I got that damn bronchitis AGAIN!!! I'm better now, and the computer is up and running. The house is still a wreck, but I found The Betty Brigade, and what a relief! They sent two girls (young women, really, mid-twenties, but still...), and what a team they are. I never had that much energy in my life. They unpacked, and put away stuff, too! They organize like champs, have truly functional brains (both have science degrees from college), and accomplish more in a day than I could in a month. They even go up and down stairs endlessly. No matter what you tell the movers, boxes still end up two floors away from where they should be.

As the boxes disappear, so do my allergy problems. I found a new doctor already, I had to! She listens, and she seems to think I may have functional brain cells, too! An idiot doctor who will follow my orders is okay in an emergency, but one with brains who listens is worth any price. And female, too, so when I tell her where it hurts, she has one and understands! Now, if I could just stay healthy and never see her again...

I've given up on relating the saga of my drive to the new house in this blog. I will write it up and put a link to it in here, if anybody's interested. We bought a new bed, one of those sleep number deals, and I'm okay with giving up the waterbed. However, my number turns out to be 20, so I wake up in a hollow every morning and have to inflate my side so I can get out. We bought new bedroom furniture, and it should be delivered soon. I've contacted a builder to get a bookcase 35' by 6' built into my office, so some of our over 8,000 volumes (really, no kidding) can be put away one of these days. We bought a new, very fancy barbecue, one of those giant stainless steel monsters, with two side burners, a rotisserie, a smoker, and an infrared thingy; this is Bob's new love. I think it's rather overkill for two steaks or a three pound roast, but he's enjoying it. It will be great when we have summer parties, we can barbecue 30 hamburgers and 15 hotdogs all at the same time. Then again, how often do you need to?

I finally got the hang of diapering the cat, but the cat hasn't gotten into it yet. He doesn't realize he can't run flat out anymore, so he still tries to escape when he sees the fresh diaper coming at him. I stroll over and grab him, and then the real fun begins. Did you know cats don't actually have waists? I had to create a hookemer (technical term), like a garter belt, which attaches to the diaper and his collar. What he really needs is suspenders, but he hasn't got shoulders, either. The fun part was finding a length short enough to keep the diaper on his butt, but long enough not to strangle him. He also doesn't know he's wearing a diaper, so he keeps going to his box. I'm reducing the amount of litter slowly but surely, eventually he'll have an empty box to stand in.

I've also got the hang of cutting tail holes in baby diapers. I did buy some doggie diapers with a pre-cut tail hole, but for one quarter the cost, well, I've got a pair of scissors and some free time while I watch T.V. I did have to work out the location for the tail hole, another thing cats don't have is an inseam. Also, every time I tried to measure from his "back waist" to his "front waist" he peed on the tape measure. By the way, a plastic tape measure still cannot be washed in the dishwasher, the numbers come off. Who knew? Yes, I washed it in the tub with soap first, don't be disgusting! Anyway, the tail hole is in the right spot most of the time now.

The cat does not care for the new bed, he can't get out of the hollow, either, and the new bed is so high he can't jump up. He solves the hollow problem by sleeping on top of me now, not just alongside. We're getting stairs for him, carpeted, of course. Other than that, he's a happy kitty. He is entranced by the lake, he'd never seen so much hideous water in his life. He's not certain it can't get him, either. He's a bit confused by all the boxes in the house, too, but they're going away, at last, and the rest of his furniture is still all here, so he's suspicious, but okay.

I haven't found a vet I really like yet. The one at the local cat clinic seems to be a very unsympathetic dog person; big voice, says we're doing a lot more than she'd do for one of her dogs. So what? The Marmakitty is happy, not in pain, and we can afford it. I'm still looking for another vet.
 

I am back on-line at last. Good thing I found the Geek Squad, because I needed them again. The nice Geek didn't even laugh, snort, or make a face where I could see it. I will be posting a very long entry about the trip here, and trying to get back on-line, but until then remember:

Ordinary telephone cord no makum go; big blue cord makum go. Also, stick end of surge protector in wall, not leavum on floor.

Also, The Marmakitty made the trip just fine.
 

Just peeked in here long enough to say bye for a few days, then I'll be disconnecting my computer for the packers. The women the company sent are so much fun, and so fast! I'm sorry we didn't meet sooner.

karisjeri sure types fast. I was in the Angel Army store, and she bought both items I wanted! Man, she has good taste. I'l try to figure out how to link to the WDC Angel Army when I get back, but you can find it through Angel Resources. Well worth checking out the whole group, not just the store.

