Brain Fog

I've started this post, as well as multiple other posts in recent weeks, many times and have either fallen asleep, been distracted, or entered into a brain fog before publishing.  Today I will stay on top of it and finish what I start...

A couple days before Christmas, Moggy (my Domestic Short Hair rescue kitty--now almost five years old) was playing with his Sock Monkey. He normally bats his toys around, tosses them in the air, or drags larger floppy toys (i.e. Bandit's toys) around like prey. But he's never destroyed anything the way Bandit loved to do (e.g. rip the head off,  disembowl the squeeky, and shred the remainder).   Other than hunting (and killing, and presenting me with gifts of squirrels,  jays, field mice, and lizzards, etc.), Moggy's most destructive action has been to shred TP.  

Until now...

Moggy started off batting his Sock Monkey.  First, he bit SMs head.  Then he took his little paws and wrapped 'em around SMs body, bit down hard on SMs head, and pulled. There was a ripping sound and I fully expected to see SM decapitated and shreded. In the end Moggy gave up a little too early. But I joked he was channeling Bandit.

Christmas Morning I opened up Moggy's stocking and gave him a few toys to play with in the hotel while I left to play board games and exchange gifts with friends. 

One of Moggy's new toys was a squeeky mouse that squeeks at random times. Another  was a hard plastic ball with openings for treats to be worried out. The concept is simple: keep kitty occupied for hours with rewards of treats as they slowly jiggle out. The top of the ball was a cute little mouse head. I don't remember if the treat toy had the feathers on it, or if it was the squeeky mouse. Really doesn't matter, Moggy ripped the feathers  off whatever they were on.  Probably before I even reached the SUV. 

Sometime during the day he also ripped off the hard plastic treat toy mouse head--to heck with worrying those treats out one at a time! He was obviously ravenous.

I'm very picky about the everyday food and treats I allow my FurBabies to have. Each holiday I search until I find a holiday meal for the FurBoys that also meets my expectations:

1)   Absolutely nothing with China food sources or processing (ongoing decades long poison scandals).
2)   Same ban on  Tiwan (they use dogs as a catfood source).
3)   Nothing made by anyone on a recall list (usually contaminates linked to multiple major medical problems and death).
4)   And nothing by a HUGE pet name brand that is ALWAYS on the recall list.

Saddly, it is the most recognized name in pet food. They recently bought out one of my go-to  pet foods which was a high caliber outfit that used only locally resourced ingredients. I suspect the huge profit driven company bought out the smaller quality-driven company to bolster their tarnished image in the pet food industry (they continue to use China to source their ingredients and/or process  their product, knowing China products are full of lead and/or poisons/toxins).  It truly pains me that I can no longer trust the smaller quality driven company--nothing they do or say will ever restore my trust. The almighty dollar seems to have trumped the memory of their beloved pet, and the committment they said they made to him to produce quality pet food.

On my way to Tyler I realized I had failed to purchase a holiday dinner for Moggy. Once again I blamed my recent brain fog and lack of focus (much like this rambling post). But even with a reason, I still felt like a Bad Mommy. It was Christmas Eve and I wouldn't arrive in Tyler before the Pet Boutiques I knew about closed. Regular stores don't usually carry pet food meeting my requirement. I considered breaking my no people food rule.

Luckily, as I drove through Corsicana, I saw an open HEB (a Texas-only grocery store with a top 5 national reputation). HEB actually carries a cat food that meets my requirements. I stopped, but didn't find a Christmassy dinner. However, they did have a steak and shrimp dinner that would substitute as a special dinner. It would be a Surf-n-Turf Kitty Christmas.

Christmas night I returned to the hotel to find a present from Moggy. Not the chewed-up Sock Monkey. Not the featherless whatever. Not the randomly squeeking mouse. Not the decapitated and now empty treat mouse. Nope,  I wouldn't be that lucky.

Moggy's litter box was full. And stinky.

Thankfully, I keep the FurBoys travel bag filled with the basics:  a toy or two, food,  bowls,  litterbox, extra litter, pooper scooper, small dust pan and hand-held broom, paper towels, zip lock baggies to dispose of used litter so we don't stink up the room (I tried using Bandit's poop bags the first trip we took and found them to be useless at masking the pungent odor of kittie poo), a blacklight to ensure if there are accidents, they are found and cleaned up before check out, enzymatic cleaning spray (for marking and accidents--also really good to use before bringing my FurBoys into the hotel room because it masks previous occupants marks, and thus reduces the desire for my guys to return mark),  air freshener,  and litter deodorant. (Now you see why although I can travel lite, the FurBoys can not.)

Brain fog or not, I  was especially glad to see the litter deodorizer, air freshener, and ziplock baggies.  They dispossed of Moggy's gift quite nicely. 

Bandit: Best. Dog. Ever.

Bandit passed away  0430 Friday morning. He was 15 years old--which is about the average life expectancy of Chinese Cresteds, depending on who you read (some sources say 12-15, the AKC says 12-18). 

He's been my FurLessBoy and constant TravelBuddy since he was 18 months old. He's traveled so much, Friends have joked he's more traveled than they are.
 

They are probably right. 

In adition to frolicking on Pet Friendly beaches in Florida, Texas, California, Oregon, and Maine, he's attended numerous Dog Friendly professional and college sporting events--mostly baseball games:  Atlanta Braves, Texas Rangers, and Baylor Bears--but he has also attended Odessa Jackalopes ice hocky. He was an equal sporting event opportunity kind of dog--as long as it was pet friendly.

But he didn't limit his outings to sporting events, Bandit has shopped in pet friendly stores, lounged while I browsed/read/loaded up in Half-Priced Books (they are almost always pet friendly), dinned in pet friendly restaurants, attended pet friendly events nationwide.  He also explored pet friendly parks, carnivals, and festivals, as well as the Manitou Cliff Dwellings--we missed meeting the Wolves because I forgot the Flute Player and Wolves alternated weekends. The Flute Player was in residence during our visit.

He's worn costumes and walked in numerous Barcus Parades in NOLA, and participated in our own version of Treat or Trick (our reversal on the beggars holiday, where we took treats to our Friends and their Feathered/FurKids).

Bandit has also "lost" a couple competitions.  We failed to catch the judges eye in an Old Town Spring costume contest, and in Denton he was robbed of the "Shortest Hair" title when the judges compared his 4-inch crest, rather than his total hairlessness, to the minuscule coat of a short hair Chihuahua. It was rigged in favor of the home town girl I tell ya. 😉

In Petaloma CA he lost The Ugly Dog Contest. But that was the goal since we went to obtain undeniable proof of our proclaimation to all doubters:  Bandit is not ugly! That loss was actually a mission accomplished and I have it tallied in the Win column. In fact, not only was Bandit not the Ugliest Dog, he was the most handsome pup there! 😍

No matter what the blind and misguided judges thought, he's no loser. Actually, Bandit is part of a few Guinness World Records (Most Simultaneous DogYoga Participant's, Most Simultaneous Tricks, and Largest Hair Ball)--all were hosted by The Mighty Texas Dog Walk.

But his most lasting win was my heart. 💜💜💜

He was already named Bandit when he came to live with me.  I didn't particularly care for the name, but didn't want to confuse him by changing it. I soon came to realize it was the perfect name for him, because he stole the heart of every one he met.

Bandit was also cultured.  He attended concerts, theatrical productions, and movies in parks all over the country, as well as the now defunct amphitheater on the UMHB campus.  I have a wickely perverse sense of humor, so my favorite was attending the Broadway musical Cats--part of the Under the Stars series several years ago at the Miller Outdoor Theater in Houston's Herman Park.

Bandit didn't always travel well--he threw up three times on his first drive home, and at least twice driving to the park.  But once he became acclimated to the SUV he loved to go for a ride--be it one of our epic cross-country adventures, or  simply Saturday errands around town, which would take us through through several drive thrus: Bank, Fast Food, Starbucks, Dry Cleaners, etc. and they all offered him doggie treats. It was such a routine, that he started barking his order at all drive-thru windows and screens.  Even the  pharmacy. 

During our long trips he loved watching the scenary from his elevated seat in the back and would get excited when he recognized a place we were revisiting. Or if he smelled a gathering of dogs.

Once, I was driving Hwy 98 between Destin and Panama City Beach. Bandit became highly aggitated. I noticed a tiny sign about a foot off the grass pointing the way to a dog fair.  I had never been to Seaside, so we turned and followed the signs. The fair ended up being 5 or 10 miles away. (In a really cute town.)

Another time, we were tooling around town in Ocean Springs MS, a cute artys-fartys kind of place, when all of a sudden he went balistic. Yep. Doggie Boutique on the right. I'm not saying his nose is pretty awesome even for a dog, or that he can read, but....

