Okay, so I've now been on the computer for six hours or thereabouts. The laundry isn't done, and the carpet hasn't been vacuumed...but I've figured out yet another reason I love the Internet.
Apart from the other things about it that I love--access to people and experiences you never would have known otherwise, the easy shopping, the deliciously time-wasting games, the egalitarianism of blogging (no one could have ever made me believe that a Chicago Tribune columnist would ever be interested in my life, let alone TWO), and always always having something to read--another reason I love the Internet is that it's incredibly easy to range far afield of whatever it was you were originally doing.
I started out looking for information as to whether they'd ever found out what happened to Joseph Pichler. (I was watching CourtTV, and Psychic Detectives was talking about someone disappearing, and I thought "I wonder if they ever found out what happened to that kid from 'Children on Their Birthdays'".)From Joseph Pichler, I found my way to his Wikipedia entry. (There's a lot of bad to be said about Wikipedia, but as long as you take it largely with a grain of salt, it's one of the most interesting starting-points you can find for rambling conceptual foraging trips.)
From his Wikipedia entry, I went to "Category: Disappeared People". I checked out a few names at random and a few that I recognized; the Beaumont children, Duke of Norfolk, Etan Patz. After editing the Etan Patz entry, I went to "Category: Kidnapped Children", with minor detours to Myra Hindley and Peter Sutcliffe; back at "Category: Kidnapped Children", I clicked on Child Focus, then Marc Dutroux, then "Category: Murderers of Children" (yeah, I know--ewwww) and then "Category: Moral Panics". That sounded like fun...
And I was right. I knew I was going to find "Wardrobe Malfunction", of course; and the Muhammad cartoon debate...but I didn't even know what "raggare" were. Or the "Glock 3"--check out the postscript about the original creator of "Glock 3"! I'd never heard of a "Teddy Boy", nor did I know anything about "video nasties" or the "comics code"; nor was I aware that Christina Aguilera's "Dirrty" had apparently caused such consternation (other than among spelling advocates and people with good taste in music). I didn't know about "Nevada-tan", but clicking on that link led me to "hikikomori", "chibi", and "tentacle rape"...I stopped there, because frankly I was a little further afield at that point than even I would care to go.
I don't know if any of you have ever had a conversation where you stop at some point, look at the other person, and say "HOW did we get here?" And then the two of you try to trace your way back through the conversation, piece by piece, concept by concept, til you get back to the beginning. They're a great deal of fun; in fact, those conversations are one of the ways I judge the vitality of a friendship or relationship. I have them with Firefly, and Debbi, and occasionally Cowgirl. JP and I had a lot of them; predictably, I've never had one with LJ. What I've been doing here seems like the solo equivalent of one of those conversations; I feel geeky while doing it, and I have an uncomfortable twinge as I click; the links I follow probably tell a lot about me (not much of it positive!)--but then afterwards I feel like my brain has stretched a little bit, and that's something that happens WAY too seldom lately.
I get the following question a lot in my life: "How did you know that?" My friends and some of my family are always surprised by my collection of random knowledge; things I've picked up along the way, which I'm not afraid to throw into a conversation when the subject comes up. Between my war-chest of useless factoids and my extensive vocabulary, people think I'm very smart, but I don't think that's the case. To me, being smart means having skills you can actually DO something with. All this knowledge makes me fit for late-night college conversations over pizza, and random flights of speculation on a boring day at the office. It doesn't make my life any easier; I don't make any more money because of it. The only possible way it could ever help me would be in my writing, and of course you've all seen how much of that I'm doing lately. It's gotten to the point that I really hope there's such a thing as reincarnation; maybe all these so-called brains I've got will do me more good in the next life than they're doing me in this one.
But even if it only gives people the false impression that I'm some kind of brainiac, I still enjoy these mental road-trips, these forays over the terrain of human experience and history. That, to me, is the best part of the Internet--what would take days and weeks and months in the dusty air of a giant library can now be done at home, with a cat at my feet and a Pepsi at my side, at midnight on a Saturday while wearing ripped pajamas.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
A Gigantic Peeve
This evening, when I finally crawled out of the warm bed into the freezy-cold house (I haven't had the furnace inspected yet, and I'm not turning on the heat until I do), I turned on the television to watch the Project Runway marathon. And amidst all the things I've already seen before, there was a brand-new something to honk me off.
It was a commercial for these (And incidentally, I'm starting a list of September-30th resolutions, and foremost among them will be "make all the links I put in my blog open up a new window all their own instead of taking the reader away from my blog completely", so you should be able to click with impunity now.)
Now HERE is my peeve about this, and in fact, about all things advertised as "organic".
organic: Organic material is derived from living organisms and is made up of carbon-based compounds.
Please excuse me, because I'm about to yell, but:
CAN ANYONE NAME A FOOD ITEM WHICH, ACCORDING TO THE DEFINITION, IS NOT ORGANIC???
:::smashes head repeatedly against immovable object::: Auuuuggghhhh!!!! Every single time I see an ad for "organic" food, I am moved to acts of violent protest and wrathful correction. There is NO inorganic food. ALL food is organic. ALL of it!!!
I'm going to go breathe deeply for a while. I need to calm down. (Maybe that should be one of my September-30th resolutions, as well.)
It was a commercial for these (And incidentally, I'm starting a list of September-30th resolutions, and foremost among them will be "make all the links I put in my blog open up a new window all their own instead of taking the reader away from my blog completely", so you should be able to click with impunity now.)
Now HERE is my peeve about this, and in fact, about all things advertised as "organic".
organic: Organic material is derived from living organisms and is made up of carbon-based compounds.
Please excuse me, because I'm about to yell, but:
CAN ANYONE NAME A FOOD ITEM WHICH, ACCORDING TO THE DEFINITION, IS NOT ORGANIC???
:::smashes head repeatedly against immovable object::: Auuuuggghhhh!!!! Every single time I see an ad for "organic" food, I am moved to acts of violent protest and wrathful correction. There is NO inorganic food. ALL food is organic. ALL of it!!!
I'm going to go breathe deeply for a while. I need to calm down. (Maybe that should be one of my September-30th resolutions, as well.)
Thursday, September 28, 2006
I Am Having A Very Bad Day.
We had a departmental meeting on Tuesday. Knowing that people talk, and knowing that some of my co-workers in other departments have the potential to be assholes, I thought I'd do the decent thing and let my colleagues within the department know that there was an explanation for my drowsiness lately, in case someone made a comment about it. I said "I just wanted to let everyone know in case someone says something to you--I'm dealing with some medical issues right now, so if anyone outside the department says something to you about 'Gladys is sleeping' or whatever, to talk to BossMan and he'll explain it." And that was all I said. It took about ten seconds, UberBoss said "Okay," and that was that. From his reaction, I wondered if maybe I'd made a mistake, but I put that behind me.
Evidently I was right to wonder.
This morning I got called into H.R.Chick's office, where UberBoss and H.R.Chick were waiting, and I was asked to explain what had happened in the staff meeting. I said that I'd felt that it was necessary to inform my colleagues, because people talk and I wanted them to have the correct information in case someone made a crack about it. I was then told by both UberBoss and H.R.Chick that I shouldn't have said anything, especially since I'd made it clear to H.R.Chick that it was a sensitive issue and that it was confidential. I replied that the NATURE of the issue was confidential, but that since the effects of the issue were out there for everyone to see and comment upon, I thought it would be best to acknowledge them. This didn't cut any ice at all.
Throughout the conversation, which took about 10 minutes and featured at least three apologies from me, H.R.Chick was taking notes. As I left she said, "I'll put this in your file...it's growing."
Nice.
I also told them, during this discussion, that one of the reasons I'd felt compelled to mention that there were medical issues behind this problem--that it was not just me being a slacker--was that several weeks ago, someone had gone into our departmental trouble-ticket software and changed my job description. Instead of "help desk", I discovered that some wag had changed it to "professional sleeper". I changed it back when I saw it and didn't tell anyone--I didn't want to make a big deal out of it, because a) I was embarrassed, and b) I knew someone was just being funny and I didn't want to be seen as the office tattletale. But if I'm going to get called on the carpet for making a factual statement about my own situation, I'll be damned if they're not going to know why I felt it was necessary for me to do so. UberBoss told me that I should have told him immediately when I discovered the change, and said that he's going to investigate, which involves going into the backup tapes to see when it was done and possibly by whom. He wanted to know when it had happened; I gave him my best guess, but I'm sure that will be wrong too.
The funniest thing about all this? The problems themselves are actually improving. They've lowered my dose of both Prozac and methadone; I've started taking my methadone early in the evening wherever possible; I've cut out all obvious sources of sugar during working hours; and I've tried to get enough sleep at night. I've been keeping a log while at work, detailing how much I slept the night before, everything I eat, and how I feel from hour to hour. So the situation is improving, but now the repercussions are getting out of hand. I feel completely discouraged, stupid and embarrassed and incompetent. I hate being the focus of this kind of attention, and I hate that people see this as some sort of personal weakness on my part, something it's okay to laugh at and make jokes about, yet when I defend myself or try to explain the situation I get in trouble. I hate that I'm trying to do something POSITIVE for my health, yet I feel like it's jeopardizing my job.
