formerly a fearless temp

Guys, it is summer, which means I'm not teaching, which means I have all sorts of time to Accomplish Things, yet all it seems I've been accomplishing so far is:

-developing an addiction to Junior Mints,
-reactivating my ABC Daytime addiction,
-reading piles of books I left around during the school year,
-watching tons of movies (both of the cinematic and awful LMN variety), and
-that's about it.

My room is only half-cleaned and my half of the office hasn't even been touched. I haven't updated my teaching portfolio, and to be honest, I'm not 100% I know where it is. Oh, I have applied for some jobs. So there's something.

One thing I did last week is visit my grandfather's grave for the first time. It was weird; I've driven past the cemetery where he's buried a huge number of times (in fact, every day on my way home from work - it's on one of the busiest roads in my hometown) and I've never gone. I've never been to the cemetery where my other grandfather has been buried since the day of his funeral, which was five years ago.

I kind of worry that this makes me an awful person, especially since it's not like this is being done as a symptom of a bad relationship I had with either of them. I had great relationships with both of them. I loved them very much - still love them. Still miss them. But the cemetery just doesn't seem like where they are, to me.

And so every day I drove past the cemetery and didn't think too much about it. For me, the physical place I visited to mourn my grandfather this year wasn't the cemetery but his house, which was successfully sold a couple of months ago. That's gone now - I can't exactly pop in on the new owners and ask to walk through the downstairs and stand in random rooms for long stretches of time for no particular reason, the way I did before the papers were signed. Maybe that's why recently I've had this flash when I drive past the cemetery lately, a quick burst of Ishouldgointhere. The first time I listened to it was last week.

My grandfather used to take me to the cemetery with him after my grandmother died. It was an important place to him, which is why I think I've been to his gravesite and not my other grandfather's. He would kneel on the ledge of the headstone in the middle and my brother and I would kneel on either side and we'd say prayers. I did the same thing when I went, and it was weird: familiar, but also strange, since I'm twenty-seven, not eleven, and so the proportions are all different. Also, I was alone. The back of the gravestone is different, too, my grandfather's date of death added in.

After that, I went and looked at some other headstones in the older part of the cemetery, which was down this short but steep hill. I ambled around for a while (is it morbid that I like to imagine the lives of the people whose names I see on the stones?), and then decided to go back. Walked over to the little hill, stepped up and just about face-planted. Flip flops + steep incline + wet grass = disaster. There was some dude about fifty feet away cutting the grass, looking right in my direction, so the whole time I was doing this awkward, wide-legged, arms-windmilling climb, I know he was watching. I felt pretty stupid.

Especially when I realized the solution: taking off the flip flops. Bare feet are perfect for such terrain. I scooted right up, hopped in my car, put on some Johnny Cash.

One thing of note: I didn't really cry while I was there. I got all scrunchy-faced and sniffly, but no real crying. It's strange; I rarely cry when I am sad over something in my own life, probably because if I feel the urge, the first impulse is to stifle it and move on. Wow, that sounds way more messed up than it feels! I cry all the time with sad movies, commercials, documentaries, TV shows, etc., though. Why is that? I suspect I am extremely dysfunctional. Yes, that sounds about right.

And okay, I got tagged to take part in some memes! callmesandy asked me five questions, and kaelie asked me about five songs I'm into!

( two memes! )

I am wide awake right now. Work is going to be torture tomorrow because of this, and yet here I am, typing away.

Okay, so, confession time: I have totally gotten hooked on romance novels. The last week or so of stress and drama was prime breeding ground for a new reading habit, since I was traveling all over and spending stretches of time seated in strange places that smelled funny, where a compact paperback book was very helpful. I read the entire Julia Quinn Bridgerton series in a week, and while parts of it got repetitive for me (probably because I read one a day), I totally enjoyed them and now I feel this need for more. More!

I have a feeling there must be romance novel fans on my flist. I am asking for your help! I feel like I do this all the time, but I can't help myself - you guys always give good book recommendations.

Until this week, the only romance novels I'd read were those by Jennifer Crusie or Georgette Heyer, and I love both of those authors. I'm leaning toward Regency right now (the more escapist, the better), and I like funny books without too much melodrama. In short, I tend to roll my eyes when the the heroines are constantly crying, or (heaven forbid) the heroes turn on the waterworks.

Basically, I want Georgette Heyer, but I've read all of her stuff that's readily available!

Any recommendations?

In Grandpa news - he was better last night (he ate dinner! The nurse said to me, "Saturday, I would have said he had four days left, five at the most, but now? Who knows!"), and tonight was my aunt's turn at the nursing home, so I haven't seen how he's doing today for myself. I called the nursing home today to talk to his doctor and get an update about his condition/prognosis, but he didn't call me back. My family says I need to let it go and let things happen as they will - and I know they're right! But this uncertainty is maddening to me. I guess I'm more of a control freak than I thought.

