Dumfounded and Disappointed

To my immediate right is a content Odin - our one-eyed pirate cat.  Off in the distance, and high in the cat tower, is a blissfully snoozing Simon.  He is a little put off with me since I have twice now evicted his treefrog girlfriend.  That in itself is a long story, so we'll save that for another time.

You're sharp if you've noticed the odd time and date of this particular post.  If it didn't dawn on you that I penned it during work hours on a work day, don't feel badly about your sad powers of observation.  

No, I am not playing 'hooky,' per se', but I am using a little PTO because my hip pain has actually caused me to call out "uncle!" for the first time.  Not responding to the pain meds as I would expect...and I could only imagine my worthlessness in trying to work this morning, all the while praying to find a comfortable position to sit or stand in at my desk to get through the day.  And then there are the endless inspections and sorts, reviews of returned shipments, etc, etc.  Lots of hoofing around, but thankfully less of the physically aggressive outgoing inspections of thousands upon thousands of cartons for accuracy and correctness and no damage.  Oddly enough, our customers really hate the incorrectly labeled and/or damaged stuff - go figure.

Anyhow, I managed to get myself out the door and into the car this morning, but found it impossible to lift my leg comfortably enough to shift gears without complete pain.  Usually, (lately) I've been able to get myself started on a drive to wherever and ignore the feeling while driving.  More like I can distract myself - to an extent - to get the job done, only to be further pained by getting out of the car once I've arrived at my destination, and hobbling around until once again crawling back into said vehicle for the next leg of the day.  So it's no wonder by the time I get home it's all I can do to take off my shoes and settle into a comfortable position until the cats need feeding.  

Yes, Hipzilla has finally taken its toll, and I can no longer ignore it or blow off the pain.  In less than a month I will be having hip replacement surgery.  Still wrapping my head around this thought.  As a child of the '60s this is not how I thought my sixties would play out.  

As I was saying, I was on the way to work when I found myself crying from the pain.  Crying!  I mean, I have cried a couple of times now, facing the realization of what is ahead, and I am not happy over it.  And while I am not talking about my mom coming to town to stay with me (for a MONTH) - hang on, I have to cry again - I couldn't believe how that took me over.  It sidelined me.  I had to pull over to compose myself and figure out what I was going to do; go to work or turn around and go home.  I pulled back onto the freeway and drove another two miles before getting off at the first exit and stopping to text my boss.  Then I sat for a few minutes before pulling back onto the expressway to return home.

Yes!  I came home to try another round of something for pain, and ice packs.

In the meanwhile, I have eaten my 1/2 a meatloaf sandwich and had a cup of tea.  I am now drinking a large bottle of ice water and seriously contemplating a bowl of steaming cream of wheat.  The ten-year-old in me seems to think this would be the best remedy for what is ailing me.  Can't argue with ten-year-old wisdom.

So, until I write again, I hope this finds you well and free of worries and ailments.

Keep it that way.

I am feeling fairly low right now

Do you know how easy it is to do nothing?

Do you know how hard it is on a person to do nothing?

Moving on - sort of

I've been wanting to write lately ("lately" equating to from around December 2019 to about now), but ran into a couple of technical issues that kept me from the blog.  As you can tell, things are right again (for the time being), so here we are, and here we go.

It's a bright, beautiful Saturday afternoon.  The boys are cuddled up and napping, and since Odin currently is hunkered in 'the tent', I feel obliged to remain in bed, too.  Yes!  It's after 7:45AM and I am still in bed, so calm your jets.  Do I have a lot of things to get to...things I should already have accomplished after all of these weeks of flying solo?  That would be an emphatic "YES" (- doesn't everyone?), but I seem to have skillfully managed to fritter away so many weekends finishing very little after starting so much.  [grimacing]

Let's blame it on:
 - the doldrums, or
 - the blues, or
 - rewarding myself with weekend laziness for having made it through another week, or
 - Covid19.  Goodness knows this pandemic is the root of all unhappiness at present.

Oh, and in case you've lost track, my lovely girls are all gone now.  Old age and health issues have taken sweet, outgoing, robust Cleo, her glorious-but-skittish litter sister (and Blue Cream Maine Coon) Flop, and lastly our mouthy mama bean Hobbes.

After Clee and Flop departed we found Hobbes was depressed and lonely in the kitty partner category, so we adopted/rescued an older sweet street waif - a gentleman through and through - we named "Jake."  He was in worse than rough condition, and diagnosed with extremely advanced FIV (feline AIDS), but none of that could tarnish the desire to add him to our brood.  Jake was priceless and one of a kind, but besides all of that, he deserved a home and an easier future (for whatever remained of it) - even though it only ended up lasting 5.5 months.

November found us looking for another companion for 'Beana', and she was quickly joined by a totally different sort of brute in the form of an immense Red Maine Coon we dubbed "Booker."  Book was a thin-ish juvenile (judged to be around three years of age by the rescue vet), rambunctious and rag-tag in his furriness.  He needed some love and care, and a place where he could learn to feel safe once again.  He hated my crying over Jake from time to time, and had no issue hissing at me to express his dissatisfaction.  I have to admit to being somewhat terrified at his full-faced hisses, and lack of desire to be held, so it's little wonder there was good cause for confusion and trepidation about this new addition.

