So I Made It a Game

Inspirational song: Eye of the Tiger (Survivor)

I'm very familiar with sleep deprivation. I've gone through several stretches of that in my day. I am not surprised that the converse exists, but I never guessed it would be so difficult to work through a sleep surplus. I have spent way too much of the last eight or nine days unconscious. The last two nights have been a lesson in extreme boredom as I lay awake for hours in the dark, my body refusing to sleep again while I have so much in the reserves. I have tried to turn it into a positive, however. In between turning on my right side and tossing over onto my left, I came up with a plan. I'm guilty of opening up far too many time-wasting games on the computer during the day. So I decided to challenge myself. When I am tempted to throw an hour or two in the trash, playing Bear River or something else equally repetitive, I'm going to try to write a scene first. One scene, attached to nothing. I don't have to link one to the next. They don't have to tell a whole story, and I don't have to fully explain any of the characters. I spent the last year and a half teaching myself to write every single day in this space. I think I can start to build on that now, and teach myself to create worlds until it is as ingrained of a habit as this blog is.

The first 18 hours or so of my challenge exceeded expectations. Not only did I write two scenes, one last night and one this afternoon, but they ended up falling out of my fingers as complete short stories, and I love them like I have two new children. I guess the exercise of trying to wrap things up each night (not always succeeding, but always trying) made it easier for me to write the arc from start to finish. Each story started with a picture, like the opening shot of a movie, and I built the story around it. I have a third picture, but I haven't had the story around it bubble to the surface yet. I made no promises to myself that I had to stick to any theme, so the first one was a four-paragraph horror story that bloomed from the image of a sheet of blood rolling off of a well-maintained knife. The second was quietly sweet and sad, from the picture of an old woman's hand caressing the curve of her husband's casket lid. I don't know how to describe the third picture yet. I know what it is--a detail of a carving--but I can't explain it yet.

I had more energy today than I have had in more than a week. I'm still not a hundred percent healthy, but I'm not considering pain pills an option anymore. I have eaten at least one meal a day for the last two days. I've gotten up and done a lot more today, but I'm still way behind in the things I wanted to accomplish lately. The man of the house, on the other hand, is starting to get into mischief. He has been home for, what, three weeks now? He timed his "get-reacquainted days off" perfectly to run all the way into the holiday, extending his home time. He needed plenty of rest to adjust to the time zone and come down off of his unreasonable work schedule for the last year and a half. I think he's been getting cabin fever for several days now. He started reorganizing the garage early on, so he could store his rugs on the shelves and take a truckload or two to the thrift store drop-off site and lighten our load. The house was an absolute mess while he did that and I lay motionless on the couch, wanting to die. Today he appears to have reached his limit on tolerance for the mess. He cleaned industriously all day, up to and including shampooing carpets and attacking the fireplace with Simple Green and a scrub brush. I couldn't help but laugh. He fantasizes about the day he retires, when he can do nothing, for the rest of his life. But if this is how restless he gets after two or three weeks, he hasn't a hope of handling retirement. That, or he really is going to wander off into the mountains, and start building log cabins with his bare hands. Don't expect a whole lot of sunset years pictures taken from rocking chairs on the Smith Retirement Park porch. That's not where we will be.

Mad House

Inspirational song: The Mob Song (Beauty and the Beast)

I can't do this again. This spring and summer, this place was so stressful, with Cricket in her rapid decline. I was watching her waste away, no matter how much I fed her, or how desperately I wanted the medications I was giving her to work. Everything went right through her, and I spent every day cleaning up after her. Every time I did it, I knew I was one day closer to letting her go, and I hated that. I wanted my young, healthy cat back. I didn't want to draw farther into my shell, but I did it anyway. I couldn't bring people into my house, because it was so hard to keep up with my own mess while I was spending all my energy on Cricket's. I hated going anywhere outside the house, partly because I was so worn out, I could feel the stress on my face, and hiding it was taxing. The worst was going out of town, knowing I had to get someone to come and feed the cats, which was a lot bigger of a favor than it should have been because of her. As much as I loved her, and as much as it completely broke me when she died, I needed the reduction in stress once the numbers of high-maintenance pets decreased.

Now things are crazy again. Zoe is incredibly cute, but she is more than a handful. The first few days she was quiet, possibly because we kept her in the spare bedroom, while she transitioned to the new house and new country. Now she has full run of the house, but she never leaves the living room or kitchen, and she is determined to destroy both of them in the cutest way possible. We introduced her to the House of Fun, the level of the cat tower where I store all the toys, and that might have been a huge mistake. She bounces around the room in her white-footed tabby pajamas, throwing everything to the floor, in pursuit of every squeaking, crinkling, or rattling mousie toy in the pile. I keep hearing things smash to the ground, but I am shell shocked and afraid to look anymore. I threatened for years to cover the potted trees that come in for the winter with chicken wire to keep cats out of them, and today the man helped me accomplish that. (Basically, I said I needed it done and had no dexterity while I was sick, so he did it.) I saw that it finally convinced Zoe not to use the lemon tree, when I saw her in the cat box 18 inches away from it. And then, five minutes later, she knocked over the pot that held the now-dead catnip plant, and the struggling-to-live lemon verbena, for the second time tonight.

