Regis and I both woke up at 3 am. He checked the status of the Winterfest Medallion (found) and I tried to read. I went back to sleep at 4 am and had the fitful and dream-filled sleep. It was awful. I woke agitated, sweaty, and with a headache. I'm not sure it was worth it.
I have read about twenty mystery novels in the last month. At this point, Inspector Lewis, Jim Chee, and Cork O'Connor are all mixed up in my head. Are the Ojibwe and the kachinas looking for a murderer in London and drinking Scotch in the evenings while they make their plans? It's painful. And I watch Doc Martin at night, so add Marty and Joan to this cocktail and you have the stuff of crazy dreams.
After two days above freezing, our sidewalks are a mess. It didn't get warm enough to actually rid us of any snow and ice, it just melted and formed a thick, impenetrable coat of frozen muck on all horizontal surfaces. No wonder people get depressed. A few years ago, I sold our ice chipper at a garage sale. Don't ask me why. Clearly, a mistake.
I threw four old photo albums in the trash the other day. They were from my college and early teaching days. I ransacked them for a few pictures to keep, then put them in a plastic garbage bag in the dumpster. Regis came back into the house with them the other day after taking the garbage down, intent on looking through them. For evidence of my exciting youth, no doubt. I told him those albums had one week to live and if he hadn't looked at them by next Monday, they were going back in the trash. No reprieve this time.
It's below zero this morning, at least I think it is. I've grown weary of checking the weather. Who cares when its the end of January. It's the dog days of winter. The doldrums. Spring seems like a long way off, nearly impossible to survive this gray winter until then. I can hear the chimes in the front yard which means the wind is rearing its ugly head. Lovely. I have lost my sense of humor about this winter. Hell is not hot, it's subzero.
We are going off to exercise this morning. Tomorrow, I start my twelve-week round of Paclitaxel, which may account for the anxiety dreams. I am looking forward to the Lorna Doones, however.
On the mornings when school is late or cancelled, I still get an automated call. I admit to a tiny bit of pleasure, as if I were still a teacher and got to enjoy another hour at home, but a phone call at 5:30 am is not really a pleasant thing. I told my friend, Joanne, if she could track down the keeper of the list and get me off of it, I would be forever grateful.
It's like stuff on your medical record. Every time I go in, they look at a list and ask me if I have a hiatel hernia. Every time, I tell them no, that I have never heard that diagnosis from any medical professional. They say they will take it off but the next time, there it is again. The ghost hiatel hernia.
Gus is curled up on the couch. If I hadn't spent so much time in bed yesterday, I would take his lead and crawl back in myself. It's a comfortable place to spend a gray winter day. It's probably not mentally healthy to do that very often, imagining what Doc Martin would say. I'll try to stay vertical today, promise.