...yawn. Just woke up. Well, I woke up an hour or so ago, but since I've had hardly any coffee... maybe I should go make a fresh pot. Yeah, that's a good idea. Hang on... there. Coffee's brewing. All will be well soon.
I got home last night -- almost an hour later than I should have, because the bus was late. The bus I take from my mom's house leaves her town, and travels to Brattleboro, VT, where it picks up passengers from a New York bus. Yesterday, we arrived in Brattleboro, picked up the passengers from the other bus, and were on our merry way... until Keene, NH, where we ended up sitting and waiting for over an hour for a couple of people who were supposed to transfer from that New York bus, but apparently wandered off somewhere and got left behind. Now, call me heartless, but my thought was "Hey, you wandered off, you missed the bus -- that's your problem." Every time I've taken the bus (which I've been doing a few times a year since I moved here in '92) I've been told that if I'm not on the bus when it leaves, too bad. It would be one thing if those people were on a bus that arrived late or something, but they weren't. They had gone into the nearby gas station/convenience store. It's nice that the Greyhound people helped them out and all, but the hour delay caused problems for a lot of people on the bus I was on... like the woman with two small children, who missed her commuter rail train -- there were no more trains heading her way that night, so she was stranded. Or the kid whose parents were driving to Boston from the suburbs to pick him up. Or all the people who had to get to Logan to catch planes (I overheard at least two people on their cellphones, calling to discover that they'd missed their flights) or catch connecting buses elsewhere. I didn't have any problems like that -- I just had to hop onto the T -- but I still didn't want to sit on the bus for an extra hour...
So I was thoroughly grouchy when I finally got home. When I walked in, Smoke was so happy to see me, she ran around in little circles in front of me meowing like mad, then allowed me to pick her up and hug her (she hates being picked up. Hates it. Last night, she burrowed under my chin and purred, instead of doing her best to claw my face off. Aw). It was really cute, until I saw what she'd done to my bedroom. Holy crap. She's a small cat. Very, very small. How she made such a mess, I'll never know. Everything had been knocked off my bookcase and dresser -- there were CDs, books, videos, and papers scattered all over the floor, with an old blue ceramic dish I'd made in high school, and was using as an ashtray, shattered in the middle. (I liked that little dish, damnit!) She's yakked on my bed -- thankfully, on the sheets I was going to change that night anyway. Cat litter all over the floor. It was just a mess. I was debating whether it would be easier to clean it up, or just get a shovel and dump it all out the window. I decided cleaning was a better option -- after procrastinating by making a couple of phone calls. It's mostly tidy now -- I did as much as I had energy for, then took a shower, put the flannel sheets my mom got me for Christmas on the bed, and went to sleep. Those flannel sheets -- pure bliss. I may never leave the house again, my bed is so comfortable. Especially since Smoke insisted on being petted every time I so much as twitched during the night -- I didn't get much sleep, but hey, it's nice to know that you're missed when you go away.
My mom is doing better -- in spite of having a doctor whose head is so far up his own ass, I'm surprised he can even walk, much less treat patients. She saw him Thursday, for the first time since the surgery. (He'd been out of town while she was in the hospital, so he had no idea what had gone on.) I didn't go into the office with her -- I probably should have, but I suspect I would have punched him in the nose if I had, so maybe it's better that I waited outside. He told her it wasn't her appendix he'd removed -- surprise! It was the ligament that holds the uterus and bladder and all that in place. She'd torn it when she got the hernia, so it would have needed repair... but I'm thinking maybe just taking the whole thing out wasn't such a great idea. And anyway, shouldn't he have known the difference? i don't think I'd be too comfortable being treated by a surgeon who removes things without knowing what they are! From what my mom said, he was far too busy trying to cover himself, to prevent being sued, than he was in treating her -- he told her she'd overreacted by going to the emergency room, but backpedalled on that when she pointed out that the three doctors who saw her at the hospital agreed that something was very wrong, and that she needed to be admitted. He didn't tell her if the absence of the ligament is going to cause problems. He didn't tell her why she's been in so much pain. He just said he'd see her next week. I'm hoping she goes to a different hospital and gets a second opinion, because I don't think this doctor has any clue what he's doing. My theory is, he was hurrying through the operations he had to perform so that he could go out of town for the holiday, and so he didn't take the time to make sure he was doing a good job. I don't think contacting a lawyer could be a rash thing to do. I think he screwed up, in a big way, and now he's trying to cover his own butt. Gah.
