This morning when I awoke at 4 a.m. I realized I had to leave my crisis mode of living and return to real life, despite the boxes full of stuff surrounding me everywhere. I need daily ritual: the oatmeal with brown sugar and cream (instead of McDonald's breakfast). A long bath. I need to get back to the book. I need to read three manuscripts, a duty I have evaded for six weeks.
I walked down to the lake and admired the cattails, some of them exploded like feather dusters. At one point, ducks fed, their back ends pointing upwards. A flock of swallows swirled and swooped down for insects. I like this too, I thought.
Moved on Friday. I repainted three doors. I can't believe I did this. Sam comes in the afternoon and helps move boxes around for us. He tells me the bedroom ceiling fan I bought isn't big enough to cover the space. I don't care. I'm not buying one of those big bulky things.
I can now get NPR on my radio again. Yippee Skippy. We are without Wi-Fi for one night and this drives us nearly insane. No books. We go to bed.
Saturday: Unpacking. Charles comes to hook us up. I watch two episdodes of CSI: NY. I cough and cough.
Sunday: Can't stop coughing and sniffling. Tom goes to Walgreens for Robitussin and decongestant. I stay in bed. We go to eat at Charles and Erica's--I especially like the crepes with Nutella, bananas and whipped cream. Maxwell could put a whole one in his mouth. Our family has big mouths.
I think they've cut down on the alcohol in Robitussin, but back in the nineties when my mother had Alzheimer's, she got drunk on the stuff, because she'd take some every time she coughed and drank about a quart of it.
I miss my mother, even the mother that had Alzheimer's.
Blah, blah, blah.