_And_ they’re totally safe for work:
I know the second one isn’t real. I don’t care that it’s not what it appears to be. I’ve watched it a dozen times or more and it still makes me laugh until I cry.
_And_ they’re totally safe for work:
I know the second one isn’t real. I don’t care that it’s not what it appears to be. I’ve watched it a dozen times or more and it still makes me laugh until I cry.
Happy Birthday! (October 2nd)
Happy Birthday! (October 4th)
Happy Birthday! (October 7th)
Happy Birthday! (October 8th)
Happy Birthday! (October 9th)
Happy Birthday! (October 14th)
Happy Anniversary! (October 17th)
Happy Birthday! (October 20th)
Breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe….
October and January man!
My technician, Red, has a pair of friends. A couple who are expecting their first child.
Red was at their house the other day and she picked up a random parenting book that these friends had in their living room.
In this book there were a series of “short tips for parents”. One of which was that fathers of sons should be sure to assure said sons that their penis wasn’t ever going to fall off.
To which I have to ask…. IS THIS REALLY A THING?
Dr. Other Associate has two sons, one five, one eight. She says that her sons have NEVER indicated any concern that their penis might fall off. No male person (granted I have only asked two) to whom I have recounted this bit of parenting wisdom, has said that spontaneous penis detachment was ever a concern for them.
This is thoroughly indelicate, but not having one of my own, I have to ask those (few) male readers of UADN… Were you, as a child, EVER concerned that your penis might fall off? Did it ever even occur to you to think it might be possible? And fathers of sons, have you ever been concerned that it might be necessary to tell your child that his penis won’t fall off?
For heaven’s sake (and here my inner curmudgeon starts to speak) if we, as a culture, are at a point where a parenting book points out that we have to reassure our children that their genitals won’t fall off it’s no wonder that the world is going to Hell in a handcart!
I’ve been on an extended long weekend this week. Note that I call it “an extended long weekend” instead of “a vacation” or “a staycation”.
It’s not a vacation because I am doing things that people, sometimes even I, don’t associate with vacating. My closets are clean. My pantry is organized. I organized the junk drawer in the kitchen fer chrissake! So calm, mundane, peaceful things that don’t require me to think much or talk to anyone besides my husband and my cats unless I absolutely want to. But things that give me satisfaction, and things that I enjoy. Especially the part about being able to take the time to cook. Also it’s not a vacation because I’m home doing these things while Andrew is growing mildew in the basement working on the FP catalogue. One cannot have a vacation during the time when one’s spouse is working overtime on a deadline.
And it’s not a (shudder) “staycation” because the term irritates me. Like “selfie” and “hoodie”, “staycation” is a fractured fragment of two words that were glued together by a generation of people who do most of their communicating with their thumbs and even though I freely admit that a living language is an evolving language, I have enough respect for English that that sort of thing irritates me.
I was puttering around the kitchen this late morning/early afternoon banging things around and started this narrative in my head. Part recipe, part stream of consciousness, and part apology to the cat for swatting him on the backside.
In a stock pot large enough to scare hell out of your husband (who has previously been subject to some of your excesses with soup) dump two Nancy’s Yogurt containers of pumpkin pulp and one Nancy’s Yogurt container of ham stock. Set the stove to “low” so that the stock will melt before the pumpkin burns.
Take a moment to wonder why the larger of the two containers contains pumpkin pulp but virtually no juice.
Open the fridge.
Mumbling all sorts of Words about cracked containers and pumpkin juice spend the next 10 minutes with the refrigerator door open moving things off of the bottom shelf of the fridge and figuring out how to take the vegetable drawer out of your (relatively) new refrigerator.
Take the now removed drawer to the sink to wash it off, not realizing that the front of the drawer isn’t water tight.
Drool about half a cup of pumpkin juice onto the floor.
Indulge in more Words while you decide that wiping the pumpkin juice up off of the floor that has needed mopping for at least the last six weeks is just putting off the inevitable.
Stop to feed the cats.
Go downstairs to the laundry room, get the mop and the mop bucket.
Pick up the cat food dishes, the anti-fatigue mats, the trash can, and the water dish.
Mop the kitchen.
Wash out the vegetable drawer into which most of the pumpkin juice has drooled. Wipe down the rest of the interior of the fridge where the pumpkin has drooled.
Realize that you’ve got the mop and the bucket both right there and that the dining room needs mopping too. Sigh dramatically then move the anti-fatigue mats and the recycling bin into the hallway.
Realize that the lazy bloody Roomba hasn’t been sweeping in the corners thoroughly and indulge in some Words while you go and get the broom and dustpan to sweep up the cat hair and shredder cruddlies that have been accumulating in the corners.