Far be it from Bandit to stop at riding in motorized transportation.  He's also ridden in horse-drawn carragies in the French Quarter, sat on a Belton Fire Truck and a Sweet Potato Queen parade float in Jackson MS, shared a double stroller with his CatBrother Moggy, sailed on a Mail Ferry in Portland Maine, and ridden a "jeep" tour through Fantastic Caverns in Springfield MO (which was discovered by a dog, and during the prohibition, the caverns  housed an illegal underground speakeasy).  Saddly, we never got around to the pet friendly steam boat, train, or hot air balloon rides I found.

He's stayed in beachfront condos in Texas and Oregon, log cabins in the mountains of New Mexico and  Georgia,  a tiny house in west Texas, a yurt in Arkansas, a tepee motel in Holbrook AZ, kitchy dives along Route 66, and 5 star luxury hotels in Manhattan and Dallas (part of a Dallas Cowboys Tour).

Because of Bandit I've been interviewed by an Oklahoma newspaper, numerous NOLA radio and TV stations, Animal Planet, and I won a trip during an Atlanta Braves fan game.  To my knowledge, that jumbotron event was not televised; however, imagine my surprise when I received a call from a Friend saying she had just seen Bandit on the Texas Rangers jumbotron (she was watching the nationally televised game at home on her TV).

Bandit has had his photo taken with total strangers, Santa,  local celebrities, The Sweet Potato Queen, McDuff the Crime Dog, Little Ceaser, Blue Dog,  professional athletes, Hollywood Animal Casting professionals, cable TV personalities, national politicians and international best-selling authors. Kinky Friedman counts twice on the list since he is both a politician of sorts and an author.

The past couple months Bandit has been in and out of the Emergencey Vet, as well as follow-up visits with his regular Vet, so I knew his death was fast approaching; however, I still was not ready.

This week Bandit returned to the Emergency Vet, then spent two days at his regular Vet, but came home with me during the nights since he was stable and they didn't have anýone on duty to monitor him over night in case he decompensated. 

Bandit seemed to be responding to the new med regimine, although his new baseline resperations were on the high side of normal.

Thursday his respirations continued to creep up during the day despite his morning meds.   I gave  him  extra Lasix when I got home. He seemed to respond (his respirations came down to his new baseline, but not down to where I really wanted them).  He had eatten a good breakfast, but was not interested in dinner despite the appetite stimulant.

During the middle of the night he became restless, his respirations climbed, and he appeared to be in acute respiratiory distress. I called the Emergency Vet so they could get the ICU crate ready for him. They advised me to go to Killeen because their only empty ICU Crate was large and would take too long to fill with oxygen.

I couldn't hold Bandit and drive, so I moved his dog bed to the passenger seat.  As I drove, I rubbed his favorite spots (between his eyes and his lower back just above his tail) and told him repeatedly how much I loved him and what a good boy he was.  

Before we made it too far out of Belton he stuggled to sit up, fell forward, gave a little whimper, and was gone.

💜💜💜Bandit: Best. Dog. Ever.💜💜💜

Mama loves you and will  miss your sweet face, soulful brown eyes now cloudy with cataracts,  happy-go-lucky disposition, playful antics, and sharply insistant bark.

Rest in peace my precious BanditBoy. 💔🖤💔🖤💔

Brotherly Love

So I'm getting ready for bed and Moggy walks into the bathroom and starts patting my leg to get my attention. He's  been outside all day and most of the evening, plus his litterbox is clean, so I'm pretty sure he's okay potty-wise.  He finished the first can of catfood in record time, so I opened a second can. He became sated about halfway through the second can.  He's not crying in pain or moving in a guarded way, so I'm pretty sure he's just attention seeking.

Being the doting FurMom, I oblige. It will just take me a little longer to get ready for bed.

A few minutes later Bandit enters.  He's also been outside recently, been fed and medicated, and is attention seeking. Of course I stop what I'm doing to love on my sweet little man. Sleeping is overrated.

Moggy has had enough so he leaves and goes to stand behind the door. After a few minutes of petting Bandit, I send him to bed so I can finish getting ready.

Moggy comes out from behind the bathroom door he has been hidding behind. They sniff each other and I think how nice it is they are being more civil to each other lately. Moggy hasn't bitten or swiped his paw at Bandit in a couple weeks.  It's as if he knows Bandit is not feeling tip-top and he's going out of his way to be sweet. Once again I intertain the hope that they might one day love each other and behave like  brothers.

I realize how delusional I am as Moggy reaches out with his paw--not to swipe at Bandit--but to slam the door shut after Bandit exits the bathroom!

The cat is smart as a whip, has a wicked sense of humor, and is not shy about expressing himself.

So much for Brotherly Love. Civil Roomies is looking like it's good as it's gonna get. 

FurMom Identity

For the past 13.5 years I have been known to Family, Friends, and total strangers as "Bandits 'Mom'."  Or on occasion, "The girl with 'That Dog'." With his life beginning to wind down, I've already started to realize I will miss the loss of that identity when Bandit passes (hopefully in the very distant future).

Feeling rather "pity-ful" I bemoaned the fact that there will never be another Bandit. As I sunk lower into the murky depths of dispair, I realized very few people remember I'm  Moggy's Mama. And no one knows MY name. And....well, you get the picture--I self indulgently engaged in a full blown Pity Party.

So I loved it when, during Bandits follow up visit two weeks ago,  one of the Vet Techs came over and asked if the dog with me was Bandit. My pleasure soon turned to absolute giddiness when she addressed Bandit, saying "And your brother is Moggy." Even if I would no longer be known as "Bandits Mom" after he passes, there was a possibility that I would at least be known as Moggy's Mom--at least occassionally.

And then the horror set in when she said these words, "I remember your brother from when you guys boarded here."

Y'all, that was six months ago. People don't remember a fairly common looking DSH (Domestic Short Hair cat) half a year later--at least not for good reasons.

You see, my sweet little street-savy rescue, who adittedly plays too rough with Bandit...and gets his paws into every neighborhood cat-fight...and maybe even starts a few fights....and teases the dogs next (although I'm releaved to notice he no longer takes short  cuts through their yards--at least not when they are outside), turns around and crawls on to my chest, head butts my chin, and purrs sweetly in my ear--is really a h@$$cat when I'm not around.

I have only heard him hiss twice.  The first time was on our Seattle trip this past March. I excused the hissy-fit because Moggy was scared of the condo maintenance men and there had been a storm the night before, so he wasn't well rested.  I too have been known to be a little hissy when I'm sleep deprived.

The second time he hissed at a person, I "couldn't be sure" the caterwalling was coming from Moggy since he was in another exam room--but since he was the only cat in the vet waiting room earlier, I had my suspicions...

Come to think of it, I really have known all along--I've just been in denial.  You see  Dr. C has been forced to call me on two different occasions to tell me about his bad behavior during attempted exams or treatments. In fact, I was present during the most recent exam.

Dr. C  had to dismantle the cat carrier, wear protective garments, put a towel over Moggy's head, while the Vet Tech kept his body pretty much squashed with a padded board--and they still were not able to obtain all of the tests she needed, or get the medicine in his mouth.  We ended up going with a long-lasting injection.

I wish they could be a fly on my guest bathroom wall and watch as I administer his liquid meds. He's much better behaving for me--in fact, he no longer clamps down on my finger I use to pry open his mouth,  and he's yet to shake his head slinging medications everywhere--one of my former cats did that--it was as foul as a slobbering Saint Benard shaking his head (I love the breed--just not the slobber).

Moggy and I've got a nice routine:  he jumps onto the vanity and takes a bite or two of his food while I draw up an oral syringe of his medicine. Watching our reflections in the mirror while I stand behind him, I slip the syringe into the corner of his mouth.   After I depress the plunger, I rub his throat to stimulate the swallow reflex.  He quietly looks at my reflection in the mirror, probably plotting my demise, and grabs another bite of food, as I  draw up the next syringe.  Easy peasy.   I follow each med with a syringe of water since cats are notorious for not drinking enough fresh water, and some of his meds are not very tasty.   I don't know this from experience--the Vet told me one med is rather foul tasting. The other med is actually touted as having a fowl taste cats like. (Yes I went with the pun.)

Getting Moggy to take pills are a different story as the scars on my hands and chest can attest. I have found nothing acceptable.  Therefore, the Vet and I have decided to use liquid forms of medications, either injectables or orally, whenever possible. Now I just have to convince them I should always be the one to hold his towel encased body for exams and treatments.

Maybe I should go to Vet Tech School in my retirement. I could pick up some extra cash, maybe get an employee discount, and avoid my  FurMom Identity devolving from "Bandit's Mom" into "That Darn Cat's Mom."

The Warning

My mouth sometimes gets me in trouble. I try to temper my speech with grace, but when I'm really irritated I tend to ignore the warning bells and red flags.

Tonight I went to HEB for my late night grocery run, and there was an SUV parked in the oncoming driving lane. Slow drivers in the passing lane is one of my pet peeves--especially when I'm running late. Parking in any travel lane, whether I'm traveling in it or not, is kind of high on my  irritation list as well.  They pose a huge safety hazard. But tonight, since it was just the two of us in the parking lot, I could have overlooked this flagrant disrespect of safety.

