Generation Exhausted

Is it a trick or a treat?

1703 words in the first hour. And that's all I'm going to say about that.

Thanks to the mild weather, we tricked and treated our way farther through the neighbourhood than we ever have before. We almost had to - there were so many houses, especially close by, that just weren't "shelling out." I suspect that many child-free younger couples were off to Halloween parties, it being a Friday night and all.

About thirty minutes out, we hatched a plan. We'd go all the way to Grandma's house, and then beg for a ride home. This is one of the things I like about living so close to family. The reality is that both my parents and hubby's parents live within a seven block radius, so we tend to be a pretty "you never know when we're going to drop in" bunch.

In addition to the chocolate bars (candy bars in American) and suckers and gum, several people were giving out little treat bags with candy kisses and them other things, whadoyoucallum, like sweet tarts, only they're tiny and come in a roll? Anyway, little bags prepared with care - one of them even had a Halloween pencil.

I always intend to do things like that. It's one of those things my mother does well. I, on the other hand, start intending to do that 'round about 7 p.m. on Halloween night, when my children receive the first one. Next year, I tell myself, I'm going to start early and plan ahead and do that.

By Christmas, I've forgotten, and don't remember until 7 p.m. the next Halloween.

It's the same with cupcakes and the like for school. Five weeks ago, I bought the niftiest Halloween sprinkles with the thought that I'd make cookies or cupcakes for the children to take to school on Halloween. The thought did not re-occur until 8 this morning. Perhaps I'll make Halloween sprinkled cupcakes for the Christmas party.

And, for the first time, my children received a Holy Card in their treat bags. I can appreciate the thought, but really - couldn't you just turn off the porch light and opt out? Now I've got a seven year old wondering why some lady gave her a picture. There's a certain irony here too, since the children were dressed as a devil and a witch.

So, we survived, and I've hidden the Halloween candy, as I started to snack almost as soon as they went to bed. If I'm not careful, it will all be gone by Monday, and they'll be blaming each other for candy-stealing.

And tomorrow, we have that oh-so-lovely annual ailment to look forward to: Halloween Hangover. If you don't know what I mean by that, then you don't have children. Bet the teachers are glad there's no school.

Pre-race prep

Am I the only one planning to start this baby at midnight, and get those first few thousand words down before the weekend hits? My game plan is this: every night at midnight, aim for at least a minimum word count and then reward myself with the Daily Jigsaw.

49 minutes to go, and I've got my characters (they have names even!), my working title and the opening sentence forming itself in my head. (no, I haven't written it down yet!)

Plus, I have to figure out how many words a day this could work out to. Friggin' math is everywhere!

After I've done my jigsaw tonight, I'll blog a real blog, I promise. I've miles to go before I sleep. (Frost said that first)

Do you know what time it is?

It's 9:42 p.m. which means I have approximately two and a half hours before I begin my next bout of insanity. Thought I might fill it by listing all the reasons I should not even attempt to NaNo.

In no particular order, they are:

1. This is our shortest sales cycle of the entire freakin' year. Translation = busy at work. Busy busy. Way busy.

2. I promised myself I'd clean the office before the shortest sales cycle of the year started. It started a week ago; I still have not cleaned my office.

3. Christmas is coming. I have to plan the holiday letter.

4. I have two children having birthdays this month that must be planned for and executed. (the birthdays, not the children)

5. I still have to maintain a decent rate of essay submissions in order to generate cash for the holiday season. And exposure.

6. I have a brand new company to run, and a book to prepare for publication.

7. I have an article outline due for a niche I've never written for before.

8. I have nothing but the vaguest idea of what I'm going to write about.

9. I have no name for my main character.

10. I have no working title for my novel.

11. I have a Web site and newsletter to relaunch.

12. I have three other Web sites to revamp.

Plus plus plus.....

But I'm going to do it. I feel compelled. Or something.

Bring it on!

What have I done?

I signed up for NaNoWriMo. God help us all.

It's work. Really.

Next week is the local Take Our Kids To Work Day. Daughter brought home the form and announced she wanted to go to work with Grandma, as my job is boring.

Boring??!!

Now, wouldn't you think that a teenager would want to spend the day with a magazine editor? But according to her, I simply work in the basement.

That's what she's been telling people. Other kids are saying, "My mom works at GM, and my mom works at XYZ Manufacturing." To which my daughter replies "My mom works in the basement."

I don't know what she thinks I do down here all day. Sure there are slow days, but there are busy days too. And eight times a year, 25,000 copies of the magazine go out into the community. So I must be doing something. Even if I can do most of it in my pajamas.

She's going to come to work with me that day. I convinced her that I'll make that day as interesting as possible. And I've suggested that if she gets on board with the whole thing, maybe I'll let her do a guest column.

I've also told her she can Instant Message with Linda. I think that's what cinched it. Of course, that was before Linda abandoned me for the world outside the home office, so it may not work. But I won't tell the child that until it's too late to set anything up with Grandma.

