Tired

I'm very tired.  

Not tired enough to get off the couch where I obsessively watch episodes of Bridezilla (who ARE these people who act like this?  I fear Middle America will eat itself) or Jon & Kate Plus 8.  I now know all the kids by sight, or voice.  I think they're adorable.  Cara, Leah and Aaden are my favorites.  

I'm too tired to do anything at work.  Or is it ennui?  Probably a serious case of pregnancy ennui with regards to work.  I'm having a baby, so I don't care that the locker rooms are out of towels or that you lost your third quarter in a row in the tampon dispensers and now you are so pissed that you are going to send me a snotty email, railing about a building that has the temerity to charge 25 cents for low-quality tampons that should be free.  Hey, try remembering to carry some in your purse!  That's what I would do.  

And let me let you in on a tiiiiiiny secret.  The building is made of concrete and steel.  It doesn't think, it doesn't feel, and it doesn't go out of its way to make your existence miserable.  But I do, so be careful about the tone of the emails you send to me.  

Well, we had some banner weather in Seattle over the weekend.  88 degrees on Saturday!  Woo!  No air-conditioning and a resident who hates all noise and general sounds of other people's joy....not so woo.  

I had to walk to pick up the ever-failing car.  It was probably just under a mile from our house, mostly downhill.  I stepped outside the house and immediately had to pee.  I went back into the house, peed and then retraced my steps.  I got about halfway out of our street before I had to pee again.  Sure it was just the phantom pregnancy urge, I kept walking.  I was almost in tears by the time I got to the auto-dealership, every step threatened to force me onto the side of the road with a small weed for privacy and a couple of poison-ivy leaves as toilet paper.  

I have now been stone sober for over two months.  I have just one thing to say:  it is seriously overrated.  

URGENT LETTER

DEAR GODDAMNED CATS:

Now is NOT the time to start marking the bedspread and bedskirt.

And somewhere in the living room, although we do not know exactly where.

For fuck's sake, we ARE TRYING TO SELL THE HOUSE!  

Urine in the proper place is appreciated during this important time.

I swear to God, when I find out who is doing this, I am going to take you into the backyard and pee all over you.  

YOU THINK I WON'T?

Mom

Letters Letters Letters

Dear People Who Are Looking At Our House,

Buy our house.  Please?  Please buy our house. 

All the neighbors are being quiet.  Nice of them.  Of course, I'll egg their house if they aren't, but in general, everyone is behaving themselves.  Like they do, you know, until you buy the house, move in and find that they blast their oldies rock station over the sound their lawnmower and/or bitch at you the first day you're moving in because you parked in front of the mailbox.  Because the moving truck was in your driveway.  And it was a Sunday.  And you're right that I could block the mailman.  Who delivers on a Sunday.  In an alternate universe. Take a chill pill, Terry, fergodsake.  

Anyhoo, where were we?  Oh Yes!  Buy our house.  Please?  Please buy our house.

I am Tired of Making the Bed,

Salome

Dear Constipation,

Ohhh my gosh you are killing me.  KILLING ME.  You will be the death of me.  In a relatively easy early pregnancy, the fact that I cannot go to the bathroom is making me want to lie down on the floor and cry.  Metamucil (tastes like Tang!) doesn't seem to work.  The Feast, which I once memorably blogged about, also doesn't work.  Nothing works.  I've been warned not to strain, for fear of the grapes, but it is hard not to!  When you finally lose your patience after 5 straight days of ABSOLUTELY NO ACTION HAPPENING and you feel like you've eaten two beachballs for dinner when in reality you ate the spiciest thing you could find in the hopes of manufacturing Montezuma's revenge, sometimes you have to just sit there and strain and make all kinds of Cinemax noises and finally pass something that looks like an inch of concrete.   And it makes your whole day.

Chronically Over-sharing,

Salome

Dear Library Books,

Please take yourselves back, you weren't any good.

