I've been a bad blogger. I haven't wanted to post about "Dammit we're sick! We knew this would happen when the kids licked the handrails at Disneyworld..." because, "Yawn!" but it's what's going on.
I just wrote, then deleted, four really boring paragraphs about it. We're all fine now, that's what matters. I'm coming down with something, too, but I always do when it starts to get chilly.
The highlight of the weekend, other than spending time with Barbara Dahling,* her Dahling husband William, and their hilarious friends, was that the leaves were in full autumn spectacularity on the way to Fort Wayne, and since there is absolutely nothing else to look at between here and there, I got to really enjoy fall in all its glory. I also listened to some great podcasts. One about parasites from Radiolab (now there's a diet plan!), and a couple of TED Talks (and if you're not listening to TED Talks, you really should be - seriously fascinating stuff, all free).
I got up at 5 am this morning. Why? Because Claire woke up crying, and I was unable to get back to sleep in a reasonable amount of time, so I thought, "Heck with it..." and got up. Perhaps this will be an extra-productive day, to make up for the last several vacation-recovery and illness-recovery days we've had around here.
Nah, probably not.
* So why is Barb "Barbara Dahling"? Well, in college she lived with a male-to-female transsexual (after answering a room for rent ad in the paper) and this person's former boyfriend (who was no longer interested in him now that he was a she, but they were still friends) was named Stephen. Stephen couldn't call Barb "Barb." She was always "Barbara Dahling." So, I started calling her that, too. That's not the good story, though. The good story is that in this house, with all the gender bending that was going on, there was a tiny, yippie dog named Poopsie. Poopsie was about as friendly as you'd be if your name was Poopsie. One time I had gone to pick Barbara (Dahling) up, and Poopsie was barking and snapping at me. A lot. I said, "Gosh, she really doesn't like me!" Erika (formerly Erik) corrected me, saying, "Poopsie is a he." I, being the sensitive soul that I am, said, and I quote, "Aw, he, she, it... what difference does it make?"
This is how I became known for my sensitivity and tact.
In my own defense, I had simply forgotten who I was talking to, and was referring to unnecessary anthropomorphism and subsequent gender assignment in canines, not humans - for whom the issue is decidedly more complex.
Barbara (Dahling) hustled me out of there really quickly, as you can imagine. We're still giggling about it, 14 years later.