End of rant -- for now. This whole thing makes me very, very angry... as if you couldn't tell. And now I'm going to go vent that anger by finishing cleaning my room... if I don't update before than, Happy New Year. 2000 sucked -- 2001 had better be an improvement. Oh, hey, and my birthday is in four days...
Okay, which of you put the hex on me? Huh? 'Fess up, already, because this is just getting silly.
The illness part we've already covered -- and my mom is still, slowly but surely, on the mend. She was up and moving around a lot more today, but, as we shall see, it wasn't really for anything good. She woke me up at around 7:30 this morning, because the dogs wanted walking -- Queenie, a lovely and sweet Border collie, and Misty, a 17-year-old, blind, deaf, stinking-like-you-wouldn't-believe, cranky little cocker spaniel. Misty has been in terribly poor health for a couple of years now -- the blindness and deafness, of course, plus a couple of strokes, and a series of other illnesses, all related to her very advanced age. Every few months, we say "She's not going to last much longer," and she just keeps on going... anyway. When I roused myself out of the nest I'd made on the couch, my mom told me that she had made a vet appointment for Misty, and that "It's time." That didn't really sink in until I got outside, (standing on the porch with my coat thrown on over my sheep pajamas, wearing my Doc Martens unlaced, with no socks, and scary, scary bedhead.) Time for what? Shots? A checkup? Jeez, you'd thinks she would have rescheduled... oh. Misty'd been in pain lately, and hadn't been able to get comfortable anywhere. She wasn't sleeping, and could barely eat, and my mom decided that she didn't want her to suffer anymore. It was just time to let her go. it's sad, but I agreed -- Misty was miserable. It was very quick, and painless -- the vet let both me and my mom stay in the room (though, since I am a wuss, I had to leave before it was over -- I was afraid I was going to be sick). They tranquilized her, and left us alone with her for a few minutes -- we petted and kissed her, and she went to sleep -- and, honestly, it was the first time she seemed comfortable in about a year. She sighed, and snuggled down on the table, and wagged her tail -- my mom said she kept on wagging, right up 'til the end. I stood out in the waiting room, furiously willing myself not to cry -- but hey, that dog had been around since I was about 10, so it's weird, not having her here. But it's better for her, and my mom still has Queenie.
And the crime -- well, while I was finishing getting ready to leave for the vet's this morning, my mom checked the mail, which included her phone bill. She opened it, and shouted "What the HELL?" It was almost $400 -- and her bill is normally around $50. She looked it over, and found two pages of calls made from pay phones, using her calling card -- which wouldn't have been so weird, except she doesn't have a calling card. She got one, but cut it up into teeny pieces and threw it away. All of the calls were to Vermont numbers, none of which we recognized. She called the phone company, and they agreed to investigate, and to remove the charges. While she was talking to them, I looked at the bill, and noticed that some of the calls weren't from pay phones -- there were at least a half dozen made from one residential number. With any luck, the person who stole the calling card number used it from their own home phone line, and will be caught soon. My mom figures it was a phone comany employee, since the calls started on the same date she switched her service from her old company, and they end right on the end of that month's billing cycle, according to the woman she spoke to.
So. We have illness, and death, and crime -- what next?!? Anybody know of any charms to reverse bad luck? Because right now, I'm waiting for the other anvil to drop...