They want me to get a letter from my physician answering all these questions about the problem--how long it's going to last, what's causing it, what are the symptoms, what parts of my job does it affect. I've answered all these, in the LAST letter I brought them. I don't know how to give them any more of what they want. And have these people never heard of a prescription drug interaction? Because that's what this is, boiled down to its essence; I have two prescriptions which are interacting to make me sleepy, and the adjustments that will fix that problem will take a little bit of time. The only accommodation I need from them is a little bit of understanding and patience! And all this bullshit they're putting me through is NOT helping matters. I'm trying to resolve the problem on my own, it's slowly improving, and frankly I don't need the knock to my self-esteem of feeling like there's something wrong with me. I was feeling BETTER before all this; tonight I just want to go home, get into bed, and cry for a while. I do not need this kind of extraneous bullcrap.
One of my close co-workers tells me that I'm not the only one going through bullshit on account of their health; apparently, one of our colleagues in the tech department is getting all sorts of hell because he has a lot of physiotherapy and specialist's appointments during work hours--for an injury he SUSTAINED at work, no less. She tells me this to make me feel better, and I guess it does, almost. But then again it doesn't; there's no stigma to a shoulder injury. People don't see you as weak or flawed or defective because you tore some ligaments. Nobody wonders about your fitness for your job, or your psychological stability, or your character. They just give you a sympathetic look and ask you how you feel. He doesn't have to hide his discomfort, or feel embarrassed about it, or keep it a secret from anyone. And I'll bet if he mentioned it obliquely in a staff meeting, no one would think anything of it.
I've got my resume together, though there don't seem to be too many jobs being advertised within my niche at the moment. I can't afford even a few days' loss of income; I'm not even making ends meet NOW. I feel like my independence is threatened, and I don't like that feeling--not at all.
Next time I think I ought to speak up about something, I'll keep my mouth shut. And next time I'm tempted to keep silent, I'll speak up. I feel like a female George Costanza: all my instincts are completely wrong, and no matter what I think I ought to do, the right answer is to do the opposite.
I'm sure that will serve me well when I'm living in a cardboard box on Lower Wacker Drive.
Evidently I was right to wonder.
This morning I got called into H.R.Chick's office, where UberBoss and H.R.Chick were waiting, and I was asked to explain what had happened in the staff meeting. I said that I'd felt that it was necessary to inform my colleagues, because people talk and I wanted them to have the correct information in case someone made a crack about it. I was then told by both UberBoss and H.R.Chick that I shouldn't have said anything, especially since I'd made it clear to H.R.Chick that it was a sensitive issue and that it was confidential. I replied that the NATURE of the issue was confidential, but that since the effects of the issue were out there for everyone to see and comment upon, I thought it would be best to acknowledge them. This didn't cut any ice at all.
Throughout the conversation, which took about 10 minutes and featured at least three apologies from me, H.R.Chick was taking notes. As I left she said, "I'll put this in your file...it's growing."
Nice.
I also told them, during this discussion, that one of the reasons I'd felt compelled to mention that there were medical issues behind this problem--that it was not just me being a slacker--was that several weeks ago, someone had gone into our departmental trouble-ticket software and changed my job description. Instead of "help desk", I discovered that some wag had changed it to "professional sleeper". I changed it back when I saw it and didn't tell anyone--I didn't want to make a big deal out of it, because a) I was embarrassed, and b) I knew someone was just being funny and I didn't want to be seen as the office tattletale. But if I'm going to get called on the carpet for making a factual statement about my own situation, I'll be damned if they're not going to know why I felt it was necessary for me to do so. UberBoss told me that I should have told him immediately when I discovered the change, and said that he's going to investigate, which involves going into the backup tapes to see when it was done and possibly by whom. He wanted to know when it had happened; I gave him my best guess, but I'm sure that will be wrong too.
The funniest thing about all this? The problems themselves are actually improving. They've lowered my dose of both Prozac and methadone; I've started taking my methadone early in the evening wherever possible; I've cut out all obvious sources of sugar during working hours; and I've tried to get enough sleep at night. I've been keeping a log while at work, detailing how much I slept the night before, everything I eat, and how I feel from hour to hour. So the situation is improving, but now the repercussions are getting out of hand. I feel completely discouraged, stupid and embarrassed and incompetent. I hate being the focus of this kind of attention, and I hate that people see this as some sort of personal weakness on my part, something it's okay to laugh at and make jokes about, yet when I defend myself or try to explain the situation I get in trouble. I hate that I'm trying to do something POSITIVE for my health, yet I feel like it's jeopardizing my job.
They want me to get a letter from my physician answering all these questions about the problem--how long it's going to last, what's causing it, what are the symptoms, what parts of my job does it affect. I've answered all these, in the LAST letter I brought them. I don't know how to give them any more of what they want. And have these people never heard of a prescription drug interaction? Because that's what this is, boiled down to its essence; I have two prescriptions which are interacting to make me sleepy, and the adjustments that will fix that problem will take a little bit of time. The only accommodation I need from them is a little bit of understanding and patience! And all this bullshit they're putting me through is NOT helping matters. I'm trying to resolve the problem on my own, it's slowly improving, and frankly I don't need the knock to my self-esteem of feeling like there's something wrong with me. I was feeling BETTER before all this; tonight I just want to go home, get into bed, and cry for a while. I do not need this kind of extraneous bullcrap.
One of my close co-workers tells me that I'm not the only one going through bullshit on account of their health; apparently, one of our colleagues in the tech department is getting all sorts of hell because he has a lot of physiotherapy and specialist's appointments during work hours--for an injury he SUSTAINED at work, no less. She tells me this to make me feel better, and I guess it does, almost. But then again it doesn't; there's no stigma to a shoulder injury. People don't see you as weak or flawed or defective because you tore some ligaments. Nobody wonders about your fitness for your job, or your psychological stability, or your character. They just give you a sympathetic look and ask you how you feel. He doesn't have to hide his discomfort, or feel embarrassed about it, or keep it a secret from anyone. And I'll bet if he mentioned it obliquely in a staff meeting, no one would think anything of it.
I've got my resume together, though there don't seem to be too many jobs being advertised within my niche at the moment. I can't afford even a few days' loss of income; I'm not even making ends meet NOW. I feel like my independence is threatened, and I don't like that feeling--not at all.
Next time I think I ought to speak up about something, I'll keep my mouth shut. And next time I'm tempted to keep silent, I'll speak up. I feel like a female George Costanza: all my instincts are completely wrong, and no matter what I think I ought to do, the right answer is to do the opposite.
I'm sure that will serve me well when I'm living in a cardboard box on Lower Wacker Drive.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Something I Haven't Mentioned Yet
Lost amidst all the depression, soapboxing and cute kittens that have comprised the past few weeks here in Gladystopia has been something that pretty much just ripped my guts out and handed them to me.
If any of you have not taken the opportunity to watch "When the Levees Broke: A Requiem in Four Acts" on HBO, I urge you to sit down and take the time to do so. It's the story of New Orleans during and after Hurricane Katrina, full of testimonials from people who lived through it. This, to me, leaves "Farenheit 9/11" in the dust as an indictment of the current administration. It takes a lot for me to cry about something I haven't personally experienced; this movie made me cry at least half a dozen times. With sadness, with rage, with total incomprehension. This happened HERE, in the most affluent country in the world. My god. Bodies floating in the streets and thousands of people subsisting in filth at the Superdome and the Convention Center, no food and no water, old people and sick people and babies dying from the heat and dehydration while Condi Rice shopped for shoes and Bush said "Brownie, you're doing a hell of a job." My god.
I'm watching it again, right now, and I wish there was a way to get a hold of Spike Lee to tell him "Thank you for telling this story." There is so much we didn't know and couldn't imagine, and I was working at the time and couldn't sit in front of CNN--which is in hindsight maybe a good thing, what with the magnitude of lies and misinformation and unsubstantiated rumors that were reported as fact. I can't imagine what it would be like to be someone who loved that city the way I love Chicago, to see what was done there and what was left undone. And it goes on. That's one of the main things about it that rips you apart: this is not over. This may never be over in our lifetime.
The aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, along with the casualties of the war in Iraq, should constitute the whole of George Bush's historical legacy. There's no amount of spin that can make this go away; there's no pretty face to put on this catastrophe. Yes, the mayor of New Orleans and the governor of Louisiana and just about everyone else on up the line made their share of mistakes--but the man who was President of this country had the power to order every possible thing done to help those people, from the first day the winds started blowing--and he didn't. I'm not saying Gore or Kerry could have done any better--but they weren't the ones in the position to try. Bush was, and he didn't. And people died, and people suffered, and people continue to suffer. Nothing can undo that. Nothing can make that go away.
If you have a chance to watch this movie, watch it, please. I think it's a story everyone should know.
If any of you have not taken the opportunity to watch "When the Levees Broke: A Requiem in Four Acts" on HBO, I urge you to sit down and take the time to do so. It's the story of New Orleans during and after Hurricane Katrina, full of testimonials from people who lived through it. This, to me, leaves "Farenheit 9/11" in the dust as an indictment of the current administration. It takes a lot for me to cry about something I haven't personally experienced; this movie made me cry at least half a dozen times. With sadness, with rage, with total incomprehension. This happened HERE, in the most affluent country in the world. My god. Bodies floating in the streets and thousands of people subsisting in filth at the Superdome and the Convention Center, no food and no water, old people and sick people and babies dying from the heat and dehydration while Condi Rice shopped for shoes and Bush said "Brownie, you're doing a hell of a job." My god.
I'm watching it again, right now, and I wish there was a way to get a hold of Spike Lee to tell him "Thank you for telling this story." There is so much we didn't know and couldn't imagine, and I was working at the time and couldn't sit in front of CNN--which is in hindsight maybe a good thing, what with the magnitude of lies and misinformation and unsubstantiated rumors that were reported as fact. I can't imagine what it would be like to be someone who loved that city the way I love Chicago, to see what was done there and what was left undone. And it goes on. That's one of the main things about it that rips you apart: this is not over. This may never be over in our lifetime.
The aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, along with the casualties of the war in Iraq, should constitute the whole of George Bush's historical legacy. There's no amount of spin that can make this go away; there's no pretty face to put on this catastrophe. Yes, the mayor of New Orleans and the governor of Louisiana and just about everyone else on up the line made their share of mistakes--but the man who was President of this country had the power to order every possible thing done to help those people, from the first day the winds started blowing--and he didn't. I'm not saying Gore or Kerry could have done any better--but they weren't the ones in the position to try. Bush was, and he didn't. And people died, and people suffered, and people continue to suffer. Nothing can undo that. Nothing can make that go away.
If you have a chance to watch this movie, watch it, please. I think it's a story everyone should know.
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Another Embarrassing Girly-Ass Spider Story
I just read one of the funniest and most outrageously icky comments EVER, back at this post, and it reminded me of How I Spent My Thursday Evening.
I had just come home from work, to a Snickless house, which meant it was quiet and largely undestroyed. I did my usual little coming-home routine--empty the pockets, open a Pepsi, and call Mom. As I'm talking to Mom, I happen to look over to where the cats' water-dishes are. "Mom?" I said. "I'll call you back."
Lazy little critter that I am, I have a series of bowls which are designated "cat bowls". Sometimes in the morning, I'll put down a fresh water bowl without picking up the previous day's bowl, and so right at the moment I have three bowls sitting in the cat space--one full, two empty. One of the empties has been there for a few days, so it's now bone-dry and empty.
Except on Thursday? It wasn't empty. On Thursday, it contained a spider that was the twin brother of Ol' Seven-Legs, the spider from the last post. (And no, it wasn't Ol' Seven; I counted the legs and unless they can regenerate, this was a totally different spider.) It was about the size of one of those plastic spiders from a Halloween ring, and looked almost exactly like one--in fact, I had to look twice to make sure it was real. It wasn't moving, which was a blessing greater than I can tell you; but it was THERE, and BadCat seemed grossly uninterested in doing anything about it. And Snick was at the vet, and LJ's still out of town, and there was no way--NO way--that I was getting near enough to that nasty thing to kill it. And "live and let live" is not an option, not in my kitchen.
So I was left with a conundrum. I went through the usual killing-from-a-distance scenarios--Fantastik, the vacuum hose, the Swiffer--but rejected all of them for various reasons. And finally, I went outside, onto the porch. Phoebe, my neighbor, was out on her porch, and I asked her "Is Junior around?" Junior is her son, or her nephew, or something--I have yet to untangle all the relatives at my neighbor's house, even after three years here--but he's male, and young, and wouldn't back down from a spider. But Junior also wasn't home; he was out with Len, and wouldn't be back for a while. "How about Lil' Man?" He's about eleven or twelve, and he was gung-ho to do the killing til Phoebe put the kibosh on it--"If he does it, that spider will get away. He's scared." ("I ain't scared!" Lil' Man protested, to which his mother replied with a scornful "N****, please.") So that, too, was out of the question.
Fortunately, at that point, I was mobbed by the neighborhood little ones, who love my cats and consider me a curiosity because I don't treat them the same way all the other adults do--I don't yell at them, or tell them to go home, or raise my voice. They're always asking me "Can we see your cats?" And since I had nothing else to do, I brought BadCat out on the porch for a viewing session. They petted him, asked me all sorts of questions ("How come he's so big?" "What does he eat?" "Where's your other cats?") and were just generally cute. And they offered me advice about my spider problem, although it was more commisseration than advice. "I'm scared of spiders too," one little girl assured me gravely.
After a few minutes, Len, Junior, Junior's girl, and the baby came home. "Hey Junior," I hollered. "Lemme borrow you for a second! I've got some killin' for you."
He came in, and dispatched the spider, and wrapped him in a piece of newspaper and took him outside and plopped the corpse on the walk, for a proper viewing. The older ones laughed at the scaredy-cat white lady, and the little ones ooh'ed and ahh'ed at what REALLY was a big, ugly spider. And I thanked everyone, and promised the babies that if they were outside tomorrow when I came home, I'd let them meet Snickers, and then I went back into my nice safe spiderless house and ate my dinner.
I had just come home from work, to a Snickless house, which meant it was quiet and largely undestroyed. I did my usual little coming-home routine--empty the pockets, open a Pepsi, and call Mom. As I'm talking to Mom, I happen to look over to where the cats' water-dishes are. "Mom?" I said. "I'll call you back."
Lazy little critter that I am, I have a series of bowls which are designated "cat bowls". Sometimes in the morning, I'll put down a fresh water bowl without picking up the previous day's bowl, and so right at the moment I have three bowls sitting in the cat space--one full, two empty. One of the empties has been there for a few days, so it's now bone-dry and empty.
Except on Thursday? It wasn't empty. On Thursday, it contained a spider that was the twin brother of Ol' Seven-Legs, the spider from the last post. (And no, it wasn't Ol' Seven; I counted the legs and unless they can regenerate, this was a totally different spider.) It was about the size of one of those plastic spiders from a Halloween ring, and looked almost exactly like one--in fact, I had to look twice to make sure it was real. It wasn't moving, which was a blessing greater than I can tell you; but it was THERE, and BadCat seemed grossly uninterested in doing anything about it. And Snick was at the vet, and LJ's still out of town, and there was no way--NO way--that I was getting near enough to that nasty thing to kill it. And "live and let live" is not an option, not in my kitchen.
So I was left with a conundrum. I went through the usual killing-from-a-distance scenarios--Fantastik, the vacuum hose, the Swiffer--but rejected all of them for various reasons. And finally, I went outside, onto the porch. Phoebe, my neighbor, was out on her porch, and I asked her "Is Junior around?" Junior is her son, or her nephew, or something--I have yet to untangle all the relatives at my neighbor's house, even after three years here--but he's male, and young, and wouldn't back down from a spider. But Junior also wasn't home; he was out with Len, and wouldn't be back for a while. "How about Lil' Man?" He's about eleven or twelve, and he was gung-ho to do the killing til Phoebe put the kibosh on it--"If he does it, that spider will get away. He's scared." ("I ain't scared!" Lil' Man protested, to which his mother replied with a scornful "N****, please.") So that, too, was out of the question.
Fortunately, at that point, I was mobbed by the neighborhood little ones, who love my cats and consider me a curiosity because I don't treat them the same way all the other adults do--I don't yell at them, or tell them to go home, or raise my voice. They're always asking me "Can we see your cats?" And since I had nothing else to do, I brought BadCat out on the porch for a viewing session. They petted him, asked me all sorts of questions ("How come he's so big?" "What does he eat?" "Where's your other cats?") and were just generally cute. And they offered me advice about my spider problem, although it was more commisseration than advice. "I'm scared of spiders too," one little girl assured me gravely.
After a few minutes, Len, Junior, Junior's girl, and the baby came home. "Hey Junior," I hollered. "Lemme borrow you for a second! I've got some killin' for you."
He came in, and dispatched the spider, and wrapped him in a piece of newspaper and took him outside and plopped the corpse on the walk, for a proper viewing. The older ones laughed at the scaredy-cat white lady, and the little ones ooh'ed and ahh'ed at what REALLY was a big, ugly spider. And I thanked everyone, and promised the babies that if they were outside tomorrow when I came home, I'd let them meet Snickers, and then I went back into my nice safe spiderless house and ate my dinner.
Adorable Kittycat Update
The Prince of the Catastrophe is home, absolutely no worse for the wear.
The vet advised me to keep Snickers quiet for another day or so; I gave her the Look. She clearly does not know what I'm up against here. I opened the cage, expecting him to be walking gingerly or SOMETHING; instead, he bounded out, sniffed everything (probably to make sure I'd not got another cat in his absence), and proceeded to a) maul BadCat and b)try to steal my bread. That's Snick, all right...
When the assistant brought him out in the carrier, he was closely followed by the veterinary tech, who had something to tell me. "We are all totally in love with your cat," she said. "He is just the SWEETEST little guy--I've literally been petting him CONSTANTLY." She said the first day, he was kinda shy, but then the morning after the surgery she said she came in and he was waving one paw out the front of the cage and yelling. "It was like, 'pet me, pet me, oh god, if someone doesn't pet me soon i'm gonna DIE!'" she told me. Which makes perfect sense, as pampered and spoiled and cuddled as this little bugger has been...
It's a great relief to know that everyone adores this kitty as much as I do.
The vet advised me to keep Snickers quiet for another day or so; I gave her the Look. She clearly does not know what I'm up against here. I opened the cage, expecting him to be walking gingerly or SOMETHING; instead, he bounded out, sniffed everything (probably to make sure I'd not got another cat in his absence), and proceeded to a) maul BadCat and b)try to steal my bread. That's Snick, all right...
When the assistant brought him out in the carrier, he was closely followed by the veterinary tech, who had something to tell me. "We are all totally in love with your cat," she said. "He is just the SWEETEST little guy--I've literally been petting him CONSTANTLY." She said the first day, he was kinda shy, but then the morning after the surgery she said she came in and he was waving one paw out the front of the cage and yelling. "It was like, 'pet me, pet me, oh god, if someone doesn't pet me soon i'm gonna DIE!'" she told me. Which makes perfect sense, as pampered and spoiled and cuddled as this little bugger has been...
It's a great relief to know that everyone adores this kitty as much as I do.