While he and Beana were excellent company from the start, we humans were held at bay in the get-to-know-you arena.  I should say that was true more for me than Karl.  Book took to Karl at the beginning more than to myself, and I had a hard time adjusting to the whole thing in general.  Don't get me wrong, I loved Booker - I wanted to show him this - but we did not hit it off at the first, and I am not an inwardly patient person.  Outwardly, people see me very differently...but this is of little consequence to the story at hand.

A few months later we came to the end of Hobbes' earthly reign, and it was time to search for a companion for Booker.  This was not going to be easy or straight forward...and perhaps Book would have been alright as a solo house cat but, truth-be-told, I needed to have another kitty.  After all, this had been a three kitty household (and family) for the better part of twenty years!

Once again our purveyor of rescue cats, Dottie (the bringer of Booker and Jake), stepped up to ferry a new rescue into our lives in the form of Odin (formerly dubbed "Possum").  His hard luck story has been told here before, so I won't bore you with it again.  If you need to review, you can find it by clicking the label "Odin," and all entries pertaining to our little rapscallion will be at your beck and call.

It took very little time to get the boys integrated - granted, it took more time than other introductions had in our shifting feline dynamics - but less than it could have with these two strong male personalities.  Before long, they were comfortable and silly with one another, and we had a working, co-habitating family once more.  If you haven't seen it, I put together a very short photo display of the two boys ("the Twins" as we called them), and I will try to locate it and include it in the blog.  It shows Booker and Odin, in napping form - and always, ALWAYS with Odin inching closer to Book, until one day...boo yaka shah! [thanks for that, Faraaz]

After less than three years in our arms and beds, and everywhere in between, Booker's time on earth  came to an abrupt end.  It took the rest of August and all of September for Karl to allow even the possibility of finding a new addition to our family.  Odin was in tremendous need, and I was, too, but Karl was torn apart and unable to permit himself the thought of another addition.  So, one day while he was out and I ran errands, I came across a roadside rescue event...and the rest is history.

Moving on is not always easy, but it isn't always difficult either, it's just a process.  Sometimes the process is messy or protracted.  Sometimes the process requires additional steps to be added to the flow chart.  Sometimes you don't have anything more to the process other than simply getting up each and every day and surviving until the sun sets and you crawl back into bed.  This is where I have been lately, stuck in the get-up-go-do-make-it-through-and-get-back-to-safety routine.  I am trying to put distance between myself and my miserable recent past.  Depression, the doctor said, and here's a pill for it.

Well, I said "no thanks" - maybe it was a wrong decision, I know it cheesed off one friend - and I am still finding my way around the fuzzy corners and through dark mental hallways.  It looks (in my emotional-mentals) like a long dark space (not unlike a wide corridor), and every so often I come upon what I swear would be a doorway.  There's a narrow beam of light piercing the gloom, as if from under a closed door, but when I get to the wall where the 'door' should be to feel for a doorknob or handle, there's nothing.  I get down on my belly to look under the door, but have the distinct feeling of fear that I am far too close to the edge of being on that floor and falling over instead of seeing something tangible in the space where the light is existing. 

Sorry, that's the best way of describing how it feels.  It makes taking chances seem futile and overwhelmingly frightening, and so it is safer to keep to myself.  Don't reach out; leave your hands at your sides and be careful.  See, it feels if I reach out - instead of receiving help - I might actually accidentally push people (family, friends) away...over the edge and out of my life.  If I do nothing, if I keep my hands to myself, I won't be doing any unintended harm.  Does that makes sense?  Don't pull people down and don't push them.

Maybe I am doing it all wrong, but I am also not moving forward (good) or backward (not so good).  However, I'm also not moving on.

[sigh]

Still just grieving

It will happen some day - of this I am certain, but at present I can't stop crying over Booker - and for Jake in a small way, too.  My beautiful first lads - gone far too soon.

When we rescued Jakey, it was a spur of the moment decision which I will never regret.  Never.  He deserved so much more time to enjoy life - a better life than the one he'd been dealt, and there's just no shaking that thought.  Going into it we knew he had FIV, and it was apparent that the insidious disease had taken quite a toll on Jake's body from whiskers to toes - but it didn't matter.  

He was barely making it when someone blessedly decided to save this skeletal frame of a cat from the meager existence he'd come to know.  I am grateful it happened, but that feeling of gratitude is fundamentally tied to another feeling I almost can't put my finger on.  It's a feeling of incredulity, I think.  At least, it's the closest thing I can identify that makes sense. 

Why did it take so long for another person to recognize his loveliness (despite the grime and missing fur, the sunken eyes, and the nonstop drooling; the frightening countenance he couldn't help)?  

His character was sweet and trusting, and he was loving beyond comprehension for everything he endured.  That was the way he presented himself if you stopped to really experience him, but you would have to make yourself look beyond (or behind) the outward appearance to do so.  Not many people did, but for me it was something about his eyes that drew me in and and held my heart. 

