Medicine and Mayhem

My GYN offered to put me on an estrogen patch (1) instead of taking out my IUD like I asked—thanks, Doc!—so if I start acting all whacked out or express a desire to wear polyester outfits, well, you've been forewarned.

(1) She normally prescribes this to women going through "change of life," as my grandmother calls it.

L.H. has been warning me since I got the IUD that I shouldn't dick around with Mother Nature, and apparently a hormone-laden, plastic, uterine irritant is just not enough to knock her out. Who would have thought?

While at the doctor's office, I had the second worst phlebotomy experience ever. Normally, nurses look at me and have a Tootsie Roll moment, where they see a giant, pulsing vein, then they start to drool. The first vial was filled without a hitch. The second vial—two squirts, then nothing. What the hell? I couldn't have been *out of blood.* [L.H. asked if I heard 'pssst' when she put the needle in. ha ha] So the nurse looked at the partial vial and said, "It's probably enough." She slapped a band-aid on my arm, told me to press on it, and sent me on my way.

While I was waiting at the pharmacy across the street, I felt something wet on my arm. I had bled through the band-aid and my sleeve. Despite my legendarily full veins, that's never happened to me before. And it hurts like hell, to the point that I almost made myself cry test-poking it.

And in the window of the apothecary, I saw the PHARMACIST OF THE DAMNED. Marionettes are creepy enough, but a *pharmacist puppet* is downright disturbing somehow.

Our neighbors have 2 (normally) well-behaved Yorkies, Lola and Arthur. [And what is it with Yorkie owners and gay pet names? I wouldn't be surprised to meet a Hell's Angel and his Yorkie Priscilla.] Today, L. and A. have been barking almost non-stop for *5-and-a-half hours.* You'd think they would have barked themselves hoarse by now, but no such luck. After the first hour, we heard another neighbor knock on the door and ring the bell, but no one was home. Personally, I think the dogs have eaten their owners and are barking for fresh meat. L.H. is doubtful for some reason. In any case, they have just reconfirmed for me my hatred of small, yippy dogs.

Missy Cat is still taking it slow and easy after her near-death experience, but I think she's feeling more like her old self, because she tried to rip Eliza Cat a new ass for sniffing at her.

I noticed while down in the village that hairdressers must be the only people in the world who can get away with wearing a metal-studded, low-slung belt *and* thong FMPs (2) at the same time. Outside of a music video (and the aforementioned beauty parlor), I don't think I've ever seen the combination in the real world.

(2) FMPs=Fuck Me Pumps

Oh, How the Mighty Have Fallen, So to Speak

Missy Cat has just proven that intelligence is *not* her defining trait. She wouldn't come in from the roof-top terrace when I called her, so I slid the door to; if she wanted in, she'd have to beg (or miaow, I'm easy). Instead, I heard 'thump, thump, thump', and she was gone. L.H. went outside and checked all around the house, and there was no sight or sound of her. I took a turn during his and D.D.'s bedtime reading and found M.C. crouching in the bushes by the front door. She had apparently fallen (jumped? slipped?) from the roof of the third floor. She loves L.H. more than me, so she let him pick her up and bring her back inside.

As of bedtime, she has a light nosebleed and seems ginger on her feet, but she let me pet her and didn't try to bite off my hand when I pressed all over her belly, looking for possible internal injuries. According to a paper I read online about high-rise syndrome, cats who fall several stories tend to have injuries to the face and chest, and fractures of the limbs. M.C. doesn't seem to be in bad pain when she walks (no crying or falling or limping, just a stiff gait), so we're hoping she's better—and wiser!—in the morning. If not, there's a vet right down the street.

I am relieved as much for D.D.'s sake as for the cat's that things turned out so well (knock on wood), because Missy Cat was suddenly D.D.'s own, personal, favorite cat the minute she went missing. L.H. and I are planning to wake up early just in case.

At least we found her before it started to rain. I think it may have got up to 80F during the day, but at bedtime it was probably closer to 60F. Ick.

