Happy New Thursday

Steve the cat is assigned to take one of the worst tasting pills on the planet; prednisone.  His first dose was supposed to be administered via crushing and mixing it with butter and of course, I wanted to see if the butter helped and licked the back of the spoon and by george I damn near got the Black and Decker to sand my tongue down.  It was awful, and after Googling, I learned that it is one of the worst and will often make children vomit, it's that ridiculous.  But Steve started doing poorly,  so he had to take the stuff.  It melts apart in water; I added cream and loaded the injector thing used to get liquids into a sick cat.  Here, kitty.

I got him, sat on him, and aimed the injector into his mouth but the plunger grabbed then let go and blammo, half went into the cat, for which I am grateful, but the rest spattered the floor, rug, and me. Prednisone rave fantasy in Buffalo, New York.  He scooted, I cleaned up, and have to figure out the next approach.  I can empty a vitamin and use the capsule so he doesn't have to taste it at all, or there is a transdermal gel available that you rub on the inner tip of their ear, and the medicine is absorbed through the skin.  I'll call the vet when they open Friday, to see if this transdermal business is affordable.  This cat is being so good letting me manhandle him, but the pill is a definite no.

My turn.  After I had visited the doctor for this sore throat, and I always feel guilty as if I'm lying that I'm sick, I went to the grocery for ginger ale and a new toothbrush to be used 48 hours after the first of my pills.  The prescription is for penicillin, which surprised me as I didn't think it was still used.  It also has an extreme bitterness, but nothing like the prednisone.  Are they bringing it back as the newer antibiotics are failing to stop the bacteria who are hell bent on developing immunity and growing to the size of a collie?

Thermometers now have rules, and the glass, mercury-loaded antique that I have is now outlawed in some states.  I'll find something tomorrow when I pick up the meds, but am supposed to remit the old one for safe disposal.  Mad as a hatter, you've heard that phrase?  Mercury was used in the felting process back in the 18th and 19th centuries, and workers developed erethism, a condition caused by mercury poisoning.  Mercury doesn't leave the body, it accumulates, so said my chemistry teacher as he handed out glass thermometers.  Each broken classroom thermometer meant he absorbed more mercury vapor and therefore could possibly be on his way to dangerous mental calibration.  Check your cabinets and get them out of the house.

But now I have to bundle and drag my sorry butt to the place where the medicine is, the RiteAid, then begin this new merry-go-round called 2015, which for today has couch-lounging, movies, books, and soft foods on the agenda.  Maybe I'll think, but that might hurt.  Everything hurts.  Okay, okay, I heard that and you're right; no more bitching about a sore throat.  It's not like I have to jump into a gorilla pit to rescue a toddler, and that toddler better be related to me or I'll just toss in a Chihuahua to distract the ape.  YAPYAPYAPYAPYAP.  The gorilla would clamp on his hat, look at his watch and say sorry, gotta go before the liquor store closes.  Then it would be Chihuahua versus Toddler, and you know how that would end.  Oh god, I'm hallucinating.

Going to get dressed, no pajamas are being worn in public today or any day, and I'll make it so fast, they'll still be warm when I get back.  Maybe the thermometer had a crack in it, and the mercury, compounded with the amalgam fillings still in my mouth, birthed an episode of snaky illusion.  We all get those, illusions, delusions, delusional illusions.  Good luck.  Much good luck.

Returning home from the drugstore with the meds determined to destroy the bulldozing plague in my head and throat, the walk from the car lot to the building was amplified into an adventure by the 40 mph gusts whipping the trees into throwing up their branches in surrender, undulating in the currents of Boreas.  I watched, looking up, at the branches, wondering what dynamics allowed the branches flexibility, how many plastic bags were embellishing the limbs, and that an arboreal animal would have a Farah Fawcett fur or feather-do if caught by the intermittent, sudden bursts.  No living thing apparent, no birds were flying in the sky, there were no birds to fly.

