Been busy, been hiding, been looking for sunlight. Yesterday, driving home from a Saturday workday down the lumped city street provided an archeology lesson in transportation. The frothed waves of snow, once elegant in starkness, had melted into the brown-black ebb of winter accumulation, receding towards curbs and gutters, sides and rails bent from the plows pushing it to wherever it would go. Not a day in this February rose above freezing, producing stratified layers of crystallized memory. Artifacts began to appear from the temporary thaw.
Mostly pieces of car; black bumper shards, amber light housings, silver-painted ornamentation, and chunks of what I imagine were once exhaust systems now littered medians and roadsides. So many fender-benders were the foundation of these histories, yet there were pieces laying on the asphalt that seemed to be plain tired and gave up the ghost; you go on, I'm going to fall off right here; no,no, it's all right, I just can't do this anymore, let me fall asleep on this ice floe, it is the time of ending, bye bye.
My door had clogged with ice inside the hinge, which expanded down towards the wheel well and pushed a piece of fender outward. Intertwined as it was, I couldn't knock the ice out without possibly whacking the whole panel off, and it isn't likely the traffic officers would understand that much duct tape in reassembly. Poor car, dear car, you are disappearing as though made of pie crust. I would be happy driving this clunker the rest of days, but it won't be so; when I lived in Florida, it amazed me that there were Nash Metropolitans in Tweety Bird colors without a speck of rust. Up here, the cars are eaten like salami sandwiches by the weather.
It had been a longish week full of tests and notes from parents telling me they didn't understand the math homework. Me neither, at least, I know what to do, but the thinking process behind it is punctuated with the new mathspeak. I've been on this Unit for four weeks, and I am going to print out directions for parents, which show what the language means and why the hell are they expecting six year olds to break apart a three item number sentence using the ten ones system. If you know what I just said, please send a postcard.
But then there was the dismissal when another teacher came up to me after the kids were on the buses. "They're looking for you in the office. A parent is waiting." Oh crap. Now what did I do?
The father is from another country, and he and I are communicating daily in a written journal so that his son can see that the adults are going to win this one. The behavior and work habits have improved immensely, and the boy will be fine as long as he understands that he is not running my class. The parent extended his hand to shake mine and said that he wanted to thank me for working with his son. What? You what? I was hoping that the other people in the office were hearing this.
"I have noticed great improvement in my son's behavior, thank you for helping him." I replied that his interest was a large part of the child's desire to please, and that the student was reaching his potential because of the parent involvement. And you are certainly welcome. He asked how he could further help his son; wonderful.
And there is more sun, we are up to 10 hours and 56 minutes of light this first day of March; the plants in the window are showing growth. A fox has been reported hanging around the parking lot, a small flash of orange ribbon against the snow. It comes during the evening; I have not seen the critter, but I hope that it is left alone.
Moonrise came early yesterday, in mid-afternoon the half-sphere of ghostly white rose in the east, no more than the breath of a cloud. I've been brushing up on memorized poems, for threads of lines change articles; but becomes yet, or too many 'the's' are inserted. I have projects to begin, and will swipe up the remnants of others in anticipation. Clean house, mind, ready for the coming light. Drop into dreams of heartfelt wishes, put a foot out there, go someplace, engage each other, tell the truth to yourself. I'm going to make soup for supper from the leftover chicken, something warm in a yellow broth. Today soup is my truth. Sleep well, the basket of unsorted things may spill, but so what? No one cares about that. Spiritus mundi. Tuck in.
Sunday, March 1, 2015
Monday, February 9, 2015
Apple Pie Supper
Life doesn't begin until one late afternoon, it is decided to have dessert for dinner. The first strawberries, the local ones so sweet and fragile, deep red in ripeness shouldn't have to wait for last place on the menu. Hull the berries after a quick rinse, slice them with lots of sugar. Yes, sugar. Lots. Make your biscuits, use butter and one egg, gives the biscuit a nice crust; then whip the cream using a bit of vanilla and confectionary sugar. Assemble: bottom half of biscuit, butter, strawberries, top half, another spoon of berries, and then whipped cream. Hypnotize the family as you set the bowls in front of them.
This will also happen with a deeply embedded in summer peach cobbler, an Amish cherry pudding, or apple pie. Apple pie for supper with ice cream, you will be elected president of everything for life. Now, not that a single variety is lagging, but if you want a redolent essence permeating every morsel of crust, use a blend of apples. Older ones were developed for flavor, not for looks; Pippin, Winesap, Russet, Northern Spy, 20 Ounce; toss those in with a mainstay, a solid Cortland or Johnathan, and if you can find one, grate a quince in as well. Leaf lard will produce a soft crust, but good lard is difficult to find; all butter will make it snap and flake with flavor. Do not leave out the salt--chemically, it's needed to produce a crust that browns nicely.