Except, he had extra lights on his rooftop. And all of his lights were a blindingly brilliant bright white. Most of the time that signifies one of three classifications of people:  Cop, Hunter, or Red Neck Good Ole Country Boy.

On occassion, they are one and the same.

His blindingly bright lights put me over the edge, and I decided I was going to chat him up and explain a few things. As I pulled along side him I rolled down my window and slowed to a stop. He rolled down his window about the same time I noticed the BPD logo on the trunk portion of his vehicle.

Warning Bells chimmed and Red Flags waved at me as he asked if there was a problem.

Cop.

"Why yes there is Officer," I said in a respectful  albeit stern tone of voice, ignoring the flags and bells, "Do you realize how bright the lights on the top of your SUV are to oncoming traffic?"

He quickly flipped them off, apologized, and explained he had just come from "out back" and had forgotten to turn them off.

Cop + Hunter (two out of  three so far, just maybe not the kind of hunter I was thinking).

I can only assume the "out back" reference meant the loading dock behind the store and not Australia.  Because if his SUV is capable of multiple modes of transportation (e.g. sailing and/or flying) in addition to the traditional driving, I need whatever he's driving.

The jury is still out on whether or not he's also a Red Neck Good Ole Country Boy, but since I usually like them (except when they act like 2 year old jerks), I'm leaning toward this Police Officer being the trifecta.

And more importantly, since I like Trifectas,  and since he quickly corrected the lighting, I let him off with a warning.

The Difference

I went doggie door shopping last night, and the difference in Home Improvement store Employees was like night and day.

At the first store an employee, who was assisting another customer (a doctor I know from the VA), asked if I needed assistance and offered to come back after the doctor had been helped. I agreed and browsed while I waited.

Finally, it was my turn.  As I was being helped a third customer interrupted to ask where the lock boxes were located. Three times the employee patiently pointed him in the direction and told the customer the location:  "Isle 3 with the dead bolt locks." I thought that was the perfect place for them, but the customer wasn't having it.

"No," he said  condesendingly, "You don't understand, it's a box like Realators put on the door of a house, and the house key is locked inside the box."

I'm thinking to myself, duh...with the deadbolts is the perfect place for it--they essentually serve the same purpose:  keeping the home secured, while allowing access to those with the right to gain access.
 
After the third attempt to convince the customer the lock boxes were in fact displayed with the deadbolts on isle 3,  the employee left me to assist the dense brainiac (I wanted so badly to go watch).

The employee returned,  completed my education on measuring for a new steel door with a doggie door,  gave me a handout with the information, as well as an estimate of the cost, and a verbal on how long it would take them to order what I wanted--because, of course, I didn't want anything they had in stock.

Then I went to the other store.

Where I was ignored.

At least until I cornered an employee assisting someone else--who it turned out was another employee--either that or they don't have an issue with customers moving and using those tall staircase ladders with safety railings on both sides of the staircase. Since that would be a huge safety or liability issue, I'm sticking with my guess that the customer was in fact an off duty, apronless employee. Not only did the on duty employee wearing an apron not show me any doggie doors,  he refused to quote me any prices--because I didn't have exact measurements.

"So you can't even give me a ballpark estimate?" I even showed him the paper from the other store, thinking he could at least say something like: Our basic steel doors start at $250. Plus $60 for the doggie door flap.  Plus incidentals. We can also install for another $200.  So maybe $600. Depending on the door you choose.  Or he could have said, we have a door like this, but our door is priced at...and then tell me the reasons their door is better than the first store.

But that's not what he said.

"No. I can't give you any prices without the exact measurements."  (even though the first store could at least guess)  He didn't even point me in the direction of the outside doors, so I could  see if I liked any of them. And he sure didn't fire up the computer to show me the ordering options.

So I guess every person who shops at the second store is a contractor, with exact measurements in hand, who also knows the store inventory, and exactly what door they want, and  that it is within their price range.

Well, I'm different.  

I'm an information gatherer. I research options. I read reviews to see problems others have experienced and how they dealt with those problems. Then, when I'm reasonably sure of what I want, and know I can afford it, I make my purchase.

I only have one more local place to check out before I decide, but I can already tell you I won't be purchasing anything from the second place.

The difference: the attitude and helpfulness--or  lack-thereof, of the two employees.

The second employee was a most unhelpful guy.

The first employee was a helpful and knowledgeable blonde.  She was awesome!

#GirlPower

Book Sales Are My Kryptonite

I drove to Waco after work today, and realized HalfPrice Books Outlet was just a couple blocks away from one of my Credit Unions. Before going inside I limited myself to $20.

By limited, I mean I only took that much inside the store. (I seem to always spend at least twice as much as I "limit" myself to.)

The Clerk said I was good this time--I only spent $36. (I may have left all but $20 of my cash in the SUV...but then I remembered I paid off my credit card balances this morning, and they  were BEGGING me to use them!)

Because I was "good," I could have kept the two books I ultimately put back on the shelf--and still would not have doubled todays self-impossed "limit."

When I unpacked my book haul tonight, I found the 20% off advertisement for later this month...I may have to brave the I-35 traffic again so I can adopt a few more babies that day. (Actually, the drive was not bad even though it was Friday after work--but I didn't "love" it like the billboards have been promising.)

In addition to the two books I put back, I found a couple more cozy series I haven't read yet.

Yeppers, another after work book run may be in store for this girl. I can hear the books calling my name.

My kryptonite is a book sale.

Reality vs Perception

I saw a meme today that was profound in its simplicity. Two time lines stating it's too late for a dream.

The first time line is labled "Perception" and the "too late" is about 75% of the way past birth and 25% before death.

The second time line is labeled "Reality" and the too late comment comes after death.

I LOVE this!

I'm reminded of Sarah and Elizabeth becoming moms in their old age (shudder! But to each his/her own.). Or GradMa Moses becoming an Artist (much nicer thought to my way of thinking). Or Seventy year olds  with hopes of completing degrees as Nurses or Lawyers.  Or Parents graduating High School with their Kids. The list goes on and on.

Just think of all the wonderful things the world would have missed out on if these people had allowed their perceptions (or the worlds perceptions for that matter) to stop them from seeking their dream.

When I turned 50,  I gave myself "permission" to do and say, whatever I wanted and travel by myself to a greater extent than ever before. Now, I actually prefer to go to the Theater, shopping, on vacation, etc. by myself. It gives me time to do and see what I want.

I think this year my 60th B-day gift to myself will be to ignore other peoples (and my own) negative or faulty perceptions of what I "should" or "should not" do as a "mature southern woman."  Within reason. 

Think of the speech Shirley McClain's character in "Steel Magnolias" gives when she talks about gardening hats and growing tomatoes because "that's what old southern women DO."  And she didn't even like tomatoes.

I'm talking about giving myself permission to go against the nay-sayers--even if one of them lives inside my own head.

If I suddenly get an itch to go to Law School,  I'll give myself permission to do it even if "they" say I'm too old. (I'm NOT going to go to Law School--I can argue quite well for free). But you know what I'm saying--I'm not going to allow other people (or myself) to stop me from at least trying whatever it is I decide I want to try.

Is every dream possible just because I no longer listen to ney-sayers? Absolutely not! But, that doesn't mean that I (or anyone else) shouldn't at least try to find a way to accomplish a goal if they really want to do something.

I think my parachuting days are past me because of my knees--even after I have them replaced, or Scuba diving for someone after experiencing heart problems--but if we don't even research the possibilities of alternative dreams--we might miss out on some really interesting possibilities.

I'm thinking my retirement job should involve pet-friendly travel--maybe I'll open a pet-friendly travel agency or tour group. Or maybe help transport adoptable pets cross country. One of my dream jobs as a kid was cross country car racing....

The Sale

I'm not sure who was having a rougher time processing my sale:  The middle-aged Clerk, or me.

I wanted a specific carpet cleaner, in a specific formula. I had purchased it a while ago at her local store. The last two times I went back to purchase more, the store was out of it. I still had a partial bottle of this magical liquid so I wasn't worried.

Until I upended the bottle the other day and spilled it.

Every. Last. Drop.

I went online to see if any other stores had it. Yep. Just not the same formula. It's kind of pricey and I didn't want to try another formula, that may or may not work, so I looked on Amazon.com--they have everything.

Sure enough it was listed. I could have it delivered to my door in a matter of hours. And since it was Prime, shipping would be free. What's not to love about door delivery with free shipping?

I'll tell you--the same size bottle, in the same formula, on Amazon.com, was over twice as much as I paid for it at the local store. So far, everything I've purchased through my second Prime membership has been the same price, or cheaper, than what I pay in the local stores. My first Prime membership was not as good an experience and I cancelled that puppy. But even as dissatisfied as I was the first PrimeTime, I have never seen such a vast price difference on the very same product in the exact same size.