Poor things.  The lady who has been caretaking the feral cats was out by her car with a rug and bowls of food and warm water; what could I do for these other, minute creatures, who depend on hidden nuts or dried stalks of seed? Squirrels go into pods of light hibernation, a bird doesn't, as far as I know, and must feed it's 104° metabolism everyday.  Tenants are not allowed to feed them, as it draws mice and rats, (so why is the garbage left out in a corral of open bins?), and if caught can be evicted.  So what could be done except a sneako bird seed station in the field under the Skyway?  I'm still looking up, trudging in boots with packages when my left foot snags a wooden stake marking where the sidewalk should be plowed, and wham, I go down.

First my left knee, then right, then left palm, right, then I am tasting sidewalk as the finale is a faceplant into the cement.  My only thought was "There's no stopping this," as trajectory met target and the sidewalk erased parts of my skin.  No crunching or snaps were heard, no internal popping or chipped teeth apparent, so I knew I was fine once I collected my bags and glasses, but uh oh, grit and the metallic flavor of blood  blended together and also scared the young woman doing her laundry who opened the door for me as I wobbled in.

"You okay, Miss?  This wind is awful. You okay?"  Bless her heart.  I told her thank you, and that things seemed alright, just a nasty fall.  Yes, the wind.  Wasn't going to mention I was worried about squirrels and birds blowing sideways.  Opening the door to the apartment was like Dorothy in Oz, and the cats wanted to twirl around my shins in happy welcomes.  No, no no no, not now, scoot, I gotta get to the bathroom and see what happened.  No blood was flooding my face, and the dabs at my lip came away pink, couldn't be a big deal; once I looked in the mirror, I saw that the orbit around my eye took the worst of it, and a lump on my forehead was beginning; there is a trail of brushburns down one side.  Sting-y.  Oww.

So, I took the penicillin and Motrin tabs, grabbed a pack of really crappy on-sale blueberries from the freezer, put ice cubes in a ziploc and applied the cold packs to where it hurt.  Today, bruises are blossoming, lumps are lumping, and I look like hell.  When I go back to school on Monday, still hacking and sallow from the strep, decorated with scrapey splotches down one side of my lumped face, I will tell the courteously inquisitive faculty that during this winter break I was kidnapped the government as my teacher rating was based on the red Twizzlers I handed out, rather than how far the kids got in understanding five-step addition.  They beat me until I agreed to make the children tell me what number comes before 300.  THESE ARE SIX YEAR OLDS, THEY DON'T KNOW WHERE THEIR FINGERS ARE, MUCH LESS WHAT NUMBER COMES BEFORE  300.  My colleagues will find that explanation thoroughly plausible, and give me M&Ms.

In spite of aches, there are outside things needing attention today, like getting the blood pressure med out from under the front seat of the car.  Mailing packages.  Inside, there is changing the fish tank, devising a method of pilling Steve. Moving furniture, which was begun last night about 11 p.m. after the pain med kicked in.  Gotta get moving, need to visit my knees.

But you, you have a great day of interest and reciprocation from loved ones, friends, people that say thank you for what you do.  My year, this year, is brimming with people near and far with similar values, thoughts, and if they don't agree, no kidnappings are involved.  Warmth, integrity, and trust blossom, love of family is honored; photos of children, milestones, and self-awareness abound. Daring, risk, and finding pathways are tried without harm to others, worry is alleviated by support, counsel, getting help for yourself.  Been there.  Learn about taking care of your own, and if they don't want you, and this is possible, move forward, but do it through guided help if you are flailing at windmills, or you will repeat the same patterns, wasting years of your life.  You have a lot to offer, find out who you are, not who someone wants you to be....as said, I've been there.

Thick clouds hang in a slower atmosphere; I don't think it's a good idea for me to drive today, so out of the US folks will have to wait a bit more for holiday mail love.   Head still bangy.  Wish I could write on the pale moon, so that as all look up, there would be a cheese, a rabbit, a woman carrying water, a dog, a crab, a man; but there already is, it's been a celestial story for millions of years, a note composed by meteors.  Read the ancient hieroglyphics left by thunderous impact, what tales are told, which tides are rising.  Sleep in solace, life awaits.