Murray is a whole new level of high maintenance. Beyond the obvious problems with having a dog who can't control anything that happens from the hips down, he has behavior issues that are going to take a lot of time and attention to resolve. He thinks he is going to step in and automatically be the top dog around here. He is especially aggressive with Elsa, and he can't stand seeing her get fed or petted. He chases her around the yard, constantly nips at her neck, and makes a nuisance of himself. She learned early how to flip him upside down to slow him down, but that just means one of us has to go outside and right him. I haven't been very good about that this week. Nor have I been able to help much to clean up after him. This evening I finally accepted that we are not going to be able to move from here to our condo in Boulder, even if it does get completed by the time we wrap up operations here. The man wonders why it took me so long to reach that conclusion.

I need a farm. And a houseful of magical servants like in Beauty and the Beast, to take care of all the animals on the farm. Or maybe just fewer high-maintenance beasts.

Rebuilding

Inspirational song: Day By Day (Godspell)

I'm tired of writing the same thing every day. I'm tired of living the same thing every day. I'm tired of being tired. I am ready for a big change. I just need to convince my body of that notion.

I am not sure whether my head-spinning dizziness today was entirely attributable to the illness, the recuperation, or even the noxious metronidazole (which might actually be powdered brimstone, the jury is still out on that). The man has what one of his friends so helpfully calls a "husband sitter." He has a project car that hasn't actually moved under its own power in at least a decade. We thought that it would be taken care of when he towed it out to a body shop to have it fully restored eleven months ago, however, that's not how it all worked out. When the man returned from his travels, the Jeep was still where he left it, under a tarp, in pieces, in the body shop's yard. He is trying to take the setback in stride, but he really wanted to have a driveable vehicle by now. He is working on rebuilding the engine himself, and even doing some of the body work he already paid the shop owner to do, that was never done. He spent the whole of the day cleaning and rebuilding the carburetor. I'm not sure what the chemical is that he used to soak it, but every time he came in from outside where the soaking was done, fumes followed him into the house. I believe that some component of it was ether. The man and I have been skirting the edge of dizziness all day. If I'm lucky, he's done with this particular project, and the air will be clearer tomorrow.

Holiday Curse

Inspirational song: Lump (The Presidents of the United States of America)

A long time ago, one set of my grandparents, and my aunt and uncle all lived in the tiny town of Seminole, Oklahoma. It was close enough to where I lived that I got to spend lots of major holidays there when I was a kid. The year I was in sixth grade, we went to my aunt and uncle's house for one of them, and it was the year the oldest of us cousins had his wisdom teeth out. I'm guessing he was about 18 at the time, wrestling on his high school team, and built like a brick wall. He wasn't a really short guy, but he had that solid, low center of gravity stance that I have associated with wrestlers ever since. As a teenage boy, he should have torn through all the turkey and ham and sides like he wasn't going to get a meal again for days. Instead, he was in pain, and he carefully mashed tiny shreds of food with his front teeth, and fought to swallow anything. I remember his brother and one of our other cousins teasing him about it, while at the same time calling it sad, that he was unable to eat anything.

In the long history of holiday gatherings with my family, there is almost always someone who is sick. I have pulled that card more than anyone else. I've had appendicitis, diverticulitis, flu, flu while pregnant (it added a layer of difficulty, so it merits the second mention), and plenty of other ailments like migraines and colds. I'm sick often enough that my family members get mad at me when I'm down for yet another holiday get-together. I don't plan these things, but it sure seems like it to everyone else. From my perspective, it feels like a curse. I don't ever feel like getting up and doing things with the family. I'd like to break out of this routine. I think I've paid more than my fair share of dues here.

Today was a holiday with my Bonfire family, but it played out like one at my dad's, where the worst illnesses always seemed to hit me (I always brought them with me -- let us not pass any blame to my hosts for this). This current flare up started last week, but I was in denial for days. By Sunday, I knew I was in for it, and I stopped eating after lunch that day. I refused to miss out on the concert Monday night, so I powered through the day, avoiding the doctor for fear I'd end up in the hospital if I admitted what was happening. Tuesday morning I called the doc as soon as I woke. He told me not to eat at all, just stick with clear liquids, with the impression that he wanted me to do that for the entire 10 day course of antibiotics. There is only so much apple juice I can stand, and after the first day, even the thought of chicken broth makes me nauseated. I'm not sure I had anything beyond what it took to swallow pills yesterday. By the time I arrived at Bonfire Thanksgiving, I was limp and lifeless. I found a corner of the couch, where the chaise stretched out, I burrowed under a blanket, and I stayed there. I was an uninteresting lump on the couch. I tried to follow conversations, but everyone else there had so much energy and spoke so fast, a lot of it went right past me. One of my friends said my face was as pale as the ecru shirt I wore. But as I promised, I defied doctor's orders. I ate a small plate of turkey, squash, brussel sprouts, and potatoes. And lo and behold, I started to perk up a little bit. I think it was exactly what I needed, even if it wasn't exactly what the doctor ordered.