Then I saw the local store where I originally found it, would allow me to order it online with store pick-up. All I would have to do is remember to pick it up.  They indicated they had one bottle on the shelf right now, so I could pick ot up today.  Then I saw the outrageous shipping fee they wanted to charge.  I'm not paying shipping fees to a store--especially for an item that is already stocked.  Besides, most stores that offer this service forgo the shipping--this store was not going to, so cheap-o that I am, I decided I would walk across the parking lot in this 100+ degree Texas Sauna to avoid the shipping cost. I usually score a parking space close to the store anyway, since it's in a stripmall, I rationalized, so it will be fine.

Besides, the last time I ordered online with a store pick-up (thankfully a different store), I forgot the item. Even with their reminder email.  When I finally remembered it, a week later, I went to the store (in this very same stripmall) and they had the audacity to tell me I had been so slow to come and get it,  they thought I didn't want it. So it was restocked, and my credit card was credited with the purchase price. I checked my statement amd found my ctedit card had in fact been credited the cost of the item.  I walked over to the shelf, and luckily it was still there, so I was able to purchase it before anyone else found it, and decided they needed it. 

But...embarrassing.

In order to remember my purchase this time,  I left the confirmation email open on my phone, set a reminder alarm on said phone,  taped a paper note to my wallet, and verbally reminded myself to drop by the store after meeting a friend for dinner.  I had even chosen the restaurant because it was near the stripmall where the store is located. 

Surely I had covered all bases and would remember my order this time.

One, or more of my reminders actually worked.

I huffed and puffed as I walked the 20 yards from my parking place to the store. I was hot. My rubber soled shoes felt sticky--like they were melting into the goo that is a parkinglot blacktop under the scorching Texas sun.  I could empathize with the  dinosaurs sinking in those tar pits in LA.  But I was saving the shipping cost, remembering my order, and more importantly, replacing my now depleated bottle of cleaner.

I was happy.

Inside the cool store (stuff-wise as well as temperature-wise), the lady in the line in front of me saw an endcap register display of the very same product I was picking up, and she commented on it.  Both the Clerk and I sang it's praises. I even mentioned it was so wonderful, I braved the heat  just to pick up my order. I also noticed it was advertised as being on sale, and it was 99-cents off.  It wasn't a huge discount, but sales of any proportion always make me happy. Actually, sales make me downright giddy.

Only...

The price listed as the "sale" price was the exact same price I always paid for it--in this very same store. And when I ordered it today it was the still the same price. I didn't say anything, but that store and I have a very different understanding of the meaning of the word "sale," and math word-problems like "99-cents off."   

I raved about the performance of the cleaner so much the customer ahead of me bought a bottle. I think I should get a commission. Maybe it should be the 99-cents they were supposedly saving me with their "sale."

Unless the price has gone up (or will be going up), I didn't get a sale price.  I also didn't get a commission for helping sell a bottle. And a few minutes after I stepped up to the counter I wondered if I was even going to receive my order...

When it was my turn, I said, "I'm here to pick up my order of this very same product." I motioned to the display ala Vanna White of Wheel of Fortune  fame.

"How many would you like? One? Or two?" Asked the Sales Clerk reaching for a bottle with each hand.

"Just one. I'm here to pick up my order." And I supplied my name.

Blank stare.

"I ordered it online with an in store pick-up." I explained.

"Oh....Let me check that out," she said as she read a few screens on her phone. "Yes, I see it right here. Now where would it be?" I swear she scratched her head as she looked under the cabinet and around the display.

Ever helpful, I pointed to a large  (about 4-foot tall) bright blue cabinet, and said, "Um, maybe it's over there." If I were the snarky smart-ass some people accuse me of being, I might have added, "With the large computer generated sign reading 'Pick-ups'."  But I'm not. So I didn't. Even though I rather doubted they were advertizing trucks. It's a cool store, but not that cool.

She made her way over to the big bright blue cabinet and attempted to unlock the combination lock--before she decided she needed her glasses to read the tiny numbers. I tried not to laugh or become impatient.  My eyes require asaistance too.

But I did smirk a little when she came aaalllllllll the way back to the register to get her glasses--which I pointed out were on her head! Okay, that was snarky.  Especially since I too have lost my glasses while they were perched on my head.

She seemed a little ditzy, so I decided I might need to pull up my receipt to ensure I wouldn't get charged twice.

That's when I saw the small print on my confirmation email that indicated that my credit card number had merely reserved the item. I still needed to actually pay for it.

So I placed my phone on the counter and handed over my credit card. After the purchase was completed she handed back my credit card and promptly dismissed me to assist the next customer.

Very efficient.

However, I wasn't through yet. "I still need it." I said after I placed my credt card inside my wallet.  My hand was outstretched. 

She looked at my hand as if it were a green Martian hand.

"I still need it." I repeated. I was so flabbergasted that my words failed me, and that phrase was all I could say.

She pointedly looked at my phone still on the counter, and I could see the wheels churning. She thought I was expecting her to pick up the phone--just inches away--and place it in my open hand! And she clearly was not going to do this. Which was a good thing, because that's not what I needed.

Finally, I was able to find some words and say, "I still need my purchase."

That startled her and reminded her I needed the merchandise I had ordered online and purchased in her store. After what seemed like an eternity, she handed it over.  I picked up my phone, and left the store. I didn't even wait for a bag. I came up with the right words to ask for a bag--but I was afraid that request might send her over the edge.

Then she wouldn't be able to assist anyone else with this non-sale "sale" item.  It really is good stuff--even at full price.

 

Critter Jitters

I realize it's hot outside, but the critters have got to stop coming inside my house! I'm not running a Critter Sitter Service.

The green grass snake  this weekend is welcome in the yard--NOT my hallway where I first spied him. I think he was displaced and confused after the grass was cut. But he sure didn't want to follow my instruction to return outside--he raised up as if to strike me several times as I very gently guided him back outside with my broom.

Now, I have the back door slightly ajar while I sit at the table reading a book waiting for Moggy to return home after his catting around (he's been fixed since he was just a tiny baby, but it never put a damper on his fighting or his roaming). He usually makes it back to the back door between 10pm and 2am. Every once in a while he will meow for me to let him in at the front door.  

It's 11pm and I'm just about ready to give up on Moggy, and go lock the door.  He can be an outside cat tonight. Out of the corner of my eye I see movement. Thinking Moggy has come in quitely, I look up and see a small opossum in my house just feet away from me!

I wasn't excepting to see a wild critter (even a cute and harmless one). Startled, I gave a little yelp.  Of course BabyO ran.

The sad thing is he was so fast disappearing around the corner I'm not sure he went back outside.

Bandit cautiously sniffed around the vanity and one of the closets in my bedroom, so I checked them out, and under the bed. I didn't see him, so I hoped he made it back outside.

Nope.  As I sat here typing this, he showed up again! The nerve! 

This time I saw him dash into the guest bath room. I quickly shut him inside. I got the baby gate and set it up. I closed all the doors except the one leading outside. Then I turned off all the lights except the outside light. I opened the bathroom door and told BabyO to "go toward the light."

He did not.

I reached for my trusty critter broom  (aka the soft dust mop) and gave him a soft nudge. He went behind the covered cat litter box. The bathroom was too dark for me, so I turned the bathroom light back on and I manuvered myself kinda-sorta behind him as best I could in the tight space, and once again encouraged him to, "go toward the light," and gently nudged him in the way he should go.

He raced out the bathroom door, turned right at the babygate just before he would have hit it and, rather than heading down the hallway to the open door, took another right--toward my bedroom.
I'm glad I closed all the doors. When he realize he could not return to my bedroom, he scampered out the back door.

Of course, Moggy still has not returned for the night, and now I'm on edge. Hearing every bump and creak at the back door, I jump up and look to see if it's Moggy or BabyO. So far it's been neither.

Its now 1:30am. The house is cool. Moggy has come home. The baby gate and broom have been moved to the back door in case I need them when I open the door again on the morning.  He was somewhat stymied by the baby gate--he just hasn't realized  both he and Bandit can clear it from a standing position.

Everyone has had their dinner and meds. I've picked grass burs out of Moggys coat. Bandit has been out for his bedtime potty break.  Fresh water has been put out for the second time tonight since one of the FurBoys knocked it over earlier.

Moggy, Bandit, and I are past ready for bed...and the back door bumped--since Moggy is inside now, I know it's just the airflow from the air  conditioner but the critter visit still has me a little on edge.

And then I heard a noise in the kitchen...maybe it wasn't one of the FurBoys that knocked over the water dish earlier...

Uninvited Houseguests

Over my lifetime I have had some pretty undesirable jobs. But they were honest jobs and the low wages I earned allowed me to pay my bills, put food on the table, gas in my car, clothes on my body, receive a college education, and travel.  I may not travel first class, wear designer clothes,  dine in fancy restaurants,  or live in a mansion, but as long as I don't splurge and live outside my means, I do okay.

Some of my less than glamerous jobs included:
Baby sitter, lawn work, toilet cleaner, waitress, stable hand, office cleaning lady, identification checker, and gas station attendent. 