Disdainfully,

Salome

Boobs, Glorious Boobs

A couple people have asked how I'm feeling.
I'm actually feeling pretty much fine. I experienced early nausea, which prompted us buying the test, which gave us the news, which caused me to feel every first trimester symptom in a matter of three days. And then I came to my senses and realized that I feel mostly fine.

By all accounts I am in my 6th week.
I have low to mid-grade nausea, exacerbated if I don't eat frequently.
And if I skip breakfast for any ill-advised reason, the nausea swells up and lasts throughout the day.

Vernor's soda is my friend.
I need to eat frequently. Tiny portions, because I feel full almost instantly.
My boobs, which have been the bane of my existence, are now these gorgeous globes.
They are also about 92 degrees each, they weigh 7 pounds each and they are so exquisitely sensitive that if anyone but me touches them, I'm liable to smack the person. Taking off my bra at the end of the day causes me to wince. Rolling over onto my boobs causes me to wince. Hugging someone causes me to wince. Forget about the cats climbing all over me, the agony would be impenetrable.

I am easily distracted, if I get mad I get rushingly, staggeringly mad, with crescendos of blood pounding in my ears and the precipice of tears rushes on me suddenly. I haven't gotten sad, but if I'm touched or heartwarmed over something, I could just about sob about it. I watched a Baby Story on TLC this afternoon and welled up with tears over how cute a couple's four year old son looked, sleeping. It is goofy and silly.

Today I put on an empire waist blouse and turned to leave the bedroom. I caught myself in the mirror and had to change, it would have given me away completely. Funny how when your uterus expands to the size of a plum, all that excess fat I've been snuggling it with makes me look like I'm 4 months pregnant.

I am most definitely pregnant with the Pope's child, because I crave chocolate, I salivate over chocolate, and as many of you know me well will remember, I'm not actually all that crazy about chocolate, but it is the Pope's favorite sweet.

So far the only thing making me feel sick is the damn candle in the bedroom. I need to throw that thing out.

I wake up like clockwork at 3am to pee. I am a frequent pee-er, but I have almost always slept through the night about it.
I am actually noticing a fair decrease in my trips to the restroom to pee.

So that is how I'm feeling.
And then I'm feeling the other things, harder to describe. Like I want to hold this baby tomorrow! I want to meet this baby in 5 minutes. I want to tell it how much I love it already. How much we hoped for it, how happy its dad and I are that it decided to come to us. How much fun we're going to have, what laughter, love and joy we want to show it, how excited we are to meet this little person created out of the best things of both of us.

At least we hope it gets the best of both of us. I flunked the genetic roulette with my parents, getting none of my mother's slender limbs, lightning metabolism and placid demeanor, getting most of my father's ass, bad skin and frighteningly nasty temper.

Dear pup, please concentrate on the chromosomes carrying your father's calm demeanor. Please get his long, skinny legs, and his thick curly hair. But I hope you reserve some of your mom's for a chance at blue eyes and the ability to raise some serious hell when and if life warrants it.

Cat Saga (Part Boring of 1 Trillion Parts)

Leo has definitely sensed that there's a little kitty in the oven. He is very attentive. Must be on my lap. Must snuggle lovingly whenever I sit down. Stray, (she who was named Cleo but is now called Sheba) stomps flatfooted around the house. She stands, and I swear she is duck-footed. The CUTEST. It is just the cutest. She chirps and squeaks at us throatily. She's a DARLING.


Lucy missed all indicators, then must have suddenly felt left out. Now she's dragging her baby (a ripped up stuffed rainbow mouse-thing whose sticker eyes are hanging on by a thread, she has had it since I adopted her, 8 years ago) around the house and mournfully calls us to it. This mouse she alternately bites, places gently by her bed, leaves next to the food bowl, and once, memorably and instantly washed, in the litterbox.

Wasn't as funny as the time Finny dragged a magazine into the litter box, then looked up startled, while I gasped with laughter in the doorway, but still, touching that Lucy wanted to teach her baby good manners.