I'm not sure when I'll be back, but if I can get on-line while en route I will do so. Bye for now, wish me luck!

Aha! I think I've got it now.

"The WDC Angel Army" 
"Invalid Item" 
 

I just spent another four hours screwing around with utilities. The town says we don't belong with them, the electric company says there is no service there, the township (another entity entirely) is only open Wednesday and Friday, 9 am to noon. No kidding. After calling everyone I could find, searching all over the web, and turning the air blue, I called my real estate agent.

My agent, Taylor Lapidus of Keller Williams Realty (http://www.theabramsteam.com), is a saint. What should have been a three or four day deal has turned into six months of agonizing and hand-holding. He has been so super, so upbeat and cheerful, I just can't believe it. Maybe he's a little surly when he gets home at night, but I've never seen any evidence of it. So, I finally give up on the gas and electric, and call Taylor. I know there were lights and heat in the house the last time I saw it! It has to come from somewhere. He finds out exactly who the last owners used, along with data I can use to prove to the companies that they did indeed provide service to the house. Then he phones me back to say look for the e-mail, where it's all typed out nice and neat for me.

There was a lot of noise in the background, so I asked Taylor what airport he was at. He's on a vacation, on a cruise ship, in the Florida area. And he's wasting his time doing more crap for me! He was still even cheerful about it! What a guy. I'll do something extra nice for him, as soon as I can figure out what. No commission he's earning on this sale is enough.

So, at last I contact the gas company. Turns out they'll do electricity, too. All right! They even seem to agree that the house exists.

Okay, now why does the mover's timing suck? I swear, no kidding or exaggeration, I had just finished with the gas company when the phone rings. It's the movers. As a special service to their customers they'll get all the utilities set up, including phone, internet, and cable.

I'd happily strangle somebody if I could figure out who.
 

I planned to set up all the utilities in the new house today, but, silly me, I started with the phone. It took over four damn hours! I must have researched every phone company on the planet, each one waiting until the very last instant to inform me that they didn't have high-speed internet in the area. I will not go back to dial-up, even if we have to default on our deposit on this house and buy another one. Lucky me, I finally discovered the local cable company, and they do phones, internet, and cable. By this time it was 3:35 p.m. here, which is 5:35 p.m. there, so everyone else was closed.

This has screwed up my whole schedule! Okay, fine, I can do my new cell phone on-line, right? Sort of. If I were a terrorist, or even just someone intent on committing fraud, I would have had no problems. Instead, I gave a real address. It doesn't exist. Never mind that I have a mortgage company willing to fork out several hundred thousand dollars for the joint, it isn't there. Okay, use my husband's business address. Nope, can't use a "c/o" in your address. Fine, now he owns that place. What do I care, it's just a place for them to deliver the new cell phone. Pick a phone, suuuurrre. I'll just do that. How? What features do I want? Well, it should ring. I should be able to say "Hello" and then hear someone else talking.

Not so fast, toots, you've got to pick a style, video reception, radio reception, internet capabilities, camera resolution, text messaging, and on, and on, and on... I just want a damn phone. I don't watch T.V. on it, or listen to the radio, or take pictures, or any other crap. I need to be able to phone either a) my husband to come get me if he can figure out where I am, or b) the cops to come get me because no one else can zero in on the phone. Yes, I spend a lot of time lost whenever I move.

So, a good two hours later, after sorting through all this crap three times, I find a company which actually will provide a phone that might work where I will be living. There are no guarantees, of course. They still want a two year contract, but they don't promise the phone will work anyplace I'm likely to be. I am now awaiting the delivery of a phone, to a place I don't own, to a name which isn't mine, and it may or may not be more than a really light paperweight.

So, I quit. I've done enough swearing for one day, I'm through. I come here, only to find out the one person I'm looking forward to meeting in Michigan is going to be in Ann Arbor this weekend. I won't be, but she will! It's not fair. Eventually, we will get together; eventually, the new house will be put together; eventually, I will be able to have the nervous breakdown to which I am so richly entitled. Just not yet.

Tomorrow I'll find out if I can get electricity to a non-existent address.
 

By this time next Sunday I should be on my way to Michigan. I've been looking at various home improvement mags for several reasons.