I know the importance of everyone to ensure a business, organization, or even household run smoothly. It takes everyone doing their part. Sure, the head honcho sets the tone, makes hard decisions, makes some friends, and sometimes makes even more enemies. But everyone is important.

I've lived my whole life believing that. It's why I acknowledge people performing services society may deem as less desirable than my own. I say "thank you" when the housekeeper empties my trashcan, or a waitress fills my drink. I remember those paychecks that barely covered the bills. I think remembering how hard I worked is one of the reasons I'm a fairly generous tipper.

But I draw the line at moochers. 

In the last few months I've had to shew several uninvited houseguests out. I don't like being mean. Really, I don't.   But unless I've invited you in, don't step across my threshold. 

It started innocently enough: the wasp built his home on the side of my mailbox. I knocked it down. He rebuilt. In the same spot. I knocked it down again and told him he had a choice to make: move away and live free, or rebuild there and I would purchase wasp killing spray. He moved away.

Next came the spider. He decided my back doorway was the perfect spot for his web. I knocked it down. He respun. I knocked it down again and told him he had a choice: move away and live free, or respin his web across my door, and I would purchase spider killing spray. He moved away.

And on it went. The loopy toed lizard, the chamelian couple, and a toad, all found their way into my house. Each time I captured the creature, and gently released them outside. Where they belong. I even ensured Moggy was not around to antagonize them. Or worse.

As I released them I said,  "No amount of pleading will make me change my mind. I'm allowing you to live--outside--where you belong.  Where your job is. You have a choice: leave and live, or stay and die. Please leave. I do not want houseguests."

I do not know if the wasps who built the nest near the backdoor are related to the one that moved away. It doesn't matter. They have attempted to come inside several times. Soon, they will be moving away. Or dying. I don't want uninvited houseguests.

I don't think the spider I found in my bathtub is the one that spun the web over my back doorway--he looks much larger. The cool of the air conditioner has not slowed him down. He moves far too fast for me. It pains me to think it; however, he may not receive the same offer of a chance at life outside. I've seen the necrotic skin and tissue devastation spider bites can cause and I'm not picking him up.

The chameleon couple and the loopy-toed lizzard made their way back inside my house. I'm not sure if Moggy brought them back in, or if they came back in of their own accord, but they were all slow. Much too slow. Perhaps the coolness was too much for them. Perhaps Moggy toyed with them.

One chameleon made it back outside. The other appeared to be dead--he lay rigid in the spot Moggy had lain earlier. Could Moggy have smothered him? I would have thought he would bat him around.

Whatever happened, when I placed him outside, he remained in the same position the rest of the day and was gone the next morning. I hoped he revived and skittered away.
Or his mate was a Marine who left no one behind. But in my heart I'm pretty sure a predator found an easy meal. Part of the circle of life. I felt bad, but you take your chances when you become my uninvited houseguest.

The second time the loopy-toed lizzard made it's way inside he was as slow as he was the first time. This time I noticed dark markings on his torso. I didn't remember him having a dark marking on his torso before.  Do lizzards bruise? He could be injuried. But when I released him outside, he skittered away very quickly. Much more quickly than the first time. Last time I put him outside near a saucer of water. This time I did not have time fill a saucer--as soon as his claws hit the concrete he skittered away. Perhaps he was a different loopy-toed lizzard. I told the absent space where he had been he needed to remain outside if he wanted to live. I don't want him as a houseguest.

My latest uninvited houseguest was a first, and hopefully last, visit inside by a green grass snake. Nonvenomous. Bug eatting. Great garden or lawn companion. Very mich meeded on the hreat putdoors.  But not wanted as my houseguest.

He too slithered rather slowly. Again, I am unsure if his lethargy was due to the cold air or an over exuberant cat.

I gently swept him out the back door.  But not without his attempts to circle back--at first they were comical--almost like an I Love Lucy eppisode. That soon gave way to annoyance as my back and knees started speaking to me. "This has gone on long enough,"  I told him. "You are going to live the rest of your days outside like any good self-respecting snake."

I became angry the first time he rose up as if to strike me. I trapped his body under the broom. "You can die inside. Or you can live outside." I told him sternly. I lifted the broom slightly and gave him a light tap forward. He continued to rise up.

Finally he started to slither toward the great outdoors. I had won. 

My self-congratulatory smile came just a bit too soon.

After several more uprisings and attempts to circle back inside, I finally relocated him to the patio.

For the rest of the evening each time I opened the door to check on him, the insolent snake raised up and glared at me! I decided Moggy and Bandit would use the front door to go potty. I didn't want to send them in the path of an angry snake--harmless or not. 

Before he left I started to consider naming him Sydney (after Sydney Poitier because he stared as another unwanted guest in "Guess Who's Comming to Dinner.") But thought the better name would be Sheridan Whiteside (the annoying character in "The Man Who Came to Dinner."). But if I named him, I would want to keep him. And I don't want reptillian houseguests. 

He, loopy-toe, toady, and the widow chameleon can share my backyard, where they will find all the heat their little reptillian bodies need. They can chow down on all the flys, mosquitoes,  ants, and no-see-ums they can catch. I will make  safe havens for them that Moggy can't get into. I will leave saucers of cool water for their drinking and bathing pleasure. They can be yard guests.   Doing what they do best--in the enviornment.

If they continue to insist on being uninvited houseguests I fear they will go the way of the chameleon I could not save. 

 

Mary Lou Kitten

Today as I introduced myself to one of my Veterans, the face of his Wife broke into a huge grin. I assumed she was about to inform me her name, or her BFF, or someone else importatnt to her was also named Mary Lou.

At that point I usually ask, "Is it 'Mary Lou' or 'Mary Louise?' " If they say, 'Mary Louise' I usually say, "I'm  just plain ol' 'Mary Lou'." But if they say, " 'Mary Lou'." I smile brightly and say, "It's a good ol' country name!"

Today I didn't share my name with the Wife. Or her BFF. Or anyone else important to her. I shared my name with a cat.

"When my boys were younger," she said, "We watched the olympics.  The year the gymnast, Mary Lou Retton, was so popular, the boys fell in love with her.  In fact,  they were so smitten, when they found  and rescued a tiny kitten, they named her Mary Lou Kitten!"

We laughed for several minutes and I told her that story made my day, and it was by far the best Mary Lou name story yet.

And that's true.

I always get sung to since so many great singers have had hits with Hello Mary Lou over the years.

My Sunday School Teacher used to sing it to me, and during a class function at his house he brought out his vinyl--a vintage 78 with all the pops, cracks, and skips--just so I could hear Ricky Nelson crooning my name.

Growing up in the south, I also heard the Oak Ridge Boys version--which is probably my all-time favorite.  I've even downloaded it as my ring tone on my cell phone.

CCR wasn't quite as popular among the older folks who controlled the radio dial in my house, but then, they weren't too fond of anything that wasn't uber twangy.

When I was introduced to the schmaltzy music of arranger David Wright as an adult,  I loved hearing good BarberShop Quartets and Choruses sing my name in his lush four-part harmonies. Ringing chords and overtones will put goosepimples on a girls arms lickety-split, and when the BarberShop is exceptional, it's downright  swoon-worthy.

But I am blessed with the double-name-song whammy.

Not to be outdone, by a bunch of nice guys, every once in a while I get a dirty old man leering as he's singing Mrs. Robinson from The Graduate--and not nearly as well as Simon & Garfunkle sang it.

It's happened frequently enough I usually only introduce myself to men as Mary Lou.

I smiled about Mary Lou Kitten for the rest of the day. I've never shared my name with a cat before. Being a PetParent I kind of like it.

Leaving the ward after work I saw the Wife and a few family members coming back for an evening visit. Even as I smiled at him, I wondered if the gentleman in the group might be one of her Sons. Sure enough he was.

Thinking about Mary Lou Kitten, she and I were both beaming from ear to ear as she introduced me to her Son.

"This," she paused dramatically,  "is Mary Lou!"  

Our Cheshire-cat grins must have scared the bejebees out of him, because he had a stricken look on his face that clearly indicated he thought his Mother had latent  shadchan tendencies. [Shadchan is the true Yiddish term for matchmaker--not Yenta (which actually means noblewoman or gentlewoman). And you thought this was going to be just another  non-educational fluff piece! LOL. I occassionally throw in a little education--even in the midst of the fluff.]

I, clever-witted person that I am, wanting to lighten the introduction and assure the Son I had ansolutely no ulterior motives or designs on him proudly announced, "And I am not a cat!"

His stunned silence was broken by raucous laughter as his Mother and I rolled on the floor. Luckily, her Son is a bright boy and he quickly recovered from  his shock at my unusual pronouncement.   He laughingly said, "We had a cat named Mary Lou Kitten once."

"I know!" I chorted through my tears. "Your Mom and I talked about her earlier!" We laughed harder as passersby skirted farther and farther around the outside of our little huddle.

Through my tears I noticed the color was returning to his face as the realization his Mom was not trying to set him up with a Crazy Cat Lady dawned on him.