Open the blind on the dining room window and turn on the ceiling fan so that the floor will dry quickly. Take a moment to swat the cat on the backside after he claws his way up your back so he can get onto the window sill in the dining room.
Decide you need a break because obviously your temper is a little frayed. Get a glass of water and go play Plants vs. Zombies for a while.
Suddenly remember your pumpkin glop on the stove.
After you bolt into the kitchen and realize that your glop hasn’t burned yet, stir the glop vigorously, take it off the heat, and realize that you’ll need to puree it before it can be pumpkin soup.
In preparation for getting out the food processor recognize that you still have a saucepan full of stewed tomatoes that need to be packaged up for the freezer.
Package up the stewed tomatoes. Dump the little bit of stewed tomatoes that won’t fit in the two freezer containers into the stock pot full of pumpkin glop. Antioxidants are antioxidants after all.
Put the stewed tomatoes in the freezer.
Look out the window and realize that your container plants need watering. Take a half hour to water the container garden while realizing that it’s basically late, late August and still bloody hot outside.
Wander down into the basement where the afore mentioned husband is growing mildew to discuss dinner plans.
Decide that pumpkin soup is a little too warm considering the weather and decide on pesto, brie, and tomato sandwiches for dinner. March back out to the container garden to pick basil.
Wash the basil then strip the leaves from the stems.
Put the basil in the food processor with 1/2 cup of extra virgin olive oil then whir.
When basil and olive oil have made a paste, add 1 cup of walnuts, 1/2 cup of shredded parmesan, and a good spoonful of garlic and whir.
Scoop the pesto out into a handy container and put it back in the now lovely clean, shiny fridge.
Scoop the pumpkin glop into the food processor bowl that has been used to make pesto and proceed to puree the pumpkin glop while you’re tidying up the kitchen.
Put the pumpkin glop back into the fridge (did you use a new, non-cracked container?) and go to the grocery store to get bread for the sandwiches. The pumpkin soup will wait for another day.
We were at a wedding a couple of weeks ago. A & E are a lovely couple and I wish them both the very best.
At the reception Andrew and I were seated with a number of other friends of the bride. Various geeks, techies, and other members of the literary nerd/gamer guild with whom I have hung for a number of years. And another woman, S, who was known to a number of the other people at the table, but whom I had never met before. We were seated next to each other and, as one does, over the course of the meal we started talking about what we do for a living.
A brief side note: If you’re ever talking with a veterinarian in anything more than an extremely casual dining experience, and especially if you don’t have a particularly strong stomach, I’d recommend you not say something like “So how do you like your job?” or “Wow, I bet that’s fun!”.
Because you tend to run across three different types of veterinarians. Those who are fresh in the field have all sorts of enthusiastic, but weird, things to say about their jobs. Those of us who have been in the profession for any length of time are cynical about humanity and have enough experience in the field to say all sorts of weird and hair raising things about our jobs. There’s a glitch in the social filter of those of us in the first two groups that keeps us from being able to easily identify situations in which some of our more interesting tales would be inappropriate. It’s just something about the nature of those of us that end up in the field.
Then there’s the third group. This group is those who have enough experience in the field to recognize a potential viper pit when they see it and have enough acting ability to be able to pull off “I’m a proctologist” or “I work for the IRS” on the fly. You’ll never know that the veterinarians in the third group are actually veterinarians, but you will be silently loathed if you happen to be a proctologist, a mortician, an IRS agent, or any of the other unappealing and potentially dull professionals that the good actors amongst us choose as their cover identities and choose to start talking about your job.
God help you if you have a sensitive stomach and you ever end up eating with a group of veterinarians.
Anyway, I was seated next to S, this essential stranger, at a rather formal wedding reception. I don’t have the moxie to be able to come up with a good cover identity and the rest of the table knew that I am a veterinarian anyway, so when she asked I told her what I did.
And I got the standard “Wow, that’s interesting/I bet that’s fun” sort of response.
Because my social filter is a tiny bit more evolved than some of my colleagues’ and I could recognize that a somewhat formal wedding reception in a hall filled with friends and family members was probably not the best place to get too weird, I prevaricated a little bit. But, as I mentioned above, I was seated at a table with a bunch of people who have known me for years and somehow the story of the woman with the gay cat came up. Which of course made S do a virtual spit take and ask “the woman with the GAY cat?!”
Neither the place nor the time was right to expand so I promised I’d expand here in hopes that she actually makes her way here to find the story.
So here goes.
Please note that when I told this to my mother she laughed so hard she had to sit down right where she was standing. You may want to take a seat.
