A Day In The OMG

I hope it's just a phase. I'd like to think I'll get my sense of humor back, that I can get through a day without feeling on the edge, without mentally swearing at half the people I interact with, without feeling ready to lash out for real. Maybe just a simpler day or seven. Maybe some more sleep. Something ought to help.

"Urrrhh"

I hear it on the baby monitor, not sure whether it's a call for help or just more talking in his sleep. One eye opens. 4AM. Maybe it's a false alarm.

"Urrrhh!"

No such luck. I get out of bed, head through the house, and open his door. I bypass the bathroom without stopping, grateful that I woke and used it an hour earlier. As I open his door I hear him calling once again, "Nurse!"

"It's me, Daddy. What do you need?" Realizing now where he is, he asks for a drink of water, and for me to check his nose tubing bringing oxygen. He's never convinced the one in his bedroom brings as much as the one in the living room. Maybe it's plugged? I'll go through the motions of checking, although I can hear the hissing halfway across the bedroom. It's not plugged. For that matter, part of it is not even there to be plugged. He's got a prong and a stump, not two prongs. Did somebody get hungry in the middle of the night? It seemed fine when he went to bed. I reassure him everything's OK for now, that we'll fix his nosepiece tomorrow, but if he can hold on for an hour, we'll get him up then and get him out to the living room where he can breathe better.

Maybe I can get back to sleep soon enough to do some good.

5AM and the alarm goes off to MPR news. I don't want to listen to whatever it is, and there's just not time even if I did. Put the dog out, hit the bathroom, take my pills...oh wait, Paul's using it, those have to wait... start coffee, clean up around his chair, rinse and reset his nebulizer, dig out his coffee cup and breakfast dishes ready for later, let the dog back in and give him his milkbone, set out the rest of my pills - the vitamins, etc. - and now it's time to wake up Daddy.

Please please hurry up Paul.

As soon as Daddy is in his chair, which now takes twice as long as normal, I dish up coffee for both of us and we watch just enough local news to get headlines, traffic and weather. Paul finally finishes his shower, and I can get in, do what I need to, and fix Daddy's breakfast. I bring it to his chair, get his portable O2 tank set up to go along, find his jacket and knit hat - Paul's, actually- and remind Paul that they need to leave in 15 minutes. Daddy has an early morning post-hospital doctor visit. Paul is driving him. They leave late. Paul comes back in to get a plastic wastebasket. Daddy is nauseous from the exertion of getting to the car. They leave even later.

I finally grab my shower. Coming out, I hear a very familiar sound: more bad news. It's Thursday morning, garbage pick-up day. Nobody put the can curbside. And since last week was Thanksgiving, and pick-up day moved to Friday when we were focused on bringing Daddy home from the hospital, nobody had put the can curbside then either. And right now it's winter out there, I'm in lightweight PJs, my hair soaking wet, my feet bare. I'm not even tempted to try to run out and race the garbage truck.

Damn good thing it's a big can!

I get dressed, and head out, not yet to work, but taking advantage of my early start to go for the $10 off early bird oil change special. It's a bit late, mileage-wise, even by my relaxed standards. There's just been no time. I mention that my tire low pressure light has just come on, (causing another delay while I inspect each tire for its likeliness to last the trip to here), and ask them to check. I'm later informed that each was 5 lbs. low, no doubt caused by the weather. Yesterday's similar weather didn't have an effect, but this day must be special.

I'm just getting into the Dan Brown book I've been working on for a week - again, no time - when the squirt calls me back into the service bay for a chat. He wants to verify my address is the same - he couldn't just ask in the lobby? - and show me his little power point presentation of all my options of oils and extra services along with charts of what the manufacturer recommends. My knees are not amused. He's got all my information from numerous previous visits. I forbear mentioning that I've put 2 million miles on my own cars, am very well aware of dealer recommendations and actual tolerances, both of the cars and of my budget. I cut him off, tell him to just do the usual, and that I'm not planning on standing there.

Hey, squirt, notice that blue card under my windshield with the little wheelchair symbol on it? It should show up even better when you clean the windshield like you are supposed to have done.

When it's time to pay he makes a snotty comment about my air filter being dirty, but they just put it back in. Now that they could have asked about, provided, of course, that they brought it out to the lobby. Pissant!