All she really wants you to do (I think) is come up to her and ask her how her baby is. She will look up at you with these sad eyes and if you pet the baby then she seems to be ok. She will happily come with you and curl into your legs to sleep.

I find myself most mornings with at least one of the cats snuggled up to me.
This is different in no way than usual, I'm a cat magnet while sleeping, but I'm more touched when I wake up.

The Pope says I'm way more mellow, too. I hope to keep that with me. He says I'm definitely driving differently, although I reached over him and honked in frustration while he was driving today, and that is way not mellow. ;)

It is early to tell anyone yet, but I would sit down to blog with this huge, happy elephant hanging over me, and everything else just paled in comparison to what I want to talk about.

A Baby Shark is Called a Pup

As some of you may know, the Pope and I long for a child.
We have been trying, on and off, since January 2007.

We have both long held fears and suspicions that some vital part of our bodies wasn't working.
We've spent our lives being afraid of contraception failing, fear of unplanned parenthood.

Then you try to get pregnant and you realize that there are only about 3 days a month that it is likely.
And even then, you could try for months and months and months and months without ignite.

So much to our wondrous relief, much to our teary heart's desires, it is with great joy and pleasure that we announce the existence of our little Pup, due December 15th of this year.

Thank you God and all our loved ones in the heavens, for allowing this miracle to happen for us.

Love,
MamaSal and DaddyPope

He Was So Proud

This weekend the Pope bought himself a straight razor.
He tried it out Saturday morning:

He walked out of the back of the house to where I was on the phone with ScaredMamaBear and asked how he looked.


He looked like he'd been on the receiving end of a weedwhacker kiss.
For the rest of the day he said people looked at him funny.
He would say, "you should see the CAT!"

This man cracks me up. I love him to bits.

ScaredMamaBear doesn't write very often (she's got two wee boys) but when she does, it is worth reading. Check her out when you have the time.

By the way.......I am to call Santa Fe at 8:30 tomorrow morning, and I've got two more calls tomorrow regarding what San Jose can offer me. Or what I can offer them.

Believe me when I say that all our prayers got stuck in a queue somewhere.
They're being answered, one by one by one by one.

Unbelievable

I have suffered from chronic hives for over a year.  A powerful prescription antihistamine taken every night keeps them in check, but I have been very frustrated, wondering what was making my body crazy.

I AM ALLERGIC TO CATS.

AND DOGS.

AND DUST MITES.  (like really seriously allergic, my arm wealed up in linear welts at the dust mite test).

AND GRASS.

AND WEEDS.

AND......slightly......to peanuts and shellfish.

I have been lying about being allergic to shellfish ever since I was a kid, because I hate the taste of it.  But now it has been confirmed.

I was in an impotent itching furiousness, waiting for little dots of oil pricked into my skin to show some action.  Then four did, and the itching started.  Then six more picked up.  Then the dust mites exploded in welts and weals all over my arm.  

They had told me to stop taking my RX at least three days before my appointment, so I was primed for a fit anyway.  The tests got my arms itching, which made my right shin itch, which made my right armpit, side of the next, inner ear and left palm itch, and from there, my whole body inflamed.  

That is what a fit of chronic hives feels like.  And if you scratch any of these above itches, they all of a sudden feel like bees stinging you, they itch so furiously.

Sigh.

I have a new prescription and some tips to keep the allergens at bay in my house.

Lucy not supposed to sleep with me at night, but she makes me so happy when she does that, I don't have the heart to stop her.

We'll have to get used to taking these pills.

You Have To Understand The Way I Am

We went and saw Cabaret tonight.  MY SECOND FAVORITE MUSICAL EVER.

First is Evita.  Thank my parents for playing showtunes when I was a kid.

We are a theatre loving family.

Except maybe my brother, but he has good taste in music, so we let him stay.

I once saw my very reserved brother sing along to Grease with a wooden spatula as a mic.

He was very good.  It was Greased Lightning, in case you were wondering.