In years past, I could throw an apple pie together in 25 minutes by using my apple peeler and having the counter space to spread out. Leftover pastry scraps were re-rolled, covered with cinnamon sugar, and cut into diamond shapes before baking; they were almost as revered as the pie itself, which filled the house with an orchard's incense as it baked. Let it sit on a rack to cool for cutting, maybe twenty minutes, then ready the ice cream. Or, if you are from New York State, a slice of sharp cheddar. Why not both? Blueberry, sour cherry, peach, lemon meringue, rhubarb, pecan, sweet potato; all good, but for a pie to have for supper, apple made the most sense. Goes good with bacon in the morning as well.
Today was the first day that I came home from work and wasn't greeted by a grey and white cat, whose arrival at the door became slower, yet he pushed himself even at the last to put in a hurrying step coming down the hallway. Kai has started looking for him, visiting the places he kept; Snowbelle has a happier countenance and chirps good-riddances. I noticed his absence, which will happen for awhile.
Tonight I have paperwork, lots. The fish sail back and forth in the aquarium; the corys are swimming in a synchronized triad, the angels are piloting slowly, as if the parade was in their honor. This paperwork needs tending, (teaching people: finishing the SLO/LMA), and then I am going to bed early. More scraping and shoveling, more ice, more schnee in the morning; maybe the cold weather stirred up memories of pies on baking racks, flour dusting the counter and floor. Sleep well, descend to the necessary levels of somnambulance for repair, discovery, flight among dreams. Good night.
This will also happen with a deeply embedded in summer peach cobbler, an Amish cherry pudding, or apple pie. Apple pie for supper with ice cream, you will be elected president of everything for life. Now, not that a single variety is lagging, but if you want a redolent essence permeating every morsel of crust, use a blend of apples. Older ones were developed for flavor, not for looks; Pippin, Winesap, Russet, Northern Spy, 20 Ounce; toss those in with a mainstay, a solid Cortland or Johnathan, and if you can find one, grate a quince in as well. Leaf lard will produce a soft crust, but good lard is difficult to find; all butter will make it snap and flake with flavor. Do not leave out the salt--chemically, it's needed to produce a crust that browns nicely.
In years past, I could throw an apple pie together in 25 minutes by using my apple peeler and having the counter space to spread out. Leftover pastry scraps were re-rolled, covered with cinnamon sugar, and cut into diamond shapes before baking; they were almost as revered as the pie itself, which filled the house with an orchard's incense as it baked. Let it sit on a rack to cool for cutting, maybe twenty minutes, then ready the ice cream. Or, if you are from New York State, a slice of sharp cheddar. Why not both? Blueberry, sour cherry, peach, lemon meringue, rhubarb, pecan, sweet potato; all good, but for a pie to have for supper, apple made the most sense. Goes good with bacon in the morning as well.
Today was the first day that I came home from work and wasn't greeted by a grey and white cat, whose arrival at the door became slower, yet he pushed himself even at the last to put in a hurrying step coming down the hallway. Kai has started looking for him, visiting the places he kept; Snowbelle has a happier countenance and chirps good-riddances. I noticed his absence, which will happen for awhile.
Tonight I have paperwork, lots. The fish sail back and forth in the aquarium; the corys are swimming in a synchronized triad, the angels are piloting slowly, as if the parade was in their honor. This paperwork needs tending, (teaching people: finishing the SLO/LMA), and then I am going to bed early. More scraping and shoveling, more ice, more schnee in the morning; maybe the cold weather stirred up memories of pies on baking racks, flour dusting the counter and floor. Sleep well, descend to the necessary levels of somnambulance for repair, discovery, flight among dreams. Good night.
Saturday, February 7, 2015
Stevie Pickles
He was my feline watchdog, noises had to be investigated so that he could keep things together; just last night, there was commotion in the outside hallway and he came out, ears up, staring and listening intently for information. Any loud crash would bring him running, and I had to argue with him after breaking a glass as he wanted to get right in the middle of it. Turned into a shoving match till he tried to bite me as he would a stubborn underling and then the famous, now sweeping snow from cars broom was gotten. No cat argues with me with a broom in my hands. Yet he would come when the others went running, my valiant fellow.
Today, after two months of a fast weight loss with no apparent cause, I put him down. He had been put through several tests that showed all his systems were running well; strong heart, no blood sugar or thyroid issues. To determine if it was cancer would require exploratory surgery, and I was not going to put him through that mill of human hope when the chances were plainly not good. He had stopped eating, taking in bits of chopped, cooked meat or cat treats before wobbling away; his bones were sticking out, muscle mass was almost gone.