As cheated as I feel for Karl and myself, I can't help crying for Jake's sake that we couldn't have given him more - more time for love, warmth, clean surroundings, plentiful food and water, companionship...a family.  Simply put: just more time.

I fell in love with Jake in a fleeting glance.  Karl was a little reticent after having just lost Flop (and just before her, Cleo), but he became smitten once we met Jake face-to-face.  This scrawny, scarred, lack-of-fur, toothless and drooling thing charged out of his kennel and into our arms, as though we were long-lost family members - and that sealed the deal.  We were his family as much as he would be our boy.  He was the missing link in our clan, and there was no denying it was the right thing to do.

Sadly, his days were numbered; we knew it was a matter of maybe a year, but it was a year we would commit to wholeheartedly and unreservedly.  

As it turned out, the end was not to be that far off.  His poor body had endured all it could of the ravages of FIV, and despite multiple vet trips and doses of antibiotics to kill off the recurring respiratory infections, he let us know he was tired and ready to move on to a less painful place. 

Five and one-half months passed so quickly.  Too quickly.

Oh, Jake... I love and miss you, so, so much.

Booker was the young man Dottie brought to our care not long thereafter, and he was quite a change from Jake.  Pounds and pounds of difference.  We went from emaciated drooling happiness (and mostly white all over) to hissing orange pounds of fear.  Whenever I slipped into a teary mode thinking of Jake, Booker would find me and peal off a fearful face of teeth and a horrifying hiss.  Had it not been for the fact that he had once been someone's cat (this was clear because he had been neutered and front declawed), I would have feared Booker's behavior more.  For me, he presented as a feral cat, but with Dottie he was a mushy lad.  Even with Karl he was calm and accepting of some attention, so I hoped it would be just a matter of time.

Over time, Booker and I developed a love and companionship, and he became my shadow.  If I left a room, he followed immediately.  We talked and shared chairs, and he would ask to be held from time to time!  He loved my stitching, and anticipated those hours in the day when I would sit and stitch, and he would watch excitedly as the needle would rise and fall, dragging the tempting string through the material.  Oh, how he trembled at the thought of catching the threads and silk pieces, and every once in a great while would leave his comfy corner of the bed to climb onto a small perch on the chair just to be closer to the action!  His silly joy with being given a go at my threads brings a smile to my aching heart. 

Book wasn't to be here as long as we anticipated.  A small lump was detected on his lower jaw, which grew quickly through the late summer.  He was taken in for dental work in August and the x-rays showed the mass was actually an out of control, inoperable cancer.  The doctor was very kind and asked how we wanted to proceed. 

We spoke of letting him return home with doses of heavy medication to keep him comfortable for a number of weeks, but that would only give us time to say goodbye - it would not be the decent thing to do to Booker.  The other choice was to have them end the procedure and put him down while he was still groggy.  Neither option was ideal, and to choose between the only two presented was heartbreaking. 

Well, from here you know the rest of the story.  I suppose this is why/how I lost my stitching mojo, and why I am not feeling capable of producing any handwork at present.  Perhaps soon the fog will lift, but until that happens I am surviving only on getting up each day and just going back and forth to work, looking for opportunities for Karl to find employment, and performing the least of the mundane daily routine items.  Well, mundane, save for one additional little occupant in the house.

We have a new friend for Odin, who was most sorely missing Booker.  Book's departure left Odin lost and confused; spending hours every day crying out for his big buddy, endlessly searching the house from one end to the other.  Karl couldn't think on replacing Book, and would not entertain looking at faces online to find another needy prospect to fill out our family, so one weekend I took matters into my own hands, and that is how Simon came to be.  He is helping to replace some of the grief with his silly antics, but everything about this is going to take time.  More on our new family member another time.

See you on the other side.

Life goes on

Made it through week 3 with our new 'assistant'. 

Someone asked how it was I could "replace" Booker so easily, and I almost burst into tears at the thought.  I was affronted by their thoughtlessness when I really should have felt sorry for their ignorance (or simpleminded attitude).  We weren't replacing Booker; we found an assistant who could help Odin out of his grief.  Although, perhaps we were replacing Odin's loneliness with companionship.

Be assured there is no way we could ever replace Booker - ever.  But, Odin had a need and that was clear.  We weren't about to shirk our responsibility to him.

Let's face it, humans are OK as slaves to their cats, but we are far from perfect buddies and playmates.  Oh, sure, we supply food, water, doody control, warm laps when required, catnip, new toys, clean linen for their queen-sized beds, good head scrubs and belly rubs, and on and on...but we are not the be all and end all when it comes to the perfect companions. 

Some cats need other cats around to either share every waking moment with or ignore with impunity (whilst following one another around the house all day long).  Aloof?  Absolutely not.  Indifferent at times, sure.  Independent?  Absolutely true, but also dependent and faithful and loving.  But do they pick and choose when or if they are going to favor us with their time and company?  Oh, yeah baby, and I'm OK with that.  But between cats - whether siblings or randomly adopted clowders - they are much happier and healthier when they have companionship. 