Wicked girl that I am, I couldn't let him off that easy, so I asked about his children, knowing he would politely ask me about mine. When he did, I flashed him a few cell phone photos of the FurBoys. Bandit in his tux. Moggy and Bandit going for a ride in their purple double pet stroller. Bandit and me in matching costumes and stage make-up. You know.  Your normal family photos.

I have a feeling had the Mary Lous  been hanging around they would have approved:  Retton always sported an impish grin and mischeviously twinkling eyes, and I'm pretty sure, as a rescue herself, Kitty would have loved my humor--or at least she would have been enamored with my handsome rescue, Moggy. 

And everyone who meets my NekedBoy has their hearts stolen by Bandit.

Even star-struck Boys with gymnasticly named kittens.

Real Life Trumps Escapism.

So I finished the cozy I started the other day (it came from Amazon the day I finished the first in the series-perfect timing). The third book in the series did not arrive today (I got it from Amazon as well, but it was from a partner), so I had to start another series. I chose the current read because the protagonist is a glass blower filling in for an injured artist who demos on a cruise ship. What a cool job is that?!

Because I'm a dweeb, I read the authors acknowledgments and thank yous. Tucked away in this non-story part of the book was a website for a glassblowing studio that assisted the author with research. Since I've created a couple small pieces at the  Salado Glassworks studio and some fused glass at That Art Place here in Belton, I checked out the link. They offer some very nice projects and classes. I checked out the classes and their calendar, then it was time to dig into the novel.

A couple chapters into my newest read I received a text from That Art Place telling me my fused glass flamingo is ready for pickup.  The dilemma: continue reading or pick up my creation?

The murder hasn't occured yet...so duh!

New Fluff Arrival

If you've read any of my blog posts on books or genres I like to read, or are a fairly close personal friend, you know I tend to read 3-5 books at a time. Usually I read different genres to simplify keeping up with plots, story lines, and information gathering. You also know I tend to be fairly eclectic but lean more heavily toward novels of suspense, thriller, legalese, sifi, fantasy,  and mysteries.  I have also been known to pick up the occasional (very occasional mind you) biography or true crime story--but usually only if it's written by a favorite author. Then there is my spiral-bound, color-photo laden, cookbook collection. Spiral bound for ease of use. Color photos so I can see what it's supposed to look like. And cookbook, because I am always in search of a mouthwatering, easy to fix, delight to the taste buds offering that would make Gordon Ramsay and his ilk declare me the winner of any cooking contest--except Worlds Worst Chef. Without having seen a show like that, I'm pretty sure, if entered, I could win it hands down. I am a kitchen menace. But I digress.

My current reads are limited to three: a book for my spiritual journey and its companion workbook for growth, an educational book for my own personal and professional edification,  and a mindless romp in some fluff--this is my term for what the industry terms "cozies" whether they have an "off screen" murder or not. The current fluff has murder included.

Not only am I down in the number of simultaneous reads, I'm struggling with completing the two non-fluff books I'm reading.  But, the good news is I'm racing through my To Be Read fluff stack.  So of course I'm finding more ways to ramp up my To Be Read stacks.

As my current fluff journey draws  rapidly to a vapid end--an end  I could predict two thirds of the way in--my heart has been warmed by Amazon Prime:  they informed me this morning my latest order would be delivered today.

After cleaning the floors last night I rewarded myself by ordering  two fluffy books and a package of three dual-action microfiber mopheads.  I purchased them with some of my PrimeRewards, so they were "free" to me.  Since I cleaned the floors last night, guess what I'll be doing tonight...

A new read arriving on my doorstep the morning of the day I would need it? Was it fate? Was it perfect timing?  Or was it creepy SpyWare?

This bookish girl could get used to that action--as long as it wasn't creepy spyware.

Almost.

As long as it was fate or perfect timing. The spyware thing is a little more concerning.

I wonder...

Since they: Amazon, Facebook, Google, and the techie  industry et al, are stalking my every keystroke, verbalization, and thought--or so it seems--and they seem to be able to anticipate my every need, even before I actually knoh w I need something, can they do that with all my needs?

If they can, I would never have to put on my bra and shoes and face crowds, long checkout lines, self-check lines that bark at me, mathmatically challenged cashiers, or  rude, obnoxiously overbearing salespeople ever again. All of which are the reason I had redeemable PrimeRewards.

This world-weary girl could get used to the absence of shopping stress.

Except...

Are Hal 2001 and Jeeves, becoming the new Mr. Right? Ugh. The horror.

Are Google Girl and  Alexa the tech-version of blond-haired, blue-eyed cheerleader types we loathe, but secretly want to be? I don't know if I'm smart enough or tech-savy enough to get away with her demise.

All this convenience is still a little too BigBrotherOrwellian for this paranoid girl.

Besides, I'm down to my last DDP and as fast as they are, I'm thinking Prime can't deliver in the next twenty minutes. Now UberEats or WaitR are a couple of horses of other colors....

Alas, they would only be a bandaid fix.

I need face the facts: I must put on my Big Girl Panties (and bra and shoes) and go to a Family Reunion--besides, I haven't seen any of My People in a while.

Well, except on You Tube.

Bad Form

Just checking..."for a friend"...is it bad form to take an afternoon nap at 5pm, then go to bed for reals before sunset? 

Here's the background:  Thursday, after work,  I cleaned house and washed clothes. I got a few hours sleep.

Friday I packed, loaded up the SUV, gased it up and drove to Florida for my 42nd HS Reunion Dinner. (Where has the time flown?!)

I'm no longer on speaking terms with GPS-Girl because on the way to Florida  she sent me on 2 wild goose detours that increased my drive time by 2.5 hours.  We arrived at our hotel after 2am and as soon as the SUV was unloaded and the boys stuff was unpacked we all fell into bed.

Friday morning I drove to Mamas and visited with her, then headed back to the hotel to clean up for the dinner.

I had a blast catching up with friends, then I headed back to the hotel. I actually packed very light this trip. Just enough pieces to make 4 outfits (travel outfits for Friday and Sunday, an outfit for Saturday, and a dinner outfit for Saturday evening.  Nothing fancy. They all color cordinated. Martha Stewart and the Light Packing Gurus would have been proud).

Unfortunately someone got sick this trip and I needed to wash clothes and pet bedding. I finished up the wash about 2am. 

My 10-12 hour drive home last night turned into 17 hours due to traffic and road construction from Alabama all the way through Lousiana.

GPS-Girl really is on my list-- cd and I guess she's not speaking to me either becayse at one point, after we had been parked on I-10 for about an hour she dinged and infirmed me there was a 30 minute traffic delay. Ya think?! 

During this delay, our top soeed was 10 mph.  Several folk decided they were too good to follow the rules of the road. They started by ones and twos, then 8 motorcycles passed on the shoulder. All in all about 30 self-important idiots drove on the shoulder rather than suffering on the I-10 Interstate Parking Lot like the rest of us--they may have arrived home before us--but the immature kid inside me really hopes not.  Where is a cop handingbnb out tickets when you need one?!

I called my Supervisors phone and left a message to request a couple hours leave for this morning when, after 11 hours of driving I still had not made it to the halfway point.  The upside is, once I actually made it to the halfway point I was able to make fairly good time.

We finally rolled into town at 3:30am. 

I took a four hour nap for insurance purposes (they pay 90% of the CPAP rental and supplies, if I pass my probation time--during which I have to be on the CPAP a minimum of 4 hours each night. I can miss a couple nights a month, but I forgot to turn the stupid thing on twice and only got 3 hours one night, so I'm walking a really thin line this month--I can't miss any more time.).

I made it to work, and had a busy day.  Mondays are killer, 'cause I do everything from Friday afternoon through Monday--which is basically the work for half of the week--all on Monday. It's killer-busy, but I usually don't have time to get into too much trouble on Mondays. 

Usually.

Some days I manage to get into trouble anyway. 😉

By the time I drove home after work I was so tired I was seeing things.

Really.  Like clearly defined faces on the door handles of a car behind me--I saw them reflected in my rearview mirror.

And the bear cub in the back seat of the SUV in front of me.

I know they were just lights and shadows, but sleep deprivation and driving don't mix, so I was glad when I arrived home safe and sound.

It was so hot Moggy didn't want to go outside. Bandit did. He was also so excited to see me he jumped  up and down so vigiorously  he sent himself into a coughing fit and lost his balance. You never would have known we had just spent 72 hours together.  I squatted down, picked him up, and carried him to the bedroom.  The trip took its toll on all of us.  He and I are running a tight race as to who will be the last to recover. We all piled onto my bed and took a short nap to catch our second wind.

Now revived, I'm making dinner and writing this blog post. Bandit went outside to potty. And  Moggy, well,  Moggy is the youngster  of the group, but he doesn't like extremes in temperature.  He has decided to remain inside and use the litter box.

Since I had a short nap before 5pm, is it bad form to go back to bed before the sun sets?