***

M.C. doesn't seem to have developed any further complications during the night, but we did notice a scrape on her belly this morning. It must be tender, because she nipped me when I tried to touch it. But she had made it up onto the couch on her own, and later she joined us on the bench at breakfast, so she must have been feeling much better to make the effort of hopping up on the furniture to be so sociable. Now we need to figure out how to block up the balcony where she can't get out onto the roof. Of course, with all the cool weather recently, we probably didn't even need to have that door open yesterday (but L.H. isn't happy unless he has every door and window in the house open, even when it's 60F outside).

A Little of This, A Little of That

Yesterday, D.D. declared she was just *too excited* because Gwamma is coming and Austin Powers will be on tv. See, Gwamma, you're in the same popularity category as Austin Powers. It's true love!

[L.H. said I should rename this "The Grandma Stroking Blog," but is it my fault that D.D. is so sweet all the time?]

My daughter is generally averse to eating anything that looks remotely natural, like vegetables, but apparently she decided to suspend the rule when it comes to cherries. Last time we bought some, she put a cherry in each cheek (several times) and was all, "Look at me! I'm a squirrel!" Unfortunately, she was a squirrel with diarrhea, because she ate most of the pint by herself at one sitting. That'll learn her.

I HATE driving down the hill in our village, because cars are parked all along the downhill side, but even more than that, I HATE riding in the passenger seat when L.H. drives down the hill. He is not driving recklessly, but he drives as close as possible to the parked cars, forcing me to gasp, flinch, and clench my gut. Not the most preferred method of exercising my stomach muscles, let me tell you. And it will never get better. Sigh.

While on our outing over the weekend, D.D. spotted a pizzeria that we will NEVER, EVER dine in. Have you ever seen the cute little pizza cook statue that adorns the sidewalk outside an Italian/pizza restaurant? He usually has a board where the day's specials are posted. This one was also holding up a tray, on which was a severed pig's head. Not remotely appetizing.

I don't remember if I mentioned here that L.H. was in a funk of despair over the state of his flowerless geraniums, but it appears that his concern was premature, nicht wahr? 

So Sad!

It seems that Darling Daughter has lost track of the number of days until Gwamma and PawPaw come, but she has a good excuse—her classmates got so annoyed with her continually announcing the countdown that she stopped counting. The shame! The infamy!

My pleasure in container gardening has turned to rage at the ants who dare to chomp my plants. Somehow, our *fourth floor balcony* has become an ant haven. They don't seem to be damaging my food plants (chives and parsley), but they're eating the hell out of the leaves on my (not yet) flowering plants. They really seem to have a jones for one type with long, grass-like blades; they've eaten most of them down to the stems! After a few violent, ineffectual rages, I got smart and looked for ant killer when I went grocery shopping. Success! The stuff smells like seasoned salt but kills like cyanide. Woo! hoo!

The ants are lucky that I didn't take a page out of the neighbor's book and bust out a flame thrower. L.H. and I thought that was kind of overkill for weed removal, but to each his own.

L.H. is in the dog house right now. [I wonder if I need a set of crocheted fridgies like his grandmother has—a dog house and several animals, each labeled with the name of a family member. The problem with that set-up is 1) magnets don't stick to our fridge, 2) I try to avoid crocheted ugliness, 3) it's a little too passive-aggressive for my taste, and 4) it's more fun to tell off my loved ones in person than to relegate their crocheted likeness to the crocheted dog house.]

Anyhow, yesterday L.H. talked us into a "short" day-trip since the weather was so nice. A "quick" trip to two nearby towns turned into an 8-hour excursion that included a hike to a spring that is allegedly the site of a major event in the Nibelungenlied (when Siegfried gets whacked), and another hike (that D.D. and I passed on) to a chapel dedicated to Saint Walburga. We packed a lunch to take with us, but we were still starving and tired when we got home. L.H. is in the dog house because he conveniently "forgot" to mention that he wanted us to do the last two things, which doubled the length of our outing and added the hated element of strenuous exercise.