It’s Christmas Eve and I’m all alone.
Correction: I have Willis. But he has gas, and is banished to the porch until he clears himself out.
The husband switched calls and is working tonight. Thankfully, I have him tomorrow, so I really shouldn’t be complaining. I’m just going to pretend it’s not Christmas Eve, and watch non-Christmas related movies.
In other news, my ganache failed. I say this rather proudly, because it makes me sound like I’ve attempted some culinary feat, and the mere pursuance of such a task is admirable.
I’ve taken to baking cakes. My first cake was one taken from one of the many Southern Living recipe books given to me over the years, and it turned out great, albeit a little dry. I made my second one today- a Coke a Cola cake with the aforementioned ganache icing- to take to Jackson with me after the Olive Branch festivities tomorrow. The cake itself turned out great, but the icing is lacking in consistency…basically, it doesn’t look like it does in the video. It looks like a nice, round, two-layered turd. Oh well, it’s chocolate, and my family loves sweets.
Two weeks ago today, I caught my first cold of the season. I should be thankful- with me working in a high school and my husband working in a hospital, it’s a miracle I haven’t gotten the flying pig flu or whatever is going around these days. I took a turn for the worse last week (HORRIBLE timing), took two trips to the ER, and missed my big weekend in Jackson.
My first trip (oh, come on, of course I’m going to write about my health) to the ER was a quick walk in to the Med, where my husband plopped me down on a bed in the CCA (the trauma ER), rounded up a hapless respiratory therapist, and gave me a quick breathing treatment. We waived at the gunshot victim handcuffed to the bed on our way out.
The next morning, I woke up feeling even worse, so I hitched a ride with my in-house doctor to work and he checked me into the ER at Methodist. We seriously considered faking my age so I could go to the children’s hospital- it’s so bright and cheery there, and everything is my size- but decided against it since he would be able to see me more often if things got worse at Methodist. Got checked in, and my neighbor was a large man with tattoo sleeves who spat on the floor and looked eerily similar to Gary Busey. We didn’t talk much. I try to be as friendly and happy as the situation allows when I’m hospitalized, and wound up with two nurses and a respiratory therapist in my room chatting away by the time the doctor arrived. I had a chest x-ray and had a wonderful conversation with the tech about random things he’s found inside of people, and he made me a sticker of surgical tape with a smiley face, since I told him I wished I was at a children’s hospital. The doctor ordered a 45 minute breathing treatment, which seemed to do the trick, although the husband came down after rounds and made me laugh so hard my heart monitor went off and the nurses rushed in.
So, with all that being said, I’m better now and I’m ready to get out of this dang apartment, which I will starting tomorrow, even though I’m leaving the husband behind while I visit family. Such is life, I suppose. I’ve managed to pass around 20 minutes writing this, and hopefully Willis will have…finished… and we can watch a movie together. He keeps staring at me, all offended, like I’m the one making all those noises…