Our new little crazy man has been assimilated lock, stock and barrel, and we couldn't be happier with the outcome.  Simon has been inserted into our family dynamic, and Odin is much happier.  He is no longer wondering the house from top to bottom, crying out for Booker for hours on end.  That stress would have taken a horrible toll on his FIV-infected body, and that was not an option I was willing to take chances with.  Simon is the guardian of Odin's well-being now, and he is up to that task.  An older adoptee wouldn't have been the same sort of 'assistant' at this time, but when our next big change takes place, our lives and hearts are open to another lovely soul joining our clowder.

Nature loves me

I know people who believe our departed loved ones are represented by something (or things) that they themselves took delight in while they were alive.  For example: one of my friends has written a story about her mother's respect for spiders, and the way she took care to never kill one.  If found in the house, her mom would go to great lengths to remove a spider to a better place - every time.  So when my friend now sees a spider - especially in out of the way places or at odd moments - she feels her mom's presence quite strongly.

Others believe the sight of a cardinal means your loved one is with you at that time.  They 'appear' because you are confronted with a decision or an issue that has you in turmoil, and the cardinal's presence means you're not alone.  Cardinals also 'hang close' when those who are gone corporeally have been heavily in your thoughts.  It's a comfort thing...a blessing.

I believe in those things, too.

Although personally, my missing loved ones are represented by cranes.  Well, cranes and herons, but this is a distinction without a difference - to me at east.

This week was especially blessed when, on the drive to work, I saw five magnificent cranes flying directly over me.  I am absolutely certain they were my glorious girls and boys, and all at once I felt immediately saddened and delighted; there's no other way to explain it.  To see them all together made me catch my breath, and I wish with all my heart I could have pulled over and simply watched them soar until they were well out of sight.  I'm pretty certain the other drivers around me would not have been as thrilled with that decision, so I gawked as best I could given the circumstances.

All five in a tight pod.  Sleek and powerful, and beautifully bonded - and I knew straight away that this apparition couldn't have been anything other than Cleo, Flop, Hobbes, Jake, and Booker letting me know they'd found one another.  A bittersweet message to receive on the way in to work, yet it filled me with comfort for much of the day - even as the memory of it wrung tears periodically.  Isn't it amazing how similar the feelings are between happiness and sadness?

Even when all else around me is a disappointment or a struggle, I know nature loves me - thank God.

Endings and beginnings - and all of the stuff that happens in between

Simply Simon

It's been two weeks of Simon already - two weeks today.  Odin adores him, and is having infinite fun in the romping and chasing category, although deep in the recesses of his brain I am certain there are remnant thoughts of Booker;  traces of affection and respect, and an unidentifiable longing for his big brother...gone but never forgotten.

It took two months for Simon to come into our lives.  No, there wasn't a lot of searching that happened, but Karl couldn't let himself open up completely to making a choice and bringing home a companion for Odin.  I understood that, and I empathized, but I also saw a need to move forward during our collective period of grief.

Besides all of that, Odin was extremely miserable - lonely and alone, and mourning the loss of his buddy.  He still jumped at the odd noise around the house, and called incessantly for our large orange sweetie, and truth be told it was getting  harder to deal with on a daily basis.

I was determined to fill the void left by Booker's departure, but also felt pangs of guilt in ways I am sure many pet owners will understand.  What felt like disloyalty to Book was understandable, but not insurmountable.  Karl and I could have gone on a while without inviting a new cat into our lives, but Odin was inconsolable.  That became the impetus on my part - it made Karl miserable in other ways, but it gave me a reason to keep my heart open to the perfect opportunity.

My mind was set on an older female (for reasons I won't bore you with here and now), but Simon was the one who presented himself a couple of Saturdays ago, and the rest is history.  As you can see from the photo, he is a scrawny kitten of approximately 18 weeks of age - so that makes him about 4 months old.  He's tiny, and as it turned out (despite vet papers provided by the rescue agency), he had fleas; we found this out the hard way.  Both boys are wearing flea collars now (yes, Odin ended up with them, too).  But this wasn't the worst of it, either.

Last Saturday became a very expensive run to the vet clinic which the rescue bunch had taken Simon's litter to.  Ended up with two vaccinations and an oral treatment, plus the rather expensive flea collars.  And I won't even make you guess that one of the treatments was for tapeworm.  Yup, tapeworm!  So, here we are, $155 poorer, but Simon is that much better for it.  Hopefully his robust appetite will help to put some meat on his little bones over the next few months.  Right now he's curious, playful, loving, and excellent company for Odin.

The splendid Booker - rest in peace

Farewell, Booker...you are much loved and will be forever missed.

I love the Material Handlers & Re-Pack Folks

No two ways about it, they made me feel important and missed.

Their friendship and caring, and the concern they expressed, made me feel like I matter.  Some of the best medicine - EVER!

Golly, it was a long day, and I am not too proud to admit I am pooped.  I also have a feeling it will be an awfully long week.  There is a lot of overdue work in my inbox, many requests that need tending to, and still the 100% verifications to contend with.  Sorted through the glut of tasks and made myself a game plan for the next few days. 

