Super B

Inspirational song: Don't Stop (Fleetwood Mac)

We are in a difficult phase with Bumpy. He has been taking prednisone for a few days now, and I can't tell yet whether it's making a difference. He still can only eat small amounts, and sometimes enough of it stays down that it makes it all the way through him. Nearly everything that goes into him is essentially liquid (his chicken and rice gruel is watered down with chicken broth), so he needs to pee all the time, yet his age and infirmity means that he doesn't control it all that well. He neither holds it when he is supposed to nor easily eliminates it when he has the opportunity to do so. He's still so skinny, and I don't know whether that it going to change.

But even sick and weak, he is still the most loving and loyal dog I've ever known. I sat in the hot tub this afternoon, trying to loosen my muscles before my last physical therapy appointment of this set. He stayed on the patio, right next to the tub, with his back to me, watching for all potential hazards. He has done this since we rescued him, and he credited me with the save, since it was my voice he heard as his head cleared from his accident on Route 66. I tell him every time I see him that he is the best dog of all time. But we aren't cuddling as much as I want to. When he comes into the house, he patrols it like a shark, looking for his special chicken gruel that he gets about four times a day, or he's on the hunt for a special treat of cat barf or anything else that he would have wanted to find on a normal day. He's hungry and agitated when he comes in. I can't imagine how hard it is for him, always wanting to eat, but not wanting to throw up or have the pressure of too much food failing to squeeze past the tumor against his duodenum.

He got to go on a special daddy-doggy drive into the mountains today, without the other two dogs. The Mr wanted to go check out a beater truck that would be better for driving up to the mining claim (one in which Murray would be in the way back, separated from the driver and passenger, who would no longer have to smell the lovely things that come out of Murray unexpectedly). Murray and Elsa stayed home, and Bump went up to investigate the truck with his papa. From all accounts he liked the special one-on-one time. Murray picks on him, so three hours without harassment was like a mini-vacation for Bump.

We have a trip scheduled for next month. It's just a short trip, one or two nights away from home. We have made reservations for the dogs to stay at the camp where they get to run and play in a big field, like a sleepaway dog park. I asked out loud today what we think will happen. If Bump is feeling better, do we risk boarding him for two or three days while we are gone? Do we send the other two, but ask a friend to babysit him at our home? Or the option we don't really want to think about for very long... What if he is significantly worse and in pain as the trip approaches? He is in palliative care right now, not treatment that we expect to heal him. I don't know what the immediate future holds, and I'm a little afraid to put words to what it may bring.

Tech, High and Low

Inspirational song: Space Oddity (David Bowie)

Dr Who taught me that there are fixed points in time that have to happen, that can't be changed. Some of these important instances must inevitably coincide with pivotal, huge, cultural moments that imprint on all of our collective memories. They may be assassinations that start wars. They may be wardrobe malfunctions. They may occur in plain sight of thousands or even millions of eyeballs, like the moon landing in 1969. Today felt like the last of those. I was driving around, running errands, so when SpaceX launched their heavy rocket today, I was listening to TV on the radio again, and heard it announced live. I didn't get to see the video until much later, but that didn't stop me from getting pleasant chills listening to the crowd cheer at the Kennedy Space Center. The announcers voices were hoarse and excited, like they were watching the thrilling final moments of a big sports event (much like the one two days ago). I smiled and pictured clearly in my mind what the rocket launch must look like and how victorious and inspired all those scientists (and future scientists) must have felt. I hadn't listened to a whole lot of coverage leading up to the launch, because my usual Rotary meeting fell while they were waiting for the launch window to open all the way. So I didn't realize that the booster rockets were intended to land gently and be reused (as they had already done once before). Listening to the joy and amazement of the people describing the perfect synchronized vertical landing of the two booster rockets was the moment I knew: this was one of those fixed points in time, where everything changes. How perfect!