1. We're getting a new bed.
2. Since we're getting a new bed we'll need new bedroom furniture. (Yes, we will. Trust me on this one. Besides, I WANT IT!)
3. I'm getting a new stove/range.
4. I'll need a kitchen designer to plan the new kitchen around the new stove.
5. I'm having the two loveseats, two couches, and four dining chairs reupholstered. Also, maybe, two large wingchairs and two small barrel chairs. Because I want to, and it's time, that's why.
6. I'll have to paint the bedroom so I can sleep without nightmares.
7. I'll need new bedding to go with everything else new in the room.
8. I just like the pretty pictures; and I love to sneer at the ugly ones. (The 'before' was better, you idiot, and HOW MUCH did you pay for this?)

I had been congratulating myself on all the hard work being almost finished, right up until I remembered what has to be done next. I wonder if you can spray paint an interior wall?
 

People always ask me why I refer to him as "The" Marmakitty. Because that's his name, of course. Seriously, there is a reason.

When we lived in Seattle we had a floorshow on our back deck every night. We lived in a forest, and wild raccoons would come to the deck to eat cheap cat food and be entertaining. We had the sliding glass door closed between us, of course, these were wild animals, after all. No, we were not teaching them to be dependent on humans, they already were, and we only put out a little bit of food each night. At the same time, I also had all the area cats visiting us, mostly feral and uncatchable, but I still named them, as well as the raccoons. Thus, having named in excess of forty creatures, I was running out of names and had begun to use descriptives instead. The latest gray cat had become "The Gray, No Stripes". Then there was "The Tiger, Faint Stripes", and on it went.

One day an extremely large orange cat showed up, quite obviously male and proud of it. My husband and I began to talk about him when he chased off a full-grown male raccoon (50 pounds, at least). Then came the day this marmalade cat scared a female raccoon so badly she fled leaving her babies behind. That just does not happen. I, naturally, went out and chased off the cat, so the mother raccoon would retrieve her babies.

Eventually, that marmalade tomcat chased every other living creature away from our back deck, but he wasn't looking so great. We captured him and took him to our vet. The vet said the cat had adopted us, but he was on his last legs. If we weren't going to fix him up, he should be put to sleep. The vet wasn't sure which would kill him first, the lung infection, the ear mites and ensuing infection, or the fleas. (Who knew you could die from enough fleas?) We weren't even looking at his filthy teeth with possible abcesses, or the wounds in various stages of healing.

My husband said if we were adopting him (duh!) we should name him, and what kind of cat was he, anyway? I said he was that marmalade cat we'd been seeing for months. I didn't realize all this time I'd been naming the cat to the cat! Once we realized that, there was no changing it. Bob still insists this is a sissy name for a tough-guy tomcat, but we're all stuck with it, and besides, what does the cat know? It's not like the other boys will laugh at him. Thus, he became "The Marmakitty".
 

Two horrible things have happened in the last few days. One has a relatively happy ending, the other is still up in the air.

First, my friend Susie Q, a.k.a. ARE YOU NUTS?!!!, tried to commit suicide. This was no “cry for help”, this was the real thing. She left no note, took a bunch of assorted pills, and parked her car on a side street so she wouldn’t taint her apartment with her ghost, just in case. Fortunately, she misjudged the pill dosage, and the seclusion of the street she parked on. Cops found her, she got her stomach pumped, and now she’s stuck in a mental ward against her will. She honestly wonders why they won’t let her go for a walk outside.

She thought she had good reasons for what she did. Her husband of 25+ years has turned out to be a cheating, physically and emotionally abusive, alcoholic piece of crap; she is broke and saddled with a mountain of debt he built and then stuck her with; she was diagnosed with lung cancer; and the one good job she had, which might have turned into something with an actual future, fired her when they learned of the lung cancer. (Yes, she’s a smoker. No, this does not mean she deserves lung cancer. I just know people will ask.)

In general, I am not against suicide. I do believe people should be able to do anything they want with their own bodies, as long as they hurt no one else. However, I do think suicide is only warranted by certain circumstances, and after great reflection, as it is generally an irrevocable decision. Good reasons for suicide would be an agonizing terminal illness which will bankrupt everyone you love financially, emotionally, and physically; or the realization you have murdered someone inappropriately, in cold blood. (That is, the murder was inappropriate. It should always be committed in cold blood, of course.)

Bad reasons would be a bad hair day; totaling the car while sober; an operable, tiny first stage lung cancer; and/or an asshole about-to-be-ex-husband. Good reasons = no other solution; bad reasons = a royal pain in the ass. I have explained this to Susie Q, but she’s still pissed off that she didn’t succeed. Her daughter is brokenhearted that her mother didn’t come to her for help, and didn’t even leave a note. I have told Susie Q that if she ever pulls such a stunt again she better do a bit more research and succeed; because if she doesn’t succeed I’ll come shoot her for her trouble, but not fatally. Just bad enough that she’ll have a long, long, long time to think over the error of her ways.

