We're in full preparation mode now, it seems. Spent a good portion of the morning cleaning out the van, and was surprised to find that it wasn't that bad. Just one bag of trash, and it was a small one. Most of the time, we extract at least a full trash bag worth of goodies from the nooks and crannies hidden away. When you have a five year old, you just can't seem to live a clean life.
Much still left to be done, I'm afraid. There's laundry, packing, shopping, and cleaning. I have to have a clean house house before we leave. There's no worse feeling than coming home to a dirty house, right?. No wait, there is a worse feeling; knowing you're coming home to a dirty house, and you still have eight hours left of the drive home. So, I like to clean before I leave. Gives me a sense of accomplishment for the whole trip. And it saves my sanity. Save it, so I can lose it another day.
The wife and I are dreading the long drive, though. SaraJane is at the age where she cannot tolerate being in the car-seat for anything more than a quick journey. After a minute or two, she starts making a low -pitched, rumbly/achy noise in the back of her throat, which is her first warning that she's about to get really mad. Another minute, and she starts a bout of yelling, telling you exactly how she feels in 9 month old barky language. After all of this, and to her immense disappointment, her audible ramblings haven't earned her emancipation from the bonds that hold her, and she cries. And cries. And finally, sleeps. I like when she sleeps. But that's when you must be very, very quiet. It makes for a fun car ride.
No, I still have not heard word one from the hospital. I'm getting antsy. I've done all I can, I suppose. It'll start when it starts. I just want to see what it's like, you know? I've pretty much decided to move ahead with the CNA program. After that, I'll start the LPN program at Gateway. Who knows; with a bit of gentle prodding from the wife, I may even become an RN, and make some decent money again someday.
It's funny; I never thought I'd change my career. I thought I'd stay at Cox Communications for years and get some retirement out of it. I enjoyed it for the most part. It's when I started driving three hours a day that it began to get old. Things that never bothered me before became the greatest annoyances.
I do realize that I have to start working again sometime, if only for my own good. Some nights, when I have a free moment to think about going into nursing, I get nervous and apprehensive. I think about what I'll be doing/seeing, and it scares the bongos out of me. And still other nights, I feel pretty confident and zealous about the whole project. Any advice from the congregation out there?
Oh yes, and the phone books arrived on our doorstep yesterday. What a day! Such an event! Does my sarcasm come through ok?
It took me only a few steps from the front door to get them straight into the recycle bin. I just don't see the point in having them anymore. Not for me, that is. If I need a phone number, address, or recommendation for pizza, I go straight to the iPhone. Tangent time.
The things we mere mortals can do from pocketable telephones now:
1. Call people
2. Look up anything, anywhere, anytime. The power of the 'Net.
3. Read the news
4. Play video games
5. Take a picture
6. Check e-mail
7. Find out the local temperature/forecast
8. Check a bank account balance
9. Pay bills
10. Listen to music
11. Watch a movie
12. Find a movie
And on, and on. Like living in Star Trek. I still can't get over it.
Anywho, back to telephone books. I understand their importance in quite a few venues. I know a lot of people must still use them. And I know they must still generate a lot of cash for ol' Dex.
Regardless, I can't imagine the vast amount of work and resources that go into a project like the bi-yearly printing of the phone directory. But most people in my neighborhood have either recycled them, or they're still sitting on the front porch. I think therefore, that it should be a choice to receive them, no? I'm not even a landline telephone customer, for cryin' out glavin. (Mmn hmm, ah hay!) /Professor Frink
Much to do, much to do. Must end, for now. Thanks for stopping by again! Much appreciated, for certain.