Happy Christmas! Or whatever you celebrate -- I can't keep track of all the different holidays. Things are much better here -- my mom is home, most importantly. I went to the hospital yesterday morning, and arrived just a few minutes before Dr. P. checked in. He started off by saying "Well, we'd hoped to discharge you today, but I don't think that will be happening..." He didn't count on the Carter Stubbornness. My mom told him that, since all she was doing was lying in bed taking painkillers and antibiotics, she may as well go home -- since she could do the same there without running up a huge bill. (Little does she know -- I haven't told her what I charge by the hour!) He said she had a point, then turned to me and asked how long I would be in town. "As long as it takes," I said, wincing at the thought of calling my boss and asking for more time off. He agreed to let Mom go home, as long as I would be there to look after her. I got the car, the nurses took out the IV, and we were home! She's doing okay (and huge thank-yous and hugs to everyone who sent well-wished -- you guys rock), and we had a happy Christmas. I was up with the birds -- I wanted to open presents, dammit! After an hour or so, I heard stirrings from my mom's room, and the dogs appeared, wanting to be walked. After shivering outside in the cold with them, I made us some Christmas pancakes, and we dove into the presents. Candy! Jigsaw puzzles! Hair clip thingies! Socks! (hey, I needed new socks...) And the best present of all, a new set of soft, fluffy flannel sheets! Once I get back to Boston, I will become a Bed Person (TM Patrick.) My bed will be so comfortable, I will never leave it again. I got my mom a Joycam (one of those Polaroid instant camera thingies -- I should have known better. There are now at least two photos of me, pre-coffee, with frightening bedhead, which must be burned...) and a sparkly blue sweater, and a Winnie-the-Pooh watch, and a snowman candle-lamp thing, and oh, a bunch of other impulse purchases. It was a very happy Christmas morn, with wrapping paper and ribbons strew around, and dogs and cats trying to get in on the action... after the presents were demolished, I dropped off some movies at Blockbuster, and did a quick grocery shop, and spent the rest of the day loafing around doing a jigsaw puzzle. I'm glad my mom's home -- and I'm glad my boss called to tell me to take as much time off as I need. And I'm hoping you're all as content as I am tonight -- Merry Christmas!
Remember in that last entry, when I said my mom was fine? I spoke a bit too soon. She wasn't fine, but hopefully she's on her way to being fine now... she came through the surgery just fine. The doctor explained what he'd done to me, told me about taking her appendix out and all that, but said everything should be okay. I went in to see her in the recovery room, and she seemed okay, if a bit groggy. I gave her the little teddy bear I'd bought her in the gift shop (named Barnaby, which is a very suitable name for a bear) and sat and read while she slept. We went home at around 5, and she seemed okay. In pain, sure, but otherwise on the mend. Thursday, she was okay. In a lot of pain, again, but lucid, and in good spirits. By Thursday afternoon, things were looking a bit bad. I had rented "X-Men," because she hadn't seen it (and I can always look at Hugh Jackman shirtless...) and so I cooked her some dinner, and we settled down on her bed to watch the movie. For the first half, she was asking questions, commenting on the movie, and having a good time. During the second half, she got very quiet, and just put her head on my shoulder for a while. By the time the movie ended, she was very pale, and in a lot more pain. She admitted she'd had a fever earlier -- one of the things the doctor said to watch out for. I checked her as best I could -- she didn't own a thermometer -- and she felt cool, and a bit clammy. She insisted it was normal, that she was just tired, and needed some sleep. I made her promise to wake me if she felt worse, and tucked her in for the night. I stayed up very late that night, in case she needed me -- I fel;l asleep at around 1:30 or so. At 7 a.m., I awoke to her crying from the pain. She was standing in the dining room, trying to take the dog out for a walk. (I know! Who walks a dog when they're feeling crappy?!? My mom, that's who! And now I know where my stubborn streak comes from...) Turns out she had been in agony since 3 a.m., but didn't wake me up. (Again with the stubbornness...) I put her back to bed, walked the dog, and then tried to convince her to call the doctor. She agreed to call the hospital -- the doctor on call basicallt blew her off. She sent me to go buy a thermometer (thank heavens Wal-Mart is open early) and I checked her temperature -- 100.1 degrees. Both she and I tend to have low body temps -- mine is usually around 96 degrees. She called the hospital again, and was told to go to the emergency room. I helped her get dressed, and got her into the car -- which was heartbreaking, because every move caused her enormous amounts of pain. When we got there, I ran