We heard today from our broker that the people that toured our house today are interested and with a few questions answered, will most likely make an offer.

And that's great, but with so much in arms, where will we go?

We also:  bought a $400 vacuum.   We are thrilled beyond measure, and thus our decline into boring adults has been consummated.   AARP membership, NEXT!  Woo.  Deals at Denny and our own special menu.  This one is a DYSON.  It is the ANIMAL model.  Made for us.

We found a breakfast place today that reminded me of Sacramento.  

But without my family, it was no match.  :(  

Plus my potatoes were cold and not thoroughly cooked and the hollandaise sauce wasn't lemony enough.  Or buttery enough.  If you screw up both, it is basically just yellow gravy, isn't it?

Tomorrow I'm going to see that psychic that last year told me I am God's best friend.  She told me that my friends considered me to be like Gandhi or Mother Teresa.  And, have you ever met me?  

Obviously she's insane, but there's something about her that tells me she knows something.

And there's something about the current level of unsettledness in my life that tells me I'll go to anyone, I'll pay them anything.....

Just tell me what I should do.

Postmodern Life

There was this band I followed during college. They were called Headcase O'Matic.
They were absolutely fantastic. One of their band members played various metal pieces against chainsaws and different instruments, throwing showers of sparks out over the crowds. But it was music, too. The screech and wail of the instrument fit with the songs. Truly they were awesome. You can't find their music online, but if you can, definitely let me know.

One of their members formed a band called The Dont's. They're a SF band, and they have two albums out, both of which are on iTunes. They are also awesome, and I'm a fan.

This is a short post. I'm meeting quota, and telling you what I'm listening to.

April One

Well, I've decided to try and post the entire month of April.

I got word from that awesome, awesome lady CLP that she gets sad when I don 't post, and so.....actually, hang on a second.  I'm going to go call CLP back!

Okay, CLP, you were not answering.  It is, after all, almost 10pm and you're a BANKER.  So probably you are asleep like good bankers are.

I have a letter, one in mind.  I've been working it these last few days, wondering to myself who I would most like to write a letter to.

But.  I am on Weight Watchers and I have had a cosmo.  So I am drunk.  Because apparently, a pack of brussel sprouts and an orange aren't enough food to stave off 4 one-thousand counts of vodka, regardless of how much mix you put in them.  Hee.

I'm in a good mood.  I think this might just work out.  If an opportunity comes along, sobeit.

If one does not, perhaps the intended recipient of my soon-to-be-written letter might come along.  If not, devastation, but perhaps an MFA in creative writing would be in order.  I've always wanted one, you know.

No, you probably don't.  You probably don't know that I've been seriously considering going back to school for a Masters of Fine Arts in Creative Writing.  But I have.

Just for me.  

But perhaps all my unhappy troubles would go away if I were engaged in something that mattered to me.  Perhaps.

'Til Tomorrow,

Salome

Don't You Ever

Today one of the banes of my existence tried to sympathize with me about the last 8 career-flaming months I've just had.

The concern on her face so pronounced that my stomach flipped.

How are you?  she wanted to know.

I said I'm fine, how are you?

I'm great, she said, but I just feel so sorrrrrrrrry for you.

Listen.  I don't need your sympathy.

Don't you ever fucking feel sorry for me.  Don't you fucking dare.

You are about as deep as a puddle on the street and I'm a fucking ocean over here.

I've got life forms no one's ever seen before and I will fucking DROWN you.

At the end of the day, little miss, I'm absolutely fucking amazing, and you are who you are.  SO. DON'T. YOU. EVER. FEEL. SORRY. FOR. ME.

Woah. I Like Me.

You are Strength

Courage, strength, fortitude. Power not arrested in the act of judgement, but passing on to further action, sometimes obstinacy.