Did I mention that my graduation party is Saturday? It's still on, which seems weird to me, but my parents rightly pointed out that we can't postpone because who knows what will happen when, and we can't put life on hold indefinitely, and blah blah blah, rational logical sensible. Oh God, I need to find an outfit. And lose twenty pounds. And get a job.

It would totally be awesome if my fairy godmother chose this week to show up.

Okay, I'm talking about fairy godmothers, CLEARLY it's time for bed. Peace out, yo.

.i. desire

I can't express to you how much I want - no, need - Breyer's Mint Chocolate Chip Light Ice Cream right now. I kind of want to get in my car and drive to the store and buy it.

Things stopping me from this course of action:

1. It's that time of night cool cats like myself call the wee hours of the morning.

2. My car is covered in snow.

3. I haven't showered since yesterday, and it shows.

4. It would involve sneaking out and sneaking back in the house, which opens up the possibility of getting caught, and having to explain to parental units (who routinely say things like, "Ice cream? No thanks. Not in the mood.") why, exactly, it was so imperative that I get to the store.

5. Also, I would have to get out of my desk chair.

Tomorrow is another day.

.ii. cat wranglin' woman

I was able to snag the random black cat not once, but twice, after I wrote Thursday's entry. And this done without a scratch or bite! There were other casualties, however: a flowerpot, my dignity.

On the loss of my dignity: At first, I couldn't figure out a way to grab the guy while he was hiding under the stairs, so I constructed an elaborate plan that involved me scaring him out of the spot and up the stairs toward the first floor of the house - where he would meet a closed door and I would be able to trap and grab him. The plan worked perfectly, except for the part where after he met the closed door, the cat turned around, got all puffed up, hissed, and I responded by throwing my hands up and screaming in terror. Screaming! Like a little girl! Which made my mother, standing behind me, scream too, and then the cat ran away and hid, pretty successfully, in one of the basement windows (which was, like, ten feet off the ground - how he got up there, a mystery).

On the loss of the flowerpot: I reached up for him on the window ledge, which led to him leaping onto a shelf and knocking a flowerpot over, and then jumping to the ground. He ran back to his original hiding place, under the stairs.

The ultimate tool of success was a broom, which I used to push him towards me until I could reach in and grab the scruff of his neck. After I snagged him, and carried him upstairs, I had a nice screaming fight with my parents.

Their opinion: He looked like our neighbor's cat, so we should let him go outside and let him find his way. He's scared! He doesn't want to be here! Just look at him!

My opinion: We should lock him in the bathroom and call our neighbor, and have him come over and get the cat. It's cold!

Our arguments were much less eloquent and far more CAPSLOCKY, and finally ended in me caving, yelling, "FINE!" and, for some reason I still don't understand, putting the cat down a few feet from the back door instead of outside, which, naturally, led to the cat taking off in the wrong direction and hiding under a recliner. We had another fun conversation that went like this:

Parental Units: WHY DID YOU DO THAT?

Self: I DON'T KNOW!

PU: REALLY, WHY THE HELL DID YOU DO THAT?

Self: I DON'T KNOW!

And so we called our neighbors.

Dad: Hi, Bob? It's Jim MyLastName. Just calling because we think we might have your cat here.

Neighbor: Our cat's dead.

Dad: Oh.

So it wasn't that cat. The non-dead black cat did have a collar, though, and has been spotted often in our yard, and so, finally, I gave in to my parents and snagged him and put him in the yard - at which point he immediately made a beeline down the street, which gives me hope that he does have a house to go to. At the very least, he was very healthy when I found him - nice coat, well-fed. Then again, we don't know how long we've been subsidizing him.

More news if the story develops!

.iii. sacramental stories

I've started screening my calls because, I don't know. I think I'm a very important person or something. Really it's because my life is extremely boring and I don't feel like talking to people, because I never feel like I have anything new to say.

So that's why even though I was home all morning, there was a message on the machine when I was leaving for the day on Friday. I decided to listen to it even though I was just barely on time and wouldn't be able to return a phone call anyway.

Answering Machine: Hello, this is Debbie from Shady Pines. This is NOT an emergency. I was just calling to let you know that Father G. stopped by this morning and administered the last rites to your grandfather.

Self: WHAT?!

I picked up the phone and dialed my mother and played the message for her.

Mom: WHAT?!

Self: I have to go! I'm late!