I am numb from the loss of several companion pets within the frame of four months. The remaining two are healthy, Snowbelle is just a bit crooked due to spinal malformations, but Kai is fine. Steve had started to go downhill right after Tulip died; he paid no attention to her administrations previously, but seemed to miss her cloying attempts at being his friend afterwards. I dunno. When Min had died the month before, he went on a rage, swatting everyone including me; that went on for a week before he settled back into letting the human be the boss. I think he was keeping us in line, so there would be no more slip-ups.
He was difficult, till he decided he loved me. On one side, the white fur streaked through the gray in the shape of an S; on the other side, it formed a C. My initials, I thought. Kismet. I had wanted a boy cat to balance out the communal bitchiness of the four females and it worked, they turned their attention to him, with fewer battles amongst themselves.
After examination, the vet recommended euthanasia, and gave him a shot to relax; it sort of worked, sort of didn't, he became like an angry, drunken sailor. The fatal shot didn't kick in either, it put him in a state as though under anesthesia; a second injection took minutes before his heart stopped, before the last expansion of his lungs. Goodbye, my baby; I hope you felt loved.
After he was gone, I was able to do something that he'd never allow; hold him, finally, to cradle his head in my hands, hold his paws, press into his neck with my face, telling him with gratitude the joys he had brought to this earthly plane. He was a soul among billions, a fighter who took care of the ones he loved.
Home now, but less, less than home. I am sure the vet will call with a "this one is perfect for you" cat that will most likely come and live with us; two cats are just ridiculous when having three is absolutely no increase in the work. But not yet. Not until I feel Stevie is settled, that he is alright, that maybe he is not being so hard on Tulip. My heart is scattered, a piece of it once beat inside a grey and white cat, a tough guy who allowed trust to enter, who found his home.
Steve, Tulip, Min, Moby, Martian, Eggy, Fiona Fafnir, Pi, Mimi, Skitter, Lucy, Mittens, Smoky, Joule, Kelvin, Mama, Rosealily, dear Muffin.
Today, after two months of a fast weight loss with no apparent cause, I put him down. He had been put through several tests that showed all his systems were running well; strong heart, no blood sugar or thyroid issues. To determine if it was cancer would require exploratory surgery, and I was not going to put him through that mill of human hope when the chances were plainly not good. He had stopped eating, taking in bits of chopped, cooked meat or cat treats before wobbling away; his bones were sticking out, muscle mass was almost gone.
I am numb from the loss of several companion pets within the frame of four months. The remaining two are healthy, Snowbelle is just a bit crooked due to spinal malformations, but Kai is fine. Steve had started to go downhill right after Tulip died; he paid no attention to her administrations previously, but seemed to miss her cloying attempts at being his friend afterwards. I dunno. When Min had died the month before, he went on a rage, swatting everyone including me; that went on for a week before he settled back into letting the human be the boss. I think he was keeping us in line, so there would be no more slip-ups.
He was difficult, till he decided he loved me. On one side, the white fur streaked through the gray in the shape of an S; on the other side, it formed a C. My initials, I thought. Kismet. I had wanted a boy cat to balance out the communal bitchiness of the four females and it worked, they turned their attention to him, with fewer battles amongst themselves.
After examination, the vet recommended euthanasia, and gave him a shot to relax; it sort of worked, sort of didn't, he became like an angry, drunken sailor. The fatal shot didn't kick in either, it put him in a state as though under anesthesia; a second injection took minutes before his heart stopped, before the last expansion of his lungs. Goodbye, my baby; I hope you felt loved.
After he was gone, I was able to do something that he'd never allow; hold him, finally, to cradle his head in my hands, hold his paws, press into his neck with my face, telling him with gratitude the joys he had brought to this earthly plane. He was a soul among billions, a fighter who took care of the ones he loved.
Home now, but less, less than home. I am sure the vet will call with a "this one is perfect for you" cat that will most likely come and live with us; two cats are just ridiculous when having three is absolutely no increase in the work. But not yet. Not until I feel Stevie is settled, that he is alright, that maybe he is not being so hard on Tulip. My heart is scattered, a piece of it once beat inside a grey and white cat, a tough guy who allowed trust to enter, who found his home.
Steve, Tulip, Min, Moby, Martian, Eggy, Fiona Fafnir, Pi, Mimi, Skitter, Lucy, Mittens, Smoky, Joule, Kelvin, Mama, Rosealily, dear Muffin.