This is a card of courage and energy. It represents both the Lion's hot, roaring energy, and the Maiden's steadfast will. The innocent Maiden is unafraid, undaunted, and indomitable. In some cards she opens the lion's mouth, in others she shuts it. Either way, she proves that inner strength is more powerful than raw physical strength. That forces can be controlled and used to score a victory is very close to the message of the Chariot, which might be why, in some decks, it is Justice that is card 8 instead of Strength. With strength you can control not only the situation, but yourself. It is a card about anger and impulse management, about creative answers, leadership and maintaining one's personal honor. It can also stand for a steadfast friend.

What Tarot Card are You?
Take the Test to Find Out.

Getting an Early Start

April, as I've mentioned, has decided to be themed - Letters. 

Well.  I think I've just seen the Holy Grail.  

I've been known to write a few letters.  If you come across a post that is labeled LETTERS, you can click on it and it will show you everything I've ever labeled that way.  

Now, to flex my correspondence skills, I will write to someone who has an apology coming his way....

Dear Leo,

Oh, my boy.  Oh, little buddha bear.  We are so so sorry that you've got such a burdened life.  We both know that the only thing you need is your dad to hold you, and your mom to remember to give you the wet food every night.  That and the top of a couch in the sun is all you've ever asked for in life.  And then we introduce you to Lucy, and boy, are we sorry about that.  If cats could go to therapy, we know Lucy would be a test case for aggression.  She's a raving lunatic, and this we know, and we apologize for bringing her into your life.  Mom is sorry, because I'm sure you know that Lucy goes wherever Mom goes.  

Then we get you the Prozac.  We did this because you were peeing in the dirty laundry, and do not think that it escaped Mom's notice that you never peed in the clean.  There was that one time you peed on the bathmat, but I think the exits were blocked and I can't tell you how much I loved you for your sensitivity and your highly developed sense of what is easily laundered.  You are a champ.  You make do with what you have, and you try not to be a bother.  

And you're such a good boy with the Prozac.  You take the pills like a champ, you eschewed the chicken-flavored liquid, but even in that you were a gentleman.  You did not swing your head side-to-side while making a noise like something dying, which is what Lucy did.  Did you see her with full claws a-blazing, shredding mom and dad while she sprayed us with chicken-flavored liquid Prozac?  

I'm sure you didn't, honey.  You would have been aghast. 

What I want to apologize for, dear boy, is that your dad and I have been forgetting who is supposed to be giving you the Prozac, now that we have the treats we can slip the pills into.  And as a result, we've determined that you were double-dosed at least three times last week.  And still, you are alive and there was no drooling.

We celebrate the fact of you, Leo.  We love you dearly, we love you within an inch of your hyperesthetic life, and we would be lost without you.  Your dad named you from a Shakespeare play, Leontes, and you are the gentleman he was imagining.

Peace and much affection,

Mom

Don't Get Me Started

Buoyant, joyous, knocking 'em out and dragging 'em home today.

Might have been that wee double latte I had while doing some training early this morning.  God, I love Lattes.  Life just wasn't full without them.

I was FLYING after that.  Chewed 1/2 a pack of gum and learned how to snap it, all by myself.  Then I annoyed myself with it, and stopped.  

HEY SANTA FE, GIVE ME A CALL.  

As much as I love talking to your person, and hearing her tell me what an EXCELLENT chance I have, I get increasingly worried when the phone log shows just the usual players.  No weird numbers.  And we all know what happens when I get worried, don't we?

I GET PISSED.  

But I promise not to get pissed.  Because I'm jovial and flexible and totally a good sport and all that other bullshit that I will tell you about myself until you get me in there and I show you the charming, funny, total hard-ass that I am.

I drove by a statuary today.  I love statues, my yard would be indecent with them if I wasn't so decently inclined.  I might be Greek in a past life.  This particular stone work was a flat facade of the head of a lion, roaring with wide open mouth and luxurious swirls of mane.  I drove past the statuary and then proceeded to plan a garden around just that very piece of stone.  Something orange, red and yellow.  Different blooming times and different textures.  Something to make it look like the lion was always breathing fire.  