Once in my car, I log in to work and head down the road. I'll stop for breakfast in my usual stopping/waiting place, likely the McDonalds. Just as I pass the last place to turn around for over five miles, three runs come in - behind me. So far behind me that their origin is considered out of town. So 5 miles later, I u-turn and head back north. When I'm back in Forest lake, I exit at their McDonalds and order, to eat as I continue north.

When it hit my first destination town, I stop and ask where the post office is. By now it's 9AM, and I have to mail a package. Priority. When Steve left yesterday afternoon, he left behind his cell phone. Since it's over a hundred miles, Uncle Sam can do the walking. At least the phone was charged. When he was here last week, he brought the phone and left the charger home. This week he'd brought - and remembered to pack - the charger. I called his son last night, telling them I had the phone and would mail it. But what was his address? I can drive right to it, but...

It's a picturesque post office. There's a single window open, and the lady ahead of me in line needed a lot of stamps. Of the specific variety that wasn't in stock at this particular window. The fellow didn't trust his counting and had to do it three times, then figure the price twice, and chat, then refold the stamps for their folder, and.... My knees were again not best pleased. Once it was finally my turn, he directed me to the far side of an unlikely looking display for my priority box. Way across the lobby, of course. "Next?" So I get to fill it out, and return to the line at the window for mailing.

The pick is a pharmacy. I know this customer. Their clients are hospice patients. Never a happy time, but usually it means somebody is there who is lucid, most times a family member, and who knows how to give directions to the house. Out there there are no maps better than the state map, and these three runs go to three different towns even further out than where I'm picking up from, so I need all the help I can get. I check each package for phone numbers. Nada. Zip.

The usual out-of-town plan is to go to the first gas station you can find and ask directions or, better yet, for a local map to look at. The first town doesn't have a gas station. OK, call dispatch and ask them to call our customer and see if we can get phone numbers for each drop. I do that, and get switched over to the driver helper. I explain my predicament. It's compounded by the fact that the address numbers I'm looking for don't work in this town. It's a 5-digit number starting with 49, where the ones in town start with 36. It should be way-y-y-y north of here. She suggests I call the customer, and I tell her there's no numbers on the freight. She very patiently and politely informs me the numbers are on my Nextel, if I scroll down way into the nether regions that I tend to forget are even there, since they are 1) invisible and 2) seldom used. I check, and sure enough... oops. Thanks. Bye.

I get pretty good directions, once I get the woman past the idea that I might have any clue at all where the red barn is that used to be a .... They're just not in this town, as claimed by the pharmacy sending out the meds. In fact, I passed the turnoff at the town before this one, so I need to go back, then head east about six miles past the ____ Store and over the railroad tracks and about three or four more blocks and.... As I finally arrive, I realize the numbers were so far off because I just crossed a county line - into my own county, in fact - and we use a whole different system. Now it's perfect. Well, aside for the fact that the road signs are still completely covered from the sticky snow of two days ago and I have to pass each one, stop, look over my shoulder, and see if this is the right road or not. Nobody ever cleans the snow off the signs.

Whee.

After dropping this one off, I stop and write myself clear directions in case I get to come this way again.

OK, call number two, town number two. These directions are all about bridges and "cattle ranches" and the farm machinery in the front yard. They won't be home when I get there but leave the package in their mail box. I refrain from commenting on the legality of that particular move. Their two dogs are friendly and will be out in the yard. I do comment this time, suggesting that they will likely be too busy smelling the two dogs from my last stop to bother me much. I'd had to keep them entertained so the woman there had a free hand to sign with. I find this drop mostly despite her directions, give the two largest dogs I've seen in years some time to get accustomed to me, try the door in spite of her saying they'd be gone because that's what we have to do, and then put the package in the mailbox. At least there's a name plaque at the door, even with no number out on the road. I know I've found the right spot. Again, write directions so they make sense, in case.

Call number three, and I know I'm in trouble. The guy mumbles, and from the directions he gives and the long pauses throughout his sentences, I figure it's a good thing he's home already because otherwise he'd never find it. He does keep repeating if I get to (illegible)I've gone too far.

Oh goodie.

Time to head into town for the old tried-and true. Besides, I need a pit stop. Luckily, this time there's both a map and someone who knows what I'm looking for. I passed it about three miles east of town on my way in - why couldn't he have said that? - but it's really simple once you know the street is the same as the county road. Then it's just a matter of looking for the address number on the fire number sign. I never did get to find out what I'd see when I went too far, because I didn't get there. But I did find him, driving out his driveway as I pulled up, then backing up to a turnaround, and heading up towards his house again parallel with me until his wheels started spinning on the ice-coated snowy grass. I figured if I stopped, he'd stop, and I better stop him from spinning any more as he was slipping sideways downhill. Whatever kind of drugs he was getting, apparently they didn't cure stupid any more than they cure whatever was killing him. They did seem, however, to be keeping him happy.

