The thing is, because of my crazy [redacted]'s mental condition, and the fact that she's opted into the mental health court program, it's all supposed to be confidential. Unless my crazy [redacted] gives the okay for me to discuss it. If it seems like I'm using "redacted" in a snarky and out-of-sorts way, then I am giving the correct impression (albeit with no subtlety). For starters, if the defendant is not mentally fit to stand trial, how is the defendant mentally fit enough to decide who needs to be notified and/or present? If nothing else, all that Educational Fun of sitting through court business while I applied for My Very First Restraining Order highlighted the fact that court business is frequently comprised of deeply private matters that are being painfully and openly discussed in a very public forum, as part of a proceeding that anyone can walk in and listen to. Why (and I do grasp the concept of medical confidentiality) does a person get to claim confidentiality due to mental illness, when, say... a cancer-riddled defendant who is sane, but whose medical condition somehow has bearing on the case, doesn't? I don't really see who- not the victim, not the defendant, not the defendant's family- benefits by declaring confidentiality. If you have an answer to that, I'd love to hear it. Because to me, it seems... retarded.
Complicating my being in court is: Curly's Terrific! Double! Ear! Infection! I'm going all Rachel Ray with the exclamation points, but... I was woken up at 3 a.m., 4 a.m. and 5 a.m. by a weeping child with pain in her ears. I'm a little sleep deprived. The doctor gave me a serious dirty look for waiting so long to bring her in, but softened a little when I noted that I called at the first business hours after I knew about it (I'm pretty sure they would not have been grateful for a 4 a.m. call about an ear infection). The kid is really unhappy, and I feel awful for her. But, consider this. I need to be in [redacted] tomorrow. My husband? In NYC on business. Fan-fucking-tastic (sorry, Mom). *
I've been preoccupied enough about my crazy [redacted] that I haven't been all that interested in food and fashion. I thought, maybe I should cook, even if I don't much feel like it. Cooking, itself, is pretty comforting to me, and having the house smell good relaxes both me and the children. And it's a simple way to take care of someone. Since chewing is painful for Curly, I made a simple risotto tonight (and overcooked it a little on purpose, so it would be easier for her to get down). I added some bacon, because, well, the kids will eat it if there's bacon in it (although it wouldn't be wise to apply that, as a rule, to vegetables other than potatoes), and also, I think bacon makes a great many starchy food more comforting (unless, say, you have stomach flu). It doesn't photograph well, but... mmm. It was just what I wanted. I made a tortilla soup the other night (blurry picture added- I had a clear photo with the flash, but the soup looked scary, not comforting, with the light bouncing off of it that way). Again, it was just the ticket. These are the sorts of things I long for right now. That, and less involvement with the local court system. And stumbling upon a wad of cash big enough to foolishly fritter away on some crazy-fabulous shoes. And... right. I'm going to go watch the season premiere of Heroes. And hope that Nathan magically didn't die.
*As it happens, my babysitter, who Curly has known since birth, can cover for me. So if Curly needs to come home from school, someone she's familiar with can come and get her, and bring her home to be snuggled and cosseted. This sort of kindness (she's willing to drop everything, just in case Curly needs her) forces me to admit that although I've been sulking and like to complain, I'm unreasonably lucky.
And: Nathan didn't die! Sure, it makes no sense, but I'm not one of the writers on the show who has to come up with an explanation that, in a soapy sci-fi fantasy, makes sense. And given that framework, they hardly need to explain themselves, do they? A dust mote with his DNA could have been found by a chick who can turn any scrap of human DNA into a fully-formed adult by whistling "Sweet Home Alabama," and then he's back, but falls in love with the whistling vixen, who turns out to be his long lost sister, and is nursing a vendetta against the patrician family that abandoned her.