It would have been the summer of 2001. My colleague L was a new graduate from the vet school at the University of Illinois and had done as I had — high school, undergrad, grad school. Got her degree just past her 22nd birthday then was thrown into the world of the general public which is a weird, WEIRD place to be at 22 if you haven’t done anything but go to school your whole life.
I was “in the back” that day. I had surgical procedures that had been done and then my responsibilities lay with the hospitalized patients. Which meant that I didn’t have to see appointments that day. I was sitting at the doctors’ desk in the treatment area with L when her technician, M, came back to tell her that there was a patient ready for her. The patient was a week old orphaned pit bull puppy that was coming in for a basic health check. M gave L the run down on the pup, the reason he was orphaned, how the owners had been caring for the pup, etc. When L asked what they’d been feeding the pup M told her “Her sister has a baby. She’s been breast feeding the puppy.”
When M told L that the sister’s owner had been breast feeding the puppy L, and there is no better way to put this, Lost. Her. Shit. (And L, if you’re reading this, there’s no use in denying it. I have a witness after all.)
Stamping up and down in the hallway, bright red, waving her arms and ranting about how gross that was and how did they EVER get such an idea and so on and so on and so on.
This was quite possibly one of the funniest things I have ever seen in my life.
M and I had only just stopped laughing when L, finished with the appointment, came stamping back, gave M one of the stinkiest of stink eyes I’ve ever seen and said “You could have told me they were from KENTUCKY!” which set us both off again.
Another brief side note: The puppy’s owner had talked her sister into breast feeding the puppy because they knew that “you can’t feed puppies cow’s milk”. Which, of course, begs the question “and so you can feed them human milk because….?”. And no, the sister wasn’t pumping and bottle feeding the puppy, the puppy was latching on after the sister’s kid had finished eating.
Also, I’d like to add that it was actually a fairly decent solution to a fairly common problem. Most orphaned puppies are hypothermic, dehydrated, malnourished or some combination of all three. This was a turgid puppy. It was like a water weenie with legs. Fat, warm, pink, and very, VERY vocal.
Regardless L did send them home with some puppy milk replacer and a feeding bottle. I think we all lost track of that puppy after that.
Fast forward a week. L was in the surgery suite spaying a German Shepherd. Because of the dog’s size and shape this is a challenging procedure regardless of how much experience one has as a surgeon so in between my appointments I was sticking close and making sure that L was doing okay.
L was doing great. I was sitting at the desk writing charts when my technician, J, came to tell me about my next appointment.
J told me that the cat was here because he was having problems with his ears. She gave me the run down on how long, what the symptoms were etc. And then she said “And I think you ought to know, she says that the cat is gay.” (record scratch)
J went on to say that she had been getting ready to take the cat’s temperature when the woman said to her “He’s gay you know.” “Not gay as in cheerful, but” (she looked around the room and put her hands over the cat’s ears, hissing) “he’s of the gay persuasion“.
“Not with other cats. Oh no. He loves birds. LOVES them….. And he’s got a squirrel friend.”
At which point J, the duplicitous bitch, put the thermometer down and said “I’ll go get the doctor for you.”
I’d had a trying week already, although I can’t remember what sort of trying it had been. J told me this, doing an impression of the owner that should have won an Oscar, and I just sat there gobsmacked. I listened to the whole thing, then put my pen down, got up from the desk and said “Oh no. That’s it. End of the road this week, I’m out of here!”
And L, from the surgery suite, hollered “Oh no! NO, NO! If *I* had to deal with the woman breast feeding the puppy *YOU* have to deal with the woman with the gay cat!”
Which left M and J both laughing their asses off.
In the heat of the moment it didn’t occur to me to wonder, but over the years I’ve come up with questions about the gay cat to which I’m not sure I want the answers.
What, and I mean WHAT, was this completely indoor castrated male cat doing *in the house* that made the owner think that he was sexually aroused by birds and squirrels?
If we assume that the cat knew he was gay (I mean, he’d have to know he was gay or he wouldn’t be doing whatever it was that let the owner know that he was gay, right?) why did the owner feel it necessary to put her hands over the cat’s ears when she told J that the cat was gay? I mean, the cat knew he was gay, he was behaving in a gay fashion (or at least what the owner interpreted as a gay fashion) so he must have known that *she* knew he was gay. Who was she protecting by covering the cat’s ears when she told J that the cat was gay?
And finally, why is it that no one tells wannabe veterinarians that people are frickin’ insane and if you enter the profession you’ll be dedicating your career to dealing with the loonies a lot more often than their pets?!
The story makes me giggle even still. Maybe the next time I’ll tell you about the woman who wanted her bitch’s ears cropped so when the bitch had puppies they’d all come out with cropped ears.