I'm still going to go easy on myself for a day or more, but for the first time this week, I'm starting to see a way out of this cursed illness. If only I could skip the antibiotics. Yuck.

Annie Isn't Okay

Inspirational song: Smooth Criminal (Michael Jackson)

I'd love to write a long blog post, but things aren't going so well right now. I have been horizontal since the last post, and I'm just about to give up and head to bed. My sole concern is keeping down those awful antibiotics. Cross your fingers that I am able to get up and out of the house for A Very Bonfire Thanksgiving.

I'm Going to Cheat

Inspirational song: Good Times (Charlie Robison)

The first time I contracted diverticulitis, it was a months-long ordeal. I started having stomach pain in September of 2012, but it eased off after a few weeks, and I just assumed I had pulled a muscle. That Christmas I was completely off my game, but it was a holiday at my dad's house, and I have a really bad track record of being ill when I go to his place. It stopped being a funny coincidence years ago. It wasn't until the end of January that winter, when I ended up in the hospital, unable to convince myself any longer that whatever I had was just a virus that I'd get over with time. From there, it took three courses of antibiotics, and four or five months before I was completely over it.

Thus, I am not allowed to be surprised that I'm back on the couch, staring at an assortment of pill bottles (is there anything worse in the world than metronidazole?), with the second flare up since August. My whole day was split between the doctor, the lab, and the couch. I'm supposed to be getting a referral back to the gastroenterologist I saw last time. Yippee.

I am trying very hard to follow doctor's orders. Even before I saw him today, I heard his voice in my head telling me clear liquids only. I stopped eating solid food Sunday evening. Doc says I'm not even supposed to eat Thanksgiving. I'm not sure I will be compliant on that last one. I won't overdo it, but I'll be damned if I don't get a little turkey and potatoes come Thursday. I might even have a bit of the chocolate angel pie I'm planning on making. Don't try to stop me.

I'll sift through the pictures I've taken over the last week. Surely there are a few cat pictures worth putting out there, to make up for my forced stillness.

Conservation of Energy

Inspirational song: Christmas Lullaby (Mannheim Steamroller)

Back when we were in college, and first dating, there were a few rocky patches as we tried to blend our tastes in music. We agreed on a lot, but it took more effort for me to get him to appreciate the entire catalog of Marillion music as I did, and I resisted heavily when he and his guy friends tried to play Boston around me. It was particularly difficult to convince me that Mannheim Steamroller had any musical merit. Something about their time signature and key changes was jarring to me. The man loved the Fresh Aire albums, and I just never found an interest in them. I discovered over the years that their Christmas music was more palatable to me, possibly because I knew the old tunes so well.

Flash forward to this past summer, and I got an email advertising a pre-sale on the Mannheim Steamroller Christmas tour. It was right around our anniversary, and I was missing the man something fierce. I thought, this would be a great way to show him how much I wanted him home, that I was willing to shell out big bucks for good seats to see an act he liked a whole lot more than I ever did. I worried that he would have another delay, another extension, and would miss the show. He made it in time, but I found the week leading up to the show particularly challenging. The last few days, the pain in my belly has been building. Today was so bad, I spent the whole day horizontal, and I haven't eaten a thing all day, other than a little juice. I napped most of the day, hoping I would build enough of a reservoir of energy to make it through. I made it all the way to sitting in the car in the garage before I ran back in the house and gave back the couple sips of juice I drank moments earlier. It actually made me feel well enough to get all the way to intermission. Now I'm on a velvet bench in the lobby trying to settle my stomach enough to squeeze back between my man and the very large gentleman who was on my left. Every time I think I am there, I get another little wave that pushes me back in my chair.

When we were young, the man worked a lot of the tough jobs that twenty-somethings have to take to get by. Even then, my favorite types of gifts were experiences. Unfortunately, with his work schedule, he had a hard time staying awake when we went anywhere, like to an Irish pub for his 21st birthday or when I had great seats to see a collaborative production from David Byrne and Phillip Glass. He fell asleep on a lot of our dates. Here I am turning the tables. I definitely blinked out a couple times during the first act. Sorry, honey.

It's a few songs into act 2. I think my stomach will let me make it through to the end now. Wish me luck.