One Fish, Two Fish

We've had fish for a while now, or rather, the middle daughter has fish. The aquarium was a birthday gift from her grandfather six months ago, and she's been surprisingly responsible about it all.

Did I say responsible? Make that obsessive.

This is a child that longed for a pet, and blamed herself for the family's lack of one. It took three cats, a litter of kittens, and two dogs before we realized that yes, she was allergic. Not to mention that we, as a rule, are not very responsible ourselves when it comes to pet care, and so we really shouldn't have any.

But finally, in the spring, she was given fish. And she's taken care fo those fish, fed them and cleaned the tank, and named them and replaced them as they've made their way to that Great Aquarium In The Sky. Not many have died - and really, if a 25 cent goldfish lives longer than four months, isn't every day an unexpected gift?

They are very much her fish. No one else is allowed to feed them unless she's away, and the tank sits where she can gaze upon it with her head on her pillow. She's been very vocal about it - she doesn't share her fish.

So she was all excited that tonight she was going to test for her Pet Badge at Scouts. It's been years since she's been eligible for a Pet Badge, and she's been anticipating it since the fish arrived.

I don't know how it happened. How I didn't notice. But it wasn't until the girls came back in the door after Scouts, the daughter with a small bowl in her hands, that I realized - they'd taken a fish to Scouts. On foot. (theirs, not the fish's) In the 45 degree air.

Only this child would even conceive of taking a fish on an outing, let alone do it. It seems to have survived. Only time will tell.

Books, books, everywhere...

And not a friggin' thing to read. You can't spit in this house without gob-smacking a book, and yet here I am, re-reading Why I Hate Canadians. For the third time.

For the last two or three weeks, I've been meandering my way through re-reading the bag of books that Kim returned at the end of September, books like The Outside Chance of Maximillian Glick and A Lover Needs A Guitar. Books that are the 70's version of that anamoly called CanLit. ("if it's so obscure that no one will buy it, then by God! we'll publish it! And probably give it an award!")

Excuse me a moment while I look up "anamoly".

Anomaly. That's it. What can I say, I'm human.

I'm not throwing WIHC into the CanLit category. It's brilliant, and Ferguson has become one of my favourite authors. But CanLit was not always what it is today. (today, it's more along the lines of "if the intellectual elite that is responsible for deciding what's good for us says it's worthy, then by God! we'll publish it! Especially if your name is Margaret Atwood!")

Nope, Will is not CanLit. He's almost the antithesis of CanLit. (Shelley looks up "antithesis" in a hurry) He's funny, creative, and just a wee bit snarky. And he appeals to the masses. I like him.

But alas, I have nothing new to read. I've been avoiding diving into anything because then I tend to neglect my work, and right now, work cannot be neglected. I also need cash to go to Chapters, and that's a bit on the short side right now too. I have two birthdays to cover in the next two weeks, so any books bought will not be for me.

How is it that, although there was an extra pay in October, I'm more broke than ever?

It's because I spent that extra paycheque something like, four times. I kept buying things and paying for things and thinking, "It's ok, there's an extra pay this month." Much like I did with the time change this weekend - we get an extra hour, and I use it three times.

So here I am, with a sick hubby hogging one TV and two kids hogging the other, and I have nothing to read.

Which seemed like a good reason to blog.

They haven't learned a thing

Quick update: hubby is home from Emerg, after playing the 'yes we're keeping him, no maybe not" game all night. Lucky man, he was under the influence of a morphine shot most of the time, so while the game was played, he wasn't required to participate. New scrip for an old med and a dr's appt next week with his specialist. We are not happy. This particular med is very, very nasty, and while it may temporarily solve his ills, it will quickly begin to destroy the rest of him.

Going to Emerg is like rolling the dice - sometimes, you get a doc that just knows how to treat this illness, and sometimes you get a doc that just scratches his head and says, "gee, the book says that..."

Guess which one we got this time?

Anyway, on to the title, which has meaning today, really. I'm compelled to blog about it because frankly, I want to shout it from the rooftops and tell anyone who will listen. Someone needs to know, and if enough people know about it, maybe someone who is actually willing to do something about will hear.

So we're doing the typical two-hours-in-the-ER-waiting-room thing. And, like good citizens, we sign the book so that if people start dying of a respiratory illness ten days from now, they can get in touch with us. That, and the limit of one visitor per patient is about the only SARS screening happening. Oh, and there's a bottle of hand sanitizer on the counter, and a sign that invites you to wash your hands. No more questionnaires. No more masks. No more hoops to jump through.

While we're sitting there, a patient comes in, gets triaged, and is sent to sit-and-wait. Man is coughing. I mean coughing. Clutching his chest and coughing as though any minute now, one of his lungs is going to just pop right up out of his mouth and land in his hand. Coughing.

Goes and coughs all over the payphones. Sits down again and coughs some more. People are starting to look worried. Luckily, it was a quiet night, so there was space to move away from the poor guy, leaving him coughing by himself in the corner.