Wow, I just made a cosmo but with gin because we're out of vodka and this is delightful.  And I am HAMMERED.

Who is reading this anyway?  Tell me who you are.  Do you know me or do you just like reading this?  De-lurk, please.

Sprang Sprung

Shockingly, startlingly, the weather in Seattle is awful right now.

Weathermen are cheerfully predicting some light snow this week.  I want to take their good cheer and drive it like a stake through their undead hearts.

Rain, rain and more rain.  And after that?  Light showers.  Or downpours.  Or both, in the space of the same frigid hour.  

I did some ass-busting on Monday and decoratively barked the back yard.  It took four huge bags of bark (which were back-busting, I'll have you know) to do so.

I'll take a picture once it clears up.  

Best this yard has ever looked.

Excuse me a second, I just busted up laughing reading my own last sentence.  If I wait until the weather clears, I'll be a hundred and eighty seven before I get those shots.  I'm a little downgraded, as I'm sure you can tell, about the weather.  It wears on you.  And then it wears through you, and then it just keeps on going until it chews your heart into sludge and saps the energy right the smack right out of you.

I got new contacts and suddenly I'm all over the details of the leaves on the trees.  I'm freaking with joy over the finely edged blades of grass that are vibrantly green and showy on the side of these gray, soaked streets.    I'm also realizing that I have an alarming tendency to get so close to my work monitor that if I announced we were secretly dating, no one would be surprised.

I had lunch with an old friend from a visiting office today.  This woman is WONDERFUL.  Spending time with her is like spending time with someone who crawled out of my soul and still will talk to me.  She makes me laugh like I don't remember when.  She just comes out with these sayings, and she's boisterous, and she's funny, and she's like a good mood just metamorphosed into a human being and then gave me a hug.  I can't even relate them to you, because they wouldn't seem funny, but they were so perfectly said, right at the perfect time, and they were hysterical. I don't have a nickname for her because none of the words I have in my repertoire do her justice.  She defies description.  I honestly feel like I'm in the presence of a movie star when I hang out with her, she is just THAT charismatic and vibrant.  I'm so lucky that we clicked.  Because I didn't even know I was missing her until I met her.  

April posting month is themed LETTERS.  Oh, I think I might just be able to come up with one or two.  I haven't written a letter in a long time and I think the world may just be sliding off its axis about that.

Love,

Salome 

OK Spring, we were totally just fucking with you

We are not spring yet.

We are not, thank you driving rain and chilly temps JUST IMMEDIATELY after I was walking to and from a work appointment.

Thank you for pouring AFTER I returned to the office.

That actually was very nice.

So, guys, the KIDS said no.

The CONSORTIUM hasn't responded.

But SANTA FE called today.

Probably not qualified, but they don't know that.  

And if they're the right people, they won't care.  

You don't leave jobs to horizontally move.  

You leave them to make a vertical leap.

You leave them so that you can jump off the cliff of comfort, throw your bra to the wind and say, GODDAMNIT LIFE, I'm ready for more.

Do you have more for me, Life?

Did You Get a Good Lawyer?

After the vagaries of last winter, spring arrived with a burst.

All of a sudden, cherry blossoms exploded.  

Literally one day they were not there and the next, BAM.

Lovely, everywhere you looked.

This year, it is different.  

Cherry blossom buds are creeping slowly open.  

Like they are tentative.  The skies clear intermittently, with storms on all fronts, everywhere you look.  I want to encourage them, tell them it is okay.

It is okay.  Nobody's going to Scotland.  Everyone still hates their job.  It is okay.

The cycle of hope has been extinguished.  There is nothing to shout about, anyhow.

Big fight with the cats today.  And even in this, I'm resigned.  They'll get it.

Everyone will just get over whatever it is they need to get over, anyhow.

Funny how the world works.

How the world plays.

I'm cleaning.  Reorganizing.  I am GAINING ACCEPTANCE with those things I cannot change.  And you know what?  That isn't much.  There isn't much I can't choose to change.  Myself.  My life.  What I want.

