The weather went to shit night before last. In less than a day--in less than twelve hours, actually--the temperatures dropped from 82* to 22* Fahrenheit (for those of you who measure in Cee rather than Eff, that's from 28 to -6). It began to rain, then sleet, then "wintry mix", which translates no matter where you live into something that will coat your car and in which you do not want to drive.
I was prepared. I had stolen a Bill Bryson book, "The Mother Tongue: English and How It Got That Way" from the hospital library, had bought a bottle of Dalwhinnie, and had stocked the fridge with coffee and milk and eggs and bacon.
What I wasn't prepared for was this: that my sister's shipment of birthday presents would arrive this week, as would a five-box shipment containing a barrister bookshelf from my parents. I hauled the boxes from Beloved Sister up three flights of stairs, but left the crates of bookshelf bits in the apartment office. Until such time as I can enlist the help of some poor idiot to haul them up 45 vertical feet, there they'll stay. I wasn't about to carry them myself (or hump them, nod to Paeds RN) because, while they're not particularly heavy or ill-balanced, they are bulky. Three flights of steep concrete-and-metal stairs coated with ice do not mix well with bulky boxes containing glass-fronted bookshelf parts.
Beloved Sis sent many items that could be construed as scrubs or as pajama pants, depending on the offensiveness of their color combinations. I am not being insulting with that observation, by the way; the tag on one particularly strident set of scrubs read "these colors may not be a good idea." She also sent four antique medical books. I *love* ancient medical books--and these, while not particularly ancient (the oldest dates from 1914)--are stunning examples of their type.
There's one on "A girl's responsibility for race progress", one on Our Mysterious Life Glands (with disturbing pictures), one about Reading Character Through Analysis of the Features, and the crowning touch, a book (published in 1931) entitled "Studies In Ethics For Nurses." That last will, I expect, produce plenty of fodder for future blogging, provided I can get through it sober.
Anyway, dealing with that embrass de riches took most of the morning, after which I took a nice long nap. Then I got up and whipped up some spaghetti with things found in the fridge and lashings of Parmesan, and read Bryson and stuffed my face.
Provided I ever get the bookshelf bits up the stairs (that is, if the ice ever melts), "Studies In Ethics For Nurses" will look nice in the top one.