Some patients actually go and request masks from the nurse, for their own protection. I mean, this guy was coughing. I get up and go suggest to the nurse at the desk that perhaps it might be a good idea to isolate this poor soul. I'm not trying to be a pain-in-the-butt. I'm concerned. Desk nurse says she'll ask her superviser what she thinks, thanks for telling her.

Guy is coughing so hard and so loud, you can hear him where you shouldn't be able to hear him. Far away. He's coughing more than he's not coughing, if that helps you visualize.

Nothing happens. No one comes out. No one puts the guy in a little room by himself. He just sits there, coughing all over the ER waiting room. Coughing.

A brave lady goes over and suggests to Coughing Man that perhaps he could request isolation, for his, and our, own good. She's kind and as tactful as possible. Coughing Man scoffs. (and coughs) He's fine.

Eventually, hubby gets taken "into the back" and we're free of the germs being spewed around the ER waiting room. But I can still hear him, even way in the back, above the noise of the monitors and machines and activity.

Coughing Man was Asian.

And hubby filled me in this morning, since you can hear every darn word every patient and doctor says through those curtained cubicles.

Coughing Man just got back from Hong Kong.

This is how it happens. This is how SARS One and SARS Two happened in Toronto. And it's why it will happen again. Regardless of inquiries and inquests and studies and short-term restrictions. It will happen again.

Because they haven't learned a thing.

No No Nano

Consider this the official announcement that no, I will not be participating in that odd cyber-cult called NaNoWriMo. In other words, I will not be writing a novel in the month of November.

This places me on the outside of the circle, of course. NaNo seems to have inspired many of the writers I know to pledge to drop everything (including blogging!) for 30 days and write their little hearts out. Not that I'm knocking it - Lani's book deal just proves that good things can come from NaNo.

But it's not for me. For one thing, I've never been very good at completing any of these challenges. I'm a rebel at heart, and anything I feel I have to do tends to slide very quickly down to the bottom of my priority list.

For another thing, I'm beginning to realize I may simply not have a novel in me. There's a quote from someone that highlights the difference between wanting to write and wanting to have written. With novels, I think I fall into the latter category - I want to have a novel with my name on the front, but I don't necessarily want to put in the footwork.

Oh, I've tried. I have three novels started - notice I say started, and not half-finished - but I lose interest. I'd rather write truth than fiction. (albeit a slightly exaggerated version of truth, sometimes)

So no novels for me, which means I will not be apologising for my absence from the blogosphere, because I will not be. Absent. Your daily visits to see what I have to say are most welcome, and you may rest assured that I'll continue to throw all these thoughts up here for you to see. Stop in anytime!

Deja Vu

It occurs to me that there are children in the world who are actually spared the reality of their parents' fallibility. Perhaps I'm one of them - certainly, I can't recall spending many moments as a child worrying about my parents' health. Hospitals were reserved for the old - friends and relatives and grandparents. Even now, as an adult, I have a hard time imagining my parents being seriously ill. (except for a few scares my dad has given me) I know that when I was small, my dad had some leg surgery done, but the only thing I really recall is him sleeping in the main floor dining room, his crutches propped in the corner. Short term, long ago, doesn't really factor.

This isn't reality for my girls. They live a life where Daddy is rarely "healthy", and sometimes he's really, really sick, more so than usual. They've grown accustomed to dietary supplements in the refrigerator and a shelf full of prescriptions with long complicated names, and when they ask, or hear someone ask, "How's Dad feeling today?" they know it's more than polite conversation.

I don't know what this will give them on their own journey through life. I don't know if it will turn them into hypochondriacs who over-react at the slightest sniffle, or if it will give them an appreciation for the good things life has to offer because they've seen how easy it is to take good health for granted. I don't know.

Regardless, they cope. As I blog, hubby's in Emerg, waiting for tests and results and responses from the doctors there. This could be one of those times when they give him an antibiotic and send him home, or it could be one of those times where they keep him, for anywhere from a week to a month. Once upon a time, I would have glued myself to his bedside, and refused to leave until we had answers. But I've learned that answers are often slow in coming, and sometimes, it's better for me to be with my girls while we wait. Otherwise, it's like losing two parents to illness, rather than one.

I realized tonight that the strength of a family shows itself in strange ways. There have often been times where I've wondered if we have what it takes to make it through everything life hands us. Our reactions today have shown me that we have something - whether or not it's what we need, only time will tell.

See, in a crisis, we know what to do. Somewhere along the line we've developed this weird, almost symbiotic routine. We don't panic or run amok. We know, almost without saying, what each of us needs to do to get the team through the game. The kids magically pull it together - the bickering stops, and they start working together, worried, yes, but not freaked. Daddy's gone to the hospital - that means Mommy will need us to do this, this and this. Our parents are the same way - hubby's dad is there with him now, so that I can be home. Earlier this evening, my mom stepped up to the plate when I needed her.

Some people would find it terribly sad that we know this routine so well. I don't. I find it immensely comforting and reassuring. We play the hand we're dealt - and we play it well.

And now, we play it again.