1. Phebe's grave is still ok
They're doing construction on the street that Phebe's graveyard is off of and they've blockaded the street. It makes me nervous if I can't go by at least once a week to check on her. But they took a day off on Tuesday and I went and checked and she's fine. As fine as a 300 year old dead woman can be. I'm going to stop, as I'm raising a point that is a very good counter-argument to my stance that her grave must not be disturbed. Good job, me.
2. Worst mother ever (least Phebe related thing here, except for maybe 4)
My daughter said to me, while she was in the bath (and while she was feverish, mind you) "Nobody likes me!" Then she started crying. I couldn't hug her so well as she was in the bath, but I did my best to comfort her and get to what was going on. But that has to be, hands down, the worst thing I've ever heard. Ever. Until...
I'd just given my 2 year old son eye drops outside the pharmacy, while he was in the car seat. Turns out (and I didn't know this) they burn like hell. So he's crying and crying and crying as we drive home. I lose my patience a bit and kind of yell "No more crying! You have to stop crying, honey, we're almost home!" It may not seem like it, but I'm usually good at comforting. But his eye illness came on the heels of his sister's week long fever and I was on edge. Anyway, we got home, I did end up comforting him and he was ok. Not ok, though, was the next time we got into the car, he made his hands into fists and kind of shook them and said, "No crying! No crying!" to kind of talk himself out of crying or something. I don't know. But then that immediately became the worst thing I've ever heard.
Did Phebe ever deal with this? And there it is.
3. How I'm preparing for the Zombie Apocalypse
Last March, we lost power for five days. We had hot water, but that was it. It was still pretty cold outside (mid 50's) and while, to someone like Phebe (there it is), that's mild, for us it was cold inside. We used our fireplace constantly and slept under lots of blankets. We shared beds, too. My husband and daughter snuggled up in her room and, because I was still nursing my son, he slept with me. So that placated one worry of mine - that of them being cold in the night.
We also had to monitor our sump pump, as it was raining constantly (the reason for the power outage in the first place) and, with no electricity, our sump pump was running on a back-up battery that we kept charging at a friend's house or that my husband charged at work. No phone, either. Well, except cell phones, that we generally charged in the car. So I guess we had phones. Duh.
The whole thing was kind of fun in retrospect. And Jeezbus Christie, this is starting to sound like a mommy blog, which I hate. Almost as much as I hate Oprah. Stop telling me what to do, Oprah. It's patronizing and annoying. Anyway, not my intention. Number 2 was all mommy blog too and for that I apologize.
Here's my intention: we could do it. In an emergency, we could do it. I worried a lot about them, but we cobbled through. And that leads me to the Zombie Apocalypse. For instance, in the movie Zombieland (full disclosure: I have a crush on Jesse Eisenberg, seriously, about this photo, wasn't this scene awesome?), I kept wondering, "Who's running the electric companies?" "Who's refilling the gas tanks at the gas stations?" "Why are there lights on?" etc etc. All of that would eventually stop, right? I mean, unless, magically the survivors always include the exact engineer responsible for running each utility.
So there's another dimension for the Zombie Apocalypse for you. Not only do you have to fend off the brain-eaters, but you have to just worry about survival. This is not something I've thought about alone. That new AMC miniseries, "The Walking Dead," also focuses on this issue.
I don't know, but it helps me to remember that until very very recently, human beings survived pretty well (with periods of great sophistication too) with no electricity. Without TV, without computers, without forced heat or electric ovens or telephones. Good to remember. As a reassuring thought during the Zombie Apocalypse. While you're fending off the person who wants to rip your head off. Well, not just a person, but an undead person. OK.
2. Why I love Sherlock Holmes (almost any incarnation)
So they just began playing the new Masterpiece Theater (which is public television for British production) version of Sherlock Holmes and it was wonderful. I'm a big fan, should just get that out there. This time, the setting was contemporary London and the actors were: blah blah (I should look that up), otherwise known as the rapist in Atonement, as Sherlock Holmes; also blah blah (again) from the original British the Office, who is adorbs, btw; and Rupert Graves, whose name I know very well from twenty-five years ago when he played Freddy in A Room with a View and effin stole my little teenage heart and hoo-haa, as Lestrade. I will learn those other two's names. The whole show was perfect and wonderful and I wish my son had been asleep so I could've heard everything. I may even give pbs $80 to get the DVD set. Or just go on Amazon and pay $30 or whatever. Undecided.
Anyway, it got me thinking about why I love Sherlock so much. And not just any Sherlock interpretation, but canon Sherlock, which this recent production was (I didn't even bother with the recent Guy Ritchie one, while I like Robert Downey Jr. a lot, because it seemed too far off). Here goes. Reasons are two-fold: 1. I want to be Sherlock. 2. I want to be noticed by Sherlock.
Reason 1: I want to be Sherlock. I want to be that smart, first of all. But more importantly, I think, is that I want to not care. I want to be so consumed by what I'm doing that it really doesn't matter to me how other people see me. I want to have the self-confidence to dismiss people. Wouldn't that be great? I know the character has a flip side, a morose side (which I got down, thank you very much) and I guess that's just part of that package, but overall, I want to be him.
Reason 2: I want to be noticed by Sherlock. And this has been true since I first read the stories. Mostly because I was largely an invisible child, even in my family. Left at the gas station accidentally, for instance. I wanted someone to look at me and know all my secrets. To be interested in my secrets. Maybe I just liked the idea that I had secrets. That there was something interesting about me, something to study. That I was worthy of attention.
OK. That is now the worst thing I've ever heard. Maybe not worse than the other two, on second thought, but third for sure.
And I cannot for the life of me think of how Phebe relates. Ummmmm. No.