You can get to a point where you care too much.

Then you work yourself to death, exhausting all your possibilities, and STILL no one rewards you for it.  And then you decide one day, after bad things happen and rude things happen and inconsiderate things happen, and some unavoidable things happen, but you might still sit on your front porch one day and think, "I am the person that no one feels the need to say SORRY to."

And I'm out there, but what is the best way to say to someone,

"I'm the best goddamn thing that's ever walked in your door.  You've never met anyone quite like me before, and you aren't likely to again."

"You should absolutely hire me, because I can do all the things you need done, and then I'll do more.  And then I'll be charming, and I'll be fun, and I'll work harder than anyone you've ever met, and there won't be a single goddamn thing you throw to me that I can't catch."

How do you say that in a half hour interview?

And I write to Santa Fe, and I write to the Bay Area, and I write, write write so that someone picks up the phone and calls me.  And then that someone calls me in for an interview.  And then that someone looks past my natural dork and hires me. 

So.

Listing the house.

He says we're grounded now, but I've never been grounded.  

I don't even know what that means.

I'm always a half-second from flying away.  I'm always a hairsbreath from jumping from the earth just to taste all the potential that might be.

I'm in love and I'm secure and all these changes aren't bothering me.  

For the first time in a long time I am hungry again.  I am positively drunk with all the possibility and I only lie awake at night to make sure that I've effectively covered my back. 

For the first time in a long time, I'm growing up to my full height.  And the people that try to get me down are just noise.  They're all just noise, and none of them will be remembered past the time it takes me to say goodbye.

Quiet now, hush.  

I have things to do.

Medicated Cats

It turns out that the stray, who is the sickest cat I've ever met, does not have ASTHMA, which we thought this weekend.  And to which I am still incredulous, because for fuck's sake, what would she be allergic to? 

She has some sort of infection in her lungs, which requires antibiotics.  Okay.

She is also supposed to be getting prednisone 2x daily, which is a steroid I've taken a whole bunch of times because I have asthma.  

I speed all the way to the vet's office to get there by 6pm and pick up the antibiotic.  I beg the vet and he assures me it is a liquid.  

We now have 2 cats on Prozac (when we can forcibly get a pill down Lucy's throat, the raving bitch) and one cat on prednisone pills 2x daily + antibiotic fluid 2x daily.  Lovely.

I am on Weight Watchers and am not supposed to drink wine, and I quit smoking three weeks ago and the Pope is on a business trip.

So I buy some Pill Pockets to sneak the pills into chicken-flavored dough packets to get these goddamn cats their medicine so that everyone can live happily ever after.

The stray, who we've spent so much money on that I will just call her the DAUGHTER, the Cleo, the wallet drain that is really pretty cute, walks out of her room and whuffs at me, squeakily.  It is darling and my heart melts.   

So, of course, I stuff a pill pocket with the steroid pill and set it in front of her.  She sniffs at it and looks up at squeaks at me.  I nudge her, like, go on, I spent $10 on these things, just to fool you, EAT it!  :)  Big Grin, Happy Mom, Everything's OK, just eat the little chicken thing.  HMMMMM?

She won't eat it, but is real cute about that.

No wine, no cigarettes, money leaking out of my wallet and I just drove like crazy to make it to the goddamn vet's office to get you this crap because you have ASTHMA or something and you are a CAT.  SO EAT IT.

YOU HAVE TO.

YOUUUUUUUUU HAAAAAAAAAVE TOOOOOOOOOOO!  I scream and stomp around the kitchen, which causes all three cats to run under the bed for the next hour and a half, and forces me to open a bottle of wine.

I am at my wit's end.  At this point I want to lock them all out of the house and call the coyotes.

Boing Boing

Last week, at Weight Watchers, I looked down the row of seats I was in.

Three pairs of black clogs, in a row.

Welcome to Seattle, folks.