Was not surprised to learn the new QC Eng did not pick up any slack, nor did the WH Lead, who had a huge hand in creating/allowing the mislabeling debacle.

Up before the alarm

'Natch.'

Odin had been exhibiting signs of illness, so I took him to our 'regular' vet - the family vet we found at the start of the girls' decline in health as old ladies.  The office people were very kind when we had to put down Flop, and then Hobbes - I only wish we had been their client for Cleo's sake.  But all of that was eons ago, or so it feels.  It stills aches as though that was just last month, and since I am a soft touch, recounting all of it will most likely always move me to tears.

Anyway, the last trip I took to the 'family vet' late spring, found me pleading to have the tri-test repeated on Odin - the test which tells of impending doom (heartworm, FiV, FLv).  Upon adopting 'O' we were told that test had been run at the rescue vet office, and that he was free of all three - thank God.  After having 'lost' Jake no less than half a year too soon, I was not interested in shattering my still-healing heart again... at least, not right away.

A little history: 'O' was found in a field, frozen to a towel, starving, bald in areas, obviously suffering from fleas, and (as we've been told) stinkier than 5-day old roadkill on a 99*F day.  What was scarier was this semi-feral little boy had the imposing 'forearms' of Popeye, 9" nails, and a limited vocabulary consisting of "now," "more," and "%!#&!"   The latter we call his cuss word, and he uses it a lot.  He was in rough shape.

To complicate his hard-scrabble life even further is the lack of vision in one eye, missing teeth and, as we found out a couple of weeks into life with Odin, a definite digestive issue.  In short, 'O' was a hot mess, but he was our hot mess, so we set out to improve his life in every way possible.

Fast-forwarding 1-1/2 years finds Odin thriving and turning into quite the tremendously needy love bug.  Neither he nor Booker are lap cats (more's the pity), but they are wonderful lads, and good company nearly any time of the day. 

Anyhow...

...several months back, I took Odin to the vet, wondering about getting some answers and fixes to help him feel better for whatever might have been the matter.  His breathing seemed 'off' and was growing worse day by day.  His poops should have solidified after more than a year on medicated food, too.  And the smell from his mouth...what was that?!?  But it was his breathing that most concerned me, and mostly because Jake's demise was marked by a similar onset of frequent and worsening respiratory episodes.  Could we help 'O'?  Oh, how I prayed that we could - and quickly.

Instead of waiting five weeks for the first non-emergency appointment with our usual vet, I called the local Humane Society and asked if I could get Odin in to be seen any sooner.  Due to my new daughter-in-law working there, 'O' was moved up on the list quickly, and in no time we were in the office and speaking with a doctor.  X-rays were taken, blood was drawn - and most importantly, they listened to my request for having a repeat on the tri-test. 

It wasn't a long wait before the doctor was informing me of the positive results for feline immunodeficiency virus (FiV = kitty aids).  My heart sank.  The x-rays revealed no mass of any sort on Odin's airway or lungs, so the respiratory distress was all due to the FiV. 

He was prescribed a rather strong antibiotic, which made a huge improvement in his breathing in no time, and knocked out the oral/nasal infection in nothing flat.  Also, 'O's' lost another tooth since then, but everything else seems to be at bay - and so we take it day by day.  On the other hand, the antibiotic created a new problem in the form of colitis, and now Odin wakes with a scream and a start, having to poo immediately.  This is bad news for sleeping through the night and for the rug in my bedroom, but it's all doable because it means we have a little more time with our sweet diminutive weirdo.  For a good couple of weeks I'd been awakened way before the alarm - sometimes two-to-three times per night.  Happily, these instances have all but subsided.

Ultimately, my wish is not to trade one set of problems for another.  I don't want to keep the respiratory infections at bay at the cost of Odin feeling crampy and suffering from unpredictable diarrhea - that just wouldn't be fair... or kind.  Therefore, we will watch and listen to and care for Odin with every ounce of love and attention we can muster, until he tells us the time has finally come.  'Natch.'

Recently, Odin was started on a new prescriptive food, and seems alright with it.  While it took some time to get him weaned from the first prescriptive to this new one, I can finally say he is eating most of his meals each day - and that is a blessing.  The abrupt screaming poos are winding down, although I must remain on guard when he begins to cry incessantly, and wander from place to place.  Karl is not as attentive during the day while I am at work, so there have been many days when I've arrived home to find a secret, stinky gift from Odin laying in wait for me in front of my closet. 

Oh, 'O'!  I love you, love you, love you.

Really, 2018?

Not guilty!  I did NOT say - or even think - "what else can happen?" Did NOT say or think, "it can't get any worse/how bad can it get?"

I let 2017 wimper on out and ignored the midnight tolling of the bells.  And this is the thanks I get.

We are going visiting today, and I asked Karl to jump into the shower while I punched down the bread dough and parsed it into the baking pans for its second rise.  I had a load of laundry going and was feeling pretty content.

I heard the sound of water, but it didn't register that the sound was a bit out of the ordinary for the washer (downstairs).  Nope, I chalked it up to Karl in the tub. (yea - no arguments or demanding or repeating myself for a change).

