and zen i wrote
I'm home with a migraine today, my second week in a row home sick on Monday (although last week I outdid myself with jabbing pains in my neck and guts stretching into Tuesday). I can't remember a migraine ever lasting this long – it's been going on since early in the morning, when I woke up around 4 a.m. with a headache too bad to sleep. Last night I was finishing my marking for the midterms like a good girl, despite what was then only a bad headache (albeit one that laughed in the face of extra macho Tylenol). I was all set to go in today and finish my report cards well in advance of tomorrow's deadline. Now, despite a grim determination to finish regardless of said migraine, I find myself the victim of network troubles. Oh well. I'll have to stand in abasement like a bad teacher, but I know that they make the deadlines in a logical way so that there's room for a little bit of lateness.
This entry, of course, is another in my trend of entries written when I have unexpected time off, my schedule being so damned tight otherwise. Must look into that.
Quickly then, before I have to go lie down again (but off my suddenly-sore hip). This weekend I experienced one of those truly zen-like rambles through the fall, the exact feeling I was hunting last year at the Humber Arboretum but missed due to my sleeping and ambivalent companions (guess which was which!). Mason is a devoted patron of the Don Valley Brickworks Saturday morning market, and this one was the last until Spring. Since we very rarely get the chance to take Blake due to the busy schedule of a kindergartener, we were hyped about including Blake in the fun. He made me proud, loving the kid's garden, gawping at babies and dogs like his elders, and tearing through the brush in the adjoining park land. The only sour note was the loss of the black keyhole scarf I knit for my dad three years ago that has only recently found use as a Blake-muffler. I don't know what I was more upset about: losing the first and only present I've ever knit my dad, losing a scarf that has just come into its prime after years hanging around the backseat of the car, or the way Blake 'consoled' me by assuring me that I should just knit a new one.
It wasn't until lunch at the Mill Street Brew Pub that my spirits were restored, partly by an unspectacular cottage pie and partly because Mason's in-house connections as a regular allowed us to skip a long line. Are we VIP's or does my sweetie have a drinking problem? Why does it have to be just one?
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Don't make me send out the Blake. He doesn't listen to *anyone.*