I guess that's the point.

I had to leave the driveway in a bit of a hurry since his caretaker pulled in just as I was leaving. There's only so much room. I figure he needs her way more now than he needs me. I wonder what other kinds of trouble he can get into on his lonesome. I did stop up the road and give myself clear directions to this place too.

Time to head back into the cities. By now I was starting to worry about Daddy. I should have heard from Paul about the doctor visit. He wasn't answering his cell. I'd already tried twice. He hadn't even turned on his cell. And they weren't home yet either. Just then he called, letting me know that Daddy was now in St. John's Hospital. He still had pneumonia in his right lung, was still anemic, and the doctor sent him over there.

Crap! Double crap: I hate that hospital. Don't get me wrong. They give excellent service. But they put such strong emphasis on the esthetics of the lobby it's a huge walk from car to patient room.

Time to call Randy and call off the aids until further notice. Got her voicemail, so I called Patty, one of Daddy's aids who is also a friend, who could call ChiChi in time for her to not waste a trip. Patty chatted a bit, bringing up in the course of it something that had been troubling her. Daddy had asked her earlier in the week what it was like to die.

Now we've gotten kind of used to comments like that. This very morning he'd commented that he'd thought dying was going to be easier than this, as he was struggling to catch his breath while I was getting him up and dressed. Patty hadn't heard many of those comments and takes them very much to heart. So she answered him, bless her heart, with, "Well, I haven't tried it myself, but I hear it's usually peaceful." I tried to thank her for her thoughtfulness, put this morning's comment in a new context, and tried to reassure her that this was fairly typical for him when he's sick or depressed.

Next call was Meals on Wheels, not in time to cancel since by now it was 11:30, but stop for tomorrow and until I called again. Then my brother Steve, letting them know what's going on.

All this time, I'm wandering around on unfamiliar roads, working my way back to Hwy. 65. I knew it was east of me, and the cities were south, and if I kept going east until I had to turn, south until I could go east again.... I'd come down about 7 miles on the county road from the highway to the last fellow's place, and didn't feel like heading back all that way north again. Eventually it worked, but it was slow. The country roads, of course, were all iced from two days ago. But the phone calls were a long way from done. But hey, lots of time while I drive back to the cities.

I called "my" Steve's son, informing him that the phone was mailed and what was going on with Daddy. Then there was Planning Commission. Doubtful I'd make it by 7PM, but lucky I had one phone number of a member to call, make my excuses, and let them know not to wait for me. Then I called Lynn, the city clerk, and left voicemail on the same thing with her.

Next was Daddy's bank, checking whether Blue Cross's direct deduct bill had cleared in the confusion between closing the old account and opening the new one. I'd thought I could take care of handling them, Social Security, and his pension check from an unknown company, getting them switched over. Boy was I naive! Social Security will only take that kind of orders from the bank itself. Blue Cross needs to send paperwork for Daddy to sign, which they're slow on. And the mysterious company is still mysterious. Sara has been a great help, so I called her to check how things were going, this being the first of the month.

Sara is on vacation. They gave me Kelly. She'd have to call me back, since the person she needs to check with is at lunch. And she can't tell Social Security to switch the account numbers since their bank doesn't offer that service. (Sara does. I guess someone forgot to send her the memo. Shhhhhh!) There will be more calls required tomorrow.

"My" Steve called back. I filled him in on both situations. I informed him I only needed the smallest Priority box: last night when I got home I checked around the house for his head, but since I didn't find it, I guessed he'd had it screwed on when he left. (He wasn't all that amused.) I've been missing being able to pick up the phone and reach out. It's been nice to call as needed to check in, vent, listen, exchange support. Today it was especially welcomed.

Lynn called, letting me know that Planning was canceled due to lack of a quorum. Not to mention lack of business. Don't hurry home for the meeting.

Kelly called, letting me know that accounting is aware of the issues and watching for things as they come through. She couldn't tell me about Blue Cross, the one right now that I'm worried about. If that request for withdrawal bounces, his insurance gets messed up. Not a good time for that.