Why Television Sucks
If any of you were bored, lonely, and/or pathetic enough to be sitting at home on a Friday evening and watching "20/20", specifically the "report" about methadone abuse, I have a few things to say to you.
First of all you probably should have called me or IMed me or something, and we could have played Scrabble online or something. That way we could have done something productive, with some basis in reality. Of course, compared to that "report"--a word which I put in quotes, and will continue to put in quotes, for good reason--anyway, compared to this "report", sharing stories of UFO abduction would have been more productive and had more basis in reality.
Secondly, to you who saw that piece of dreck, I would like to politely request that you put every memory of it out of your mind permanently. It was a triumph of biased inaccurate yellow journalism, of a caliber I wouldn't have been surprised to find on Fox News. In fact, you could have probably written this story just by taking a nice juicy alarmist Fox News piece and substituting "methadone" every time Fox had the word "terrorist". It was that irrational, absolutely hell-bent on scaring the viewers. There is nothing even remotely correct in their talk about the "heroin-like euphoria" of methadone; calling it "the 'one-pill-can-kill' painkiller"--with never a mention of its LEGITIMATE uses, without a word about the thousands of lives it's SAVED.
Yeah, I'm really glad my mom was home tonight so she could watch that garbage and soak it in. She's been ambivalent about methadone since day one, having heard all the myths and misconceptions: that it's a "life sentence"; that methadone treatment involves "replacing one addiction with another"; that methadone gets you high. Nevermind that it's the only thing that kept me from getting high for at least the first year of my six clean years; nevermind that it's the only reason I could stop doing heroin this time. Nevermind that it's the only thing that's allowed me to rebuild my life: to hold a job, to buy a house, to pay my bills. Were it not for methadone, I think there's a very good chance that I'd be living on the streets, if I was living at all. My mother is glad that I've changed my life, but she never misses an opportunity to tell me how happy she'll be once I'm off methadone for good, never misses a chance to remind me how much I'm paying every week for my treatment. I've spent the last eight years of my life trying to explain to her that methadone is a blessing, not a curse; so it's really excellent that John Stossel can come into her living room and undo all the work I've done to help her understand, all the effort I've put into educating her about the benefits of methadone maintenance.
And I'm really, REALLY glad that my employers had the chance to see that "report", as well. I'm sure that will guarantee me a good reception when I answer their new round of questions and tell them exactly WHAT this prescription is that's causing these unwanted side-effects. I'm sure they'll understand the difference between methadone that's prescribed as painkillers--often by the same incompetents who were handing out OxyContin a few years back like they were Skittles--and supervised methadone maintenance treatment, where I'm drug-tested monthly and where my dosage is monitored and dispensed in a form which would be very difficult to divert and impossible to get "high" from. I'm sure that subtle distinction will register completely with them. Boy oh boy, am I glad John Stossel was there to give them the cold, hard facts.
Stossel and company need to stick with what they're best at: puff pieces about Brad Pitt--and confine their "investigative reporters" to what THEY'RE best at: exposing the scandals on "American Idol". I remember back when "20/20" used to have some integrity; Hugh Downs is probably rolling in his grave.
(While looking for the link to the methadone piece, I also came across this, which would make me want to claw my brain out through my eye sockets, if I didn't already want to. I almost went to journalism school; now I'm glad I didn't. And we wonder why the American public is so misinformed and full of prejudice.)
First of all you probably should have called me or IMed me or something, and we could have played Scrabble online or something. That way we could have done something productive, with some basis in reality. Of course, compared to that "report"--a word which I put in quotes, and will continue to put in quotes, for good reason--anyway, compared to this "report", sharing stories of UFO abduction would have been more productive and had more basis in reality.
Secondly, to you who saw that piece of dreck, I would like to politely request that you put every memory of it out of your mind permanently. It was a triumph of biased inaccurate yellow journalism, of a caliber I wouldn't have been surprised to find on Fox News. In fact, you could have probably written this story just by taking a nice juicy alarmist Fox News piece and substituting "methadone" every time Fox had the word "terrorist". It was that irrational, absolutely hell-bent on scaring the viewers. There is nothing even remotely correct in their talk about the "heroin-like euphoria" of methadone; calling it "the 'one-pill-can-kill' painkiller"--with never a mention of its LEGITIMATE uses, without a word about the thousands of lives it's SAVED.
Yeah, I'm really glad my mom was home tonight so she could watch that garbage and soak it in. She's been ambivalent about methadone since day one, having heard all the myths and misconceptions: that it's a "life sentence"; that methadone treatment involves "replacing one addiction with another"; that methadone gets you high. Nevermind that it's the only thing that kept me from getting high for at least the first year of my six clean years; nevermind that it's the only reason I could stop doing heroin this time. Nevermind that it's the only thing that's allowed me to rebuild my life: to hold a job, to buy a house, to pay my bills. Were it not for methadone, I think there's a very good chance that I'd be living on the streets, if I was living at all. My mother is glad that I've changed my life, but she never misses an opportunity to tell me how happy she'll be once I'm off methadone for good, never misses a chance to remind me how much I'm paying every week for my treatment. I've spent the last eight years of my life trying to explain to her that methadone is a blessing, not a curse; so it's really excellent that John Stossel can come into her living room and undo all the work I've done to help her understand, all the effort I've put into educating her about the benefits of methadone maintenance.
And I'm really, REALLY glad that my employers had the chance to see that "report", as well. I'm sure that will guarantee me a good reception when I answer their new round of questions and tell them exactly WHAT this prescription is that's causing these unwanted side-effects. I'm sure they'll understand the difference between methadone that's prescribed as painkillers--often by the same incompetents who were handing out OxyContin a few years back like they were Skittles--and supervised methadone maintenance treatment, where I'm drug-tested monthly and where my dosage is monitored and dispensed in a form which would be very difficult to divert and impossible to get "high" from. I'm sure that subtle distinction will register completely with them. Boy oh boy, am I glad John Stossel was there to give them the cold, hard facts.
Stossel and company need to stick with what they're best at: puff pieces about Brad Pitt--and confine their "investigative reporters" to what THEY'RE best at: exposing the scandals on "American Idol". I remember back when "20/20" used to have some integrity; Hugh Downs is probably rolling in his grave.
(While looking for the link to the methadone piece, I also came across this, which would make me want to claw my brain out through my eye sockets, if I didn't already want to. I almost went to journalism school; now I'm glad I didn't. And we wonder why the American public is so misinformed and full of prejudice.)
Friday, September 22, 2006
Wow.
I actually got MAD at someone today.
You have to understand, for me that's a hugely rare thing. For all my ranting and raving and curmudgeonly behavior, I think I could count on both hands the number of times in my life that I've actually told someone off for something. My usual way of handling things is to "be the bigger person", swallow my anger (no matter how intense) and try to move on.
Today, though, that didn't happen.
I know I've mentioned that the whole depression/methadone thing has spilled over into my job; basically, what's happening is that I'm extensively drowsy much of the day, and I've been caught on several occasions nodding off at my desk. It's entirely beyond my control, at the moment, though I'm doing everything in my power to stop it--I've stopped eating sugar between the time I get up in the morning and the time I get home at night, I've had them reduce my dosage of methadone, I've had my Prozac dosage reduced, I've tried to sleep more at night...no help. Human Resources is involved in the issue now--as soon as I told my boss that it was a medical issue, not me being a slacker, in comes HR with their lawyers and their doublespeak. I had my counselor at the clinic write a letter--without even mentioning the words "substance abuse" or "methadone"--explaining what the symptoms were, what could be done to help, and essentially telling them "This is a temporary thing, and if you'll just be a little understanding, we'll get it under control shortly." That's not good enough, of course, and I'm starting to think that I'm on my way out here. That's fine, if it happens, but they'd better have a good lawyer if they do fire me--both mental illness and substance abuse treatment are protected under the Americans with Disabilities Act. I've done the research.
But that's just the back-story. Today had nothing to do with HR or even any of my bosses; today, one of the guys in another department crossed the line.
I was working at my desk at about 4:00, and unfortunately I'd nodded out again. (These episodes, just to be clear, last only a couple of minutes at a time; then I wake up and try to shake it off, though it usually returns.) Anyway, this guy--let's call him "Butthead"--walks past my cube. Our cubes have walls about 6 feet high, with the top foot being a plexiglass window. And my cube, unfortunately, is right off the main hallway, so everyone can see into my cube and see what I'm doing at any given moment. I could face my computer in the other direction, but then everyone would be able to see my screen--basically, it's a question of which of two evils I'm happier with.
So Butthead walks by and sees me sleeping, and he decides to wake me up. And how does he do this? By quietly saying my name til I notice he's there, which would be the humane and kind thing to do? Not Butthead. Butthead takes the flat of his hand and SLAMS on the plexiglass window as hard as he can, which makes a huge rattling BANG and--predictably--causes me to jump out of my skin. And when I look up, once I've managed to swallow my heart back down to its normal spot in my chest, he's laughing.(Keep this in mind.)
I didn't even think--I just very quietly and angrily said "Hey, Butthead. Come here for a minute." He comes into my cube, and I said to him--again, very calmly--"First of all--what you're seeing? Is caused by a medical condition. Second of all? Don't...EVER...do that again." And he tells me, "I was just trying to wake you before you got in trouble." (Yeah, right--that's why you were cackling like a damn chicken when I looked up. You were moved to an outward expression of glee by your overwhelming concern for my well-being. Yeah, THAT was it.) "That's fine," I said. "I'm already in quite enough trouble for this, so thank you very much, but don't...EVER....do it again."
