Every Monday, the Improg site posts the word of the week for your blogging pleasure.
I’ve been putting off writing this improg post because I don’t have much to say about facetious, other than it is one of the handful of English words that contains all five vowels in alphabetical order (I like alphabetical order, which helps to explain all the dictionaries in my house). It hasn’t been a very facetiousness-inspiring week around here.
Child One has to have minor surgery in August; we found out today when it is, and his stitch-removal day is in the only week we had clear all summer to potentially take a trip further away than a weekend destination.
Both Child One and Child Two were diagnosed on Monday as needing glasses for distance. We knew this would happen sooner or later with One, but Two, unbeknownst to us, has gone from being farsighted to now being more nearsighted than her brother—a big change which we hope is not a sign of things to come (the doctor said, without a trace of facetiousness in his voice, “Oh, my, I hope she hasn’t inherited her father’s eyes”; my husband pretty much can’t see past the end of his own nose without his glasses). This diagnosis resulted in shock, dismay, some tears, and—once she’d accepted the situation—much trying on of frames. Both kids are now fitted out with glasses, cleaning cloths, and cases, and are marvelling at how much better they can see the TV.
My mother has once again created a situation that will involve a great deal of my time, energy, and gas budget; it includes one, maybe two, completely unnecessary two-hour round trips to the airport, one of which is to meet a plane whose time of arrival and city of origin we are not entirely sure of. And I am not being facetious about any of that.
I am having extremely unfacetious trouble with a client. I can’t say much, seeing as how I’m so professional and don’t talk about my clients (much). Suffice it to say that his never-ending project has become even more fraught with author-induced problems than it was before and I am seriously considering running away from self-employment into the arms of a library or bookstore job. Or even going back to waitressing at the family restaurant I used to work at, despite the fact that I swore in true Scarlett O’Hara style over 20 years ago that I would never go back even if I had starving children to feed. This project is that bad. You people who say you’d love to be an editor or proofreader because you enjoy reading have no idea. Now, if you enjoy banging your head against brick walls, I’ve got a client for you.
And I am sick with a summer cold, which includes—at no extra charge—the kind of cough that makes you wonder if your internal organs are going to end up in your lap and prevents you from sleeping more than an hour at a time, even though you’re propped up on 14 pillows to try to prevent the coughing fits that are strong enough to propel the cat who unwisely chose you as a bed right across the room. The last time I was this sick with a cold I turned out to have pneumonia. I’m hoping for the best and trying to focus on the bright side: my abs are getting a good workout, which will come in handy when belly dancing class resumes in the fall.
It hasn’t been a terrible week. Nothing earth-shattering or horrific has happened (knock on wood). It’s just been a very serious week, without much time or energy for facetious behavior.