inside to get an orderly to bring a wheelchair for her -- she couldn't get out of the car. The nurse at the desk was chatting on the phone, and kept me waiting (hopping from foot to foot, and swearing a lot) for a good 4-5 minutes before finally hanging up. It took another minute or two to get her to realize that I wasn't the patient, dammit, and I needed a wheelchair. She finally got it, and took a chair out to get my mom -- and then spoke to her like she was a three-year-old, which made me want to shriek. The nurse took us inside, had my mom do the questionairre thingie, took her blood pressure, and then sent us off to the waiting room. For 45 minutes. Now, sitting in a chair was the most painful thing my mom could have been doing, and I cannot relax when someone I love is hurting. I finally stomped out to the desk, where the nurse was chatting on the phone AGAIN, and demanded to know when someone would see her. "Oh... yeah, let me see if her doctor is around," the bnurse said, and wandered off. What, she hadn't done that right away? She came back a few minutes later, and took my mom off to an exam room, where she had her put on one of those horrid hospital gowns (you know, the ones that let your ass hang out for all the world to see) and had her lie down. She left the back of the bed tilted up so high that my mom couldn't get comfortable -- and all the nurses had vanished, so I figured out how to lower it. By then, the pain was so bad, I don't know how she stayed conscious. We waited a half hour. Nothing. No check-in from the nurses, no doctor, nothing. And they weren't busy. I'm not heartless -- I would have understood if there were car-accident victims lined up to be seen, or something. But from what I saw, the nurses were standing around chatting. The doctor was not paged -- I would have heard it. Nothing was done, until I stormed out into the hall, found a woman who looked like she knew what she was doing, and asked when, if ever, someone was going to take care of my mother. She left to find out where the doctor was, and (miracle of miracles) came back a minute later to say the attending ER doctor would be right in. Dr. C. arrived a minute or two later, and was wonderful. Very efficient, very attentive -- he didn't dismiss her as being a baby over some post-op pain, like the nurses seemed to be doing. He listened to me -- which was nice, since I had been with her the whole time, and could give a good description of what had happened. He checked her out, and told her exactly what he was going to do. He then paged the doctor on call, Dr. B., who showed up ten minutes or so later. He told us he was admitting my mom right away, and that she may need more surgery -- which was exactly what she was afraid of. He scheduled a CAT scan, and told us he would be in touch. After that, things happened pretty quickly -- she was moved up to a room, and given lots of IV fluids and antibiotics -- Dr. C. had listened to her lungs, and said he thought she had a touch of pneumonia -- and she was kept comfortable until the CAT scan. The nurses were lovely -- called her sweetheart and honey, and tended to every possible need. Another doctor, Dr. P., came in to check on her. The CAT scan showed that there was a lot of swelling and inflammation around where her appendix had been, but Dr. P. said there was no need for more surgery -- he also said that they weren't certain it was her appendix that had been removed, which is a bit troubling... hopefully it wasn't a part she needed -- and that she'd have to stay for a couple of days, and be given a ton of antibiotics, and fluids. That's where she is now. And I'm tired. I've been at the hospital non-stop, except for brief trips home to feed and walk the dogs, and one trip to Wal-Mart today, to buy a couple of sweatshirts -- I didn't bring many clothes home, and I don't want to take the time to do laundry, so the sweater I was wearing was developing a life of its own. She's doing okay -- she was a little feverish when I left her tonight, which worries me, but at least she's somewhere where she can be looked after. I had a good long cry last night, while waiting for the car to warm up at the hospital -- I hate feeling helpless. She was always so good at making me feel better when I was sick or hurt -- hell, even now, the first thing I do when something goes wrong is call her. It's hard when the roles are reversed. But thank you to everyone who has emailed -- it really helps. I've passed all the well-wishes along, and she appreciates them. And -- crap, Christmas is in what, two days? I still owe a lot of people cards and stuff. Gah. Sorry. They'll be in the mail shortly. And... keep sending happy thoughts, or prayers, or whatever... I just want her to be able to come home for Christmas.
My mom had her surgery today -- everything went fine, except for one small hitch: they took her appendix out too, because it seemed to have wandered down to check out the hernia action, and was looking a little funny. Other than that, she's okay -- she's all tucked into bed now, having eaten the lovely dinner I cooked for her, and taken a pain pill.