He walks off, probably offended, which...yeah, whatever, don't care, kindly go to hell. And the adrenaline keeps me awake for the next hour, which is nice.
I've got my resume together. I totally understand the management's point of view: they don't pay me to sleep at my desk, and they can't allow that to continue. Understood. But also, at this moment? Completely outside my control. If I could control it, I would--believe me. It's embarrassing, and it's not the way I want to be perceived, and it's not the way I normally go about my work. I have a little more pride in myself than that. But this is medical. Side-effects of methadone include sedation and drowsiness. Side effects of Prozac include possible drowsiness. Physical symptoms of depression ALSO include somnolence, which is the tendency to fall asleep at inappropriate times. So I'm three-for-three. I've been taking caffeine pills (which help a teeny bit, but also give me heartburn) and drinking iced tea instead of Pepsi; I've given up my sweet rolls in the morning and exchanged them for Burger King's chicken sandwiches (yes, for breakfast--and I don't even eat the whole bun; I take the bottom half of the bun, which is less bread than the top half, and then I fold it in half til it rips, and then I fold the chicken-unit in half til it rips, and I make a stack of bun-chicken-chicken-bun, which is actually not half-bad and is quite easy to eat while driving. But I'd still rather have my pastry.) I don't drink any soda during the day except for a very occasional diet Sierra Mist, and if there's cake or cookies or whatever, I don't eat any of that either. I'm working my ass off to take care of this stupid little problem, and I've told the HR people this, and it irks the hell out of me that they're handling it the way they are. I've been told that I have to get yet ANOTHER letter from my doctor, containing information which I already gave them in the first letter; this is why I think I'm on my way out and they're just jumping through hoops to make it look legal. But it's not, and I know this.
Fortunately, it's time to go home and I can forget about this hell-mouth til Monday morning, which makes me very happy indeed.
Update, 6:55 PM: Would someone care to tell me WHY, exactly, I thought that explaining my work problems to my mother would result in moral support? And would that same someone please, if I ever even CONSIDER such a thing again, please shoot me with beanbags til I recover my senses? Because...hell no. Bad plan. Now I have Mom in my business, worrying on my behalf, offering suggestions I've already tried, and expressing her tacit disapproval of my methadone program, which both the doctors and I agree is the best possible thing I could be doing for myself at this point. Argh.
You have to understand, for me that's a hugely rare thing. For all my ranting and raving and curmudgeonly behavior, I think I could count on both hands the number of times in my life that I've actually told someone off for something. My usual way of handling things is to "be the bigger person", swallow my anger (no matter how intense) and try to move on.
Today, though, that didn't happen.
I know I've mentioned that the whole depression/methadone thing has spilled over into my job; basically, what's happening is that I'm extensively drowsy much of the day, and I've been caught on several occasions nodding off at my desk. It's entirely beyond my control, at the moment, though I'm doing everything in my power to stop it--I've stopped eating sugar between the time I get up in the morning and the time I get home at night, I've had them reduce my dosage of methadone, I've had my Prozac dosage reduced, I've tried to sleep more at night...no help. Human Resources is involved in the issue now--as soon as I told my boss that it was a medical issue, not me being a slacker, in comes HR with their lawyers and their doublespeak. I had my counselor at the clinic write a letter--without even mentioning the words "substance abuse" or "methadone"--explaining what the symptoms were, what could be done to help, and essentially telling them "This is a temporary thing, and if you'll just be a little understanding, we'll get it under control shortly." That's not good enough, of course, and I'm starting to think that I'm on my way out here. That's fine, if it happens, but they'd better have a good lawyer if they do fire me--both mental illness and substance abuse treatment are protected under the Americans with Disabilities Act. I've done the research.
But that's just the back-story. Today had nothing to do with HR or even any of my bosses; today, one of the guys in another department crossed the line.
I was working at my desk at about 4:00, and unfortunately I'd nodded out again. (These episodes, just to be clear, last only a couple of minutes at a time; then I wake up and try to shake it off, though it usually returns.) Anyway, this guy--let's call him "Butthead"--walks past my cube. Our cubes have walls about 6 feet high, with the top foot being a plexiglass window. And my cube, unfortunately, is right off the main hallway, so everyone can see into my cube and see what I'm doing at any given moment. I could face my computer in the other direction, but then everyone would be able to see my screen--basically, it's a question of which of two evils I'm happier with.
So Butthead walks by and sees me sleeping, and he decides to wake me up. And how does he do this? By quietly saying my name til I notice he's there, which would be the humane and kind thing to do? Not Butthead. Butthead takes the flat of his hand and SLAMS on the plexiglass window as hard as he can, which makes a huge rattling BANG and--predictably--causes me to jump out of my skin. And when I look up, once I've managed to swallow my heart back down to its normal spot in my chest, he's laughing.(Keep this in mind.)
I didn't even think--I just very quietly and angrily said "Hey, Butthead. Come here for a minute." He comes into my cube, and I said to him--again, very calmly--"First of all--what you're seeing? Is caused by a medical condition. Second of all? Don't...EVER...do that again." And he tells me, "I was just trying to wake you before you got in trouble." (Yeah, right--that's why you were cackling like a damn chicken when I looked up. You were moved to an outward expression of glee by your overwhelming concern for my well-being. Yeah, THAT was it.) "That's fine," I said. "I'm already in quite enough trouble for this, so thank you very much, but don't...EVER....do it again."
He walks off, probably offended, which...yeah, whatever, don't care, kindly go to hell. And the adrenaline keeps me awake for the next hour, which is nice.
I've got my resume together. I totally understand the management's point of view: they don't pay me to sleep at my desk, and they can't allow that to continue. Understood. But also, at this moment? Completely outside my control. If I could control it, I would--believe me. It's embarrassing, and it's not the way I want to be perceived, and it's not the way I normally go about my work. I have a little more pride in myself than that. But this is medical. Side-effects of methadone include sedation and drowsiness. Side effects of Prozac include possible drowsiness. Physical symptoms of depression ALSO include somnolence, which is the tendency to fall asleep at inappropriate times. So I'm three-for-three. I've been taking caffeine pills (which help a teeny bit, but also give me heartburn) and drinking iced tea instead of Pepsi; I've given up my sweet rolls in the morning and exchanged them for Burger King's chicken sandwiches (yes, for breakfast--and I don't even eat the whole bun; I take the bottom half of the bun, which is less bread than the top half, and then I fold it in half til it rips, and then I fold the chicken-unit in half til it rips, and I make a stack of bun-chicken-chicken-bun, which is actually not half-bad and is quite easy to eat while driving. But I'd still rather have my pastry.) I don't drink any soda during the day except for a very occasional diet Sierra Mist, and if there's cake or cookies or whatever, I don't eat any of that either. I'm working my ass off to take care of this stupid little problem, and I've told the HR people this, and it irks the hell out of me that they're handling it the way they are. I've been told that I have to get yet ANOTHER letter from my doctor, containing information which I already gave them in the first letter; this is why I think I'm on my way out and they're just jumping through hoops to make it look legal. But it's not, and I know this.
Fortunately, it's time to go home and I can forget about this hell-mouth til Monday morning, which makes me very happy indeed.
Update, 6:55 PM: Would someone care to tell me WHY, exactly, I thought that explaining my work problems to my mother would result in moral support? And would that same someone please, if I ever even CONSIDER such a thing again, please shoot me with beanbags til I recover my senses? Because...hell no. Bad plan. Now I have Mom in my business, worrying on my behalf, offering suggestions I've already tried, and expressing her tacit disapproval of my methadone program, which both the doctors and I agree is the best possible thing I could be doing for myself at this point. Argh.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Fretful Mother
I dropped Snick off at the vet this morning. It's time for that momentous event that comes to every young male cat: the snip-snip. My little boy is growing up.
He's also, after much soul-searching and consideration, losing his front claws. Three things combined to bring me to that decision, which I initially had no intention of making: one, he barely allows me to touch his claws, front or back; trimming them is absolutely out of the question. The minute he hears the clipper drawer open, he takes off; if I try to catch him off-guard, he yelps and flinches the minute the clipper touches the tip of the claw. He lets me pet them, lets me squeeze his paws to LOOK at them; but the minute I show the slightest inclination to clip, that's the end. It's not a pain thing, I don't think; the yelp isn't an "ouch!" as much as it's a "oh HELL no." Both his fronts and his backs, as a consequence of this, are now about to reach the point where even the cat can't stand them anymore. This has enabled him to learn a new trick, as well, which is the second reason for my decision:
The other night, I was sitting in the living room and suddenly Snick bolted across the room, leaped into the air, planted a front paw into the drywall on each side of the door-frame, about four feet off the ground...and just HELD there. He hung off the wall for a good three or four seconds before he let go. I looked at all the other doorframes in the house with that configuration; every one of them has a few sets of claw-marks etched deeply into the drywall on either side of the frame. This little guy is BONKERS, y'all. Between the drywall and the blinds, this is not something that I want to allow to continue, and the squirt-gun only stops him when he sees it in my hand. "Get him a scratching-post," I hear you say...yeah, but somehow I don't think that's gonna solve the whole problem.
The third thing that led me to decide in favor of declawing is that my vet told me they no longer do the old-style surgery; now they do laser declawing, which is much less painful to the cat and has a much faster recovery. (The neutering is done by laser as well, which leads me to hope that maybe he won't have to wear the silly lampshade collar; poor little guy needs his dignity, after all.) I don't want to put him through any more pain than strictly necessary...this is my little buddy--but so is Badcat, and he's getting the worst of Snick's claws, too. Poor Badcat...he used to be the undisputed king of the castle, and from the minute Snickers showed up, poor Bad has been on the run. At least this way he'll have a level playing field!