And so I left. This may seem like a very callous reaction - all I can say is that it's a family trait. We don't respond well in crises (Exhibit A: The time Lifeline called to tell us that they'd gotten an emergency message from my grandfather's Lifeline necklace, and that the fire department was on its way - could we meet them there? Sure! we said, and then my mother stopped at the gas station for a Pepsi en route).

In the car, I illegally called my father on my cell because this was, after all, his father we were talking about.

Self: So, uh, Dad, Shady Pines called, and they said it wasn't an emergency, but that Father G. stopped by and administered the last rites?

Dad: Yeah, I got that message too.

Self: Is Grandpa okay?

Dad: He's fine. Father G. just happened to be there.

Self: And so he administered the last rites?

Dad: I guess.

Self: Because he was in the neighborhood.

Dad: Yup.

Self: So I could stop by St. Patrick's right now and get the last rites if I wanted to.

Dad: Probably.

I guess nowadays that's how the sacrament works - it's called Anointing the Sick, and can be done at any time of mental or physical illness, not just on your deathbed. But if that's what you're going for, don't call the family and use the old school sacramental designation! Last rites makes you think, you know, it's the Last Rites, time for deathbed confessions, the whole shebang!

So that was stressful.

.v. film flam

On Saturday I went to see Something New, which was exactly what I hoped it would be. I recommend!

So I have another temp job tomorrow. Joy! My temp agency pimp (timp), Chris, called me yesterday and said RandomCompany wanted me to start tomorrow morning. I said sure. Then she called back and said that the company wanted me to sit down for an interview, which was annoying because it's a two week assignment covering phones and, also, the whole POINT of temping is not having to interview. I guess they just wanted to look me over, make sure I have a full set of teeth or something. Like I'm livestock.

Anyway, apparently I did okay because I'm headed out there at 8AM tomorrow. Again, joy!

The interview took place right after my Big Scary Ed Psych Test, which I've been whining about to anyone and everyone for the past week or so. I'm surprised anyone is still speaking to me. In fact, the experience has highlighted how awesome my friends are, as one called me from a train station, another from Germany, another from her car, all to find out how the test was. Every time I answered the call I was touched by their thoughtfulness and touched by self-loathing, because it made me realize exactly how much I've been whining about it, and also, would I be so thoughtful? Perhaps we should revisit the Forgetting the Best Friend's Birthday Incident of 2004.

On second thought, let's not.

Anyway, the test: The test consisted of eight essay questions, I filled a blue book, I completely made up one answer and found out when I checked the book that I wasn't completely off track. I will find out if I passed tomorrow. OMG THE STRESS. But I will not say anymore because, again, have been whining about it for a week now.

Post-test and interview, I scooted forty-five minutes north to meet R for some tutoring. You guys. He is doing so well. I can't figure out a way to write about it that isn't incredibly corny. Last week he sounded out "parking" on his own. This week he got a whole stack of vocabulary flashcards right for the first time. Lest I get too overconfident, he still says "plastic" for almost every word starting with p. Why? I don't know. Last week he was saying "place" for every p word. I learned from my Ed Psych studying that the worst thing to do is to introduce a number of vocabulary words starting with the same letter to a student. Right now I've got him trying to learn, like, five words that start with p. Go me! Awesome!

Also, "did" is almost always "don't" even though I've never, ever included "don't" in an exercise. It's maddening. Last week I actually sat there and said, "see, let's try - okay, d-i-d is did, okay? D-i-d did. D-i-d did, d-i-d did, d-i-d did, d-i-d did." I actually kind of sang it after the sixth or seventh time, bopping around in my seat. R just looked at me like I was crazy. Which I am.

I finished up my super-exciting thrill-packed day at the nursing home, where I dropped off some adult diapers from my grandfather. He called to ask them to drop them off yesterday. At 1:50 in the morning. I was awake and everything, but it gave me a heart attack, all, "Oh my God, someone's DEAD" and then, when I pick up, it's his wide-awake voice saying, "Oh, hello, dear, could you bring by some didees?"

Tonight he greeted me at the door of his room with the following statement: "Sweetheart! How nice of you to come see me! I have to go to the bathroom." Then he proceeded to roll into the bathroom use the facilities with the door open while I stood awkwardly by the windows and listened to hear if he'd fallen in or down or anything. Good times.

Afterwards we watched the end of an Audrey Hepburn/Cary Grant movie together. Audrey Hepburn was okay. Cary Grant was awesome (is he ever not?).

And now I have to go to bed!

I'm sure lots of people had wild weekends full of debauchery, but I ask you – did anyone else get to ride on an old school fire truck with Santa on Sunday?