One good thing to come out of this, she’s seeing a specialist right away, and the tiny, first stage lung cancer will be surgically removed. She might not even need chemotherapy, as it has been discovered so early. She’s seeing a shrink almost daily, so eventually she should learn to differentiate between “Oh, crap” and “Goodbye, world” situations. I’m trying to convince her daughter that this could turn out to be a very good thing after all.

The other thing to happen was that The Marmakitty was feeling very poorly, and I was afraid it was time to say goodbye to him. I called his vet, an absolute angel, Dr. Brenda Phipps, owner of Willow Park Feline Veterinary, and she saw us right away. My poor cat had terrible pain in his stomach, couldn’t potty at all, wouldn’t eat or drink, couldn’t walk, and was just plain miserable. After thorough examination, it was determined that he was blocked up, but not very internally. He had a giant, hard, poop stuck right under his tail! On the inside, yes, but right there! This made it next to impossible for him to squish his muscles and force anything out. Dr. Brenda, SuperVet, was able to force the nasty poop out. At the time, the cat thought this was a very bad idea, and told everyone what he thought. With voice and gestures. I’m sure he was quite obscene, but Dr. Brenda was as gentle as she could possibly be, and even apologized for hurting him. To him! Then she emptied his bladder, which was horribly distended, poor little boy.

The Marmakitty was still excoriating the world in general, and Dr. Brenda and me in particular, all the way home. Here comes the funny part: the instant he was in the house and out of his carrier he scurried over to his food dish and began to yell at me that he was starving and it was all my fault! The little bugger!

He is back to what has now become normal. Of course, my eyes will remain swollen for at least another two or three days, I am completely out of tissues, and the cat is getting really tired of nose kisses. Tough beans!

So, which is the relatively happy ending, and which is still up in the air? I’m not entirely sure. Either way, I have to go kiss the cat now, it’s been at least five minutes.

 

I just started

ID: 1218077   (Rated: ASR) Title: Hideous Reviews I Never Gave  Description: Have you read something you'd like to say something horrid about? By: Chriswriter

Sometimes I find something here so horrendous, so stupid, so worthless, I could scream. I'd never tell any of these people, of course. Pointless cruelty is unforgiveable. On the other hand, as Dorothy Parker once said, "If you don't have anything nice to say, come sit by me".
 

It is positively, actually, truly, official now: I am an idiot. Somehow I got it into my head that the closing on the new house is March 1. I have made so many interlocking, intricately coordinated plans on this assumption, I can't even count that high. Problem? It's closing on February 28. That's right, 24 hours earlier.

The closing cannot be moved to March 1, all the documents have been drawn up. The movers cannot start a day earlier, they're all booked up. Neither Bob nor I can be in Ann Arbor for the signing, because we will be in the car driving the cat to the new house. We cannot fly because the cat could have a heart attack and die, whether or not he is sedated. We cannot fly one of us in for the signing, and the other one drive the cat; Bob won't let me drive that far alone on icy roads, and the cat won't survive the trip without me. Solution, at this late date? We will not be driving in easy stages. We will not stop for the night here and there so the cat can eat and pee. (In a moving car? Not bloody likely!) We will be driving hell bent for election, straight through, starting the night of the 25th. After watching the van load all day, of course.

And how far are we driving? That is a question of some debate. I say it's pretty close to 2,000 miles, Bob says only 1,500, tops. Even if he's right, 1,500 anythings do not constitute an "only". We have done marathon drives before, and I have developed a routine to deal with the stresses. Bob will not let me (or anyone else) drive, it's some kind of macho issue. Thus, I cannot stop the damn car. Over a period of many years, I have developed the following method for dealing with the lunatic.

Me: I'm hungry, and I have to potty.

Bob: (utter silence)

Me: I'm really hungry, and I had a diet Coke with caffiene. I have to go NOW.

Bob: You just ate half an hour ago.

Me: Even if you were right, which you're not, I'd still have to go to the bathroom. And, we ate 7 hours ago. The Big Mac and fries have processed, okay? I sucked all the nutrients out, and now I have to eliminate the crap. Pull the goddamn car over at that rest stop you're about to fly past!

Bob: You have a thimble for a bladder.

Me: Even so, so what? Now pull the goddamn car over, or I will pee on this seat, AND THEN MAKE YOU CHANGE SEATS WITH ME!!!!!

Bob: I never said I wasn't pulling over. You don't have to yell.

I am sooooo not looking forward to this drive.