A bit of road spray clouds the windshield, so I hit the washer/wipers. Two teeny spouts of blue juice, and ...out! Really? Out? Hours after a full-service oil change? They worked perfectly an hour earlier. There will be another early morning visit tomorrow. I'll rub the squirt's nose in their top-off policy! While getting confrontational sounds like it might be appealing, in reality it's just another thing to put on the list, and the stack of things on that list is mounting. This whole time I'm worrying about Daddy, and everything on that list is changed in reaction to what I don't and do know or suspect about his health. Just changing the things on the list is part of the stack-up. No one thing is much. All of it is more than a lot.

For example: should I rush to select the picture for this year's X-mas card? I signed last year's card with a printed set of both of our names. Will he still be around then? Which would be worse: send it out with just my name? Or with both with the possibility that he won't be around then? Wouldn't either way, wrong, be cruel? We can hope he'll get better in the hospital, but he did last time and relapsed within a couple days at home. Will his body respond faster this time? Slower? Will we just yo-yo until he's gone, no real good days left, struggling to breathe for weeks and/or months? All of that background surrounds everything on the list, even if it doesn't directly affect it.

I call Rich at home to have him turn off the coffee pot, pop the coffee in the fridge. I'll have it tomorrow, another cup Saturday. It was barely touched. Oh, and turn off his equipment, lower the thermostat to our temperature, not the higher one we maintain for Daddy. Mental note: remember to unplug the baby monitor again, save energy that way as well. Coil up the oxygen hose, noting we can delay having Paul replace the chewed piece until it's needed again, if....

By now I pull into a gas station lot down in Blaine and have lunch, just a bit late. At least when the can of chunky clam chowder is cold, you can heap it on the spoon and not worry about wearing it on your uniform the rest of the day. The white would glare against the navy of the sweatshirt. Dispatch suddenly remembers me, and offers a pair of runs coming out of Coon Rapids heading to Zimmerman and Princeton: do I want them? Sure! Sight unseen. Of course. Three minutes later as I'm heading that way, only one shows up on my Nextel, just another frustration with the system. I switch modes to contact dispatch, technically an illegal act as it involves a wee bit of key pressing that could be interpreted as texting, to let them know my phone is having problems. He informs me that other run was canceled. "Hey, thanks for letting me know." Amazingly, there was no hint of sarcasm in the spoken tone of that comment. Written, it screams through. But he's a bit.... well, let's not go there just now.

The Princeton run is two boxes of printed material, going to the second floor of a building right on the main drag, easy to find. I've been there before. I also, come to think of it, now remember that there is no elevator in the building. I get to haul 68 pounds up stairs!

Lucky me. The anticipation grows.

Heading north, I mostly finish lunch, a spoonful per stoplight. As I drive I notice something disturbing: can that really be gas at $3.049? I paid $2.799 last night, and actually saw $2.659 once yesterday when my tank was still full. Yep, other sightings confirm the bad news. I'm hoping it doesn't spread to my area before I get home, putting (another) mental note on my list to fill up tonight, not in the morning. We usually trail the pack in my area when gas prices rise.

The UPS driver is pulling out as I pull in. I hope his boxes were lighter. Or maybe he delivered to the first floor. Anyway, I now have parking. No more excuses to delay on this one. I load the boxes on my two-wheeler, haul them over to the door, let one sit in the lobby as I hoist the other on my hip. Luckily it's just the right size for my arm to grasp one corner over the top with its diagonal corner on my hip. I start up the stairs, using the opposite arm on the railing to both balance and pull, doing what I call the two-year-old's stair climb. One foot goes up, then the other joins it, same step. Repeat for each step. It's made more interesting for the scrinchy-grinding sound I hear as each knee joint moves under the extra weight. It's pure bone conduction, straight to the brain. I suspect the accompanying nausea is purely psychological. The same sound greets me as I step out of the tub in the morning. I know what these are going to feel like tonight, and likely several days more.

Entering the office, I announce that this is just the first of two boxes for them from ____. Here I catch a break. One of them offers to come back down with me and haul the other one up.

Bless you!

She signs, I leave, heading back to the cities after finally scooping the last of the clam chowder from the can. It was particularly unsastisfying. Right now I'm needing some comfort food, and stop for a bag of popcorn to munch along the way. My carpet has just been cleaned along with the oil change, so there's plenty of room for new crumbs, white on black. Dispatch aims me towards Anoka. Plenty of time to drive and brood about Daddy, how he's doing.