Needless to say, I'm worried about my little guy. I'll be plaguing the poor vet's office starting at 2:00, on the dot, when they said he should be out of surgery and coming up from the anesthetic. I'm a wreck. He obviously knew something was up, as early as last night; where he normally would have been cuddly around midnight, instead he roamed the house, tail lashing, looking for the food bowl (which I'd put away, since he wasn't allowed to eat after 10:00.) He was actually pretty docile about going into the carrier, and didn't raise too much fuss on the ride there; but then when we got to the office I noticed he was trembling a little. I felt awful, like a mother taking a toddler in for a shot. Mom knows the shot is good for him; the kid just knows it's scary and it'll probably hurt.
Then too, and I'm not terribly proud of this, I have some low-grade feelings of victimhood here; I'm scared because I love this cat so much, and I don't feel like it's safe to love anything because everything I love goes away. Which isn't true, but it SEEMS true, which--with irrational fears--is enough to make them seem real. Common sense tells me: I know this vet; every cat I've ever had but one has been cared for by this vet; all my cats but two were neutered at this vet, and declawed; and every one of them has come through with flying colors. There is no reason that Snick should be any different, and yet there's a little voice inside me that tries to tell me that because I love him more, he's in more danger. Now THAT is taking negativity and superstition to an entirely unecessary level.
The worst of it is, because of where the vet is (north suburbs) and where I work (southwest 'burbs), I won't be able to make it there on Friday to pick him up after work. So I'm going to be without my little guy til Saturday morning, when I can go and pick him up from the vet's office. I'm going to miss him so much!
It's official: I've become That Person--the one who makes oojy-boojy noises and describes her pets as "fur children". (Okay, so I exaggerate; I've never used that phrase, and if I do I hope someone slaps me silly for it...but I -do- use baby-talk from time to time. :::sigh::: Baby-talking cats is definitely a setback to the way I'd like to see myself!!!)
Only two more hours til I can call them....
UPDATE, 2:05 PM: Snick is doing fine. (The vet said he "looks a little dopey", to which I replied "no, he always looks that way.") Apparently he's just waking up from the anesthetic, but he was alert enough to hiss at the vet when she went to check on him. I am incredibly relieved. And more good news: he won't have to wear the lampshade on his head, since he has no sutures. Lasers, man. That's some cool stuff right there.
Between Snick being okay, and something that happened this morning which thoroughly amazed me (It's hard to be completely cynical when people who are nearly total strangers can be SO FREAKIN' NICE!), I'm having a very good day. A very very good day. It would be a perfect day, in fact, except for stoopid Bravo, which in its infinite crumminess is making us wait another whole week for a new episode of Project Runway. Other than that, though? A thoroughly excellent day.
He's also, after much soul-searching and consideration, losing his front claws. Three things combined to bring me to that decision, which I initially had no intention of making: one, he barely allows me to touch his claws, front or back; trimming them is absolutely out of the question. The minute he hears the clipper drawer open, he takes off; if I try to catch him off-guard, he yelps and flinches the minute the clipper touches the tip of the claw. He lets me pet them, lets me squeeze his paws to LOOK at them; but the minute I show the slightest inclination to clip, that's the end. It's not a pain thing, I don't think; the yelp isn't an "ouch!" as much as it's a "oh HELL no." Both his fronts and his backs, as a consequence of this, are now about to reach the point where even the cat can't stand them anymore. This has enabled him to learn a new trick, as well, which is the second reason for my decision:
The other night, I was sitting in the living room and suddenly Snick bolted across the room, leaped into the air, planted a front paw into the drywall on each side of the door-frame, about four feet off the ground...and just HELD there. He hung off the wall for a good three or four seconds before he let go. I looked at all the other doorframes in the house with that configuration; every one of them has a few sets of claw-marks etched deeply into the drywall on either side of the frame. This little guy is BONKERS, y'all. Between the drywall and the blinds, this is not something that I want to allow to continue, and the squirt-gun only stops him when he sees it in my hand. "Get him a scratching-post," I hear you say...yeah, but somehow I don't think that's gonna solve the whole problem.
The third thing that led me to decide in favor of declawing is that my vet told me they no longer do the old-style surgery; now they do laser declawing, which is much less painful to the cat and has a much faster recovery. (The neutering is done by laser as well, which leads me to hope that maybe he won't have to wear the silly lampshade collar; poor little guy needs his dignity, after all.) I don't want to put him through any more pain than strictly necessary...this is my little buddy--but so is Badcat, and he's getting the worst of Snick's claws, too. Poor Badcat...he used to be the undisputed king of the castle, and from the minute Snickers showed up, poor Bad has been on the run. At least this way he'll have a level playing field!
Needless to say, I'm worried about my little guy. I'll be plaguing the poor vet's office starting at 2:00, on the dot, when they said he should be out of surgery and coming up from the anesthetic. I'm a wreck. He obviously knew something was up, as early as last night; where he normally would have been cuddly around midnight, instead he roamed the house, tail lashing, looking for the food bowl (which I'd put away, since he wasn't allowed to eat after 10:00.) He was actually pretty docile about going into the carrier, and didn't raise too much fuss on the ride there; but then when we got to the office I noticed he was trembling a little. I felt awful, like a mother taking a toddler in for a shot. Mom knows the shot is good for him; the kid just knows it's scary and it'll probably hurt.
Then too, and I'm not terribly proud of this, I have some low-grade feelings of victimhood here; I'm scared because I love this cat so much, and I don't feel like it's safe to love anything because everything I love goes away. Which isn't true, but it SEEMS true, which--with irrational fears--is enough to make them seem real. Common sense tells me: I know this vet; every cat I've ever had but one has been cared for by this vet; all my cats but two were neutered at this vet, and declawed; and every one of them has come through with flying colors. There is no reason that Snick should be any different, and yet there's a little voice inside me that tries to tell me that because I love him more, he's in more danger. Now THAT is taking negativity and superstition to an entirely unecessary level.
The worst of it is, because of where the vet is (north suburbs) and where I work (southwest 'burbs), I won't be able to make it there on Friday to pick him up after work. So I'm going to be without my little guy til Saturday morning, when I can go and pick him up from the vet's office. I'm going to miss him so much!
It's official: I've become That Person--the one who makes oojy-boojy noises and describes her pets as "fur children". (Okay, so I exaggerate; I've never used that phrase, and if I do I hope someone slaps me silly for it...but I -do- use baby-talk from time to time. :::sigh::: Baby-talking cats is definitely a setback to the way I'd like to see myself!!!)
Only two more hours til I can call them....
UPDATE, 2:05 PM: Snick is doing fine. (The vet said he "looks a little dopey", to which I replied "no, he always looks that way.") Apparently he's just waking up from the anesthetic, but he was alert enough to hiss at the vet when she went to check on him. I am incredibly relieved. And more good news: he won't have to wear the lampshade on his head, since he has no sutures. Lasers, man. That's some cool stuff right there.
Between Snick being okay, and something that happened this morning which thoroughly amazed me (It's hard to be completely cynical when people who are nearly total strangers can be SO FREAKIN' NICE!), I'm having a very good day. A very very good day. It would be a perfect day, in fact, except for stoopid Bravo, which in its infinite crumminess is making us wait another whole week for a new episode of Project Runway. Other than that, though? A thoroughly excellent day.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Progress Report
Since I've been quiet again, which is never my intention, I feel like I should bring everyone up to speed as far as what's been happening in my happy little world.
About ten minutes into this past weekend's appointment with Dr. J, once I had finished describing the tracks my thoughts have been taking lately--lots of feelings of inadequacy, self-doubt, the usual smorgasbord--she said, "I hope you recognize that these thoughts are just the depression talking, and that you seem to be moving deeper into the depression." Which, yeah, I pretty much knew that. Things have not been good on a lot of levels: I'm stressed because I'm having major financial problems (thanks, LJ!); I'm stressed because my medical issues have crept into the workplace and it's becoming a big deal; mostly I'm stressed because I can't get any sort of handle on my life at all. I feel completely out of control--rattled, constantly reacting, in a low-grade state of panic through most of my waking hours. My sleep is broken by weird dreams, and I wake at the slightest provocation--which means when I get up in the morning, I'm completely exhausted. Between that, the methadone, and the Prozac, I've been caught nodding out at my desk several times, and that's become an issue with Human Resources. Now, because it's medical, I'm covered by the Americans With Disabilities Act (I researched this years ago; if you're in medically-supervised substance-abuse treatment, you are covered by the ADA and cannot be fired for it) but that involves a) a lot of paperwork and b)disclosing more about my personal life than I care to have anyone know. So far I've managed to keep it very vague, telling them that the drowsiness is caused by "a combination of prescriptions I'm taking", and they've been really understanding about it. I totally see their point--they can't very well have an employee sleeping at her desk!--but I just wish it was something I didn't have to deal with, something I could control on my own. I've had the clinic lower my dosage twice so far, with no negative effects, but it hasn't had any positive effects either. I've also, at Dr. J's suggestion, lowered my Prozac dose to see if that allows me to sleep a little better. So far, no dice; I've become very conversant with the wee-hours television offerings (which will lead to another post, some other time, on the topic of "Boohbah". If you've ever seen this show, you will understand why, when I first saw it, my immediate question was "What kind of drugs are THEY on?").