Caitlin Rachel Pomaik’ai Slattery & Cameron Phillip Hughes
Mazel tov you two! Best wishes for a long and joyous life together.
Sorry we couldn’t be there. We love you!
Two weeks ago Wednesday I removed 35 stones from the bladder of a Japanese Chin (an annoying, yappy, little brachycephalic breed that generally fall into the classification of ‘armpit pet’).
Neither the surgery, the breed, nor the number of stones that I removed were at all remarkable. It’s a straightforward surgical procedure and while 35 mineral crystals is, yes, a lot to have banging around inside your bladder it was by no means the most, either by volume or by number, that I’ve encountered so far.
Nor was the price of the surgery in any way unusual. The total cost of the procedure was around $950. That’s actually fairly reasonable considering the time the procedure took (a little over 40 minutes) and the pre and postoperative care the dog received.
No, the weird part of this procedure was the method of payment. See the owner couldn’t pay for the procedure herself so she “held a fundraiser”. Which in this day and age means that she set up a Gofundme site so she could ask friends, family, and totally random strangers to pay for what is ultimately her responsibility.
Because one of my receptionists is Facebook friends with a friend of the owner, my receptionist got included on the list of people who were asked to help pay for the surgical procedure. So my receptionist knows that the dog’s owner ended up raising enough to pay for the surgery (around $980 in fact).
Okay. All very well and good. Except, and you knew that this was coming, when the owner came to pick up the dog on the day of surgery she said that she could only pay us $400, she didn’t know when she’d be able to pay us the rest, and it was going to be around the end of September before she could even consider a payment plan on the rest of the bill.
Our office manager is a wonderful woman, a passionate animal lover, superb at her job, and NOT one you want to get crossways with. Since the receptionist had, happily, let us all know about the Gofundme appeal before the surgery the office manager knew that the dog’s owner had enough money to pay for the surgery. And while the office manager didn’t tell the dog’s owner that she knew about the Gofundme site, nor did she say any of the snarky things that all of us want to say, she did give the dog’s owner a flat, fishy, stink eye and told her that she had to pay the rest of her bill by the end of August and that she was going to get an imprint of the debit card which was going to be run on August 31st if the bill wasn’t paid by then.
At which point the dog’s owner started in with the expected wailing and rending of garments about how she didn’t know how she was going to purchase groceries or pay her rent or…… which was, of course, ignored.
The drama isn’t over of course. There’s still an outstanding balance on that account and the client has been marked as “no service” until the bill is paid. We won’t know how it ends until the bill is paid in full.
But that’s the reason I won’t ever donate to a Gofundme site or, with very, very strict exceptions, to any Kickstarter campaign. And that’s the reason I don’t ever give money to panhandlers. I have absolutely no idea what this dog’s owner did with the vast majority of the money she raised for her dog’s surgery — the dog whose medical condition she exploited for the purpose of coaxing money out of soft hearted strangers. I don’t really care what she did with the rest of the money she raised. Whatever she did it was reprehensible because she lied to the donors about how she’d spend their money.
I guess I should be sorry for her because she doesn’t have friends or family from whom she can borrow money when she needs it (and y’all know if you really need money you can ask us, right?). But instead I’m just pissed because she lied to me.
It’s still stinkin’ hot, it’s just less stinkin’ hot than it was a week ago.
However, as cranky and stressed out as that tends to make me about our water supply..
My record earliest tomato was Tuesday July 10th 2007. Tomorrow will be Thursday July 9th 2015. And tomorrow I will have ripe tomatoes on my vines.
I also have two, count ’em, TWO melon vines that have set fruit (one Moon & Stars watermelon and one Tigger melon) and….
My corn was, in fact, knee high on the _first_ of July.
Okay, for the record I seriously dislike that song. It’s supposed to sound slow and lazy like a summer day, but to me it sounds lugubrious like a summer song as interpreted by Marvin the Paranoid Android.
That having been said, it’s hot.
Like 92F hot. Way, WAY to hot for this early in the summer in Seattle.
And the cats, being cats, are sleeping in the stereotypically feline abandoned positions one expects of a piece of well aged roadkill. Case in point this afternoon, may I present Flitter:
Now for the sake of orientation, that’s Flitter lying lengthways along the back of my recliner. With her left front leg, holding on to the bannister that runs the length of our living room, supporting her head. And yes, she was asleep.
This is from the top down.
There’s about a 4 inch gap between the edge of the recliner and the bannister, and there’s a 3 foot space between the top of the bannister and the floor.
At my youngest and most flexible I don’t think I could have slept like that without suffering permanent cramps.