I was out at a festival with an assortment of female relatives, including my seven year old cousin Emma, who insisted that I ride on the fire truck with her and her mother. I felt kind of assholish because there was a looooong line of kids behind me waiting to ride in the truck with Santa, but I couldn't let The Emster down, and so I followed her up onto the back of the truck pretended to act like I was nobly suffering for the sake of the child, when really I was excited. It was totally fun.

Anyway, before the winter festival, Emma stopped by my house and met our new kitten Dusty, and today she sent me the cutest E-card ever - the text was:

hi jess i loved your new kitten dusty he is so cute i could just eat him up .

Oh, the cuteness! It threatens to overwhelm!

On the not so cute side, I went to visit my grandfather tonight. I've been trying to ask him more about his life, since he's done a lot of interesting things. Tonight I asked him about my grandmother, how they met, etc. The highlights:

-The way he said he first got connected with her: "My beloved sister Eleanor was down at college and got to know Paula, your grandmother's sister, when they exchanged certain feminine hygeine products women need at certain times of the month."

-How he asked her out: "I called and said I was a Hollywood producer looking for Lois M. She was out with another guy, Jimmy Something, but I didn't think he was competition since I was just home from the war and very confident about myself."

-Their dating adventures, which included running out of gas in the snow a mile from my grandmother's house in the country. My grandmother was wearing an evening gown but didn't complain.

-A too-long foray into TMIville: "And there was no funny business," he said. "It was all on the up and up. It was better that way. All we did was hold hands, or the equivalent of that – necking, really, which was mostly –"

At that point I started waving my hands around wildly to distract him.

Right before I left, the American Legion stopped by and dropped off a decoration for him. My grandfather trotted out his usual army joke ("I only served four years but I did save one German in the war, you know. I shot at him and missed.").

After they left, I opened up the card they dropped off and realized that they were from our ARCH RIVAL AMERICAN LEGION POST! My brother played American Legion baseball for years and this post totally kicked his team's ass regularly and without mercy. They were always super-organized and had players that looked like they'd walked out of a Yankees training camp instead of the dregs of the area's JV squads (our team).

The inspirational way to close this would be to tell you about how my brother's team eventually toppled their arch rival in the quest for the state championship, but I can offer no such inspiration. The best I can muster is my brother saying, "I think we beat them once. Maybe."

And now, to bed.

I am at peak performance here. A few notes from the last couple of days.

-Monday I had another tutoring session with R., which went very well. I also spoke to his supervisor on my lunch break, which went as well as it could have given the circumstances – everywhere I eat lunch feels compelled to pump their establishments full of easy listening or classic rock music at top volume, which makes it challenging to have any kind of conversation. Add in a bunch of fellow lunch eaters and questionable cell phone reception, and you've got a recipe for fun!

The conversation actually went fine. She assured me they had realistic expectations, etc etc. "As I said to D., thirty sight words or so," she said.

Which kind of makes me want to kill D., the local literacy volunteer organizer, because when I talked to her last week and asked if she'd spoken to the company about expectations, she was all vague and brushed me off. She said, "Why don't you just call her?"

I was sitting on a park bench in sub-freezing temperatures at the time (the place where I'd been having lunch had awful reception for my phone, so I had to abandon my salad half-eaten to go outside and call her back), and it took everything in me not to snarl, "I don't know, maybe because you get paid for things like that?"

Okay, so it didn't take everything in me not to do that – I'm a wimp. I would never do anything like that. Also, you know, I signed up for this, etc etc. But I signed up for tutoring! Not navigating the dangerous waters of a strange company's HR office and employment policies!

And so I just said, "Sure! Fine! I'll get right on that!"

Tutoring itself went fabulous, which was good because last week was a tough one – he seemed to have forgotten everything we'd worked on. But this week, it all came back and more. He knew the "ch" sound. It was thrilling.

-File under Nightmares Do Come True: Yesterday I got into work, got my Mets Mug o' H2O, and settled in to check my e-mail (how I start every day). Was in the middle of typing in the web address for my e-mail when the phone rang and I answered, quite naturally, "Aolmail – dot – aol – dot - com." Five seconds of confused silence later I realized what I'd done and said, in my best I'm A Professional, No Really Voice, "I'm sorry, please excuse me. All Irish Law Firm, can I help you?"

I wanted to die.

-I almost cried in Target when they did not have The Office Christmas Special in stock. But then I bought popcorn and read an awesome story and felt better, which was good, because at my next stop (WalMart Supercenter; I was all about the big box stores last night), I had the following conversation with my mother, the one, the only, Peg of the Cautionary Tale.

Self: So, you want me to get you Turkey Tetrazinni?

Mom Unit: If they -- wait. It's dark out.

Self: …Yes.