Mrs Clean

Inspirational song: Cleanup Time (John Lennon)

My mother is a wise woman in general, but every once in a while she has flashes of brilliance that are so endearing, they should be shared with the world. We have always been an animal-friendly family. I didn't suddenly become a crazy cat lady in the last couple years when I lived alone. I was bred this way, and my mother is still the champ of all of us (even more so than my man). Many years ago, my mother was taking care of her house full of animals, and she made an observation about being careful what you ask for. I can't quote it exactly anymore, but it was very close to: "My whole life, I have said 'shit' [as an interjection] and that's all I have. I think I'm going to start saying 'money' and see whether I get more of that instead." Every few years, I recall this vow, and I try to follow her example to change the tone of my outbursts. I've said with conviction in the past, "I'm from Oklahoma. My two favorite words are 'shit' and 'y'all,' often in combination." Conversation with me is a lot like being in that episode of South Park, where they have the little counter at the bottom, marking every time that word is uttered. ("It Hits the Fan" from 2001 -- I looked it up.) If I am going to change my language that dramatically, I need to really think about what I'm going to ask for. Perhaps my word should be "clean." Picture that. "Clean it, y'all! I'm not messing around anymore." It could work.

I am having a horrible time focusing on writing, because of the inspiration for tonight's topic. It's bedtime, and Murray is in his cage. He hasn't stopped whining for about 15 minutes, and I am so over it. I was supposed to focus today on the next design attempt for his clothing line. The first one was horribly inadequate, and I need to make something that covers twice as much of him, so it stays in place. He's not going to like it, but I don't care. I honestly am sick of his shit -- literally. I'm not a germaphobe, but I am swimming in a torrent of dog urine in this house, and I can't clean it up fast enough. I have felt awful for days, and I worry that I have picked up a bacteria (or a dozen different types of them) from not being able to keep my house clean. I don't know what the man imagined was going to happen here when he brought Murray home. Living outside entirely as he was overseas was never an option. Here in the Deep South, winters are not particularly harsh, but they are still winter. Like today, they can be ridiculously wet. Murray didn't need to be stuck in mud, all day, separated from the rest of the family. He had to learn to be an inside dog. The learning curve is steep, however, and incredibly messy. If we do end up moving back to Colorado, living outside during all but the summer would be unbearable, and possibly unsurvivable. Hope for me that I feel slightly better tomorrow, enough to sew another jumpsuit for Messy Murray. And then I need to clean, clean, clean. I can't live this way.

Ode to Curiosity

Inspirational song: Hooks In You (Marillion)

It is rarely enough for me to know that a thing exists. I can't help but wonder how it came to be. I always need to know why. And if I can't find the answer easily, I make up my own, until I get the whole picture. Nothing is more important to me than discerning motive. It is often the difference between me getting so mad that I write a person off forever, and forgiving them because their reasons for action were sufficient, even if I didn't agree with them. Even when I hear someone is acting unconscionably, I always want to know why he or she behaved badly before I assume the worst. I have a hard time believing that miscreants are simply that, for no reason. It makes it doubly hard for me to understand how a person can defraud another. Where does a human's mind have to be to commit identity theft, for example, or even simple robbery? What makes anyone think they can just make off with things that don't belong to them? For me, if I can't figure out the why, I can't believe that it is possible to do these things. Perhaps it is naive.

Once I am fascinated by a topic, I have trouble understanding when others are not so enchanted by it as I. There are several things that have really gotten a hook in me, and I just can't get enough on those subjects. I read books, follow on Facebook, tune in on Livestream, and bring up websites so often that typing the first letter brings up exactly what I want in predictive text. My man has been accusing me of sounding like a newly converted religious freak on one or two of these things, and it is so frustrating to me that he is particularly incurious even to look at those things about which I am so passionate. I've gotten him to eat like I do, for example, merely because I do all of the shopping and cooking, but he will not read word one on the topic. He does not want to know. I have begged, cajoled, and gotten angry. Nothing makes him budge. I would want to know why someone is making such a big change, why they believe in it so strongly as to throw away everything in the kitchen and stop going to restaurants in a foodie's paradise. Him, he just gets irritated when I mention it. I tell myself to give up, but I just can't. I'm caught in a feedback loop -- why wouldn't you want to know why?

Last winter, after the exercise in chaos that was our roof rebuild, I was guilty of a little incuriosity myself. It took weeks for the contractor to return to fix the gaping hole they left in the corner gutter piece between the porch and the garage. I called and called, and he finally showed up one day while I was out of the house. I was so tired of fighting that battle, I saw it was done and stopped thinking about it. I didn't investigate the quality of the repair, and that was my mistake. I did notice on one occasion that there was excessive water running down the fascia boards over the porch, but other than posting pictures on the blog, again, I put it from my mind. Ahead of imminent rain, the man investigated the gutters today. Much as I don't understand intentional fraud, I don't get why someone would do such a half-assed job as those contractors did, and be able to live with themselves. They had broken the corner piece for the gutter, and rather than replace it, they squeezed out about a half a pound of caulk, and called it good. The gutters themselves were installed so badly, the man has been griping about it all day. Mounted in the wrong place, with fewer fasteners, and the wrong pitch. I really should have looked sooner.

A word about today's photos: today was the first day we went for a walk with all three dogs. Well, Bump went for a walk, Murray went for a roll, and Elsa took me for a drag. It seemed to go well enough that it will be repeated. All the neighbors are going to know us on sight soon enough.