Then Karl breezed by and headed to the lower level to check on the wash - thinking he would take it out of the washer and get it into the dryer, in hopes of wearing one of the dress shirts in the load.  This day was getting better and better.

Then Karl yelled up to me, "Is the floor supposed to be wet?"

Nope, oddly enough, it isn't supposed to be wet.

How fast do you think I flew downstairs?

It looks as though the pipe that the washer drains into froze... that is to say, whatever standing water was in it from the last wash before this extreme cold snap.  The sound I heard and did not identify was that of the water splashing about at high pressure and fanning out on the wood floor and soaking into the insulation underneath.  At least, I am HOPING the drain pipe is the issue.

Damn it!

Well, at least the bread smells good in the oven.

Ostrichotitus

Funny (odd) how the human mind works.  Then, you couple it with the 'heart' (the emotional side of our brain) and you find conflict.  Add the psyche (still more brain stuff) and you come up with a crock pot full of "Whoa. What have you done?... "What were you thinking?"... "WTF?"

Prior to Christmas (one year ago) I was going to head up to a friend's place to help them finish prepping their domicile for the arrival of family.  I was supposed to receive a phone call the night before, letting me know what time to be there the next day; but the phone call didn't come.  In my infinite realm of being a horrible human - not to mention, the world's biggest disappointment to others (my entire life) - I assumed that that was a hint aimed at me.  The next day, the hint became an enormous message (in my mind) when the silence extended itself throughout the entire day and on into the evening.

Rather than call and ask my friend if they were alright, I let it go, believing I was reading the message loud and clear.  A 'message' that probably wasn't there, but that I most definitely read as an "I don't want you around" sort of thing.  If you spent any time at all stumbling around in my brain pan, you would know this was an easy conclusion for me to reach.
The surest path.
Common sense.

I have 'a gift,' you see.

My 'gift' has been put to great use lo these past several decades, and as I have gotten older my 'gift' has become more finely honed and excessively refined. 
Razor sharp. 
Infallible. 

That phone call from my friend that never came... yeah, I let that tip my emotional scales to become nearly two months of self-imposed exile.  I reasoned that it was all obvious simple math; that 'one' (my friend) added with other 'ones'  (1+1+1+1...), and that became lots of reasons why I should vanish from life.  I pulled into my shell and remained cloistered and reclusive for weeks.  I tucked myself in and locked up good and tight against everything and everyone, and remained untouchable and impervious to any more slights and outright injuries - perceived or otherwise.  I had been on my own for so long, it just seemed the natural next step.

After all, I wasn't hurting anybody... else.

In fact, my gift has most likely become the largest impediment in my bag of tricks; the single most utilized implement of destruction which keeps me from enjoying more of that part of life I so badly miss and want to take part in - people stuff.  Life itself.

I activated the gift to protect myself, my heart, my feelings, my self from damage and rejection, but it's only served to insulate me in a 'bass-ackward' fashion.  I've become so used to reading the signs bass-ackwardly, that I am afraid I have become quite adept at sabotaging my life before giving anything a chance.  All those things I want to take part in - all of the things I could have included myself in, but held back from, because I knew rejection would be the first thing dished out - has all been lost opportunity and wasted life.

The long and the short of it is:
I wonder if I can undo the damage from so many years of incorrect intuitive behavior, and begin practicing more self-inclusiveness?  Can I get to a place where I don't wait for direct invitations, but don't shut myself off out of fear, either; automatically assuming abject rejection is one breath - one answer - away.  Can a lifetime of conditioning be reversed?

Farewell, Jake. Grieving is a long process.

Yes, it's still December, and no, things haven't changed all that dramatically, so no need to fret over what you may have missed.  That is, things pertaining to the ol' everyday happenings are fairly status quo, but the projects of a sewing nature have taken shape and advanced.  There are photos and words to look at if you're even the teensiest bit interested in the quilts and other handwork.  You know where to look for that eyecandy.

More about Jake -
He had FiV (in human terms: kitty aides), and was given a year or so to live - depending upon how he lived and how the disease progressed over the course of time.  It was truly all dependent upon the ravages and whim of the FiV.  He still had worms even after arriving at our home, so the vet who first saw him was a bit remiss in the examination and treatment of our gentle, sick lad.

The final nail in the coffin, though, was that the FiV had also left him with a lateral physical condition - renal failure.  The second vet (our family vet) diagnosed it, and told me that Jake had whatever time the RF would allow.  All the blood work showed him to be more in jeopardy from his kidney issue than the upper respiratory infections that clung to him like a vicious gypsy curse.  It would truly come to a bit of a toss-up for him in the end, though. 

FiV is a cascading illness.  A death sentence like no other for an animal, and a bitter pill to swallow for the humans who may love them.  Many countless infected FiV animals live and die in anonymity and solitude.  No... not "solitude."  Loneliness.  They die alone and unmourned - and that cuts like a knife to realize after knowing and loving Jake.

Jake was 'found' and rescued literally at death's door.  There was no more that we could do for him except make him comfortable and love him, and so that was what we did.

