Facebook is so evil. Its best use, really, is to provide me an easy way to start Words with Friends games. I come upstairs to post a blog and think, well, I’ll just check my e-mail first, and then I get Facebook messages on my e-mail, so I click over to Facebook, and then the whole morning’s gone.
In the meantime, our landlord is here, because our hot water heater is broken and we have no hot water. No, I don’t mind at all—it’s an excuse to avoid showering. I took one yesterday, so I’m good for a couple of weeks.
On the accomplishment side of the day, I did yoga and put away the dishes. And I got dressed. That’s an accomplishment. It’s the small things, really—I know that you, dear readers, shower and dress every day, and probably go to the gym and read constructive and interesting books and discuss them in book clubs and buy all-organic food and have a 21-inch waistline and very toned buttocks and well-behaved children and a bottle of wine that cost more than $3 chilling in your fridge, which you will drink as you cook a gourmet meal for your family—but for me, an accomplishment is getting dressed. I take great pleasure in it. I figure if I take pleasure in small accomplishments, eventually they won’t seem so hard, and maybe I can move on to bigger accomplishments.
I HAD to get dressed because it’s time for me to go to an oncologist’s appointment with my grandmother (a.k.a. Nanny). This is the follow-up appointment that’s with an oncologist who’s office is very, very far away. The one at which she (the oncologist) will tell us what we already know, that Nanny’s last surgery was successful and the surgeon removed every last bit of cancer. Now, unless Nanny has radiation treatments every day for six weeks, which she has already decided not to do, there’s about a thirty percent chance that another cancer will develop in either one of her breasts. I’m comfortable with that risk, especially since the first cancer was a particularly slow-growing type, and I think six weeks of radiation would be extraordinarily hard on her—harder, perhaps, than another lumpectomy if or when the time comes.
And this afternoon, after I collect Annika from school, I’ll have the distinct pleasure of putting yesterday’s bread in the oven—it’s this marvelous recipe for no-knead bread—sorry, can’t remember if I’ve posted that link on here before. But I mixed the dough yesterday afternoon with Annika and it’s been rising all night, and it’ll be ready to pop in the hot oven soon. Having to see the oncologist sucks, but warm buttered bread will heal the wound, especially with homemade rhubarb jam.
Small accomplishments. Small pleasures.