Catfish, anyone? Just when I thought I had Ken convinced that I really, truly don't like bullhead, he was thrilled to present me with farm-raised catfish to cook for dinner last night. "You'll never guess what I got us for dinner tonight." No, he was right, I never guessed. Well, I'm a good sport, I cooked up the fillets (at least they were fillets and not those horrible round bodies that his friend drops off when he goes giggin' for bullhead) and presented them to him. Mmmmmm, boy did he think they were good. I ate some but mostly ate the leftover chicken/farfalle combo from Sunday dinner.

Then he talked about the dance hall that was behind the church in Black Brook and all the dances they used to go to. I've heard about it before, but it's such a joyful memory for him ("That Wilfred LaHart--his feet never touched the ground, from the minute the fiddler picked up his bow"). Wilfred is now 90, so it's hard to imagine these people dancing the night away, but it was what there was to do then and they loved it.

Our trip to the doctor was fine, but we have 2 more weeks of antibiotics and treatment ahead of us. Every night I'll go there, have him soak his foot, apply Betadyne and band-aids and give him his pill with a glass of water. I guess it's healing ok but isn't healed completely yet. His circulation (or lack thereof) prevents a speedy recovery from this infection. I don't mind helping him, don't get tired of his company. Friday I'll be quite late because I have a negotiating session until 5 then a baby shower I should at least stop in at. A woman who used to work for me who was unpleasant when she left and told people she left because she couldn't stand working for me. Funny, when she worked for me she said she really liked it. She now works at the Plattsburgh Public Library, is newly-separated from her husband and is having a baby girl in April. Life is complex for us all, isn't it.

My sister is having her birthday today. If she's getting older I must be too. And it's all about me. I told my mother (mistakenly) that I felt a lot of pressure to stay alive because it would be hard for her if I died. "Oh don't feel that way, dear, I could handle it." As if. Funny thing when your parent gives you permission to die. I don't plan to die any time soon anyway so it's a mute point, as they say.

My friend Mary Frances is having her birthday tomorrow. She's moving to New York City soon, from Louisville Kentucky. Lots of people end up in NYC, don't they. Not me, I think it's safe to say I won't. Never say never, though. Picture my little Tess in NYC, though, I mean really.

I'm feeding my dogs tablets to make their poop unappealing (that sounds ridiculous, unless you know that Tess eats everyone else's poop)--they've got fermented vegetables in them. I would think that would make them even more delicious, but the plan seems to be working because I watched Tess turn her nose up at Chances' poop this morning, turning away very disappointed. She's usually very pleased to find fresh turds coming out of her friend, but not today! Hooray for modern veterinary science. All they had to do was let the right vegetables rot What do you suppose it was--okra? broccoli? spinach?

I have a huge stack of really old and disagreeable stuff to catalog for the most ridiculous collection in one of the libraries that's going online. They send us photocopies of their catalog cards and I have to find a record for the item. The cards are full of misspelled words, wrong copyright dates, incomplete information. It takes forever to find a record, then I have to key in the information in our database. And this is for books that were published at the turn of the 20th century that no one will ever want. Like, travel guides for Florence published in 1904. "Modern" history of Africa from 1910. They'd sell like hotcakes on eBay. I also have to add up a bunch of figures for our annual report. The totals never balance so I end up making up a bunch of stuff anyway. This is not one of my strengths.

But the sun is shining and over the weekend I heard a chickadee making its spring song. This morning it was -8 when I left home and I'm running out of dry wood. Spring needs to get here a little sooner, please.
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