Along with the job stress, money has been another major stressor--more than usual. For the first time in the three years I've owned this house, I'm behind on the mortgage. I'm working with them to pay it down, but again: I wish I didn't have to deal with it. I bear the blame, as I'm the one who can't say no to anyone, especially when I've got this stupid, rancid, impossible hope that if I give a little more, THIS time it will make him love me the way I want him to. I would have to say that about 25% of my last paycheck went to LJ, in one form or another: paying for parts for the truck, sending him a moneygram for his bus ticket back from Minnesota, "helping" with his cell-phone bill. This is in addition to paying for the things he's normally supposed to pay for: the truck payment, the part of my cellphone bill that belongs to his friend who's on my account, stuff like that. I can't do it anymore, and when he asked me for bus-fare back to Minneapolis, I lied and told him I didn't have it. I had it; I just couldn't spare it. He managed to scrounge it from his friends, and so now he's gone; I hope he stays there. I'm over it.
Last night, I was writing in my paper journal and it led to a conversation in my head. I asked myself: What would make me happy?
To have a normal life.
What, exactly, do you consider a "normal" life?
Orderly. Non-chaotic. Respectable.
Respectable? What's that?
As in, "like people I respect and admire".
Okay...so what kind of a life would that be?
Organized, for one. Neat. I would have a place for everything and be able to put my finger on any item the minute I wanted it.
All right: "organized."
And clean. There wouldn't be dishes in the sink or trails of kitty litter across the floor or tumbleweeds of cat-hair under the desk.
Okay: "clean".
And financially solid. Not that I think most people are well-off, but I used to be able to pay everything each month, and I liked it, and I hate it that I can't do it now. And I especially hate it because it's my own fault, for trying to buy LJ's love. Again. I've been down that road before and it didn't work then; what made me think it would work this time?
So then: "financially stable". Define that.
Able to pay all my bills every month. No collectors calling; nothing on my credit report that's in collections. Maybe able to put a little money away in a savings account. That's all I ask...I don't need to be rich; I just want not to be scared.
We've got "organized", "clean", and "financially stable". Anything else?
Not really--not for the moment, anyhow. If I had those things I would be able to enjoy my life whether or not someone was in it, because I'd have the time to do things that I'd enjoy. Or rather, the motivation; I have the TIME now, but no way to use it, because I feel like I ought to be doing other things. I feel harrassed and I can't enjoy myself.
Well, that's a start. Organized, clean, financially stable. None of those things sounds impossible...
And they're not. I've realized that a large part of my misery is exactly that feeling of having no control over even the most basic things--feeling like I don't know where things are except in the vaguest way--"It's in that pile, somewhere, maybe." Or walking in the door to find that all the things I've left on the desk are now on the floor, courtesy of a small gray cat who shall remain nameless. If they were put away, he couldn't scatter them; thus, no stress. So I'm going to spend the next few nights trying to get my shit together--filing, organizing, cleaning up. (First, though, I have to get caught up with my recaps for Reality News Online; Gene Simmons' antics have gone un-recounted for about three episodes now, and I've been feeling very guilty. God, how I hate guilt; it makes me want not commit to doing ANYTHING, ever, for fear of having to deal with the consequences.) Hopefully, once I've got the house under control, I'll feel better, and maybe when I feel better, I'll feel more motivated, more able to care.
At least, that's the plan.
About ten minutes into this past weekend's appointment with Dr. J, once I had finished describing the tracks my thoughts have been taking lately--lots of feelings of inadequacy, self-doubt, the usual smorgasbord--she said, "I hope you recognize that these thoughts are just the depression talking, and that you seem to be moving deeper into the depression." Which, yeah, I pretty much knew that. Things have not been good on a lot of levels: I'm stressed because I'm having major financial problems (thanks, LJ!); I'm stressed because my medical issues have crept into the workplace and it's becoming a big deal; mostly I'm stressed because I can't get any sort of handle on my life at all. I feel completely out of control--rattled, constantly reacting, in a low-grade state of panic through most of my waking hours. My sleep is broken by weird dreams, and I wake at the slightest provocation--which means when I get up in the morning, I'm completely exhausted. Between that, the methadone, and the Prozac, I've been caught nodding out at my desk several times, and that's become an issue with Human Resources. Now, because it's medical, I'm covered by the Americans With Disabilities Act (I researched this years ago; if you're in medically-supervised substance-abuse treatment, you are covered by the ADA and cannot be fired for it) but that involves a) a lot of paperwork and b)disclosing more about my personal life than I care to have anyone know. So far I've managed to keep it very vague, telling them that the drowsiness is caused by "a combination of prescriptions I'm taking", and they've been really understanding about it. I totally see their point--they can't very well have an employee sleeping at her desk!--but I just wish it was something I didn't have to deal with, something I could control on my own. I've had the clinic lower my dosage twice so far, with no negative effects, but it hasn't had any positive effects either. I've also, at Dr. J's suggestion, lowered my Prozac dose to see if that allows me to sleep a little better. So far, no dice; I've become very conversant with the wee-hours television offerings (which will lead to another post, some other time, on the topic of "Boohbah". If you've ever seen this show, you will understand why, when I first saw it, my immediate question was "What kind of drugs are THEY on?").
Along with the job stress, money has been another major stressor--more than usual. For the first time in the three years I've owned this house, I'm behind on the mortgage. I'm working with them to pay it down, but again: I wish I didn't have to deal with it. I bear the blame, as I'm the one who can't say no to anyone, especially when I've got this stupid, rancid, impossible hope that if I give a little more, THIS time it will make him love me the way I want him to. I would have to say that about 25% of my last paycheck went to LJ, in one form or another: paying for parts for the truck, sending him a moneygram for his bus ticket back from Minnesota, "helping" with his cell-phone bill. This is in addition to paying for the things he's normally supposed to pay for: the truck payment, the part of my cellphone bill that belongs to his friend who's on my account, stuff like that. I can't do it anymore, and when he asked me for bus-fare back to Minneapolis, I lied and told him I didn't have it. I had it; I just couldn't spare it. He managed to scrounge it from his friends, and so now he's gone; I hope he stays there. I'm over it.
Last night, I was writing in my paper journal and it led to a conversation in my head. I asked myself: What would make me happy?
To have a normal life.
What, exactly, do you consider a "normal" life?
Orderly. Non-chaotic. Respectable.
Respectable? What's that?
As in, "like people I respect and admire".
Okay...so what kind of a life would that be?
Organized, for one. Neat. I would have a place for everything and be able to put my finger on any item the minute I wanted it.
All right: "organized."
And clean. There wouldn't be dishes in the sink or trails of kitty litter across the floor or tumbleweeds of cat-hair under the desk.
Okay: "clean".
And financially solid. Not that I think most people are well-off, but I used to be able to pay everything each month, and I liked it, and I hate it that I can't do it now. And I especially hate it because it's my own fault, for trying to buy LJ's love. Again. I've been down that road before and it didn't work then; what made me think it would work this time?
So then: "financially stable". Define that.
Able to pay all my bills every month. No collectors calling; nothing on my credit report that's in collections. Maybe able to put a little money away in a savings account. That's all I ask...I don't need to be rich; I just want not to be scared.
We've got "organized", "clean", and "financially stable". Anything else?
Not really--not for the moment, anyhow. If I had those things I would be able to enjoy my life whether or not someone was in it, because I'd have the time to do things that I'd enjoy. Or rather, the motivation; I have the TIME now, but no way to use it, because I feel like I ought to be doing other things. I feel harrassed and I can't enjoy myself.
Well, that's a start. Organized, clean, financially stable. None of those things sounds impossible...
And they're not. I've realized that a large part of my misery is exactly that feeling of having no control over even the most basic things--feeling like I don't know where things are except in the vaguest way--"It's in that pile, somewhere, maybe." Or walking in the door to find that all the things I've left on the desk are now on the floor, courtesy of a small gray cat who shall remain nameless. If they were put away, he couldn't scatter them; thus, no stress. So I'm going to spend the next few nights trying to get my shit together--filing, organizing, cleaning up. (First, though, I have to get caught up with my recaps for Reality News Online; Gene Simmons' antics have gone un-recounted for about three episodes now, and I've been feeling very guilty. God, how I hate guilt; it makes me want not commit to doing ANYTHING, ever, for fear of having to deal with the consequences.) Hopefully, once I've got the house under control, I'll feel better, and maybe when I feel better, I'll feel more motivated, more able to care.
At least, that's the plan.
Tuesday, September 5, 2006
As Promised, Spiders
I don't know why we have so many spiders lately; the coming fall, perhaps, or maybe we're just a spider-friendly house. Most of them are the teeny little yellow-brown kind--good entertainment for the cats, not much trauma for the resident arachnophobe. I can deal with those.
But the other night, I walked into the bedroom and turned on the light and there, on the wall, was this HUGE black-brown spider. The leg-span on this baby must have been two inches across, and it had that figure-eight body peculiar to really BIG spiders--the one where the thorax is actually distinguishable from the rest of the body. He was big, is what I'm sayin' here.
I am not proud; I yelled for LJ. He hadn't been home for an hour, even, from his last out-of-state trip, and he was crabby at the interruption, especially for something as girly as my fear of spiders. I didn't care; this was--as I believe I have mentioned--a BIG damn spider.