Cats are non-Newtonian fluids.
Coconut oil is trendy right now. I think Dr. Oz recommended it for something. I don’t know what made it start to trend, as it were, but coconut oil is BIG in terms of sovereign specifics. If you’re itchy — use coconut oil. If you’re constipated — use coconut oil. If you have indigestion — coconut oil. You get my drift.
Of course, since it’s good for people it must be good for pets, no?
And so I had the woman whose cat had fleas and flea allergic dermatitis who was smearing her cat in coconut oil to keep it from licking. Just for the record, if your cat is licking at her skin a lot, smearing her in something gooey isn’t going to make her lick less.
And I had the dog who had a hypersensitivity to malassezia (a common dermal yeast) whose owner was putting *four tablespoons* of coconut oil on his food twice a day. It didn’t help his skin, but it sure made him develop a raging pancreatitis and, because of that, diabetes which eventually killed him.
I have an online veterinary buddy who had a client that was smearing coconut oil on their cockatoo who was feather picking. Much like smearing it on a cat, smearing coconut oil on a parrot who is determined to traumatize his own skin isn’t going to make that stop either. (Although we have another online veterinary buddy who, having heard that story commented “Hm. Coconut oil, a little salt and pepper, a hot skillet….” which, veterinarians in general having a sick sense of humor, broke us all up and made us admit that yes, in that case the coconut oil would probably have stopped the cockatoo from feather picking.)
So you get the idea. Coconut oil is a panacea. It’ll cure everything, improve everything, stop male pattern baldness, improve your sex life, make you lucky at the craps table.
I don’t know why, then, it amazed me when I had the following exchange with a young woman who had brought me her grandmother’s morbidly obese Pekingese. Boo Boo had gained 10 pounds in the last year. The dog went from 15 pounds to 25 on a frame where even 15 pounds was, to put it nicely, generous.
I told the granddaughter and her grandmother that the dog was morbidly obese and that they were feeding it to death. The dog *has* to lose weight or he’ll die, and he is beyond the point where an over the counter “weight control” diet was going to help. I told them that if they wanted the dog to lose weight that he had to start on a prescription weight reduction diet, cut out his table food habit, and start going for several short walks every single day.
The granddaughter, a woman in her early 20s or so, looked at me with a straight face and asked:
“So would adding coconut oil to his food help?”
I am rather proud of myself that I neither broke out laughing or stared at her with my jaw dropped. Nor was I sarcastic when I explained that adding pure fat to food that was designed to make the dog lose weight was probably going to work at cross purposes to our desired goal.
A miracle nut, or a miraculous nut. You decide!
We have had an insanely busy couple of months at work. This is a good thing, but it leaves me a little flaky by the end of the day.
So when I passed by the reception desk on my way between appointments and my receptionist said to me “I don’t want to tell you what’s in back.” it was with a sense of doom and despair that I went back to the treatment area to find out.
What I found waiting for me was a shoebox.
A little, pink, child’s shoebox.
And inside the shoebox was a pair of what Andrew and I refer to as “tuft heads”. Tuft heads are hatchling birds of any species who have just enough feathers to be recognizable as birds and not animated disembodied scrotums (which, you have to admit, a featherless baby bird _does_ look like). It turns out that a dad and his little girl (could you get any more stereotypical) had brought the shoebox with the tuft heads to the front desk and said “We found these when we were out walking, can you take care of them?”.
Tuft head #1 was rather squashed and bloody. I didn’t have any reservations sending that one on to the next life.
But tuft head #2 was uninjured and squawking and I hesitated…. and was lost.
Most wildlife rehab facilities don’t have the time or the resources to spend on orphaned songbirds. I knew that the local rehab would likely euthanize the little brute if we got them involved.
And Andrew and I have raised and rehabbed more than our share of baby birds so…. so……
I called Andrew.
“Tell me I don’t need to bring home a squawking little tuft head!”
So he did.
I told my staff that *I* didn’t have the time to raise the tuft head and was just about there with the syringe full of euthanasia solution when my tech, Red (her nickname), piped in with “I could help you raise him!”
And that was that. You get a bunch of animal people together and throw a helpless little squawking thing with fur or feathers into the mix and you’re going to end up with some sort of baby to take care of. It’s just the way those things work! Since Red was going to volunteer her time and since we have a garden that is fairly ideal for a suburban bird habitat the deal was made. Red would hand raise the baby until he was big enough to graduate into a flight cage in my garden and from there into the outside world.
When I got home that evening I told Andrew that I didn’t have a little squawking tuft head with me…. yet. Then I showed him a video (which I can’t, for some reason, figure out how to upload) of BirdBert feeding and he was lost too.