The last couple of days were weird. The weather on Sunday was freaky, at least for this time of year -- warm, (about 60 degrees or so) with heavy rain and loud thunderstorms. Not Christmas weather at all. Lee and I went out for dinner, which turned out to be a bad idea when her car started acting funny -- the speedometer was flailing around like mad, the check engine light was on, and the headlights kept flickering in and out. We stopped at a very scary gas station, where the attendent told her that her alternator was probably wet. We got dinner, and them drove back to her place, cringing and swearing whenever we had to drive through a large puddle -- which was pretty much constant, as roads were flooding everywhere. We didn't get washed away, though, and the car didn't die, so we lived to exchange early Christmas presents (A Nick Hornby novel and a Blur CD for me, woo hoo, and a DVD for her).
Monday... well, as far as I can remember, Monday was pretty uneventful. Yesterday, though, was liberally sprinkled with weirdness. Right after I arrived at work, I had the joy of arguing with a student about why he had to pay the fines on the books he'd returned late -- his argument was, essentially, his friends had had fines waived before, so he should have his waived, even though he knew the books were late, and blah blah blah. Very few things in life annoy me more than having to have these arguments with people -- it's not like I get to keep the fine money, folks. He finally ran out of steam, and went away. Next was a phone call from a man who wanted a book we didn't own. He had a very thick accent, and spoke really fast, so I had a tough time understanding what he wanted. Once I figured that out, and found that we didn't have the book, I referred him to the Boston Public Library. He thanked me, then said "I'm from Haiti!" Me: "Oh, really?" Him: "I'm from Haiti!" Me: "Um... okay..." Him: "I'm from Haiti!" Me: "Yeah... so is there anything else I can help you with?" Him: "I'm from Haiti!" And then he hung up. A few minutes later, the phone rings again -- this time it's a woman. "I have a question," she says. "I'm trying to settle a bet. My friends and I were watching a Disney movie, and it had little animals in it. You know that movie?" Ummm... Disney, animals, that really narrows it down... "It had these animals that looked like ferrets, and they were standing on thier hind legs. I want to know if ferrets can really do that." I wanted to ask her if she was aware that the animals in Disney movies do a lot of things that real animals don't do... things like talk, and sing and dance, and wear pants... instead I told her that our library doesn't have a whole lot of information of ferrets, and that she should probably call Petco or something... I also told her that I knew someone who'd owned a ferret, and it had sort of stood on its hind legs occasionally, but not often. "And it didn't wear clothes or sing, either," I wanted to add. She seemed somewhat satisfied with that... why she called me, I don't know, since I don't work in a general library. It's a fairly specific collection, and has nothing whatsoever to do with ferrets. Or pants-wearing Disney animals.
After the weirdness of work, I sat on a bus for five hours, headed to Vermont, to nurse my poor mom. There's snow all over the place here, four or five inches deep, and it's damn cold. But it's pretty, what with the clear, clear skies (the stars are so bright, it's amazing) and the twinkly Christmas lights and all. My mom put up a little tiny tree, and I fell asleep looking at it last night.
I'm worn out. I'd love Christmas, if it weren't for the shopping. And all the people. And the cheesy music blasting in all the horribly crowded stores. I'm really not in the Christmas spirit at all this year -- normally I love this time of year, but I just can't get into it at the moment. And don't even talk to me about New Years' Eve, okay?
I did manage to finish most of my shopping today. I went to Harvard Square, and found the last couple of things I wanted to get for my mom (I'd tell you what they are, but she reads my journal, so I'll have to keep it a secret... it's good stuff, though, she'll love it...) and wrapping paper and ribbon and tape. Now I just have to wrap stuff, and write Christmas cards (which will be late, as usual). I figure I'll spend tonight doing that. I'm headed to Vermont on Tuesday, so everything will have to be done by then. It's going to be a low-key Christmas this year, what with Mom recovering from surgery and all. She did get a little tree, which I'll decorate when I get there, and since I'll be heading back here on Christmas Day, we'll do the presents and all on Christmas Eve.
I'm really trying to get into the spirit, here. Maybe it's the newly-single thing, I don't know. And really, it's not Christmas that's depressing me so much as New Year's and my birthday. I never expect any major festivities, but this is the first year in a long time that I'll be on my own. My birthday won't be an occasion for anyone but me... and it's hard to celebrate on your own, you know? Barry and I never did anything terribly exciting for New Year's -- hell, last year we stayed home and watched it all on TV -- but we were together. I had someone to share it with. And this year.... well, I'm just feeling sorry for myself. Screw it -- if I have to celebrate on my own, I will, dammit!
