Various & Sundry XLIV

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I wants to go to all the heres.

Some of these I already knew, but others, cool.

“Dogs don’t say ‘I love you’ with a hug.” They don’t? :-(

Coolest Central Park picture ever.

Yes, this morning I am a “bored panda.” A bored panda who hates Mondays. And now, a non sequitur…

We pretty much all have a span in our professional lives when we say, “This has been the most stressful, unhappy year ever.” It’s a close call for me this year, and of course it’s not the kids. I love them. It’s a bunch of other forces at work. Et maintenant, we drink a bitter wine. Seeing my grandsons this week should help. Gotta get on that.

I’m rambling. Stalling, actually. Time to giddyup.

Rainy Sunday

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So much work to catch up on, so little desire to do it.

J’ever have a Sunday like that? I put off some tasks so the Thriller and I could watch Argo last night (I’d seen it, but he hadn’t), and now I’m behind the 8-ball with school stuff. I’m trying to care more about it, but failing.

I’m ready to put this septimanis horribilis behind me now. It was definitely a horrible week, beginning last Sunday night, when we first noticed Rousseau refusing food and water, through his listlessness and increasing weakness on Monday, followed by the vet visit on Tuesday, through his death on Wednesday and the following days of grief. And while we’re still struggling without him in our lives, we’re trying to move forward. It’s been a week of tears, but also a week of great comfort from our family and friends. That means a lot.

But the coming rains today kind of match my mood. So I may get rhythm section parts written today, and I may not. All depends on how I feel, and on what’s playing at the matinee. :-)

I vote for being a layabout; a sluggard. What say you?

OK, weird.

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I had a funny thought as I made my breakfast (pictured, of course, because that’s what silly people do: take photos of their food) this morning.

I used to hate oatmeal. I mean, really hate it. Maybe it’s because Mother tried to make me eat it when I was, oh, five years old, and I clearly remember gagging. She thought I was being dramatic, but I was for real horking on the stuff.

Well, now I love it. As I cut up the strawberries and bananas to put in it this morning, I mused on all the foods I used to hate, but really like now:

  • Salads and salad dressing (although I will eat only Caesar dressing; no other kind)
  • Sugar snap peas
  • Pizza (Can you believe it? A teenager who hated pizza.)
  • Cranberries
  • Rice
  • Alfredo sauce
  • Cantaloupe

Bizarre, eh? I guess your tastes really do change as you get older. Do you have a list like this?

Speaking of tastes, I can’t finish my oatmeal and type at the same time, so I’m out. Yay for Finkday though. :-) Happy weekend!

Broken

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But not shattered.

That’s what I told Lars yesterday, after we lost our dear Rousseau during surgery. Our hearts are broken, but only temporarily, because of the joy he brought to our home and our family. We will return to that joy in the form of our memories of him.

Rousseau came to us in 2005, when our friends Bob and Kay moved to Europe and couldn’t take him along. They’d adopted him as a two-year-old, from the local animal shelter.

At first, I was adamant against taking him: No dog hair in my house! The Thriller was bummed. But then we kept him for a weekend, and it was all over. It took Rousseau about five minutes to win me over, and he came to stay soon after. What I wouldn’t give to see those tumbleweeds of hair in the corners this morning…

A part of me died with him yesterday, and I was happy to lose it. He was the best companion anyone could ever want.

He had no bad habits. Zero. He didn’t chew on furniture or shoes. He wasn’t a barker. He was indifferent to other animals (except the occasional groundhog — those got him going). Never had an accident in the house, outside of barfing a couple times. Playful, obedient, gentle, smart, affectionate, patient, cooperative and quiet: he was everything any human could have wanted in a pet, and more.

He did shed, boy howdy. But that wasn’t his fault.

I will miss seeing this face bumping up under my elbow at the computer — something he did every time he thought I needed to get up and feed him or take him out. I will miss the nights of sitting on the floor with him, with his head on my lap.

So much I’ll miss, but so much to treasure. It’s good to talk about him.

Wait for us, Rousseau. We love you always.

23

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No, I’m not referring to Michael Jordan’s jersey or the 23 enigma. There’s just something I like about the number 23 today. Can you guess what it is? I’m sure you can.

I find I’m making this statement more often these days: I’ve never been much of a ‘day counter,’ but this year I am. There are 23 days of school left, and yes, I am counting. I am counting for many reasons. Maybe I’m just getting older and smelling the finish line, you know? I never used to think about it, really.

Well I’m thinking about it now.

I love my students and the work they do. Everyone knows that, I hope. I have a great relationship with many of my colleagues, some of whom I consider to be dear friends. I view everyone else as just people doing their jobs. And everyone looks forward to quittin’ time, right? So there you go. I’m ready to fire up that pickup truck and let the horses run.

Twenty-three days. Then the Thriller and I get our summer on, along with many of you. Speaking of summer — what are your plans? Where are you going and what are you doing? When will you do it, and with whom? What will you eat and is there any for me? I will live vicariously through your chocolate experiences. I covet your thoughts, so feel free to share so I can envy you. That, and I’m just nosy.

Fink, all up in yer business