A very small sampling of conversations held over the weekend:
Information sharing on the best phone to use to call 9-1-1, if the need should arise (answer, the house phone, not a cell, so the address will be sent automatically).
A discussion of the life-span of c-diff bacteria (not definitively known, but a long time), and the best way to avoid getting any oneself (copious hand washing with soap and water, and use of rubber gloves when, for example, changing ostomy bags).
Whether a certain size rubber glove fits, in case the usual bag changer is not available.
Whether it is more worrying for a very frail person with increasingly bad balance to descend steep stairs, or ascend them (I worry more about the descending, because of the balance, but the counter argument is that ascending is more worrying, due to strength issues).
All of these conversations on completely normal, in the realm of reality, subjects. For us, now. It's amazing to me how much we mold our conception of the normal based on current realities.
In other news, I have now officially taken over the job of feeding the rug-colored dog. As in, 'Hello, my name is kimananda, and I'll be your server for the evening. Today's special is a lovely kibble, sprinkled with a multi-vitamin garnish, and drizzled with a spoonful of delightful virgin olive oil, all served with a side bowl of refreshing tap water.'
By which I mean that, if you should see a three-legged Wheaten terrier in your neighborhood, with all her personal belongings wrapped in a handkerchief at the end of a stick, and a sign saying 'Running away, owners not feeding me', well, I'm the one to blame.
*Photo: Rug-colored dog in classic, 'Have you considered, just maybe, feeding the dog?' pose*