boxing day brings ice cream, unscientific polls and half-assed poetry
no clickies for you
the internets are asleep
just a lame haiku
The child is seeing his psychiatrist today. (My mind always does an Animaniacs thing and says 'p-sychiatrist.) The Canadian parts of my brain feels that this is odd and we shouldn't be going anywhere on Boxing Day, because we will be politely mobbed by shoppers. (This is what happened to me the one time I went shopping on Boxing Day - arguably Canada's version of Black Friday - in one of the larger Toronto area malls. I was politely mobbed by shoppers. Toronto is New York run by the Swiss, sayeth Peter Ustinov.)
This evening we have respite hours, which is awesome and win, as always.
Got the new pain meds from the doctor just before the holiday: last night was the first night in weeks that I hadn't had to take a tylenol 3 to be able to get to sleep. And my ankle appears to be nearly better, so I'm due to fall backwards down the stairs or get some horrible flu any time now.
Have you ever seen a person under the age of fifty that orders butter pecan or maple walnut ice cream? Seriously, I performed a terribly unscientific experiment on this one summer afternoon when I was camped out near the ice cream shop at the beach - the whole methodology was terrible and my old psych mentor would have throttled me for it, but you do what you can on the spur of the moment - and the only people I saw ordering those two flavors were aging couples that looked like each other. Which is not to say that everyone over the age of fifty does this, god knows - but I've never seen a younger person order either one.
I say this because tallin bought me a box of Dilettante chocolates for Christmas and the maple walnut truffle is amazing. And so was the butter pecan toffee one, and I don't even like nuts really. But I think that's a different thing entirely. Or my brain is really, really old and any minute now I'll be wearing polyester fake-velour tracksuits in eye-bleed fuschia, carrying an enormous white purse and a floral cane, and railing at the neighborhood kids to get the hell of my damn lawn.
Okay, so I already do that last one. But not the clothing angle. Thank god. *wince*
the internets are asleep
just a lame haiku
The child is seeing his psychiatrist today. (My mind always does an Animaniacs thing and says 'p-sychiatrist.) The Canadian parts of my brain feels that this is odd and we shouldn't be going anywhere on Boxing Day, because we will be politely mobbed by shoppers. (This is what happened to me the one time I went shopping on Boxing Day - arguably Canada's version of Black Friday - in one of the larger Toronto area malls. I was politely mobbed by shoppers. Toronto is New York run by the Swiss, sayeth Peter Ustinov.)
This evening we have respite hours, which is awesome and win, as always.
Got the new pain meds from the doctor just before the holiday: last night was the first night in weeks that I hadn't had to take a tylenol 3 to be able to get to sleep. And my ankle appears to be nearly better, so I'm due to fall backwards down the stairs or get some horrible flu any time now.
Have you ever seen a person under the age of fifty that orders butter pecan or maple walnut ice cream? Seriously, I performed a terribly unscientific experiment on this one summer afternoon when I was camped out near the ice cream shop at the beach - the whole methodology was terrible and my old psych mentor would have throttled me for it, but you do what you can on the spur of the moment - and the only people I saw ordering those two flavors were aging couples that looked like each other. Which is not to say that everyone over the age of fifty does this, god knows - but I've never seen a younger person order either one.
I say this because tallin bought me a box of Dilettante chocolates for Christmas and the maple walnut truffle is amazing. And so was the butter pecan toffee one, and I don't even like nuts really. But I think that's a different thing entirely. Or my brain is really, really old and any minute now I'll be wearing polyester fake-velour tracksuits in eye-bleed fuschia, carrying an enormous white purse and a floral cane, and railing at the neighborhood kids to get the hell of my damn lawn.
Okay, so I already do that last one. But not the clothing angle. Thank god. *wince*