Needs Work

Inspirational song: Underneath Your Pillow (It Bites)

Doggie diaper wrap prototype number one was completed this evening, right around dinner time. It took Murray about three and a half minutes to point out all the design flaws, and another five minutes to gnaw at it so much I just pulled it off of him. I just want a successful diaper wrap, so I can finally pour some energy into fully cleaning up around here. It just seems so futile, when we're spending so much time cleaning up everything that hits the floor. These garments are absolutely necessary, if he is to live inside the house, which he must to get healthy from the infection. I think I know most of the changes to make in the next set of hot pants for Mr Hot Wheels. For one, they need to cover a whole lot more of his body. I think the next set of measurements will be while he is in his wheels, not lying on the floor, so I can get a clearer idea of how big he actually is. I kept cutting down the original pattern, thinking it would be way too big. Now I might go in the opposite direction, and make him a pair of overalls like the kids used to wear when they were 9 months old. I can't promise there won't be appliques of zoo animals on them if I copy those old overalls designs. (I might have already bought some fabric for Christmas at the grandparents', with gingerbread men and penguins in scarves...) The first prototype has orange quilted pads on the purple fabric, accidentally making him a little Clemson cheerleader. I wasn't thinking in those terms until it was done.

I had a lot of help sewing. I set up in a space I don't normally occupy, so of course that meant it was time to investigate and touch everything. So many new things to kill or cover with cat fur. Zoe and Athena are taking turns stealing the tomato pincushion. The might get away with it, if Athena didn't crow so loudly about how well she killed it. And Jack hasn't left the table since I spread out the first piece of fabric on it. I wish she could offer suggestions on design as well. She keeps talking to me. Maybe that's what she is actually saying.

Used Up

Inspirational song: Will You Love Me Tomorrow (Carole King)

It takes a lot of calories to power the human brain. Apparently I either didn't get enough for how much I had to do today, or I flat out exceeded my power input. I have been working all day on the design of the doggie diapers and now I am making stupid mistakes. As I started ripping out the third seam in the last ten minutes, the man suggested I put it away and attack it with fresh eyes tomorrow. He just climbed the stairs, and I said I would try and write my fastest blog of all time. He suggests, "Aargh, I'm starting to sew upside down. I'm going to bed."

I have most of the kinks worked out of the design. I just need to figure out the vagaries of my new sewing machine, and why it suddenly forgets how to do tension every hour or so. I haven't got any energy left for it tonight. Better pictures to come, once I am rested and can complete my task.

Drooping

Inspirational song: All My Ex's Live in Texas (George Strait)

What a long, crappy day.

I woke super early this morning to the sound of the man trying to start a fire underneath a chimney filled with heavy, cold air. The sound of smoke alarms before 7 am is not the best way to kick off a morning. I wanted to go back to sleep after he did it, and I really did try. But I started noticing how much of a bellyache I had, and it got worse the longer I noticed it was there. I've been moving slowly ever since, and I hope that I can type like the wind, because I'm ready to be back in bed. I'm arguing with myself over whether I'm much healthier and less susceptible to bugs now that I eat better, or am I due for another one with all the stress and mess around here. Let's hope the former wins.

We had an early first hard freeze last night. I forgot to bring in one key plant, the hanging spider plant that used to live in the man's office. I had nursed back from just a few scrawny leaves, to a healthy spider with lots of babies hanging off of it, in the sunny front porch. After a night in the 20s, it didn't look so good. I hope it's not permanently dead. A quick glance around the Park shows me that just about everything that had been wearing late blooms is now wilted and collapsed. The plumbago and lantana were brown and droopy on the side of the house, and the lacy euphorbia was a stringy mess out back. I guess today we can officially call it. The growing season has ended.

We dropped my car off for an oil change, and thought from there we were just going to take a quick trip up to the kennel where the original two dogs board, trying to convince the techs that they could handle Murray, wheels and all. We were a block away when he peed in the car, and it was horribly stinky. I raced in to the kennel, borrowed a towel, and we got him slightly dried off and inside to meet the team. Within a minute, two things happened. They were charmed by him, and agreed that he could board with the others, and he peed on the light colored tile floor, and we discovered that it was pink. I turned and ran off to the other building, asking for an immediate vet appointment. Two and a half hours later, he had blood drawn, a preliminary urine test (showing lots of rod-shaped bacteria), and a sterile urine sample removed straight from his bladder. If ever we needed proof that he doesn't experience deep pain below the waist, we got it today. They flopped him on his back to siphon his bladder through a hypodermic, and he fell asleep. Didn't faze him a bit. They're using the sample for a culture, so we'll know in a few days whether we need to use a different, possibly stronger antibiotic than the one he has now. He hadn't been complaining about pain, but it had become obvious over the last 24 hours that he just wasn't feeling himself. He rode in the car like he just wanted to be anywhere that was still and not rocking. (I totally sympathized.)

