Thanksgiving Dinner at the Hospital Cafateria

Looks like food poisoning, which relatively speaking is good news. Poor Buckman.

Legacy

Anyone else watching this season of So You Think You Can Dance? I have a massive crush on Legacy and as Aurora would say, I’d like to have ten thousand of his babies.

Compiling a list.

I’ve decided to mislabel all my moving boxes, to confuse my brother.   (Once the move is over, I’ll start looking for a real, productive hobby, I swear.)

Here’s what Yost, Rhett and I have come up with so far –

Bath toys
Nachos
Horse feed (regular)
Horse feed (miniature)
Wigs
Stuff I’ve stolen from hospitals
Balloon animals HANDLE WITH CARE
More nachos
Stuff I’ve stolen from Jesse
Money
Cactus seeds
Creamed corn
Happy meal toys
Letters from Prince Harry
Bobsleds
Bobcats
Asbestos
Solid chocolate
Skateboards
Rocks shaped like ketchup bottles
Do not open until Christmas
Do not open
Copper tubing and sunscreen

The least I can do, for me.

So much going on that I can’t control, but hey at least I can eat a tasty breakfast.  Vanilla waffle cookies (only 23 calories apiece), peanut butter and banana.

Bedfellows

The books currently rotating in and out of bed with me.

The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov. Given to me as a birthday gift by my friend Alex, with the story of how he bought his copy of it off the black market while growing up under Soviet rule.

A Short History of Nearly Everything by Bill Bryson. A book that resonated with me more than most I’ve ever read, it rarely leaves my side.

One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Also given to me by Alex, I was overdue to read it anyway.

Out of My Life and Thought by Albert Schweitzer. Like, oh you know, EVERYONE, I find him so inspiring.

Flatland: A Romance of Many Dimensions by Edwin A. Abbott. Send to me by the legendary Jonny Opinion, it’s a “a stirring adventure in pure mathematics.”

The Best Poems of the English Language. I’m a girl. I read poetry.

A Little Anthropology by Dennison Nash. Found it in the breakroom at work, enjoying the overview of one of my favorite subjects.

Malinche by Laura Esquivel. So far it’s decent, but my favorite thing is that the book jacket unfolds as a poster of Mayan art.

 

If you say ….

…. that it’s too early for holiday decorations on my desk, then you’d better have another plan up your sleeve to cheer me up.

 

Willow sent a catnip mouse

Actually Willow sent a(nother!) box stuffed to the seams with delightful things (homemade personalized fortune cookies!!). Willow is half angel, half princess, half crimefighting unicorn.

My wonderful Amber sent a generous check to cover Mau’s medication. Amber is made of pure cotton candy, and in ancient times was revered as the goddess of dewdrops and baby birds.

Visitors, dinners, letters, wine …
I am blown away by the generosity of all of my friends, to me and to “just” a cat. My God. Excuse me while I cry into this bag of candy and gold star confetti, and wipe my eyes with a letter that arrived already tearstained.

Thank goodness for steroids.

They’ve bought Mau maybe two more weeks of relative comfort, after which we would expect to see a very quick decline.

Two weeks is also the amount of I have left in my current apartment.  I’ve avoided talking about my job on the internet for obvious reasons, but at this point they can’t afford to fire me.  Literally.  To fire someone you have to PAY them, and that hasn’t been happening in a timely manner for months, or at all for weeks.  We’ve been teetering at the brink of folding for awhile, and I suspect our time is almost out.  So far I’ve kept afloat but between vet bills and the lack of consistent paychecks I can’t continue.

I don’t want to wreck my credit over this, and as much as it KILLS me to give up my warm little apartment, I’m lucky to have the option of staying with my brother for awhile.

Since Mau’s health will most likely begin to plummet right around moving day …. it’s not worth the stress on him, just to gain a day or two.

Mau will not be making the move with me.    For almost nine years, virtually my entire adult life, my sense of home has been rooted around my cat.  Please tell me how I’m going to get through this, and don’t say steroids.

If I told you ….

….. that this was my senior picture ………

….. the sad fact is that you’d prolly believe me.

It was taken last week.

Someday I’ll look like a grownup ……… right?

Welcome to Fort Snuggles, have a benedryl.