At first BirdBert (Red called him “Gene Wilder”, but I like BirdBert better) shuttled back and forth from work to Red’s house in a cardboard box. Then he got too big for the box so Red went and got a little Habitrail habitat for him at the pet store. BirdBert would eat a mix of our canned, high powered recovery diet mixed with a bird micronutrient supplement every half an hour or so from about 5 a.m. to about 8 p.m. then he’d shut down for the night. The whole no night feeding routine being one of the major benefits of raising baby songbirds.
I was on my way home from a garden date at Susan’s about 10 days later when Red called to tell me that BirdBert was getting a little friskier than she thought she could handle with her limited space and lack of experience. When I got home Andrew was in the garage building a bird condo.
Red showed up about an hour later and we installed BirdBert in his new quarters.
For the first week or so BirdBert would shuttle back and forth to work with me, spending any daylight hours I was at home in the bird condo. Gradually, as BirdBert required feeding less often, BirdBert graduated to spending the day at our house in the bird condo, with Andrew coming upstairs to feed him once an hour, and spending the nights in his Habitrail in my office (the cats were FASCINATED).
BirdBert got bigger, got better at flying and would spend days when I was at home beetling about the garden with me but would still spend nights shut up in the bird condo.
The first night we left BirdBert’s condo door open I was pretty much convinced that we’d get up the next morning and find BirdBert remains on the back porch. We have raccoons that frequent our garden overnight and BirdBert is still not real good at keeping himself off the ground. We got up the next morning and… no BirdBert.
I was trying to be very optimistic about the whole thing. BirdBert is a wild bird and _had_ to be given the chance to be a real grown up adult and if he got eaten then he got eaten and…. Until about 2p.m. when I was planting peas and BirdBert chased me down in the garden and danced around in my pea patch squalling for a snack. At which point I burst into tears. Feathery little idiot!
BirdBert has continued to learn how to be a big bird. BirdBert flies pretty well, still spends more time on the ground than I think is entirely safe, and has graduated to only chasing us down and squalling for a snack 2-3 times per day. It seems we’ll have an imprinted wild bird living in our garden this summer.
Considering the fauna that I might be bringing home from work I figure that a single small bird is probably of minimal impact.
Yesterday we had to have the plumber come out.
We had to have the plumber come out because for some bizarre reason the hose bib on the front of the house developed a GREAT ENORMOUS LEAK over the winter and every time I turned the water on half of it came out the hose and the other half came out of everywhere else.
Enter the nice Ukrainian plumber. He’s a good guy, he’s done a fair amount of work for us, he’s good, he’s not horribly expensive, and he’s reliable. I like him.
Also we can talk tomatoes, edged weapons, and Subarus while he’s here so I’m never *too* put out when we have to call him.
NUP was done with his work yesterday morning and came into the house to get paid. I wrote him a check and on his way down the stairs he noticed, for the first time, the snake tank in the living room.
“What’s in there” he asked “a turtle?”
“No,” I replied “that’s Sally.”
“Yes, Sally. Salisbury Snake.”
It was then I realized that NUP is one of those folks who is a little wiggy about snakes. Always being eager to reduce peoples’ anxiety about reptiles I went over to the tank and started to unearth the snake so he could touch her and find out that instead of cold and slimy, snakes tend to be warm and dry.
“Is she dangerous?”
“Oh no. Sally is a Ball Python. They’re a small African constrictor. They eat mice and they’re very placid, even tempered snakes.”
At which point Sally, whose flowerpot I had just picked up, reared up and bit me in the hand.
And since I had skipped work on Monday to go see the hand specialist and have a couple of tendons injected, that particular hand has been a little inflamed and the blood vessels somewhat larger than they are usually.
Which meant that when Sally nailed me in _exactly_ the spot that had been injected four days ago, I started bleeding like a stuck pig.
I don’t think I reduced NUP’s anxiety about reptiles at all.
It was, however, a decent reminder that I needed to go to the snake snack store and purchase a half dozen mice.
Because of timing, placement, and personality you will always be the focus of my first Geek Girl crush. I have you and the crew of the Starship Enterprise to thank for introducing me into a genre that has provided me friends, family, and an awful lot of fun throughout my life.
Nothing will ever change either of those two facts.
However, as an adult, an organic gardener, an environmentalist, and a married woman, might I just invite you and your $30 billion Kickstarter campaign to fuck the hell off.
Washington has a reputation for being a damp state. We are, that’s true. Usually. But this year with more than 40% of our watersheds facing drought conditions what in the name of almighty Zarquon makes you think that NOW is a good time to start looking to our water to solve California’s problems?