This weekend was no fun. Just no fun at all. All work, no play. I have a big paper and presentation due Thursday, and until this past Friday, I hadn't done any work on them at all, so I was chewing my nails and generally stressed out. (And I know it was all my own fault, and I have thoroughly kicked myself for it, just like I do every time I have some major project that I've put off until the last minute. And you know what? Next time I have an assignment due, I'll procrastinate again. At least I'm realistic...) Friday night, after my roommate told me she doubted I would be able to use her computer to write my paper, I holed up in my room with my books and articles, and hand-wrote about 20 pages. I only meant to take notes, figuring that I'd just take the books and the notes to school and write the paper there on Saturday, but once I got going, I just kept going. By the time I was done, it was 1 a.m., my fingers wouldn't uncurl to let go of the pen, and I could barely see straight, but the majority of the paper was written. Saturday, my roommate told me I could use the computer for a few hours after all, so I said "Yippee!" and settled down to type the whole thing up. I worked for just over four hours -- wrote a nifty introduction, clarified some points, added the conclusions, and saved the whole works to a diskette. That's where the fun started. I tried to save the paper to my backup disk, and apparently hit "Save" instead of "Save As," so I didn't rename the file. I learned that that's a bad thing. At the time, I didn't know I'd made a mistake -- I just thought there was something wrong with the backup disk. "Whatever," I thought. "I'll just check to make sure everything's saved to the first disk, and it should all be fine." Popped the first disk in, tried to open the file, and... error message. No such file. "No such file? What do you mean, no such file? It's right there!" Tried again. Same error message. Small bits of panic ensued. Called Lee at work ('cause she's much smarter about these things than I am) and she had me try some tricks to try and get the file to open. No dice -- it seemed that the disk was corrupt. (I can hear some of you asking "why didn't you save it to the desktop, you ninny? It's not my computer, that's why. Turns out my roommate wouldn't have minded if I had, but she wasn't home to ask at the time.) Got off the phone with Lee, called my mom and had a hissy fit (even though she couldn't really help -- having hissy fits at my mom is generally my first reaction in times of stress. She's a calming sort of person.) Called the tech lab at school, where there was no staff person to help. Brooded and sulked and swore and kicked things, and then went and rewrote the whole thing. All 15 pages. What took me more than four hours the first time took me just over an hour the second time. I type faster when I'm furious, apparently. It didn't come out as good the second time -- that first draft was a really good one, and wouldn't have needed more than a bit of proofreading -- but at least it's done. That finished, I took my tired, headachy self to bed, where I had a very tall glass of wine and watched The Sixth Sense for the umpteenth time, and went to sleep.
Sunday was all about being productive -- perhaps to make up for the four wasted hours the day before. I woke up, cleaned my disgusting room, mopped the floor, changed the catbox, and went to do laundry. Helped the roomie with some of her work -- basically reading numbers off to her while she input them into a spreadsheet -- until 4 o'clock. Chatted on the phone with Lee while waiting for my groceries to be delivered -- they give you a two-hour window, and our doorbell is possessed by demons (it rings when there's no one at the door, and remains silent when someone does want to come in) so I have to sit in the front bedroom and watch out the window. When the food arrived, I set about making a truly lovely beef stew, which cheered me up a lot.
So. I got stuff done, in a frustrating way, but I'm more tired than I was on Friday. I need another weekend right about now. I did get my student loan papers, and discovered that I'll have about $1,700 to use to buy my very own computer -- woo woo! The checks won't come for a while, but I'm still looking at websites and drooling over all the lovely machines. And telling myself very sternly that I do not need a laptop. No, I don't. A nice sensible desktop, that's what I need. No fancy-pants laptops. (I'm mostly looking forward to having a computer so I can get The Sims. I know, I'm a dork.)
Oh, and last week was my grandparents 59th anniversary, not their 56th. I knew that when I was writing that entry, too -- I just kept typing 56. Hi, I'm a dumbass.
Still pimping the notify list -- if you don't want to be annoyed by my erratic updates, sign up in the friendly little box at the bottom of the page...