With both of us feeling sick, I haven't started putting together mock-ups for his uniquely-styled diaper wrap yet. It needs to be my sole focus tomorrow. I ended up buying him menstruation pads instead of incontinence pads for the prototypes. Who knew that there was such a cost difference between the two? He needs protection from the diaper rash and my floor needs protection from his issues. But really, all I want to do is curl up and finish the no-sew fleece blanket I started last night, that called all the cats to come sit in the middle of it, while I tried to cut. Jack and Alfred looked me dead in the eye, and asked (telepathically), "Why IS blanket, if not for cats?"

I need help. I failed at Google today. I wanted to use a parody song today, but I can't sort through the internet dreck to find the answers I seek. There's a parody of All My Ex's Live in Texas that is along the lines of "All my exes have infections..." that ends the chorus with "And that's why it hurts me when I pee." We thought perhaps it was Larry the Cable Guy, but searches turned up nothing. Anyone remember this?

The Specialist

Inspirational song: Fashion (David Bowie)

The deus ex machina failed to appear today. I really had hopes that we would get exceptionally good news today, but alas, such was not the case. We loaded Murray up in half of his airline crate (so he was well-contained in the car, not sloshing around), and took him a couple municipalities over to meet with a neurologist. After seeing the X-rays at his new permanent vet, and watching him twitch his legs and seem to want to move them as if he had control over them, I was building up a good head of steam, thinking that we'd be sent along to physical therapy where, with work, he'd get up on three legs regularly, and gain independence that he has never known before. However, the neurologist had a less favorable view of his capacity for muscle mastery. Yes, Murray can move his legs, but while the twitches seem to be voluntary from the outside, they really aren't that well controlled, and he has greatly diminished capacity for deep pain, or it is lacking entirely. We watched him pinch all along Murray's feet with blunt forceps, and he withdrew his legs, but never once yelped like he actually felt pain. This is a bad indicator of nerve communication up along the spinal column. There were no obvious breaks or malformed vertebrae on his X-rays, but that medium can't tell the whole story. To know whether there is a mass, or some other sort of soft tissue defect (congenital or formed by infection), we would have to get an MRI. That next step would cost us $2000, just for the imaging. No idea how much surgery would cost, if it were even indicated as promising. I asked about physical therapy, and he said it might do some good, over many visits with lots of work, and lots of money. I might be running in to that whole surgeon versus physical therapist turf war, but I didn't pursue it enough to tick the guy off this morning.

So now we are back at square one, with a dog who is growing into his adult body and adult weight, who needs to be hauled around to get in and out of his wheelchair several times a day, and who urinates wildly in any direction when he is lifted. I spent the entire drive home deep in thought about the concept of doggie diapers, and how to make them stay put and effective. There are websites where diaper wraps for male dogs are sold, but most of those seem to be nothing more than a wide, elasticized cummerbund. Murray has more issues than that, particularly the sores created by his wheelchair harness rubbing against the side of his leg, and the callus formed by a year of dragging and bouncing along on his "sit bones." Online, they sell a kind of harness that is like shorts for a dog, that leaves his drippy bits exposed, but puts a handle on the hips/base of tail, for dogs who need just a little boost to get around (or those who need to be carried like a suitcase, like this one). It is possible that if I looked long enough, I would find a product that combines my two needs, but as it is, these individual products are already fairly spendy. Something so specialized, if it exists, is probably more than I want to spend on something that will be peed on every day. Also, it turns out that I'm clever and have over 30 years of clothing design experience (I started very young). I spent a couple hours wandering through the fabric store (five weeks before Christmas -- the line for fabric cutting was LONG), picking out some fabrics for Murray's shorts, that will combine hip padding, a back handle, and a spot to secure some sort of disposable liner for pee. I picked out three to start with, in durable fabrics, with little patterned accents to make them fashionable, and a soft muslin liner so they don't chafe him. I assume three is enough to start, so there's always a clean one while the others are in the wash. I haven't done any cutting yet. Once I have a prototype made, I'll show it off.

Now I just need to get the nerve to go to the grocery store and buy some Poise pads. Maybe I'll wear a sign around my neck that says, "They're for my dog! I am fully continent."

Aber Jeden Tag!

Inspirational song: Do It Again (The Kinks)

How can I possibly be in a rut, now of all times? Now that the man is home, with his new animals and restless energy, changing everything that stands before him, how can I sit here and claim that I feel like I keep running up against the same brick walls, over and over? Sure, in order to maintain the strict gluten-free kitchen I developed while he was gone, I demanded that I retain 100% control over the grocery shopping and cooking, so that is one thing that is starting to feel a teeny bit repetitive. He has helped with clean up a few times, and I learned a long time ago that when you have anyone in your house volunteer to load your dishwasher, you don't say no. I am still doing a lot of cleaning that just feels like a high-tide/low-tide constant battle that never gets anywhere. The same goes with the new dog. He has enough sensation below his waist to know when he's about to have an accident on the floor, and he barks to tell us to get up and clean up, but he doesn't have the control to make it all the way outside once he has alerted us to the inevitable. I do a lot of floor cleaning, and the man carries Murray upstairs to the bath nearly every day (twice today). I think the poor little guy's skin is irritated, both from a diaper rash sort of acidity, and from the frequent scrubbing. I know you're not supposed to bathe dogs as often as people, because of their more delicate skin, but you're also not usually faced with a dog who wears his own filth like Murray would have if left alone.