I would have liked to have been parked in front of a television screen for the launch, but my early afternoon was special to me in a much smaller, more personal way. Rotary means the world to me, not just in the fellowship it offers with people who welcomed me to their community, but as an endless stream of volunteer opportunities. I've always gravitated toward ways to give of my time and energy, because for most of my life, I haven't been flush with cash to give only gifts of money. With each quarterly dues payment to Rotary, I also give $25 to the Rotary International Foundation. It's not a lot, but it's the entry level of charitable giving to be a "sustaining member." These things go not only to big projects like the global eradication of polio (which is getting SO CLOSE), but also come back to our local chapter to be used as small donations to community needs like upgraded computers in less affluent schools. Those who give $1000 to the Foundation achieve what is known as a Paul Harris Fellowship, and for each $1k after that, you achieve "plus one," "plus two," etc. In lieu of the full gift of money, there are points each chapter has available to award fellowships to people who volunteer or who have provided some valuable service to the club that the members want to recognize. Our club had a surplus of points that had not been handed out in a while (especially after our outstanding 100th anniversary of the foundation donation drive last June). They were offering matching points to people who wanted to donate a little extra to reach their next level. I had wanted to do that, to give the few hundred I would need to have matched to hit my first PHF, but money has been flowing out faster than it's coming in lately (especially in the direction of the animal hospital), so I couldn't do it. Imagine my surprise when I learned that I and one other habitual volunteer were to be awarded Paul Harris Fellowships solely based on service to the club. There were four others besides us who were to get our pins and certificates today, and the meeting was full of guests for all of us who knew what was coming. Mr S-P and our younger daughter came with me today. Of all the days for me finally to get either of them to be my guest, this was the best one.

My mission while I listened to the SpaceX launch was diametrically opposed to the high tech marvel I was witnessing. I decided I am done with cheap little electric coffee grinders that die after six or seven uses (the most recent one I bought didn't last five months). I said to myself, if a new stone age were to strike me tomorrow, I had better have a way to make coffee, or I will not survive it. I own a french press pot already. I know how to make a fire with the tree trimmings in my back yard, so I can heat water. But I've already learned that using a mortar and pestle on the chunky coffee grounds that the capricious Costco grinder screwed up was no fun at all. I needed a hand crank coffee mill, so I went to acquire one. It was too late in the day to brew a fresh pot (not when the one from this morning was still half full), so I won't know until tomorrow whether this was a worthwhile investment. It's going to bring back a skilled touch to the art of making coffee. How could it not be exactly what I needed at exactly the right time? Bring on the post-technology apocalypse. I'll be just fine.

The Day After

Inspirational song: Otherside (Red Hot Chili Peppers)

It’s really a shame. Of all the things to have left at home this morning, that I needed to have with me at a real estate annual updates class, I wish I hadn’t failed to bring my brain. It was worse because the class was taught by the owner of my brokerage, and I sat directly in front of him. I tried so hard to pay attention. I failed. There were something like 150 slides in the PowerPoint presentation (and we got them in an email, so I had an excuse to tell myself I can refer back later). I zoned out several times. I tried to take notes. We were told that our quiz at the end would be open notes, just not open neighbor. It wasn’t good enough. I missed one too many questions and had to stay late and admit to the boss that I just wasn’t all there. I was able to go over my mistakes and redeem myself on the quiz, but only barely. Even with a second chance, the brain was still at home, probably kicked underneath the bed, with the dust bunnies.

They say that more Americans call in sick today, the day after SuperBowl Sunday, than any other day.  I wish I could have done the same. I slept so very little last night, between the massive stomachache of accidental gluten ingestion, and trying to sleep in the middle of Athena and Rabbit circling each other on top of me. Every single time I turned on my side, back and forth, one of the two of them crawled on my pillow to sit with their fur tickling my nose. The other would wedge up behind me, so I couldn’t escape. At least five times, they faced off against each other, while I wondered what my chances were of surviving the encounter without blood suddenly appearing. They calmed down around six, and my alarms started going off 30 minutes later. I still feel drained now, even after an involuntary nap this afternoon.

I’m trying to find ways to lessen my stress load, so that days like today are less draining. I desperately want to give away one of my volunteer jobs. It has become such a distraction that I am not functioning on an adult level. It’s interfering with my work, beyond the training classes I’m failing to stay awake through. I can’t focus. I can’t prioritize my to-do list. Nothing is getting accomplished. I hope I can find someone who wants this job. Surely there is someone out there who has a better tolerance for stress than me. (That covers almost everyone, right?)