I let dispatch know I need to look towards Maplewood tonight, so of course they give me a run heading to Eden Prairie, diagonally as far away from there as possible while still remaining within the 494/694 metro perimeter freeway ring. I know which particular dispatcher this is, and have come to expect his pushing our limits as much as possible. He rarely disappoints. Still, I drop the run at 4 PM, issuing another reminder of where I'm aiming. He sends me down to the Flying Cloud airport for a run to Eagan, which at least covers the eastern part of my northeastern trip. After I accept, he mentions it's not ready until 5 PM, but hey, I can walk in early.

Well, typical of him, even more so as the run progresses. This run is freight forwarder to freight forwarder, an envelope of customs documents. They wonder why I'm there a few minutes early. This never goes off on time. We should know that. (Yeah, I agree: dispatch should know that!) They have to wait for customs to clear the freight, and customs has their own priorities. My need to get to the hospital at a reasonable time to see my dad is distinctly not one of them. But would I like a cup of coffee while I wait? And there's a nice seating area just behind the fireplace.

She was right about the nice seating area, and next to the fireplace is the warmest part of the lobby. I quit shivering as I soak in the heat, but the fuming mounts as time passes. I pass some of it by texting to dispatch about what's going on - or rather, not going on - and comment that this is typical for this place and that they, dispatch, should know this. After about 4 comments, I get a query, was there a delay?

Well, Duh! Hey, idiot, have you been reading any of this?

After several more minutes, I approach the front desk again. I've had enough, If it can't be ready in about two more minutes, I'm prepared to walk out and a different driver can be sent in. They'd have to call us first, of course, but.... Sometimes customers need to be reminded we're not their personal slaves and have other customers to be served and other needs to attend to. It's done as politely as possible, but it will inconvenience them. Learn to use us wisely, guys. She calls back to the guy getting it ready, and lo, it's actually ready! He just has to walk it up to the front desk. I'm not told how long it's been sitting on his desk waiting to be brought up.

OK, I give them the two minutes that takes, thank them, and leave. Once in the car, I ask dispatch for loadtime charges on the run. The reply back is a verbal query: wasn't the freight ready when I got there?

Arrrgggghhhhh!!!!! We've just been texting about that very thing. You've confirmed my worst thoughts about your competence. Again.

I bite back all the nasty things I truly want to blast this guy with, but can't quite keep the sarcasm out of my tone. Well, tough. With his skills, surely he must have developed a thick skin by this time! You know, to match his thick skull. A complete, matching set.

I'm going to be lucky to reach the hospital by 7, late as it is, far as it is, rush hour in full bloom. I wonder if Daddy'll still be awake then. He's been going to bed lately any time between 4 and 7, since coming home from the hospital the first time. I mentally map the likely fastest, though not shortest, route to my drop. At any moment I expect the dispatcher to call me up and wonder why I'm not going his preferred route. He's done it before. It's in my contract that I get to choose. That doesn't stop him.

Once there, I walk in and stand at the counter. I'm the only customer there. The dozen others who pass by me in all directions are apparently not the person who has to wait on me. Or perhaps they have unseen broken fingers and can no longer hold pens to sign their names with.
Apparently all are employees, having free movement within the area and chatting with each other as they move around. Wait, here comes a likely-looking guy.

"I'll be right with you, sir." Sir? Again? I wonder this at his back as he passes into the next room. My knees are seriously unamused. I have plenty of time to study a poster next to the counter. Many companies have them. They are reminders of high company standards for service to their customers. Things to do, things not to do, pep talks on paper. This one lists nonproductive behaviors in a middle section, including saying, "Not my job." I have plenty of time to wonder if the dozen or so milling around me have read this and appreciate the irony. My actual thoughts are a tad less charitable.

No, actually they are a whole hell of a lot less charitable. I'm gritting my teeth to hold myself in check by this time, not swearing, managing a smile and a thank you when I do finally get that signature and can leave. Mentally swearing at them all and calling them out does relieve a bit of the stress, but only one thing really holds me in check: When I get home tonight, I'm going to blog! No ands, ifs or buts, don't care who else might be using my computer. I walk in that door, it's all mine! Mine mine mine! I've already picked out the title and the first sentence, and I'll blog till I drop. (Actually about 11 PM and about a third of the way through this.)

