Sundry Schmundry II

Wyatt is either having intermittent leg and foot pain or having issues about my post-operative state. Last night, he pulled up lame and complained of ankle and/or knee pain, but he was fine once I sat with him for a while. Matt and I are wondering if he thinks that I will be on crutches or in a walker forever.

Wyatt peed into his training potty on his own last night, but not before nailing the wool carpet a bit. He is drinking wayyyyy toooooo much before bedtime and wetting every surface in sight. Ah, the joys of parenthood.

I am starting to feel the hardware in my leg now. The right angle in the plate is poking through the hip, and I think I feel the screw ends in the back of my leg. Nothing painful, though.

I am down to one 10 mg. dose of Oxycontin and one to two doses of Percocet a day. I tried to tough it out cold turkey last night, but that was really dumb.

The last batch of sel gris caramels came out too salty. Still, it's a thrill to hit a chunky grain of that minerally Guerande salt in the midst of all that toothache inducing goo.

Tony Wilson is retiring from Melbourne's RRR Breakfasters radio show. He, Fee B-Squared, and Sam Pang are such an intelligent and passionate bunch. I will miss their special dynamic. Turns out, I wasn't the only married girl I know to have had a crush on Tony.

I have been queasy for a long time now. The curse of it is having to eat all the time to keep the stomach steadied.

I can read the New Yorker cover to cover in a night or two. It is one of my few tangible accomplishments these days. I stay up late because I am afraid of the dark.

Janet and I are ripping through DVDs of Reilly, Ace of Spies a few evenings a week. Good grief, Sam Neill!

Matt and I are ripping through DVDs of The Wire, a Baltimore based cop show. It would help if there were subtitles sometimes. We throw the first season of Lost (cringe goes here) in when we're feeling terribly escapist.

Sitting on my ass all day, working out the scar tissue with emu oil, chatting with long lost ghosts on Facebook, zoning out, is still a rather splendid mindless bliss. I am grateful to have had the opportunity.

God bless The New Yorker

When we became parents, we really found out what it was like to have very little free time. Nighttime now means falling into bed, wee worn down nubbins.

I usually read one to two articles out of the New Yorker before turning out the lights. It would be hard to devote just 15-30 minutes to a novel each night. It would be too disjointed and life is like that already. No, in 15-30 minutes, I've read my article(s). Some days, that is my only sense of accomplishment.

I recently read about a fasting spa for the Hollywood set in the food issue. Skandar was down there last week auditioning his crystal, bowl, gong, etc. healing "modality." He is hoping he got the traveling healer gig. We hope so, too. He'd be based in Bishop, but have clients with, gasp, money.

We'll soon be adding The Economist to the stacks of half read magazines in our lives.