I watched a huge weather front move through this afternoon, bringing strong winds and a tornado watch for most of the day. With each gust, large numbers of spotty brown leaves blew all over the Park. Remember a couple weeks ago when my daughter and I used the leaf blower to make the grass look great, all over the front and back? Yeah, good times. It doesn't look all that tidy today. It's pretty, and it smells like fall, but it's just more work to do, all over again. Low tide/high tide.

Since Thursday, I have been tuned in for most of my waking hours to my 2014 obsession, the Tiny Kittens livestream, from a kitten foster mom in British Columbia. We're on birth watch for Dorothy the cat, who seemed to go into pre-labor five days ago, and has been stringing her audience of over 4,000 along ever since. I keep checking back, keep tuning in to the feed, waiting to see the babies be born. My soft-hearted man, who is almost as enchanted by cats as I, has even started glancing at the feed. I went to bed with a tablet last night, so I could check it when I had my usual pre-dawn hot-flash-based wake up, and as the house started to come awake at first light, the first thing the man asked was, "Are there kittens?" This cat is visually a perfect blend of my two black cats. Her face looks like Jack when she was a yearling, and her tiny body is fluffy with a reddish undertone, like Athena. I can pretend I let one of them procreate, without having to deal with the mess or heartache of rearing and giving away a litter of kittens. Neither of them was really mommy material anyway. Every time Dorothy the cat moans during a contraction, the foster mom reminds her that she only has to go through this birthing nonsense once. She'll be spayed in a few months, and never have to do it again.

The Inventing Room

Inspirational song: The Streetbeater (The Sanford and Son Theme) (Quincy Jones)

Every so often, the man reminds me of the details of one of the key stories in Smith family lore, because I have apparently intentionally blocked off that memory. According to him, it goes like this: We were living in North Carolina, in the first house we ever bought, and I was at work at the library. I got a phone call, and the man asked, "Guess where I'm standing?" I don't think we had cell phones at the time, at least not more than one, so that limited the range of where he might be. "I'm in the doorway to our den!" "Um, we don't have a den." "We do now!" He had a few days off of work, and he and his circular saw had done a number on the wall between the dining room and the former garage that had already been converted (very badly) into a bonus room. By the time I got home, it was still mostly a gash in the drywall, with insulation hanging ragged around the edges. But the look of pride on his face was priceless, and he really didn't waste time fully opening up room for french doors, raising the floor to the same level as the dining room, correctly framing out what used to be the opening for the garage door (and had been poorly installed sliders when we bought the place), and putting in a window and built-in bookshelves. One month we had a junk room that was an uninsulated, unheated garage conversion, and the next we had a functional den and a utility room off the kitchen. We still don't talk much about the electrical wiring. (Because the conversation went something like this: "I'm going to go install this breaker at the box. If you hear a pop, don't investigate. Just go collect the life insurance.")

This man is something to behold when he is bored and has time on his hands. His mind never stops designing, some things ingenious, some things so goofy they wouldn't even work as junkyard art. When we lived in the high desert of California, we tried getting one of those large snapset pools. It was fun, but the thing would not hold heat from one day to the next, even when the air temperature was over 110 for days in a row. I came out one day to find yards of black hose snaking through the back yard, connected to the pool filter pump, as a slap-dash solar water heater. It didn't work all that well, but he got points for creativity (and deductions for style).

After spending so many months away, he doesn't have to go into the office for a couple weeks. The experiments have already begun. There is another water heater test site attached to my fireplace, and the grow light I had set up for the lemon tree has already changed twice. I've learned that it's best to stand back and be ready with a towel to sop up spilled liquids or to locate flying bits of hardware that skitter across the floor and hide. Perhaps one of these days, one of his experiments will lead to that invention that allows us to retire before we turn 50. Until then, I'll just let him go at it, and I'll focus on constructing dog beds with spare pillows and foam. (He and I are more alike than we admit...)

Luddite

Inspirational song: New World Man (Rush)

Yesterday I might have been a little whiny about how the man pulled everything out that had been tucked away in closets and corners, so that my house could wear a thin veneer of cleanliness. Fairness dictates that I give him credit for having energy to burn today, and spending a great deal of it taking care of things that I might never have gotten to this winter. (Vacuuming the popcorn ceiling around the super-dusty ceiling fan that is twelve feet off the ground? Give this man--and his ladder--a medal. It looks brand new in here again.) Most of our furniture is still cattywampus, but we now have a dog who walks only on his front paws, dangling his posterior in the oddest way, and we need to have plenty of wide-open avenues around here so he can get to where he wants to be. We also had to block off access to the piano bar section of the house, while one of the fancy rugs dries. The man brought out the rinse-n-vac and everything today. That rug needed to be cleaned before it was put away, as it is the little red-headed dog's favorite spot to run to when he gets a pork hide chewie (commonly referred to as STFU Sticks in the Smith family lexicon).