I'm home sick. Sick sick sick. Painful-stomach sick. Ugh. Yesterday, I decided that some soup would be really nice with the cheese sandwich I'd brought to work for lunch. So I trotted next door to the little cafeteria, and bought some vegetarian chili that looked, smelled, and tasted lovely. The problem is, the chili hated me. It wanted to hurt me. So an hour or so after I ate it, I started feeling icky... stomach pains, headache, general queasiness. I managed to not leave work early, but there was no way I was going in today. I spent the night feeling like crap on a stick, and now, after many shots of Pepto and a small bowl of nice, friendly, bland oatmeal, I'm starting to feel marginally better. Which is good, because I have class tonight. I should really go to school early and get some work done on my final project -- the due date is looming over me, and I really can't put it off any more. But, you know, I'm sitting here in my lovely sheep pajamas and slippers, and I've been here in front of the computer for over an hour now...
Yesterday was my grandparents' 56th wedding anniversary. 56 years. They got married the day before Pearl Harbor was bombed -- my grandfather got shipped off to war a day or two after the wedding, I think. Nice honeymoon, huh? 56 years... when I got married, I was hoping it would last at least that long. (Deep down I knew it wouldn't, but... well, I was hoping, anyway.)
So last night I called my grandparents (because every year I forget to send a card on time) and chatted with my grandmother for a bit -- my grandfather never talks on the phone. I think I've spoken to him on the phone once -- when I called them to tell them that Barry and I had split up, he answered, and as soon as I heard his voice I fell all apart into a weepy mess, and he talked to me for quite a while. Grandma's the chatty one; Grandpa just smiles and nods a lot -- probably because he's used to not being able to get a word in edgewise. My brother complains that all the women in our family are like that -- I come from a long line of motormouths. But hey, we have fun!
Speaking of my brother, he called right after I got off the phone with my grandparents. He moved recently, and doesn't really know anyone yet, so he gets lonely. Last time he called, we ended up in a very heated debate... this time I was feeling too sickly to talk about anything even vaguely political or controversial, so we just talked about the woman he has a date with later this week. Good for him -- at least somebody in my family's getting some action. (No, I'm not bitter. Why do you ask?)
I haven't gotten nearly enough Christmas shopping done. I haven't even bought cards yet, much less mailed them. I only just got around to sending a gift to some friends in London -- it'll never get there in time, of course. So far, I have something for my roommate, something for my brother, one little thing for my mom (I'd tell you what it is, but she reads my journal -- hi, Mom! Suffice it to say, it's neat, and cool, and she'll never expect it.) and something for one friend. People with wish lists make me happy -- it just makes it much easier. I know a lot of folks are debating whether the lists are crass or not, but hey, I like 'em. I have a few friends who are either very hard to shop for, or who have pretty much anything I would think of to buy them, so I like being able to look at a list of stuff they want. It's still fun to try to figure out which thing they'd enjoy the most, and it takes away the risk that I'll get them something they don't want. I have one myself, because I tend to cave in and buy the stuff I want for myself, so I'm sure I'm hard to shop for.
So, to boil all this rambling down: I'm sick. I'm still in my jammies. I need to get a lot of stuff done. So I really should get off the computer now. Oh, and my mom's surgery is scheduled for the 20th. Any well-wishes will be faithfully passed on to her. Especially if you write them in haiku. And welcome to all you new notify-list people! New subscribers make me very happy...
Yawn. Hmmm. Good morning. Just woke up from a deep and happy sleep, face-down with my head under the pillows, with a warm cat on my back. Ahh. I'm pondering getting in the shower and getting dressed, but I can't just yet. I blame my pajamas. See, when I was in Vermont, I found the Perfect Pajamas. A t-shirt, light blue with a sheep on the front. Flannel pants, nice and baggy and soft, with matching sheep all over them. And my mom bought my the slippers to match. I've seriously contemplated wearing them to work -- what, we don't have a dress code! They're that comfortable. So I can't get dressed just yet. It's all the pajamas fault. Blame the sheep.
It'd been an odd few days. Found out earlier in the week that my poor mom needs some minor surgery -- nothing too serious, but hey, surgery is surgery. So whenever it happens, I'll be back in Vermont to look after the dogs and cook and whatnot, so Mom can rest and get better. Any well-wishes you send will be faithfully passed along to her...