But Jake shone like a royal star.  Despite his many ailments he was a beautiful and loving cat; a companion and a giving soul.  He hissed once and only once, trying to stand his ground when our 17-year-old girl tried to run off the new 'intruder' in her kingdom.  He took the many vet visits like a champ, and was the most mild-mannered boy.  The techs and doc loved Jake's weigh-in visitations; even when necessary to draw blood, obtain urine, take a temp (or any other procedure), he kept his cool and allowed the many hands to poke and prod and pinch.

In spite of the antibiotics and plentiful food, the love and safety of a home, and the regular medical care, he finally came to the end of his earthly days.  With tremendous sorrow, we drove to the vet last month and put him to rest.  It was as hard a task for Jake's sake as it had been for our girls.  I always feel as though I'm stealing something of their futures in making that decision, and I ask them for forgiveness as we approach the final moments together.

For now, this is farewell, Jake.  Run and find your sisters, Cleo and Flop, and know that someday, years from now, we will all be together.  Thank you for your love and trust and beauty.

The word "get" has got to go

What is with the ignorance of people using the English language?

I have a lot of pet peeves.  This I know and, well....whatever.

However, I feel compelled to tell the universe how I feel regarding the lack of ability (within the general population) to correctly use the English language in an intelligent and thoughtful way. Let's face it, embrace it, and erase it - the funk of the grammatically lazy, that is. When did mediocrity become the norm?

Has anyone else even noticed that the practice of intelligent speaking has truly taken a nose dive over the last 10-20 years.  'I mean', just listen to us!

• Lazy speech patterns
• The overuse of words in sentences taking the place of "um" and "uh" and the rest - specifically the words "like" and "so", and the phrase "I mean"....when the speaker hasn't even said anything of note requiring clarification
• Saying "hashtag" to bring an air of importance to some trivial subject matter
• Inventing other uses for a word(s), when it isn't necessary, to get the meaning across; i.e. - a "life hack" is NOT the same as a tip or shortcut or a unique solution share
• The needless (and stupid) use of certain other words to shortcut the need for inserting a little grey matter into the conversation - which is why I am here today

This is a bit of text, taken from something I read online this morning, and if you can't see the issue without prompting, then you need to return to third or forth grade - PRONTO!

This is how routine affects us; absorbs us from the inside until we get consumed by it and get comfortable with repetitive patterns and accept changes along the way.

Seriously?!

Let's try this:
"...absorbs us from the inside until we are consumed by it and become comfortable with repetitive patterns..."

Quite frankly, there are a small number of ways that sentence could have been better constructed, but it wasn't.  Don't even get me started on the poor punctuation. [slow burn]

Sadly, the lazy and improper use of language is becoming more disappointing with every passing year.  The word "get" has found its way into most sentences any more, when so many other perfectly suited words would do a much better job communicating, informing, and delivering content.  What are we so afraid of that we can't even hire people to type up news stories on television for our 'talking heads' to say in front of a camera?  Or, are our newscasters presenting the news in a rogue fashion, and they themselves can't construct a proper sentence?

It's horrifying to know there are horrible English students (with deplorable speaking habits) wending their way through college and gaining accreditation to teach young, pliable minds.  Once youngsters are subjected to these new lazy and improperly speaking teachers, who's left to reverse the damage?  Who will monitor the decline of intelligence and work to reverse it?  There are an equal amount of parents who also speak poorly, so there will be no help for the coming generations of kids to recognize the issues and reverse the trend.

How are we to "life hack" our way out of this trouble?  MacGyver has retired.

Oh, and, PS:
Don't blame your mobile phone (or other electronic device) for messing up a conversation and inadvertently causing issues due to its "spellcheck" feature, if you are the sort of lazy idiot who can't be bothered to even attempt to spell a word correctly - or remember the correct uses for "your", "you're", "their", "they're", and "there" (among others).  But these are matters for another time and place.

Rest in peace, Mr. Mandela

The world will forever mourn the passing of Nelson Mandela.

May the peace you fought so hard for here on earth overwhelm you in Heaven.

May God grant your family serenity in their time of sorrow.

Irritation

My most immediate gripe is of my composition instructor.

Karl has the same course with a different professor, and this dude (Karl's 'Prof N') is as incredibly prompt (and terrific) at communication as my composition dude is irresponsible and lackluster. They couldn't be any more diametrically opposed if they tried.  My instructor either never checks his email, or checks it and ignores it for days at a stretch before responding, OR likes playing the "eenie-meanie-miney-moe" game with whatever class email he receives.

A full week ago I wrote to ask if he was able to view my essay submission in the screwed up application the college has decided to utilize for torturing students, er....make that "use as an instructional aide to enhance the class syllabus and face-to-face time."  What a high-falutin' crock!  Too many bugs in the system, and if someone (like myself) hasn't got an updated version of Windows, that damned thing won't work from your home computer!  In fact, if you don't possess the latest and greatest software enabled laptop, iPad, etc., you can't do your homework from home!  That is, unless you go to the extreme of spending another pile of money to buy the latest version of Windows to replace the non-upgradeable Vista that was (the only thing) available when [I] purchased my laptop in 2009. 

