automatically every month
CRAP TIMES THREE
I stayed home from work yesterday because I did not feel good. And because my cat died. And because my kitchen faucet was broken all to hell. You got all that? Good.
The first bit is fairly straightforward—some kind of demon snot has settled in my sinuses, so I have been decimating whole forests with my kleenex usage, hawking up neon-colored gobs into any receptacle like a cartoon redneck, and feeling like my eye sockets are being slowly, gently bashed with rubber mallets every time I move my head. My doctor wants me to lose ten pounds, but she is not interested in helping me out if those ten pounds are ten pounds of snot. I have had lots of conversations like this:
Me: It's me again. I am still sick. I have not fucked my husband in a week. This is unacceptable. Give me drugs.
Doctor's Office: Have you been sick for [x] days?
Me: No, I have been sick for [x - 1] days.
Doctor's Office: Okay, call us back if you are still sick after [arbitrary date].
Me: You are all a bunch of bitches.
Doctor's Office: So true. Have a great day!
Plus they've changed the value of x twice now. If I lived in San Diego I would have been over the border and back by now with my contraband Zithromax. Seriously.
Crying off and on about the dead cat does not exactly help the snot-plugged sinuses and swollen balloon-head either. Hey, good timing!
A MOMENT OF SILENCE FOR OUR HOMEGIRL
Banana had not been eating much and had not seemed like her ghetto, trash-talking self for a few days, so I made an appointment with our vet for late Friday afternoon. During the day Nora's Big Responsible Friend With A Driver's License (aka the nanny, although Nora gets offended if you use that term) called to say that Banana was much worse: crying, dragging her legs, hiding under stuff, and generally acting like a cat on her way out. I came home to see for myself, and decided that although the scheduled vet appointment was only two hours hence I would feel like a jerk sitting around going “Oh, you're in a bad way, eh? Well, don't worry, we'll get going soon.” So me and Nora jumped in the nanny's car with the Banana Carrier and headed to the emergency vet. Where we found out that Banana was (a) probably a lot older than the shelter told us and (b) in acute kidney failure. I saw the lab printout and even with my superficial clinical (and human) medical knowledge I know the numbers were ridiculous.
The veterinarian, who turned out to be pretty sweet and sensitive despite her butch exterior and serious need of hand lotion, said that it would probably take about a week of hospitalization to stabilize Banana, if indeed it could even be done. She said that Banana had sustained kidney damage, so assuming that she got better we would probably be counting weeks and not months until the next crisis. She said that if we wanted round-the-clock care Banana would have to be transferred somewhere else, as their clinic was unattended at night, or else just take our chances that nothing bad or painful or scary happened to our cat in the wee hours. (This last part is what made me start really crying.) After all that, when she gently steered us toward euthanasia we couldn't say no.
I am not mad at the shelter, although part of me wonders if they couldn't do a better job of guesstimating their cats' ages. We probably would have adopted Banana anyway, though. She was a sweetie who sat in my lap the whole shelter visit and her hard-living street story was pretty compelling and she was such a good good girl with the litterbox and the claws. I hope we made her last nine months happy, at least.
Nora The Creepy Biologist wanted to witness the whole death, so we said why not. And frankly it was not dramatic or scary as Banana was such a wreck that she looked the same alive or dead. Sometimes I wish my child were growing up on a farm, she certainly has the temperament for it.
THE THIRD BAD THING
Totally resolved now, but: LT decided he could replace our leaky kitchen faucet himself. Cue one whole day without kitchen water and a plumber coming out to the tune of $188. LT normally is pretty handy, but plumbing is not one of his things. Drinking whiskey, looking at girls, and .NET are his main things. Plumbing is not even in the top ten.
Oh the suckness. Tomorrow I go to the doctor for real, and if any bitches try to give me a hard time I will bite their faces with my aching, sinus-pressure teeth. Probably sooner rather than later we will be at the cat pound looking for a new love baby, a new love, yeah yeah yeah. The bad Banana luck makes me skittish but I hate not having an animal in the house. And LT is not allowed to watch any more home-renovation shows. And soon I will write a diary entry that is not boring old one two three narrative news, but instead chock full of the digressions and elliptical nonsense that you have grown to tolerate.
—mimi smartypants was returned for insufficient postage.