I told my grandmother that we were proud new parents of a bread maker.  (Stretching the not-having-a-baby-but-look-at-the-other-cute-things-we-have-in-our-life gig a little far?  Maybe.)

I remember my grandmother making bread from scratch all summer long.  Only raisin bread.  I got to help put in the raisins.  Grandpa said the storebought kind didn’t have enough raisins.  She never made any other kind of bread, just raisin bread.

“A bread maker?  How nice.  I used to make your grandfather spice bread.”

“Yes, raisin bread.  With extra raisins.”

She shook her head, “Nooo…” slowly, like she was letting me down gently, “He didn’t like it with cinnamon…he wanted some other spice…cumin!  That’s it.  I made it with cumin.”

This conversation haunts me.

Am I remembering wrong?  Can I have such strong, specific feelings that are completely made up?

Can she be wrong?  Has all her joking about being an old woman finally come to pass?

Or worst, are we both right?  Is she thinking of a different time, a different bread.  If so, I’m missing out on one more story to cling to when she’s gone.

Holy Fuck, life has been rough.  Inappropriate, excessive swearing rough.

And then of course, we still have our house, can afford to stay in it, do not have to give our animals up because we can’t buy food, and loosely-speaking, still have our health.

Still.

I’ve been very unhappy with my schedule lately.  Doesn’t shock a lot of people.  10-14 hour days?  6-7 days a week?  How can you not love it?

Well, I do.  Usually.  I love feeling like I’m making a difference and getting dirty (and bloody) and being part of a solution.  I love helping people and animals and most days I feel like I’ve done both.

Lately though, Tom’s schedule has been just as much shit as mine – including shift work which means I end up not sleeping a full night either.  And our animal woes have not stopped.  Three, THREE, urinary tract infections.  One on a cat who’s been surgically altered to have much less tract to resolve this exact kind of thing.  One a cat who has to be sedated for the most simple of exams.  (The last is just on a plain ole regular cat.  Albeit a fat, old, and needy one.)

I’ve been really wishing I had a more 9-to-5 deal, so I could do a better job taking care of everyone.  And maybe some weekends off to catch up on everything else.

The thing is, I really hate wishing that.  I am not made to be selfish and me, me, me.  It pisses me off.  And I’m horrible at it.  My boss has even less time off than me – how do you ask for more?

I really hope this is a phase.  I really hope we get a handle on our pet and personal life and I go back to feeling gunho about my schedule.