What a Game

Inspirational song: Fly Like an Eagle (Steve Miller Band)

That was easily the most fun I've had watching football all season, and that even factors in the homecoming game with my old bandmates when CU had an epic conference win. It wasn't that any of us were particularly Eagles fans, although I did have a decent fantasy football season years ago when Nick Foles was my quarterback, but for an evening, everyone in the living room next door cheered them on--even the one guy who really hated football and was annoyed every time the clock stopped in the fourth quarter. Sure, back in 2002, we thought it was awesome when the Patriots won the championship, with everyone gripped by nationalistic pride after the terrorist attacks. But after a while, it really got old, watching Tom Brady win like he had sold his soul for some magic deflated balls. Nobody likes a showoff, and we were ready for him to taste defeat in the marquee matchup. (Actually, we all would have preferred other teams to have been there in his place, but that's neither here nor there now.) We hooted and hollered. We high fived. We startled Barley the dog many times. And when it was all over and we were giggling over memes on Twitter and videos of a naked person running through the streets of Philly with an eagle head concealing his or her identity (seriously, just saw this person from the back, and we have no idea what sort of plumbing this person sported), then we turned off the TV and went back to our other game.

I didn't want to get up early today, but I had to. I volunteered to bring coleslaw, macaroni and cheese (gluten free, obvs), and queso. I also had a yellow cake mix I wanted to try. All of this had to be mostly ready to go before we went next door, before noon. We were throwing in an extra campaign day for our Wednesday night D&D group, because we never have much time to do anything before the brewery where we meet shuts down. I've only been a member of this group for the last three weeks, so I was glad to get extra time to figure out how I fit into the party, and how my character behaves. Unfortunately for everyone else, it appears that this character is just as prone to impulsivity as the cleric in the Thursday group, but where Brn is a dwarf of action, Gunda is a gnome with a big mouth and not enough sense to know when to shut it. I think I've just about got her fleshed out. If I do a little more reading between now and Wednesday, she may be fully cooked.

For all that I was careful to get only gluten free foods to take next door, I still was working around a grain-heavy household. Neighbor brews beer every weekend, so it was sloshing around liberally all day. He's a single guy with no need to be careful with bread crumbs, so the dishes and silverware were all suspect (everyone knows crumbs drip into silverware drawers--I'm not telling tales out of school). He even baked beer bread, doubling down on the things I couldn't get near. Somewhere during the course of the day, the cross-contamination got me. Even before the football game ended, I started feeling bad. By the time I got home and threw my serving and mixing bowls into the dishwasher, my stomach was so bloated it felt like the muscles were ripping off the front of my ribs. It's time for a peppermint capsule and bed. I have to hope there are no lingering effects tomorrow. I have an annual real estate updates class in the morning. It would be a very inconvenient time to be sick as a dog.

Out and Back Again

Inspirational song: She's Tight (Cheap Trick)

Here's an idea. Next time we decide we are going to walk to the vet's office to pick up a prescription for one of our quadrupeds, maybe we should check the hours of operation before we set out. That, or we take the car as far as the animal hospital and then go find a lovely park to walk around after. Instead, we piddled around at the house, not leaving for our walk until about quarter to one. By the time we reached the vet clinic, the parking lot was empty and the lights were off. I feel bad about that. We finally got it sorted out that Bump will be on prednisone instead of the fancy compounded bladder cancer drug (that we already paid for), but we missed the pickup. Now he has to wait until Monday.

I couldn't have walked any faster than I did, unfortunately. I thought once I'd been going five minutes or so my muscles would loosen up, but instead they just got tighter. The farther we walked the more it felt like really thick elastic was swaddling me from the hips down, and walking against it was more and more of an effort. I took a muscle relaxer upon arriving home, but other than making me feel a little goofy after half an hour in the hot tub, it didn't have a lasting effect. The distance walked was probably no more than 2.5 miles. It took a solid hour to make the loop, not counting the little stop at a park south of here, so I could sit a minute and make the dizziness go away.

We passed a local landmark on our walk, what was some guy's shop until he suddenly died like 30 years ago. His place was left completely intact, and if I understand it correctly, his widow still lives in the adjoining property and has no intention of clearing out the old space. The town is split on opinions about the place. Lots of new arrivals to town think it should be torn down, and something new and modern built in its place. Long-time residents are horrified at the thought and they wax poetic about their childhood memories of the shop and the owner, and they are offended that johnny-come-latelies want to tear down local history. Looking at it today, it looks like the choice is eventually going to be taken out of everyone's hands. The garage is in the process of falling down. I doubt the original shop is faring a whole lot better.

