he ate lunch and with his three sonic sneezes the whole situation tumbled straight down hill. He could no longer tolerate light. He could not see. His right eye felt like he had been punched. It was up to me to get him to the E.R. ~sighs~ Buffy can wait. He NEEDS me. I showered as fast as humanly possible (for me), got myself dressed and ready. He takes my sunglasses, pulls a baseball cap low over his eyes and we head to Gricignano to the hospital. The sunlight caused him agonizing pain. He absolutely looked like a thug trying to be inconspicuous.

Fast forward four hours later: We are home. Bill has conjunctivitis in his right eye and it has started infecting the left. He now knows what it is like to be a vampire bat because he, like the bat, is most comfortable in the dark. He is in front of the TV now and I am up here wondering when I will have the chance at another ME day that will really be only for me.

Google yourself

Well, I have googled myself, Renee Ross. Why is it when I google my name only porn stars come up???