Lately, every time I sign onto AOL at home (I know, I know, it sucks... but it's my roommate's computer, and that's all she's got. Meh.) I get bombarded with Instant Messages from people I don't know. Drives me batty. I don't mind emailing with people I haven't met -- provided they aren't creepy or anything -- but I really hate IMing with strangers. I usually ignore the messages, but a couple of people were really persistant about it. One guy emailed me the other day, saying "Hey, I've been trying to IM you, but you never resp[ond. Why not?" That got me wondering if I actually knew this person... maybe I had given someone my screen name, and then forgot I gave it to them. So I wrote back asking "Do I know you?" He said no... so I politely requested that he not IM me anymore, but email me if he really wanted to... I explained that I have had some icky experiences with strangers IMing me propositions and such. His response? "Stop being such a rape victim." Yeah, he said that. Once the red haze cleared from my vision, I replied to tell him to get some manners, and a life, and some serious psychological help... and that if he ever sent another word to me, I'd file a complaint with AOL. Haven't heard from him again... a shame too, since he was oh-so-charming. Last night, a guy who has been the most persistant IM-er (messages every three or four seconds, over and over, every time I sit down to check my email) got online and started in again. I have asked him to stop, repeatedly. He won't. Last night I gave up trying to be polite, and told him to leave me the hell alone. And I forwarded all of his messages, including my requests for him to stop, to AOL. And I think I'll be changing my screen name as soon as possible. Gah.
Yesterday morning, my roommate's boyfriend told me there was something wrong with Zoe -- one of Beth's cats. Zoe had a hyperthyroid condition, so he was skinny, and cranky, and just not a very nice cat. I went to look at him, and he was just lying on the kitchen floor, not eating (and Zoe would start howling for food the minute he heard an alarm clock go off in the house.) I petted him, and he didn't even move. It was like petting a stuffed cat. His nose was all hot and dry, and he looked like he was having some trouble breathing. Every few minutes, he'd sort of prop himself up on one front paw, like it was easier to breathe that way. Beth's boyfriend went and woke her up, and she said she'd take Zoe to the vet first thing... when I got home last night, I saw Tucker (Beth's other cat) and Smoke, but no Zoe. Hmmm. I hoped he was just at the vet getting fixed up... but then Beth came home, with no cat, and with very red, swollen eyes. Zoe had been very sick -- an enlarged spleen, and fluid around his lungs -- hence the difficulty breathing. The vet said he was in a lot of pain, and that there was really no way to cure him -- the best they could do would be to drain the fluid, and then he might last another couple of weeks, but he would die. The hyperthyroid thing was the root of the problem... so Beth decided she didn't want him to suffer anymore, at all. We hadn't known he was in pain -- he didn't cry or anything. She said she held him, and he purred and stuck his tongue out at her (as he did when he was happy -- which was rare. He was a cranky cat.) and then they gave him the shot, and... no more Zoe. She was going to take him to her parents house to bury him. Zoe wasn't a friendly cat -- he was a cat's cat, didn't have much use for people -- but he grew on you. I liked him, and I'll miss him. I'll miss him standing up on his hind paws and using his front paws to pummel me on the butt while I washed dishes. I'll miss the creaky, rumbling noise he made when he purred. (It sounded almost like he was growling, but it was really a Zoe-purr.) I'll miss him following me into the bathroom, as he had to do every morning. Poor old Zoe... but I am glad he's not sick anymore.
So. Weird week, uneventful except for some bad stuff. Huh... writing it down makes it seem worse than it was. Weird. Anyway. I'm off to get my hair cut off today -- hell with growing it out, it's driving me nuts. It keeps getting in my eyes, and sticking to my lip gloss, and getting up my nose, and I can't stand it anymore. So I'm chopping it off. Maybe I'll manage to get a new picture of it posted... unless it turns out horrible, then I'll post a picture of me with a bag over my head...
Oh, hey, all you non-notify list people? If you join the list, you'll get a Christmas surprise... come on, all the cool kids are doing it! Sign up in the box at the bottom of the page. Make me happy, let me know you're reading this thing...
And for you curious folks, I still have a wish list up.