Friday, February 6, 2015
Bricks and Bats
The car has been continuously buried under snow for the week, and the produce forgotten in the back seat became an art form; a block of mushrooms, a bag of snap peas that would put your eye out. I use my large cornstraw broom to fling off the snow for it does a quick job and warms up the constitution; there is no time in the morning to fiddle with a snow brush the size of a waffle. Got to get going, thwack.
Every swing of the clock's hands has dumped snow on the flivver, a confectionary dollop of six-sided mysteries. Parking in the lot or on the city street at work introduces the plows and blowers that pack brown slush up the sides or thank you so much, on top. How the hell are you getting that stuff ON TOP of my car? The sun roof is blanketed over, which is okay as there hasn't been any sun, and the foot of snow on the roof gives the car the appearance of having a crew cut. This introduction is to let you know that every freaking morning has had a dramatic shoveling/scraping scene inserted into the commute. And by "freaking", I mean "gosh darn". The neighbors look at me while fluffing off their own vehicles with teensy brushes as I launch waves of snow with the kitchen broom in furiosity; I don't think it's admiration, the tension I get is as if something dangerous has entered and lives very close to them. Don't care. I'm going to work and have to hustle, because.
Because of Not Her Real Name 'cause she'll kick my ass let's say Chaz. Chaz is a volunteer grandparent at my school who found out that I'm her neighbor, and could she ride with me to work? Sure, I'm nice and will go out of my way to be nice as the philosophy is that we are all in this together. It means an extra drive around the loop to her building, I pull up to the sidewalk and here she comes. However, Chaz is in her seventies with a recent knee replacement, so she walks slowly, and will stop walking to talk to everyone, anyone for minutes, losing focus in the idea of getting to the car because we gotta get to work. NOW. I have learned to get out of the car, offer my elbow and pull. C'mon, c'mon. c'mon; we gotta get you into the car.
"I'm okay! Oh, let me get into the car. I'm good. Okay, you okay? Alrighty then." She flops back onto the front seat, turns, and as we hold up traffic, arranges her cane. No, I don't mean to be snarky, it's just sometimes, maybe about 80% of the time, she isn't in the lobby. She looks out her kitchen window till she sees me, then takes the elevator down. This slaps on another five minutes. If she talks to the people in the lobby, ("They don't understand English"), it's seven.
Today she wasn't there at all, no Chaz in sight; I texted her a Good Morning :) and waited. And waited. Finally, after a record time which surpassed my schedule, she appeared; I recognized her sway and the bobbed wig she wears. I get out of the car and help her over the slush pleasantly while in reality deep in a corner, I wanted to catapult old lady butt up and over the ramparts. Patience. I have it.
"I went back upstairs. I told the young man to tell you that I went back upstairs. He don't speak much but he knows sign language."
What?
"I went back upstairs to call a cab. I didn't know what to do, so I went upstairs."
Now, this is the second year I have been driving her. Never have I missed picking her up, and in fact, was two minutes earlier at the outset. She had decided she was going to take charge of the situation and call a cab. Or her son, who drives her everywhere anyways. We proceeded while I listened to the I went back upstairs I didn't know if you were coming story for several minutes before I steered her onto how I would sign her schedule today, since the director of the grandparent program was absent. The roads were a mess, the snow was blowing sideways, and Chaz was happy to be on her way. Me too.
Ten minutes late, I took the back stairs up to my room to avoid any administrative eyeballs, swung into setting up the kids breakfast; because of the lousy conditions, I beat all the students to the room. But being late throws me, knocks the synchronicity into the blender simply because the school day is rigorously planned to the minute. So, you patch it up, toss out a component, and smooth the edges; Chaz arrives to the room, telling me how she stopped to talk to whositz, which is fine. She cheers people up, and they love to see her; she knows half the politicians in the city, who to call up and complain to, wears false eyelashes, calls me Ivory to her Ebony, and knows that you have to crack a few eggs to make a cake.
All I have to do is get there earlier; I think she got herself to the lobby sooner than usual, listened to her internal clock, knew time was up for her waiting, and decided to take matters into her own hands. No, she isn't patient, but that's her way, and she's especially good with the children. I am grateful to have her.
I cannot say, but tonight may be my Steve's last; he has an appointment at the vet's for 12:30 for an evaluation. My heart is breaking, my poor little one. There are trucks scooping up the mountains shoved against the outside fence, and loading the snow into larger trucks to be taken to the brownfields in South Buffalo. It is a hollow feeling, isolation by weather, impending loss of a loved companion. Push; push forward, what else can be done? I don't wish to sleep, I want time to extend forever, to hold still with no deaths or deadlines; simple thoughts, these. Sit with me. Wait. Sun will come.
Friday, January 2, 2015
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.
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.
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