MU: Don't go. Just come home. I'll have noodles with butter. There are crazy people out there! Remember, that girl --

Self: Mom, it's fine! There are a ton of people around, I'll be just fine.

MU: Be careful.

Self: Hmm, I was planning on wandering around aimlessly with my eyes closed, fists full of money, to the darkest areas of the parking lot, but if you –

MU: JESSICA

Self: I'll be careful!

MU: Don't get kidnapped!

Self: Right right, don't get kidnapped and bring home Turkey Tetrazinni.

So a few minutes later, when I was walking through the dark parking lot, remembering all of the scary stock footage I've seen of girls getting snatched from parking lots, and a big green SUV came to a sudden stop right next to me, I kind of had a heart attack.

Self: AAAH!

Michelle: Jess?

S: Oh! Hi! Michelle! And Meg! Hi!

Michelle and Meg: Hi! You all right?

S: Fine, fine, just, you know, thought you were a scary kidnapper.

MaM: . . . oh.

S: My mother – I was on the – never mind. Long story. Walk in together?

And we did. Meg had little Abigail with her, so I got to coo and poke at her little covered-in-winterwear-belly, and talk like an idiot. All that good stuff. We did the high-pitched-girltalk thing, argued over who had lost weight ("You!" "No, you!"), when most likely none of us had, and then parted ways in produce because I had to get to my next destination pretty quickly.

-Speaking of: My next destination was my grandfather's nursing home, where I came upon him already snoozing. The woman at the desk told me to wake him up, and he seemed happy that I did. It kind of blows my mind that anyone would be happy to be woken up, but I suppose this is one circumstance where even I would be glad.

We talked about exciting nursing home happenings (he's changed lunch tables, and the other day got sick at breakfast. "I flashed the hash," he said, and then, just to make sure I understood, added, "That means I vomited."), his recent doctor's appointment ("I am bigoted against the Jews," he said, in a reflective, kind of apologetic way. "Not that I'd ever admit it. But I liked him."), and Thanksgiving ("Where am I going, again?").

The last two times I've visited he's complimented my alabaster skin and dark hair, which was nice, but sufficiently romance-novel-sounding to feel kind of weird. I know he didn't mean it that way; he's just one of those people who won't say in three words what he can say in seven. This time, no such compliments. But he did, as always, call me Curlyhead.

-This morning I slept until exactly five minutes before I'm supposed to leave the house if I want to be on time for work. The awesome ending to this would be to reveal that I got here showered, well-coiffed, snazzily dressed, and on-time. There is no awesome ending. I didn't get to shower, threw some gel in my hair, put on a default easy outfit (complete with clunky clogs), and arrived fifteen minutes late. Note: I usually arrive ten minutes late. So to be just five minutes later after sleeping a half hour late? Not too bad!

And yes, you did that math right – I do get up a half hour before I'm supposed to leave for work. No, I can't get ready for work in a half hour. Yes, that is a problem.

Because of the oversleeping, all day I've felt kind of disconnected from the world. This has done wonders for my work performance. Ten bucks says I'm asked not to come back at the end of the day. I won't come back tomorrow, at the very least: it is the day of THE DREADED GREs. They warrant all caps.

It's a good thing I don't have a three-hour pointless literacy volunteers meeting tonight! Oh wait, I do. Oh well. I will do well or I will do poorly. All I can do is ride the rest of it out.

And possibly sneak glances at my GRE prep book during the meeting.

Did I mention in my last entry that I only got ninety minutes of sleep last night? Because I did. I have never longed so much for the below-desk cubby George created on that episode of Seinfeld.

Seinfeldish Epiphany of the Month: If George Costanza and Cosmo Kramer mated, the result would be my father. There are, like, two people reading this who will fully appreciate the accuracy of this description. As for the rest: now you have a vague idea of what you'd experience if you ever met my father.

Speaking of paternal figures: The Grampster.

He continues to kick it bitter in the nursing home, which I understand. It's a sucky place to visit, let alone stay, and he and I have taken to having these bizarre inspirational-sports-movie-esque conversations, where I feel like some old coach telling this beat up former champ that he can do it again, really he can. I find myself saying things like, "You have to believe in yourself! That's the first step!"

I annoy myself in these conversations. I'm surprised he still speaks to me.

Continued Amazing Cluelessness of My Family: My grandfather can't use the bathroom by himself, or stand on his own, or do much of anything. He fired one of his aides before he had his surgery and nothing has been done to replace her or prepare the remaining aides to handle his new condition.

Naturally two of my aunts want to take him home! To his house, not theirs.

"He tells me that they never do rehab with him anyway," Aunt 1 says.