What makes you think that ANY time is a good time to start siphoning water from the wetter parts of the country to solve California’s problems?
The solution to California’s drought is not, as it were, income redistribution. The solution to California’s drought is thinking outside the box. Want to start a Kickstarter campaign? Great! Start funding for desalinization plants. Start funding to promote real changes in the auto industry, in reducing America’s oil habit, in helping to slow global climate change. Use your celebrity to promote real change at the root of the problem.
Don’t prostitute yourself for the purpose of putting a bandaid on a traumatic amputation man!
And you and your dusty Californian friends can keep your desiccated little fingers out of my water supply!
So Margaret, what did you do at work today?
GOD that’s satisfying!!
Some years ago I posted my resume on a couple of different veterinary job seeking sites. I don’t know whether I should go and somehow de-activate those postings or whether, through some sort of computer glitch, they just got reactivated or something, but over the last couple of weeks I’ve been getting a number of inquiries regarding open jobs.
Since most of them have been from corporate practices or head hunting sites and I’m NOT going down that road again, I’ve been ignoring them/shredding them/deleting them.
Yesterday I was on my way out the door to go grocery shopping when the phone rang. Caller ID showed that it was a veterinary hospital, granted one that I didn’t recognize with an area code that I didn’t recognize, but it was a veterinary hospital so I picked up anyway.
It was a practice owner in northern California. She’d seen my resume online and she was very impressed and she was wondering if I’d be interested in the position she had open.
I apologized and said that I wasn’t really looking for a position, especially not one in California.
She said that she’d read my resume and she was really interested in talking to me.
I reiterated that I wasn’t looking for a position that required me to move out of state. Then she dropped…
“But I’d be willing to start you at $130K per year.”
Not pulling up roots and moving to a city and state where I have no family and no close friends. Not willing to go through the chaos that moving house would entail. Really not willing to move somewhere where the cost of living is doubtless higher than where I am now.
But damn that’s a lot of money!
I’m either hot property or she’s desperate or both. Not sure which, not sure I care.
It’s coming on to spring and pushing a month since I posted an update so here we go.
As many of you know we’ve spent most of the last 2 1/2 years working to get nutrition into Chuck. I took him for a cardiac ultrasound in early 2013 because my friend the exotics vet heard a heart murmur. We tickled one of the local cardiologists (a.k.a. one of our clinical professors from vet school days) greatly by having him do the ultrasound (he’d never done a snake before) and a heart based tumor and valve failure was diagnosed. The whole purpose of getting the diagnostics done was to decide whether or not there was anything medical that could be done to get the little stinker to eat. And for a while there was. The medication worked a treat for a while, then stopped working, then started working, then stopped working again. Which is where we were when I blew pureed cat food all over the kitchen ceiling a couple of months ago.
It finally got to the point where we couldn’t keep enough food going into Chuck to maintain his hydration, let alone his body weight, and he was getting very resistant to being handled. Not a way that I want one of my pets to live. So Andrew and I took Chuck up to see my friend the exotics vet and after some x-rays and some discussion we had him euthanized.
Chuck was our longest term pet. We’d had him for just a few months under 25 years and it’s a serious bummer to lose a family member after that long.
We’re looking for a stone cutter who can make a memorial stone for us and we plan to bury his ashes later on this spring.
For the last month Andrew has had to sleep in his recliner because otherwise his back starts to hurt and eventually he wakes up with shooting pains down his legs. He went to see the back specialist that did his second back surgery and diagnostics were done. After an entirely wasted trip to go and talk with a physician’s assistant whose white coat still had the original creases in it about the MRI, it was decided that Andrew will get at least one epidural cortisone injection. If it works, hooray. If it doesn’t, or if it only works for a little while, then they’re going to go in with a plumber’s snake and unclog his spinal cord again. Whee.
I’ve spent the last six weeks trying to convince myself that it’s only February/March. The gorgeous weather has been frightfully tempting, but considering that I planted too early last year and ended up losing most of my crop of storage onions, I’m going to be completely conservative and not plant anything until after the first of April.
I also got asked to be a boards monitor on my veterinary subscription site (VIN) so I’ve been upgraded from blabbermouth member to low grade official which means basically nothing except that they pay for my yearly membership to the tune of $750 or so which is nice.
Other than that?
Working our butts off. Refereeing cats who have taken a passion for fighting with each other the little toe rags. Still LOVING the hardwood floors, and spending a lot of our down time watching Top Gear on BBC America and Bob’s Burgers.
We’re not very exciting people.
Maybe it’s my natural reaction to the testosterone fueled f’ball hooting and snorting that’s been going on here for the last 2 weeks.