I don't think we care. As soon as the casserole is done and I've given this a quick typo check, we're going back to bed. Bad form or not.

Nighty-night.

Mine!

Sitting at the desk, I heard Moggy making a noise on the bed behind me. It took a second before I identified the sounds...ripping and shredding.

Hummm.....Ripping  and shredding might be a "not so good thing." Kind of a reversal of a Martha Stewart proclamation.  This would bear further investigation.

It turned out I worried too much--he had found a wadded up sterile dressing wrapper I had not tossed into the trash.   It was now partially shredded.

Moggy is an intuitive cat, and he sensed something might be awry just after I turned around. He looked up to see me looking at him, and I burst out laughing.

His face registered the most guilty look I have ever seen on anyone in my life--human, canine, or feline--and I have seen some guilty faces. In fact, I can neither confirm nor deny, but I may, or may not, have sported a guilty face or thousand myself in my growin' up years.  If officially asked, I'll plead the Fifth. 

In this moment, Moggy looked and acted so human I was hard-pressed to remember he's not human. In fact, his facial expression was one of a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

But that wasn't funny enough...

As I contemplated the possibility of locating my phone and snapping a photo before  he changed position (it didn't happen), he  lifted his paw from the paper shreds, spread his toes (keeping the claws tucked inside like a good boy), and ever so slowly streched his foreleg out over the paper-- and claimed the shreds as his own.

I could almost hear him thinking,  after all, you lazily tossed them on the bed rather than walk the ten feet to the trash basket. Since the paper didn't make it into the trash, Moggy obviously felt  the wraper was his newest play-toy.

To cement the deal he pulled the shreds ever so slighty toward himself, as if to say, You can not have these.  They are mine!

Fluke?

I know I have a smart (or more likely, smart aleck) FurBoy because Bandit has honked the car horn at me when I take too much time inside the Post Office or Rest Area bathroom (three times to date).  And I have to keep the SUV windows on child lock because he has rolled the windows down more times than I can count on my fingers and toes--even when I count on his and Moggy's paws.

While he usually turns his butt to every smart phone and camera within a mile that attempts to capture his likeness--he has also managed to take an X-rated selfie when he stepped over my iPhone and captured the Full Monty. He has also been known to turn on the TV or change channels with the remote. He's quite accomplished.  I may be reduced to asking him for tech support if I can't understand the next Technician that talks geek-giberish at (over) my head.

More importantly for the purpose of this post, I  also realize  it's probably a fluke that Bandit has managed to activate the massage function of my new bed--twice in  the last two days.

I say probably, because I rather doubt he is doing it on purpose; however, part of me has to wonder.....😉

Timing Is Everything

I stopped at WalMart for gas. The line was super long but the price was the cheapest I had seen in town all week.  I could have missed waiting in the line if I had gased up earlier today, or even earlier in the week.  But I didn't.  So I waited today.

And waited. And waited. And waited some more.  I grew impatient as I waited. In a thinly veiled attempt to avoid the appearance of being impatient, I found things to do other than watch for the woman to return to the truck in front of me. I sorted coupons.  And mail. And cleaned recepits, coins, and wrapped hard candies out of my drink-holder file. She finally returned. However, she did not get into her truck. She proceeded to start to gas up.

So I dusted my dash. And tidied up my last manicure.

I contemplated my pedicire, but decided I'm no longer flexable enough to work around the gear shaft.

I reconsidered the pedi while she went to pay for her gas. And chit-chat with the clerk.  And another coustomer or seven. And shop.  Before finally  sauntering back to her truck.

Slower than any tortoise she scaled the steps into the  cab of her truck, in the amount of time it might take a seasoned mountaineer to ascend Mount Everest. 

She left infuriatingly slowly. The three cars behind me had moved to faster moving lines, or left for less crowded, albeit more expensive gas stations long ago. 

Since I remained the sole holdout in her line, and I wasn't about to give her the satisfaction of knowing how infuriating her inconsideration was, I pretended like I was super busy and waited until she was all the way out of the gas station parking lot before I moved up to the pump.

Where I read "out of gas" signs on all but the supreme pump handle. "You've got to be kidding me!" I muttered. I really should have gased up  earlier.

A man flagged me down as  I pulled away to search for regular unleaded. I normally don't respond to strange men in parking lots, but this time I'm glad I did.

He told me since they were out of the two lesser grades, they were selling the supreme, which was selling for $2.97 a gallon at a competitors gas station, for their $2.31 price of regular. He said he filled up his has guzzler, his Wife and Daughters cars, and every 5 gallon gas can he owned.

I decided to gas up with the good stuff as well. 

Of course, my SUV probably won't know how to act with the good stuff in it. But I decided to risk it.

Oh, yeah, that thing about timming being everything? As I finished stuffing every drop of supreme I could into my tank, a tanker with regular gas drove up and began filling the empty tanks.

Duplicates

Back in the day, I had the video store flag me when I re-rented the same video (for the 6th time).  At one time I kept a list of books I have in my "to read" stack(s), because, I kept buying the same books. Luckily, since books are more memorable, I only re-bought most of the books 3 times.  My memory lapses are not limited to videos and books.  We don't have video stores any longer, and I've long ago lost the book list. 

You know where this is going....

I would think Amazon would alert me (or at least ask me for a review, which would cue me) that I've already purchased this craft book.  It didn't. As a result, I almost bought the same book. Again. The only reason I didn't?

I'm cheap. 

I decided to check a competitor site (Half Price Books). They didn't have it--well, they did, but at full price (which is still half-price, but more than I wanted to pay for this particular craft book). I got sidetracked, looking at reasonably priced kits on Etsy, and never made it back to Amazon.

It's a good thing because the craft book I was about to reorder  arrived in the mail today--all the way from Buckinghamshire. (Less than $5, shipping included--I told you I'm cheap.)

Yeah, I know I could have picked it up at Hobby Lobby and avoided the whole potential repurchase. In fact, Hobby Lobby is where I first saw it. And I normally buy local.  But it really ticks me off to pay $15 plus tax for a 48 page craft book, plus all the supplies--for a single project. But that's not the reason for this post. Neither is the fact that buying second hand deprives the author of the royalties [one of the reasons I only purchase certain authors (my friend Traci Borum) full price from first run bookstores or Amazon]. No, this post has another purpose. 

Since I'm cheap and forgetful, and I no longer have video store clerks to alert me, or lists to reference, and Amazon only reports Prime purchases, I've decided I need to develop an app that will not allow me to purchase duplicates.

Never mind I have no tech appititide or abilities. I am in need of an app that will not allow me to repurchase the same item repeatedly.  This app needs to encompass everything I purchase--not just videos and books:  items from local merchants, art fairs, the Canteen at work.  It also needs to include items I purchase with both cash and credit. 

I know app development will probably require a small outlay. I feel I've crushed it on the research front. But the development might be costly.  Maybe I can sell some of the duplicates for my seed money:  Anyone need  a Mr. Coffee coffee maker (I have 3) or perhaps I can interest you in a lunch crockpot (2)? 

They are all in their original boxes. (You think I'm just embellishing to make you laugh...I'm not.)

Yep, I really need to develop an app that will not allow me to make duplicate purchases.

Unless I over-ride. Because, after all, there are instances where duplicate purchases are acceptable--just not as often as I do it.

Diva

I embraced my Divaness yesterday. I could have walked out to the RV lot. After all, I walked in from there Monday. In anticipation of my departure  I tidied up, placing the paper in the trash and the fabric in the hamper. Yes, I know they have staff for that, but I don't like to cause others to clean up after me.  Besides, it was well within my capabilities. Their practice is an escort to the door. But when they offered two, plus a shuttle to my SUV, my Divaness kicked in and I accepted, even though I was quite capable of getting myself and my stuff to the SUV.   Who am I to deprive the shuttle driver the pleasure of my company during the short ride from the door to the lot? And when he insisted on packing my SUV for me, and waiting until I was ready to drive away before leaving, I thought he was well brought up.

In case you haven't figured it out from my rather obtuse ramblings, I was released from the hospital yesterday afternoon.

I'm fine.

This past weekend my tummy was upset. No sooner had that subsided, I experienced a new little healthcare wrinkle. I awoke Monday morning with a little chest discomfort. It did not feel cardiac in nature but I took a baby aspirin nonetheless. Then a second. And a third. And a fourth. Still it was not cardiac in feel. I had planned on mopping the floors before I went to work, but decided against it. Any excuse to avoid housework is my motto. 

While at work the pain I felt on inspiration grew steadily worse--from the feel of a pin sticking through my upper left chest to my back,  to an ice pick. I did what I could at work so my absence would be as less of a burden to my coworkers as possible, then I left for the Urgent Care Clinic. My coworkers advised me to go directly to ER, but I kept saying it's not cardiac. Two coworkers also offered to drive me. In my stuborness I politely thanked them and refused.