That's right, I've had my current computer/laptop for more than four years!!!  I'm not a lemming with a small anything complex (I also don't have a never-ending pile of cash under my mattress to blow on new hardware and phones and other gadgets).  And look at me, I'm still breathing and functioning!

I'm happy (odd choice of words) to report that I am not the only person in class experiencing issues with the stupid MyWritingLab app/software/reporting tool, so I have been vindicated. The stupidest test of the MWL product came when I went to the campus library during a break to upload my essay from their computers. That's right, the MRL tool wasn't recognized by the school system! I was asked for permission to allow a "pop-up" to use the system. Then, the program had bugs beyond the firewall issue.....so HUGE RASPBERRIES to the new tool to make a lazy instructor's life easier! Hey, teachers - get yourself an email account students can utilize to submit their assignments via email - WITHOUT ALL THE DAMNED HOOPS!!

[pant, pant, pant]

I submitted it twice from different computers, and I have no idea if he ever saw the essay while in the precious MWL program. Jean submitted it from her Mac, where she saw the item snugly tucked into the "shared documents" folder, AND she could view it there, too. She even took a page image and we sent that to the instructor to show the document as having been in the system since the 4th of October! But when I queried whether he could view the document as sent via the library computer to the same program destination, I never received the courtesy of a reply!

[expletive, EXPLETIVE, EXPLETIVE]

Yes, I think it's safe to say I am a tad irritated.

Yes...my beautiful carpet is home!

Finally ended up bringing my lovely Kazakhstan carpet home. It has been at Hagopian cleaners/repair for more than a year, and in all that time THEY NEVER FULLY REPAIRED THE DAMAGE, despite pointing it out to them on five seperate occasions!! It was stated on their contract as "...repair all moth damage," and they never closed the deal. Each time I drove to their location (hopeful in my expectations) to look over the carpet before bringing it home...there were the moth holes! Each time, I marked the areas with blue painter's tape - provided by an employee - thinking the necessary areas would be finished; but I'm not certain WHAT the repair team thought the blue tape was there for. No one EVER repaired the threadbare areas!

Nothing about today's trip was any different. Bud went with me, as I was determined to not lose my cool, and we inspected the rug (on hands and knees, as always) and found all the same spots lacking repair! We marked them, took photos as we stood in the showroom, then I signed for the rug and registered a complaint - both written on the invoice AND voiced to the gentleman who always handled me with care when I visited my carpet.

Now, I am conducting a campaign to warn people to not take any repairs to the "purple truck people." Whatever it takes - signs in my car window, internet announcements, FB-spread-the-word-tactics, advertisements in local papers and signs posted on lightpoles. ANYthing and EVERYthing. I am even ready to call the troubleshooters for two of the local news outlets, just to give the purple H a black eye. Tomorrow I am contacting the BBB first, then see which way the wind blows me.

One of 'those' kinds of days

For whatever reason, I find myself having "one of 'those' kinds of days," and it is distressing. It cropped up out of nowhere and I can't seem to shake it.

My day seems to have come complete with a headache, too, so you'll excuse me if I take a day to indulge in a project that has been weighing heavily in my "really want to do" column, and just ignore all else. Well, everything except the cat box, that is.

Post-P.S

Turned down a Scripty job on an indie which is due to begin shooting in the state on Monday or Tuesday.

Yes, I turned down another film. Same ol' same ol': 'turds wouldn't respond to important questions such as what would be my daily rate? Also, the Production Coordinator knew absolutely nothing at this late date as far as schedule items (like: of a five-day work week, what are the standing days off?). Did they have a locked script? Nope, but here's version 14 of the (as yet) unfinished work...'enjoy'.

Um, can't line an 'unlocked' script if it's so up in the air that there are multiple changes to it every day.

In addition to all of that, I had received no paperwork - no contract, no NDA, no W2s...no nothin' - so I sent a "no-thanks" email yesterday. Yes, it broke my heart (a little), but I have things going on that I would have had to juggle and allocate to others, and fix, and so on, so it would have been a pain-in-the-end right up to the first minute of rolling camera.

It's better this way.

[yeah, beth, just keep muttering that to yourself over and over - eventually, you'll believe it]

Infinite frustration

Yes...I have tried for 2.75 days, now, to register and log into the online homework-teacher-made-a-change-to-the-syllabus site WITHOUT LUCK!!!! All I've managed to accomplish was a heightened degree of frustration and very little homework. Every try with a different computer elicited the same basic outcome - a crash of either the IE or the entire PC.

So...HELLO!!!!!! I hate the idea of having to sit in a computer lab on campus for extra hours just to complete homework I should be able to do AT HOME!!!

College is beginning to suck as badly as technology.

Somebody fix it so I may amend my mental state and opinion of technology. *Thanks*

[grumble grumble]

Weee-e-e-e-e-e-l-l-l-l-l-l-lllllll

Apparently, if you're looking for a good time in Michigan, you don't need to drive any further than the nearest Burger King in Dundee.

That's right kids - order a kid's meal and get your food and a pipe filled with hashish...and they'll even light it up for you!

Sheesh.  Way to go, Michigan. [forehead smack]