"And wouldn't it be a nice birthday treat to come home?" Aunt 2 says.

"Oh my God, are you insane?" says my little branch of the family tree.

First: He does get rehab (my father has witnessed it). The thing is, he either doesn't remember that it happens or he does remember and is lying about it to my aunts. He's definitely crafty enough to lie.

Second: It would be nice, but he's in no condition!

Anyway, all this led up to me overhearing the following conversation between my father and my uncle Jim, who is married to my father's sister Christine.

Dad: Hey Jim, how's it going? Is Christine there? Oh. Okay. Just give her this message: [tone completely changes from Jovial Jim to Angy Attorney] The old man cannot go home. It would be a death sentence. [tone returns to Jovial Jim] Good talking to you! Bye.

Tonight I think I'm going to head over to the nursing home and visit. Perhaps we'll have a replay of Friday evening's dinner.

[Grandpa, Mary, and Aram sit together at a table waiting for their dinner. Aram's family and I stand around the table, chatting.]

Grandpa: Have you met my granddaughter? This is Jessica.

Self: [Waves a hand] Hi!

Everyone: Hello!

Mary: I'm cold.

Grandpa: You need a sweater! Jessica, get her a sweater.

Self: Mary, do you want one? I could run to your room if you wanted?

Mary: No, dear, I'm fine.

Self: Okay.

[Two minute pause.]

Grandpa: Have you met my granddaughter? This is Jessica.

Self: [Waves a bit more tentatively.] Hi!

Everyone: Hello!

Mary: I'm cold.

Grandpa: You need a sweater! Jessica --

Self: I already asked, but --

Grandpa: She needs a sweater!

Self: All right, all right. Mary, would you like me to go to your --

Mary: No, dear, that's fine.

Self: Okay. Just let me know.

[Two minutes of something else]

Grandpa: Have you met my granddaughter Jessica?

Anyway. Good times! It's 5PM, time for me to blow outta here.

Today I brought my car in for an oil change and ended up paying $330.00 for alignment work. I would be sad and pathetic and whine about it, but the thing is...I kinda sorta ran over an orange traffic cone last week. So it's my fault.

But! I still argue that the orange traffic cones were in a stupid place! I had to merge! I couldn't avoid hitting them! Okay, maybe if I was, you know, "obeying the speed limit" but come on! The speed limit is for LOSERS!

Kidding. Kind of.

Anyway, now car has oil change, alignment fixed, and two new tires. Happy little car.

In other news: It has been quite a week. My cousin Meg had her little baby Abigail, who after a day of being around my scarily huge extended family decided to get away from it all by having a seizure, refusing to breathe, and being placed in the ICU. I've got to tell you, that was a day. I do not look back fondly on Wednesday, July 14th.

It turns out she has meningitis and will have to be on IV antibiotics for 20 days, which means she won't be able to come home with Meg and her husband for another three weeks. They think Abigail should be fine, but still it's a difficult ordeal for Meg and her husband and for little Abigail, so any good thoughts that can be spared for them would be appreciated. Right now we've got the greater tri-city area's Catholic phone lines with God opened via conversations with my aunt Lynn's coworker (formerly a nun with the order of the Holy Names), Meg's boss (Sister Maureen -- Meg teaches at a Catholic school), and Father IForgotHisName (the priest at Meg's school). We've also lit up the Presbyterian hot line through a friend of mine, who asked her church to pray for Abigail at a service tonight. We take any and all good thoughts and prayers to the intangible force or deity of your choice.

I kid, I kid, but I also honestly appreciate it.

When I wasn't stressing about Abigail, I've spent a good chunk of my stress time obsessing over my grandfather's checkbook. Which brings me to: Have I mentioned that my grandfather's aides are driving me crazy? Because they are. It's like doing one of those complicated logic word problems: How do you keep the peace in a situation with five aides, Debbie, Carolyn, Lorene, Marilyn, and Diana, where:

-Debbie doesn't like Carolyn
-Carolyn doesn't like Marilyn
-Marilyn acts like she's the boss of everyone
-Jim doesn't like Carolyn or Marilyn all that much, but doesn't want them fired. Yet.
-Carolyn is a personal friend of Lorene.
-Lorene is Jim's favorite.
-Lorene doesn't like Diana because of the way she folds her sheets when she spends the night.
-Diana is pretty chill at this point. But give her time.

They keep calling me up and gossiping about each other to me. I feel like The Man, keeping them down, and I am so close to not caring about that.