I can't completely let up off the man, however. He is well known in our circles for being out and proud as a true dinosaur. He often says, when viewing advertising or the packaging claims on products in stores, "I am not part of this demographic." He's right. Almost nothing of the modern world is marketed towards grumpy curmudgeons who shop older than they actually are. The most obvious example of all of this is his phone. He loved to embarrass all of us women (his wife and daughters), every time he whipped out his 2006/7 Motorola Razr phone. He is one of the few people I know personally who really just wanted a phone to be a phone. I can't imagine. That is the last thing I want to do with mine. Talk on it? Are you crazy? I hate talking on a telephone, when typing is available. But the man just loved being the last guy east of the Mississippi who still used a Razr. He was determined to keep it until he left the country last year, since he wouldn't be using his own phone to call internationally if he could avoid it (he takes pride in being cheap sometimes too), and didn't need something brand new that would be obsolete by the time he returned. Barely a week left before his flight last year, and the old phone died for good. He had no choice but to get some sort of replacement, and he picked up a little burner that he mostly used as an alarm while overseas. This week, we finally dragged him, kicking and screaming, into the current decade. We spent a couple hours in the AT&T store, and damned if he didn't come out of there with a better phone than I have. (I did get mine right after he left, so it makes sense.) He was a little disappointed that no one makes a flip phone anymore, but I think he will come around once he gets used to what he's got now. We are all going to be grateful for his camera upgrade, those of us who have received texts and spent a good five minutes trying to figure out what exactly we were looking at. Three cheers for modernity!

I think, all things considered, I'm totally fine having my favorite Luddite home, even if it means I feel weird dancing between all the devices I play with every day when he's not around. I have just enough of a hipster complex to enjoy revisiting the world of hand-crafting, slow processes, and vintage everything. I don't live an ultra-modern life, and I have no intention of starting one now. In fact, from here, I expect the both of us to slow down even more. But I'm still glad he has a phone from this decade. Some things are that important to a new world family.

Debris Field

Inspirational song: Jungle Love (Steve Miller Band)

My daughter and I spent days getting the house clean and organized for the man's return. As I sit here in a house torn apart, I wonder why we bothered. His returns are always like this. Everything that is put away gets pulled out, boxes or bags get emptied, and doorways and cabinets get blocked. It makes me tense. I can't reach the trash can, dishwasher, or most of the storage pieces around the ground floor. It's so awkward, I haven't been able to keep up with most of the kitchen cleaning, making my cooking less than precise or as enjoyable as I have been finding it lately. Every available horizontal surface, from the floor to the chairs to the mantle shelves are stuffed with debris. I'm trying to leave it alone, but I am twitchy and uncomfortable when the place looks like this, and it always makes my back hurt to move around it.

The good news is that he has been sorting through his dozens upon dozens of handmade carpets that he sent home over the last year and a half, cataloging them in his computer, making sure he has photos of each and every one, repacking and consolidating the tubs, and then carting them out to the garage. He packed the garage shelves more tightly as well, so there was enough space to get twelve tubs (so far) up off the floor. Parts of my house had a lot more room along the edges, suddenly, so of course we had to claim it for other things. The big cold front that chilled most of the country is moving through here today and tonight, and I have pulled in several of the less hardy plants off the deck. I doubt the Persian shield or the fuchsia will survive inside with limited light, but I'm going to make the attempt. I should have better luck with the Boston fern that came in today. As I sit now, I am looking at a gorgeous cat palm that will be, well, catted to death by New Year's Day, mark my words. If I had the light, I would bring every remaining plant inside, and turn this place into a jungle. Alas, even if I attempt it, Zoe would be there to stomp on my plans for a happy indoor garden. She digs in my lemon tree, tips over pots with narrow bases, and proves that she isn't far removed from her feral formative months. (Every time I turn around, she's on top of something new, like the upper cabinets in the kitchen or in the storage space above the garage. She's not making this easy on me, or on her daddy who was thoroughly clawed when he rescued her from the garage.)

On every homecoming, I am reminded of one of our earliest reunions, way back in the salad days. We were renting a basement apartment from my daughter's godmother, and I was failing to keep up with the inordinate amount of mess that my girls and their father can generate. He went away for a week or two, I think either with the boy scout troop for which he was a leader at the time, or maybe on a temporary field assignment with some environmental biology organization. In his absence, I finally had an opportunity to scrub the apartment clean to my standards (even if it still would have horrified my grandmothers). I was so happy, finally, and I could relax. The man literally barely made it through the door, before he dropped his suitcase, kicked off his shoes, shed his coat, and everything started hitting the floor. I stared in disbelief, mutely choking and gesturing at the debris field. Nearly every homecoming has followed this pattern. If I were smart, and a bit more affluent, I would probably just hire someone to take care of it for me, so that I stop taking it all so personally. As it is, it drives me a bit mad. It's making me crazy. But then, what doesn't?