Or maybe, as I mentioned before, I’m really a curmudgeon. A blazing liberal curmudgeon, but a curmudgeon nonetheless.
But it was funny.
So I was just on my way back from the grocery store.
Heading south on 1st Avenue south I had in front of me a pickup truck with one of those family decal thingies. You know the ones that show each member of the family as a graduated stick figure, a pair of graduated sizes of flip flops, whatever all? Yeah. On the driver’s side back window of this particular truck was one of those family decal thingies with the family members each depicted as a graduated size of automatic rifle. On the passenger side back window there was a bumper sticker that read “Of Course You Don’t See Any Obama Stickers…. I’m On My Way To Work!”
To the right of me was a pickup truck with a “Romney 2012” centered in the back window and on either a “Free 2012” sticker with an American flag.
And behind me was a great, shining black behemoth of a Hummer. Not an H2, a Real Big Hummer.
So, as I said above, I was probably a little crotchety to begin with, but I got great joy out of opening my windows and cranking the stereo when South Park’s Uncle Fucker came up on my stereo.
Especially the “Shut your fucking face uncle fucker..” line.
Yeah, it was childish and it probably says a lot about my personality that I couldn’t deal with my frustration in a more adult manner.
But it was pretty damn funny.
And perhaps one that only Tony can answer, he having all those letters after his name extolling his virtues as a gerontologist, but y’all give it a try anyway.
How old does one have to be before one can claim curmudgeon status?
Because by my count as of today, January 23, 2015, I’m 46 years 7 months 2 weeks and 6 days old.
And I am officially a crotchety old crank who will be out tomorrow looking for a whittlin’ stick.
A bit of explanation.
I went on my annual pilgrimage to the uniform store in Southcenter today to purchase some new doctor drag. Unlike all three of my sisters in law and at least one niece, I do not consider clothes shopping to be a dreamy, blissful experience to be savored and enjoyed. I find clothes shopping, regardless of how regimented the clothing requirements (two pairs poly/cotton scrubs in either dark blue or grey and one white doctor’s coat), to be an enormous drag. The whole trying on a piece of clothing, finding that whatever you’re trying on doesn’t quite fit or doesn’t quite suit, then going back to the racks to browse and find something more appropriate, is a challenge (I’m built funny and off the rack clothes don’t often fit well) and a bore. The only thing that might have made today’s pilgrimage worse would have been if I had actually acceded to the office manager’s wishes and done my shopping at the place in the Auburn Super Mall (half an hour’s drive and at least 15 minutes in the parking lot and walking through the mall to get to the place) with whom the hospital has an account. Anyway, at any given time when I’m out clothes shopping I can come up with at least half a dozen different things that I’d rather be doing at that immediate moment.
So perhaps my mindset was a little poisoned in the first place. However….
On my way to the uniform store I stopped at Bed, Bath and Beyond. I did so because I was looking to purchase a single twin or full size cotton flat sheet. I’m in the middle of a quilt and have found that I need a large, single sheet of cotton fabric, ideally white. So I thought that a single flat sheet would be just about what I needed. I didn’t need a sheet _set_ I just needed one single sheet. Bed, Bath and Beyond might be a good place to find such a thing, no?
I believe the phrase my esteemed father uses is Jesus Xavier Christ.
Jesus. Xavier. Christ!
It has to have been 10 years at least since I last set foot in a Bed, Bath and Beyond. I hope it’s at least that before I do again!
How is it that I can walk into a store that advertises itself as selling bedding and spend, no shit, no exaggeration, FIFTEEN MINUTES bonking around like a steel ball bearing in a pinball game before I even find any bedding?
Towels? Sure. Bathroom fixings? No problem! Martha Stewart cat food spoons, scented candles that change scent every five minutes, gewgaws, thingamajigs, gadgets, whirligigs, widgets, gizmos, doohickeys, and contraptions, but actual bedding? Nope. That you’ve got to search for.
It really did take me 15 minutes of wandering around and marveling at the massive cornucopia of crap (jalepeno ketchup anyone?) before I found the corner of the store that had the promised bedding. I found one flat sheet that would suit and it was going to cost me $15.
So I gave up, left, and went to get more agitated by purchasing clothing.
Then I soothed my soul by going to the fabric store and purchasing a bunch of quilting supplies.
So is it me? Or is it the decline of Western Civilization as indicated by the fact that so much shit is being produced of such poor quality that so many people have to continually purchase it to keep the economy going that we might just as well fall into one giant shoe event horizon and evolve into birds?
Either way I believe there is a large rum and coke in my future this evening.
All portions of this site are © Andrew Lenzer, all rights reserved, unless otherwise noted.