He grabbed my house-slipper (deduct one point from the Excellent Boyfriend Scale right there!) and I looked away as I heard the "thwack". He calmly walked out of the room and came back with a wad of tissue, and informed me that he'd only smashed it, not killed it, and that it had run away under the dresser somewhere. As though that was fine; as though that wasn't an unthinkable, terrifying outcome. As though the spider would not now be lying in wait, spider-guts hanging from its horribly mangled body, plotting revenge. As though it were somehow OKAY that he had failed utterly in his mission to protect me from this vile creature. Fine, I said, whatever. "If you see it, kill it," he helpfully advised as he closed the door behind him. Gee, THANKS, mighty hunter.
Reluctantly, I went to sleep. And since I did not wake up choking, I assumed that the spider had perhaps gone to meet his multi-legged Maker instead of crawling down my throat. (Hey, they say it HASN'T happened. That just means it hasn't happened YET. That anyone KNOWS OF.) Anyway, I began to relax, and went off to work and forgot the whole thing.
Ah, complacency. Ah, trust.
Because at about 2 AM the next morning I woke up to go to the bathroom, and I blinked out one of my contact lenses and as I turned the light on in the bedroom to put it back in, I saw a blurry thing on the wall. I wasn't terribly worried; without my contacts, everything is "a blurry thing". Could have been a shadow, could have been a smudge, could have been a thundering herd of bison or the oboe section of the Chicago Symphony Orchestra--it all would have looked the same to me.
But when I got my contact lens back in I discovered: it was none of those things. It was...a GREAT BIG SPIDER, just as big as the one LJ had "smashed" the previous night. Oh my god, we've got a full-scale infestation, I thought, already making plans as to where the cats would stay while we fumigated the house...
I looked more closely. Something was not quite right about this spider. It looked...different. Off-kilter.
Seven-legged.
Apparently LJ's definition of "smashed" differs substantially from mine. The spider, except for that one leg, was perfectly whole and exactly as menacing as he'd been the night before when I'd asked LJ to eliminate it...and this time, LJ wasn't home. It was just me and the spider.
Snickers made a valiant effort, I'll grant him that. He leaped and leaped and launched himself at the wall a couple of dozen times, but the spider was about six feet up and Snick couldn't make it any higher than four feet or so off the floor. (He still gets points for trying.)
But that left me with a dilemma: either I could say "live and let live" and go back to sleep (yeah RIGHT)or I could come up with some way of taking care of the problem myself. Finally, after a few solid minutes of dithering, I settled on: the Swiffer.
A Swiffer, for those of you who've never experienced one, is like a small flat-bottomed mop. You take a dustcloth and adhere it to this flat rubberized block on a handle, and the dust clings to it when you sweep it over the floor. I told the spider "Wait here," and ran for the closet. I put a fresh dustrag over the Swiffer pad, so as not to have to clean up any more bug-guts than strictly necessary. I aimed the flat of the pad at the creature, drew back, and...
...missed. Entirely. The impact knocked the spider off the wall to the floor, where I actually FELT it thump body-first as it scuttled away. I let out a hoarse, guttural scream of total panic, bashed the Swiffer wildly against the floor in the general vicinity of the "thump", and--of course--totally missed the spider. Who ran behind the dresser.
I haven't seen it since. I'm living in fear of the repercussions...unless Snick has dispatched it in my absence, which--if he has--he hasn't told me.
But the other night, I walked into the bedroom and turned on the light and there, on the wall, was this HUGE black-brown spider. The leg-span on this baby must have been two inches across, and it had that figure-eight body peculiar to really BIG spiders--the one where the thorax is actually distinguishable from the rest of the body. He was big, is what I'm sayin' here.
I am not proud; I yelled for LJ. He hadn't been home for an hour, even, from his last out-of-state trip, and he was crabby at the interruption, especially for something as girly as my fear of spiders. I didn't care; this was--as I believe I have mentioned--a BIG damn spider.
He grabbed my house-slipper (deduct one point from the Excellent Boyfriend Scale right there!) and I looked away as I heard the "thwack". He calmly walked out of the room and came back with a wad of tissue, and informed me that he'd only smashed it, not killed it, and that it had run away under the dresser somewhere. As though that was fine; as though that wasn't an unthinkable, terrifying outcome. As though the spider would not now be lying in wait, spider-guts hanging from its horribly mangled body, plotting revenge. As though it were somehow OKAY that he had failed utterly in his mission to protect me from this vile creature. Fine, I said, whatever. "If you see it, kill it," he helpfully advised as he closed the door behind him. Gee, THANKS, mighty hunter.
Reluctantly, I went to sleep. And since I did not wake up choking, I assumed that the spider had perhaps gone to meet his multi-legged Maker instead of crawling down my throat. (Hey, they say it HASN'T happened. That just means it hasn't happened YET. That anyone KNOWS OF.) Anyway, I began to relax, and went off to work and forgot the whole thing.
Ah, complacency. Ah, trust.
Because at about 2 AM the next morning I woke up to go to the bathroom, and I blinked out one of my contact lenses and as I turned the light on in the bedroom to put it back in, I saw a blurry thing on the wall. I wasn't terribly worried; without my contacts, everything is "a blurry thing". Could have been a shadow, could have been a smudge, could have been a thundering herd of bison or the oboe section of the Chicago Symphony Orchestra--it all would have looked the same to me.
But when I got my contact lens back in I discovered: it was none of those things. It was...a GREAT BIG SPIDER, just as big as the one LJ had "smashed" the previous night. Oh my god, we've got a full-scale infestation, I thought, already making plans as to where the cats would stay while we fumigated the house...
I looked more closely. Something was not quite right about this spider. It looked...different. Off-kilter.
Seven-legged.
Apparently LJ's definition of "smashed" differs substantially from mine. The spider, except for that one leg, was perfectly whole and exactly as menacing as he'd been the night before when I'd asked LJ to eliminate it...and this time, LJ wasn't home. It was just me and the spider.
Snickers made a valiant effort, I'll grant him that. He leaped and leaped and launched himself at the wall a couple of dozen times, but the spider was about six feet up and Snick couldn't make it any higher than four feet or so off the floor. (He still gets points for trying.)
But that left me with a dilemma: either I could say "live and let live" and go back to sleep (yeah RIGHT)or I could come up with some way of taking care of the problem myself. Finally, after a few solid minutes of dithering, I settled on: the Swiffer.
A Swiffer, for those of you who've never experienced one, is like a small flat-bottomed mop. You take a dustcloth and adhere it to this flat rubberized block on a handle, and the dust clings to it when you sweep it over the floor. I told the spider "Wait here," and ran for the closet. I put a fresh dustrag over the Swiffer pad, so as not to have to clean up any more bug-guts than strictly necessary. I aimed the flat of the pad at the creature, drew back, and...
...missed. Entirely. The impact knocked the spider off the wall to the floor, where I actually FELT it thump body-first as it scuttled away. I let out a hoarse, guttural scream of total panic, bashed the Swiffer wildly against the floor in the general vicinity of the "thump", and--of course--totally missed the spider. Who ran behind the dresser.
I haven't seen it since. I'm living in fear of the repercussions...unless Snick has dispatched it in my absence, which--if he has--he hasn't told me.
Baby Grows Up (Return of the Crazy Cat Lady)
I think Snickers may be part-fox, judging from these ears.
Last night at about 3 in the morning, my bed-partner and I were in our usual conditions for that hour (me, splat on my back and dead to the world; Snick, curled up under my arm with the tip of his tail in his mouth, fast asleep) when all of a sudden he sat bolt-upright. He's usually the most sedentary of sleepers, so the motion woke me up too.
He started making the gacky-face; tongue darting in and out, eyes squinched shut, looking like he was trying to spit out something unpleasant. If you've ever given a baby something sour, you know the gacky-face's human equivalent.
Of course, paranoid cat-owner that I am, I was instantly worried. Did he eat a spider? (We've had a minor infestation lately, including The Biggest Damn Spider I've Ever Seen--about whom more later.) Did he swallow a feather from one of my cheap-ass pillows that's now stuck in his throat? Or does he just have a piece of fur caught in his tongue?
He hopped off the bed and stood in front of the closed door, still making gack-face, still trying to clear whatever it was. When I bent down to look, I couldn't see anything immediately, so I picked him up and put him on the bed and opened his mouth and stuck in a finger, which (being a normal cat) he promptly bit. He looked at me, very calm, and said "Ptooey."
There, on the blanket, was a very small, very pointy baby tooth.
Snick had a short bath, put the tip of his tail back in his mouth, and went to sleep; apparently, this growing-up stuff is exhausting work for a little cat. Of course, by the time I was ready to go to work this morning he'd turned back into Butthead the Wonder-Kitty:
I've mentioned, haven't I, that I adore this little devil? (Also, take note of our good friend BadCat, sitting on the table in the foreground, looking innocent--or at least, as innocent as a cat can look, especially a cat with glowing eyes. BadCat has evolved into the sedate elder statesman of the house--of course, that may be because he's put on a bit of cat-fat in recent months and can't leap as nimbly as he could when he was a lithe young tiger.)
I found out yesterday that Snick's momma-cat has had another litter. I was sorely tempted, but I reasoned that a second Snick might be Too Much Of A Good Thing.
Yowch
Now, I don't care HOW annoying you are, or how many exotic animals and hapless TV-watchers you irritate over the course of your life--NOBODY deserves to die by having their heart punctured by a stingray barb.
Crikey.
Crikey.
Friday, September 1, 2006
If You Found Me Through An Image Link
I notice in my stats that a lot of people have been finding me through the links to my pictures which I placed in this post. Would you please all do me a favor? Leave me a comment--anonymous if you want to--about how you found those images, what you were looking for, and what you think of them? I'm really curious as to how these images are drawing the level of attention they are, especially since I didn't place them anywhere else. Thanks!
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