Finally arriving at the hospital, I manage to snag a front-row handicap parking spot. This place has three rows of them. None are actually close to the front door. The relative closeness of this spot I credit to the lateness of the hour.

Every time I have to come here, I spend time mentally cursing the architect who designed this space. Oh, it's beautiful! No question about that. It's just so inefficient, heat-wasteful, and way too damned long a hike from parking to patient rooms.

Take the circle drive in front, reserved for loading home-bound patients. It can't be a straight drive, allowing parking on the other side. It's got its own center island, a full island, with clumps of birch trees, decorative boulders, plantings and what-not. A semi could successfully navigate that turning radius.

Then you have the air lock, about 30 feet long, where one can sit in one's wheelchair with the flowers and detritus one takes along when they leave, nominally inside and out of the elements though the doors open electronically every time someone approaches and lets all that cold/hot air in, while you wait for however long it takes your driver to go locate the car and bring it around for you. Have patience. But, hey, you're sitting, right? Lucky you.

Next is the hike to the info desk. You pass a lovely water feature on your way, which some folks have turned into a wishing well, providing endless fascination for waiting children who kill time trying to figure out how to scarf up a few of those coins for themselves without getting into trouble. You have plenty of time yourself to watch them as you trudge by.

If you know the room number and your way, you can save the time spent at the info desk asking, and breeze right on by. Past the gift shop, with fabulous window displays of wares for sale. Past the coffee nook, past the fireplace with tables and chairs, around the corner, around another corner, through the first segment of art gallery (all for sale, prices marked), past the creche scene in the courtyard, past the vending machines and the nook with tables and chairs, past offices, past more art gallery, past another sizable seating area, this time no tables, around the corner, down the hall, and finally to the elevator nook. Push the button and wait. Head up to four, read signs for which wing your room number is in. Ahh, there, turn right, pass the nurses station, turn left, and - of course - last door at the end of that last hall.

I am, at this point, after all that turning, directly behind my car, about 50 feet back and four floors up. There's just no direct route here. Out of some perverse need, I counted my steps from parking to room on a previous visit. There were several hundred. This is why I curse the architect. May he be blessed with my knees, and with my need to visit this hospital three times a day for the rest of his miserable life!

Daddy's sleeping when I walk in, but there is one chair. You can tell it's a chair because it's what's holding up five extra blankets, two extra pillows, and a couple things whose function you're not sure of. It's certainly not ready to hold you. At this point, it doesn't matter. If there's something breakable under all that, too bad. Sit! The chair tries to repel me, the stack toppling forward under me. After rearranging, I hit the nurse call.

The aid answers, since his nurse is at supper. Lucky her. I'd like some of that myself. By now Daddy is awake, and the three of us have a good long chat. He's feeling better, getting antibiotics via IV again, and comfortable with a Foley and bag so he doesn't have to get up. They even bring bed pans to him here. The room is hovering somewhere close to 80 degrees, quite comfortable for him. Even his perpetually cold foot is refusing to bother him. I make sure they know everything relevant about his special needs, and the aid lets me know what they're doing for him to meet those. When I point out the burn on his foot, most likely from the super-hot hot packs to keep his foot warm in the other hospital, she seems shocked. They haven't been allowed to use hot packs here for a long time: too many patient burns.

Ya think?

For his vision problems, they taped a gauze "bump" over the right button to push on his call button controller, one that puts the many choices on my TV remote control to shame. Not only can he now find it, he's been using it through the day. The TV monitor is off in his room, but there's a selection of music and animal and bird calls piped into his room. It's very soothing, at a level that just barely penetrates his hearing, enough that he likes it.

It's the same thing they had in Mom's room here when she was dying, but she (or rather we, her visitors) had the video as well.

After satisfying myself that he's getting good care, and comforted that he knows that I've visited, I let him persuade me that it's time to head home. I do have to work tomorrow, which the forecasters promise will be snowy, and I will need some sleep. Before that, I'll need to unwind, but I've got my plan for that. Supper will be fast food on my way home. French Dip at Arbys is demanding my attention, and I comply. Rather than sitting parked and dipping, however, I decide to try another plan so I can drive and eat. Opening the sandwich, I pour the au jous over the baguette, reassemble, folding protective wrap over the bottom along with a pair of napkins to soak up most of the drips. It pretty much works but those last bites are unpleasantly soggy. Still, I am making progress home.

I actually manage, once in bed, to sleep through to the alarm.

Dang, another day! Already!

But, hey, it's just stress, right?