The park where we stopped is in a cool spot. There's nerdy art all over the electricity transformer box across the street, and there's a logic puzzle at one corner of the park. Ever since we moved here, I have wished that one of the houses that face it had been up for sale when we were looking. Even if they had been at the very tippy-top of our budget, they would have been worth it for the location. But then I remember how glad I am that we have our neighbor, and I'm suddenly okay with the house I have again.

Familiar Patterns

Inspirational song: I Got You, Babe (Sonny and Cher)

So here I am once more, facing a blank page after a day where I spent more than fifty percent of it in my room. Of course a political nerd like myself wanted to have the television on for a ridiculous amount of today, waiting to see whether the hype was worth it. (Spoiler: it wasn't nearly as revelatory, much less catastrophic, as we were led to believe. Think Al Capone's vault.) I watched the same field experts interviewed over and over, wondering how they managed to stay clear-headed at 7 pm, when I knew they were on air at 9 am too.

We had lunch with an old friend today. She was once our realtor, and when I started kicking around the idea of getting my license too, she was the first one to say yes, go for it. We check in every few months and I get to share my progress in the career field, and get a little advice here and there. We were there with another couple, mutual friends of the realtor. In the land of craft beers, I was the only one around the table not having a fermented grain beverage for lunch. This local chain does an annual "stout month" which is apparently a big deal around here. Even when I tried to be a beer drinker, many years ago, I could never tolerate stouts. They handed out bingo cards for the event, and I may not have any interest in the drinks, but I did appreciate the clever names. Thank goodness people approach the naming of wine with as much enthusiasm. It makes it a whole lot of fun, and I don't have to pretend I can tolerate the bitterness of beer.

I have three email accounts that I use on a regular basis, and I have been inundated by all of them to the point of wanting to hide completely. For the oldest one, I almost only look at it long enough to clear out the promotional emails from businesses that send coupons every single day of the year, sometimes twice a day. I delete most of them unopened, but every once in a while I open one to see what sort of junk they are trying to sell me. I got one from Amazon today, and I was curious what sort of books they thought I'd be interested in this time. Sometimes they get me right, and tell me about new stuff due out from my favorite authors. I assume they base the offers off of my search history, although a lot of times I doubt that assumption. So what exactly did I search on that made them offer me AARP guides to downsizing and retirement planning? How did they jump to that conclusion? Or have they gotten to the point where they don't need an Alexa listening in on my conversations to know that I wanted to clear things out? And they just guessed on the retirement part? Regardless, I'm slightly terrified and more than a little annoyed at their intrusions.

I had a photo of the stout bingo card, but my phone is elsewhere, and I don't feel like looking for it. I'm not screenshotting my email either. So what's my usual cop-out? A picture of one of the cats. I've done it before, I'll do it again. And again. And again.

Hoppety Hop

Inspirational song: Big Balls (AC/DC)

Not everyone reacts to surgery the same way. When I got my gall bladder out ten years ago, I spent more than a week laid out on the couch, feeling like I had been kicked by a mule in my ribs. Two weeks later, Mr S-P had the exact same surgery performed by the exact same doctor. The very next day, he was outside splitting wood to go in our fireplace. I was both upset with him for potentially rupturing his laproscopic surgery sites, and insanely jealous that he was up and active a day later.

When we brought Rabbit home from being spayed, I tried to keep her in a quiet, still place. Instead, she jumped away from the blanket bed I'd made for her, hurt herself, hissed at me, and went to hide. She was wobbly and unhappy. Her belly healed very poorly, like they never stitched the muscles back together, and ever since she has had a floppy white apron that bounces around her back legs like (don't look, mom) human-sized balls. She doesn't seem self-conscious about it, but when I look at her, I often wonder whether it was from that first jump after surgery, or did the surgeon lack skill, or was she (the surgeon) just that indifferent and sloppy?

Harvey had his turn for surgery today. Male cats apparently bounce back from castration even more easily than my husband bounced back from gall bladder removal. I came home from meetings this afternoon to find a loopy, goofy, very stoned little blush-faced boy wanting cuddles. He kept playing in and around his cat carrier. I thought once sensation returned and his feelgood drugs wore off that he would slow down, but he hasn't done it even once. He has been jumping and playing and killing toys all over the house. Our friends came over for game night, and Harvey couldn't stay away any better tonight than he ever has. He wants to be the star of the show, and tonight was no different. Good on you, little Trash Panda. I'm glad you are in no pain. And I'm jealous as all get-out. Would that we all could bounce back so quickly.