Since the numbers and settings on the oven knobs have been washed away be the degreasing agent, I might have to run prematurely and keep the house from burning to the ground. I love the smell of broiling toast in the morning.
Anyway, what a weekend...the pig sickness has finally visited its wrath upon us. Lucian began the swift descent into the troth on Friday. A peaceful autumn evening was punctuated by the sounds of his dry heaving and wimpering about stomach cramps ALL NIGHT LONG. Saturday morning kicked off with projectile vomiting of milk and subsequent violent coughing and fever.
I love, love, love parenting. As I was mopping up the puke I thought about my literature dissertation and that at one point I went to Yale and knew five languages cold.
My how times have changed, eh? It's enough to make you cry, laugh, or request a room at Sing sing.
As life stands today, I am in denial that my stomach is a bit nervous and my throat feels raw and open. I'm just assuming the woundedness is part of my personality and not my viral status. I did promise to take Lucian to the McD's drive thru. It is my stupid hope that he will allow me to finish writing an article about Shakespeare without getting any body fluids on my laptop.
Yeah right.
For dinner last night, I did the crock pot thing. Didn't have any real potatoes so I used sweet 'taters. Lucian gagged but ate the meat, Anna sopped up the orange mash and pushed the roast to the side. Night and day.
This is a darkly humorous bit about life as a rural mother and freelance writer in Western Massachusetts. Little Appalachia, if you will. The title, I feel, clearly reflects how life is coming at me like an overloaded freight train, and my own ridiculous response to it. Me VERSUS all; teenage children, people who want me to work for free, conservative government, food karma, weird menfolk. You'll either laugh, shrug your shoulders, or call DSS immediately. Happy reading.
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