I find it odd how us humans intentionally torture ourselves. We watch that movie, even when we know is going to make us cry. We read the news everyday, even when we know is going to make us angry. We run that extra half mile, even when we know our bodies will hate us the next day. I do something similar each and every day. I drink caffeine, even when I know that I'm going to have caffeine letdown. Perhaps I should get my sanity checked.
Caffeine letdown is serious. At least when you have a job that finds you sitting behind a desk each day, and not up and about and active. Its nothing short of a extra hand in the impending doom of sleepiness that occurs each day right around 1PM. My caffeine letdown also coincides with the post-lunch lethargy that is also inevitable. Its nearly cruel, really. Who in their right mind would do this to themselves on purpose? I suppose I never claimed to be intelligent, which is fortituous, considering the intended annoyance I put myself though on a daily basis.
Oh well. I suppose caffeine letdown is a small price to pay, when never waking up in the first place is the alternative. I guess I should learn how to sleep better, so that I can let go of my addiction at least a little bit.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Lessons on How to Turn a Bathroom into a Movie Scene
Its been shamefully long since I last wrote. I don't even want to look at when my last post was for fear of wanting to stab myself in the eyeballs out of disbelief. I realize that this would be a poor choice of reactions considering how eyeballs really do help in proofreading. I may have to think of another alternative.
Because I have nothing better to write about, I figure I shall regale you with a tragic comedy of my day 2 Saturdays past. February 20 started off as most Saturdays, with a bit of sleeping in and relaxing. Sadly, that was not to last long. 4 days prior I had dropped off my little monster at the vet to be declawed and deballed. Its a terrible way to phrase it, perhaps, but true. My little man went in to have his manhood taken away and entered the world of androgyny. I hear its all the rage now. I mean, seriously, who needs a gender? Its the 21st century! (ok, for all of you who don't know me well, that was sarcasm)
One of his paws had been giving him problems, so the vet had kept him an extra 2 whole days. Now, considering how much that little former man impedes on my sleep, one would think this a blessing. However, the mommy in me felt horrible that he was as the nasty wasty vet and not home with his mother. I take much better care of him than anyone else can, after all.
So, to shorten a long, and rather disgusting, story, upon our arrival home, dear mommy opened the crate to discover that the nose curling stench that she smelled on the way home was not the normal vet smell that she thought, but a doozie of a poop. That now covered half of the crate and most of the backend of the little former man. Sweet mother of God.
The next hour or so was spent corralling the little beast in the bathtub, attempting to clean him while trying to be very cautious of his little paws and his... area.... *ahem* It was quite dreadful, as one might imagine. After cleaning off most of the crap (literally, crap), I decided that it would be a good idea to take the cone off. Now, I had instructions from the vet to not take the cone off, because he was likely to go after his stitches. However, his poor back end was drenched. Mommy= -1.
Worst idea ever. For future reference, if your vet tells you to leave the collar on, for the love of God, leave it on. The little former man ripped a stitch. And bled, and bled, and bled. On attempting to stop the bleeding with slight pressure, which I know must have hurt, he managed to blow a stitch in the other paw from all the struggling. Which then also bled, and bled, and bled. For hours. Now, I'm not talking a little blood. I'm talking he would shake his paw and a spray of blood would cover the cabinets. It was like something straight out of a bad slasher movie.
I waited, I think a rather reasonable amount of time, before completely freaking out and taking him to the little former mancat doctor, also known as the emergency vet. Never in my life did I think I would be taking my animal to the emergency room. However, after seeing a bathtub covered in blood, it was just more than I could handle. Plus, there's only so much of that stuff in something as small as a cat. In the back of my head, I was pretty certain that he was going to bleed out and die or something. Yes, I realize that that may have been a bit of a dramatic reaction. But, seriously, think slasher movie. There was alot of blood.
Anyway, the little former man recovered from his plight and bleeding wounds. Mommy, on the other hand, suffered from emotional trauma for the next 5 days. I believe that I am on the road to recovery as well. Its entirely possible that I may need some serious counseling. There may never be another declawed cat in my future. Ever.
Because I have nothing better to write about, I figure I shall regale you with a tragic comedy of my day 2 Saturdays past. February 20 started off as most Saturdays, with a bit of sleeping in and relaxing. Sadly, that was not to last long. 4 days prior I had dropped off my little monster at the vet to be declawed and deballed. Its a terrible way to phrase it, perhaps, but true. My little man went in to have his manhood taken away and entered the world of androgyny. I hear its all the rage now. I mean, seriously, who needs a gender? Its the 21st century! (ok, for all of you who don't know me well, that was sarcasm)
One of his paws had been giving him problems, so the vet had kept him an extra 2 whole days. Now, considering how much that little former man impedes on my sleep, one would think this a blessing. However, the mommy in me felt horrible that he was as the nasty wasty vet and not home with his mother. I take much better care of him than anyone else can, after all.
So, to shorten a long, and rather disgusting, story, upon our arrival home, dear mommy opened the crate to discover that the nose curling stench that she smelled on the way home was not the normal vet smell that she thought, but a doozie of a poop. That now covered half of the crate and most of the backend of the little former man. Sweet mother of God.
The next hour or so was spent corralling the little beast in the bathtub, attempting to clean him while trying to be very cautious of his little paws and his... area.... *ahem* It was quite dreadful, as one might imagine. After cleaning off most of the crap (literally, crap), I decided that it would be a good idea to take the cone off. Now, I had instructions from the vet to not take the cone off, because he was likely to go after his stitches. However, his poor back end was drenched. Mommy= -1.
Worst idea ever. For future reference, if your vet tells you to leave the collar on, for the love of God, leave it on. The little former man ripped a stitch. And bled, and bled, and bled. On attempting to stop the bleeding with slight pressure, which I know must have hurt, he managed to blow a stitch in the other paw from all the struggling. Which then also bled, and bled, and bled. For hours. Now, I'm not talking a little blood. I'm talking he would shake his paw and a spray of blood would cover the cabinets. It was like something straight out of a bad slasher movie.
I waited, I think a rather reasonable amount of time, before completely freaking out and taking him to the little former mancat doctor, also known as the emergency vet. Never in my life did I think I would be taking my animal to the emergency room. However, after seeing a bathtub covered in blood, it was just more than I could handle. Plus, there's only so much of that stuff in something as small as a cat. In the back of my head, I was pretty certain that he was going to bleed out and die or something. Yes, I realize that that may have been a bit of a dramatic reaction. But, seriously, think slasher movie. There was alot of blood.
Anyway, the little former man recovered from his plight and bleeding wounds. Mommy, on the other hand, suffered from emotional trauma for the next 5 days. I believe that I am on the road to recovery as well. Its entirely possible that I may need some serious counseling. There may never be another declawed cat in my future. Ever.