And, okay, reality check (this is an honest request) – am I being an Evil Hardass Bitch from Hell by requiring these people to have worked all of the hours they're scheduled for before I pay them? Is that such a crazy idea? My aunts had, for some reason I have yet to discern, been paying them in advance, but that inevitably led to inaccurate amounts on the check, causing discrepancies that would have to carry over week after week. This has made the checkbook insane, and so I created this new system where everyone gets paid on Saturday for the week, and it's driving some of them crazy! They're all upset and keep calling me for their checks even though I sent them a letter telling them that the next check wasn't coming until July 17th!

I'm not crazy, am I? I mean, I cleared it with my grandfather, and he saw the logic. You work, then you get paid! Right?

Anyway. I'm so wiped out. Must go sleep. Am behind on everything in life. Owe e-mails, phone calls, other stuff. Apologies, will get back on things soon, honest.

I haven't done laundry in an age, which makes the morning interesting. Today I was running around the house in a towel post-shower on a desperate underwear hunt (pair found at the bottom of the clean laundry basket next to the dryer, thank goodness) when I realized the answering machine was blinking. Played the message while looking for socks (wanted to wear sandals, since it is so nice out, but yesterday received an e-mail at work saying that bare legs aren't okay until after Memorial Day – am confused as to what that says about bare feet. If one is wearing pants, can one wear sandals without stockings? It seems such a pain to wear stockings with pants and, also, I just hate the look of stockings with sandals. Wonder if I can get past this), and found two messages from aunts C. and B. about grandfather. Aide very sick with stomach virus, desperately need someone to go over and give him breakfast, blah blah blah.

Parental units unavailable, Mom already left for work and Dad preparing for colonoscopy. He initiated the following conversation as I was getting ready to go over to grandfather's house to meet my aunt, after calling work to let them know I would be late.

"If I don't see you again," he said to me from the top of the stairs, "I just want you to know, you have been a perfect daughter."

"Thanks, Dad, that's sweet," I said. "But you're going to be fine!"

"And also, remind your mother that I want you to hand out ten dollars to everyone who comes to my wake and funeral."

"Will do," I said, and ran out the door.

Raced over to grandfather's house, where I was meeting Aunt B., who had, when I returned her call, revealed that she'd burst into tears in the middle of the office in front of people right before I called and thusly had to get out of there, but wanted company.

"I just got my period," she explained when she arrived at my grandfather's house.

"That'll do it," I said.

We walked into the house to find my grandfather already up and around, motoring from the bathroom to the kitchen, his two favorite haunts.

"Hello!" he said. "What a nice surprise."

"You're up," my aunt said. "How long have you been awake?"

"Hmm, let's see," he said, leaning on his walker, pretending to ponder. "I fed the chickens at 6:30, and then – come on, how the hell do I know when I got up?"

"Right," I said. "That's the right answer."

My aunt helped him get dressed ("I'm in my ballet outfit," he said of his undershirt and sweatpants.) and I made him his delicious breakfast of oatmeal and hot chocolate, which my aunt and I then watched him slowly make his way through over the next half hour. Topics of discussion during this period: Flowers outside, article in paper featuring acquaintance of grandfather, my job. It may not seem like much but since my grandfather's mental slate tends to clear out every ten minutes or so, each topic got covered two or three times in our time there.

Aunt and grandfather continued in their remarkable faith in my future. "You're such a great role model," my aunt said, suggesting I look into teaching possibilities at a local private school.

"Yes, definitely," I said, waving my hand in a majestic way. "I could show them how to become a directionless twenty-something living with her parents."

"Don't put yourself down," my aunt said, and I instantly felt bad.

"I was kidding," I said, "I'm fine."

And I am. It's a nice spring day, my grandfather was in good spirits and eating well; when I got to work today, an hour late, I found out the stuff I'd done for the event on Tuesday worked out great. Things feel possible, even if I am wearing unsightly white socks and clunky black shoes instead of cute sandals.

i.

Saturday night I went to the grocery store with my brother to pick up a few things, including this massive glass bottle of wine vinegar, which my brother wanted to buy for his growing stash of winemaking supplies. This led to a long, Abbot-and-Costello esque conversation regarding said wine vinegar.

Me: That's a lot of wine vinegar.

Jim: Yeah.

Me: I didn't know they used vinegar to make wine.

Jim: They don't.

Me: But it's called wine vinegar?

Jim: They get the vinegar from the wine. I think.

Me: But...you're making wine.

Jim: Yeah.

Me: Why are you buying something that comes from wine if you're trying to make wine?

Jim: Retard, I'm buying it for the bottle. It's huge. And it's only three bucks.

Me: You're so weird.

Since my brother's previous bottle-gathering method had been driving around picking up empty bottles off the road (I swear, it sounds like we raised him out of a cardboard box, or that we're hillbillies or something, and I swear we're not), I decided this was a step up. I picked the huge bottle of wine vinegar out of the cart to put it in my car and, of course, dropped it. On the pavement. Where it shattered and splashed wine vinegar all over our clothes.

Jim: You IDIOT--

Me: (already walking toward the supermarket to alert cleanup crew) Shut up! I know!

I walked into the store with the top of the bottle dangling from one of my fingers (I'd reached down to pick up part of the bottle before leaving the parking spot for some reason), and held it up like it were a live weapon before the customer service desk, where they not only booked it out there to clean up, but also let me have another whole thing of wine vinegar free! Even though it was my fault the other one was destroyed! Part of me thinks they just wanted me out of the store and away from them because of the whole being-drenched-in-vinegar-and-stinking-to-high-heaven thing, but still, it was pretty cool.

ii.

So I made the mistake of letting it slip that I'd been walking long distances to and fro class Monday nights, and my parents promptly freaked out.

Mom: You know, a girl disappeared just last week from a mall in, well, I don't know where exactly, but she just VANISHED and she was on her cell phone and the last thing her boyfriend heard on the other end was her saying "Oh my God" -- and you know, you can never be too --

Dad: Jessica. Why haven't you gotten a parking pass? You shouldn't be parking all the way across campus. That's stupid.

Mom: Did you forget to go? You forgot, didn't you. When can you go?

Dad: Maybe she should get some mace.

Mom: That's a good idea.

Dad: But what she really needs is a parking pass.

Mom: That's right. You know if you're kidnapped that the most important thing is --

Jess: Not to let them take you to the second location, I know.

Mom: I mean, if they're going to shoot you, they're going to shoot you, so they may as well do it right there.

Jess: There's a happy thought.

Anyway. So it was resolved, eventually, that I was to park illegally at the restricted lot right by my class so that no one would kidnap me. I know it sounds like my whole family is insane (and they/we are), but the truth is, a girl my age did disappear while walking across this very campus five years or so ago and she's never been found. Kind of creepy. Anyway, I agreed to park illegally partly to make them feel better and mostly because they said they'd pay the fine if I was caught, and due to my (lack of) luck with anything car-related, I wasn't putting much faith in my ability to avoid the law.

This was a good plan, an excellent plan, except for the fact that I had no idea where the parking lot next to my classroom was. It's a good-sized campus, the bulk of which was built at the same time and consists of four quads with identical high-rise buildings set at the four corners of campus. I cannot express to you how alike these quads look, especially at night.

So, short version: I got totally, totally lost, which led to me wandering alone, lost, and confused for a good forty minutes (including some time spent driving the car to different parking lots seeking out the correct building) instead of the usual four minutes I spent booking it across campus with my most confident stride. The correct quad was, of course, the first one I went to (I walked in the opposite side I usually do and got all discombobulated!), and I actually walked RIGHT BY my classroom while bitching into someone's voicemail about how confused and lost I was and how it was all the CAMPUS'S fault because it was so CONFUSING. Am such a tard.

Found class eventually! And got out of presentation for this week. Will have to go first next week. More time to prepare, which is good.

iii.

Speaking of my presentation, I must include this here because it must be documented for posterity. Conversation between me and my grandfather yesterday, after I'd dropped off some of his groceries.

Me: Well, I've gotta go. I have a project to work on.

Grandpa: Really? What are you studying?

Me: Women in the Temperance Movement.

Grandpa: [Spouts of impressive amount of facts about the Temperance Movement.]

Me: Wow, yeah. That's right.

Grandpa: And its leaders and members, Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Frances Willard -- ALL Pro-Life.

Me: Grandpa.

Grandpa: I know, I know, you don't want to hear it--

Me: You're right, I --

Grandpa: It's inavoidable! The most important matter of our day! THOUSANDS of innocent babies are dying EVERY DAY! It's INESCAPABLE!

Me: Sure it is! If we stop talking about it, I've escaped it.

Grandpa: [Isn't amused.]

Me: Okay, I really have to --

Grandpa: You can't hide from it. The Democratic Party, the party of abortion and homosexuality--

Me: Okay, gotta run! Love you! Bye!

That's become my way of knowing when to exit the room, the second the phrase "The Democratic Party, the party of abortion and homosexuality" hits the air. And yes, it does so at every gathering, and other places. Last week I came down to eat breakfast and my parents pointed me towards the Opinion section of our local newspaper, the Sound Off section in particular, where people can call in and voice their opinions to the Editorial staff's answering machine. One comment read (I'm paraphrasing from memory):

"The article of [insert date] about Eliot Spitzer clearly failed to mention his alleigance to the party of abortion and homosexuality."

I almost choked on my orange juice. He's everywhere!