By 11am I was being turned away from the UCC and advised to go to ER in case my chest pain was in fact cardiac. I kept reminding everyone it was not chest pain, it was inspirational breating pain. They still insisted. So off to the ER I went. Because I'm a middle-aged woman with "chest pain" (that I kept insisting was not cardiac) I  was bumped to the front of the EKG line. Normal Sinus Rhythm.  All of the imaging came back within normal ranges [which they now, in their newly designed doccumentation package, term as within expected ranges (or something similar)].  All my cardiac labs were good, and they ruled out Pulmonary Embolisim (which in my paranoia was my fear).

It was a very busy day in the ER. So busy they ran out of hospital beds. I wondered several times if it was a full moon.

As I waited to see the doctor, people that came in after me were being seen and admitted (or released). That is the down side of triage, you don't necessarily go in order of arrival. My bump to the front of the line was quickly terminated. 

When it was finally time for me to go back to see the doc, it was after 5:30 p.m. I arrived at the room that was supposed to be mine, and found it was occupied by someone who arrived well after me. I'm okay with that because I understand the need for triage. More serrious cases jump to the head of the line. However, this particular gentleman had proclaimed in a booming voice that his finger had been cut a week ago and kept opening back up. It did not appear to be bleeding from my vantage point across the room.  Unless they found something more acute or alarming during their assessment, I was at a loss as to why he would be bumped to the head of the line.  I was told to wait in the hallway outside his/my room until they found a spot for me. I was quite okay with the doc just telling me I could go home in the hallway. That would not be the case.

After a short wait, an ER room became available and I was placed in it. Unfortunately, my android battery died sometime during the wait. The charging station in the ER did not work (you have to sign into their guest wifi in order to use it--a fact I did not realize until the second time I attempted to charge it),  and  I did not have my wall charger with me. It was then I realized how handicaped I am. 

I no longer know any phone numbers. Therefore, I had no way to phone a friend check on my FurBoys or bring me a charger. The Nurse told me they had other charging stations and went to find one for me. Unfortunately, they were all in use. I eventually learned I was being admitted to the hospital, but due to the lack of hospital beds, I would be boarded in the ER. (It seems VA is not the only hospital that has to do this). They offered to trade out my ER bed for a regular hospital bed, but honestly, it was quite comfy so I declined. I hadn't embraced my inner Diva...yet.

Why was I being admitted if everything was within expected ranges? Well, not everything was. My oxygen saturation dropped to the mid to low 80s a couple of times. I was not in any respiratory distress--with the exception of the pain on inspiration.

Mid-morning Tuesday I was assigned a bed. Within 10 minutes of my arrival, the doctor came to see me. She said she was surprised at how well I looked.  We weren't even through the RN Assessment and the Doc was talking Discharge. This was Music to my ears. She was a little concerned about my oxygen saturation, but I assured her it was fine--everytime I got out of bed I checked the monitor, and I never saw it dip below 90%. She said it actually had gone into the low 80s a couple times, but she agreed to discharge if I didn't desaturate when I walked. So off we went for a walk.

Unfortunately, from my room at the end of the hall to the Nurses Station was all it took. I compensated, was in no distress, and even talked as we continued the loop around the Nurses Station, but  unfortunately, she recommended I stay one more night on the IV lasix. I relutcantly agreed.

I continued ambulating around the floor several times a shift, used the incentive spirometer everytime a commercial came on, adhered to the 1800 ml fluid restriction (I actually only had 1600ml) and, had the Student Nurse walk me the next morning so we would have an O2 sat when the doctor (a Male on Wednesday) came by to see me. We did the longer looped route I had been walking and I never dropped below 92%. Success!

That was at 11am. I was not discharged until 2:30. Again, it's not just VA that DCs in the aftenoon, even when it was the plan from the day before.

I guess I felt I deserved a little Diva Treatment. So I succumbed.

Once I arrived home, the FurBoys let me know how displeased they were over my absence.  I made it up to them with treats and snuggles.  Bandit even allowed Moggy to be on his side of me during one of our position shifts. He wasn't thrilled, but he didn't growl at Moggy either.

I think they missed me as much as I missed them. And, even though they are boys, they threw some definite Diva-like vibes my way.

I just don't know where they get their Divaness from. 😉

Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire

GPS Girl said if I went through H town I would be home by 8:36pm. I always take Hwy  105 from Beaumont. I avoid traffic. But not suicidal critters and ticket-writting small town cops. So I decided to follow GPS Girl's advice.

She lied.

Now it's going to be after 10pm. If she's telling the truth. I have my doubts since I'm typing this between 12-yard advancements on an access road. 

For a while the Interstate was a parking lot. Then there was an empty stretch. Now I'm watching the Interstate traffic drive past.

I shouls have known better when she had me exit in Baytown. But I could see the Interstate traffic stopped, so I followed her advice. As soon as I did, the access traffic stopped as well.

When she told me to take a right I did thinking she was routing me around the whatever on surface streets.

But then after about a mile she rerouted me back to the Interstate that was still a parking lot. I've been on this access road now several miles. Stopping for a minute every 12 yards.

While the cars on the Interstate have started to drive past. No. Whiz past.

As my ETA gets pushed back later and later. Thanks for nothing GPS Girl.

Next time, I drive what I know is a better choice. I'll just dodge the critters and outrun the law.

Calculating In My Sleep

I'm not sure why I awoke multiplying percentages.  Except it was part of a strange dream.  What I really ought to say is:  I'm not sure why my dream was so much odder than usual.

I didn't eat any strange food to upset my tummy before going to bed.  Not unless you count the combination of left over Bulgogi from our new Korean BBQ place, and a spoonful chaser of  Unicorn Cake ice cream from HEB.

Bulgogi is a thinly sliced marinated meet dish that is then barbecued or stir-fried. Mine was stir-fried beef.  It was served with rice and six little sides: the kimchi was the spiciest of the sides. The remaing five sides: bean sprouts, fish cakes, bell peppers, cucumber, and something that escapes me at the moment, were somewhat bland in comparison to the kimchi.

The Unicorn Cake ice cream was an exceedingly sweet pink, blue, and white concoction with sprinkles and bits of white cake.  Its sweatness  remined me of cotten candy--one of the reasons the small pint sized container has lasted over two weeks of nightly noshing. I can only tolerate very small portions of that much sweetness in one sitting. Maybe it's because I'm so sweet...I said maybe.

At any rate, if the combination of Unicorn Cake ice cream and Bulgogi were the offender, it should have ambushed my tummy the first night I ate it.  By the time I was on Round Two of left-overs my tummy should have been adjusted to the unorthodox meal.  It was a rather odd dinner for sure, but I don't think dinner was my dream culprit.

The TV timer had turned the TV off earlier,  so I wasn't incorporating a form of some storyline my subconscious heard as I slept, like when I dreamt I was Thelma Lou from Scooby-Doo, Where Are You? or when I woke myself up singing the  Inch Worm song that accompanied a childs toy commercial back in the 1960s.  I must point out I am aware, in my current non-dream state, that Thelma Lou was actually the girlfriend of Barney Fife on The  Andy Griffeth Show,  and The Girl Wonder on Scooby-Doo, Where Are You? was actually named Velma.  I've always renamed and reimagined people.

Back to determing a plausable cause for my odd dream. 

I've not experienced undue work-related stress lately.  Quite the contrary, recently I received three welcome bits of news.  All three dangle the promise of better days to come. They are the light at the end of a very long dark tunnel, and they can't get here soon enough to suit me. My work stress has been greatly reduced just by the hope they instill.  Greatly reduced...but not totally eliminated.

I provided holiday coverage after the weekend.  That means I wrote care plans for all the admissions that occured hospital-wide,  during the weekend and holiday--3 1/2  days worth. While writting half the weeks work in only one day kept me very busy--I wasn't stressed--at least not any more so than providing hospital coverage any other Monday or holiday. 

Because it was  a holiday weekend I ended up writting 44 care plans.  (This tied my second highest.  Forty-six care plans continues to retain the doubious honor of "most").  I also sent a guy to another hospital for care we could not provide. That was still not too stressful. I was also being shadowed by two students who slowed me down asking questions and needing process explainations.

Okay, the shadowing was kind of stressful 'cause I had to be professional. And nice. In the morning. And the rest of the day. And I had to remember their names. The name remembering may have put me over the top stress-wise. But I'm still not convinced work stress was the culprit for the dream.

The memory of my dream is starting to fade, but the gist of it involved me being in a mall that looked suspiciously like the interior of a small regional airport, where an artist friend was providing pedicures. He had the audacity to be upset with me because I was in the process of  obtaining a written estimate from his competitors, who, he insinuated in a rather cattily-snarky way,  were on their way out,  due to some lease infraction.

I was of course getting the written estimate because the  owner, who resembled the waitress that served my bulgogi,  quoted me the outrageous sum of $150 for the pedi. I know my toes are in great need of a make-over; however, I can buy new toes for much less than that! 

Besides, all I wanted was a nail trim and color change.  Along with a nice long foot soak...while sitting through 2 or 3, or 10 cycles in the heated massage chair. 

Each time I asked for a verbal confirmation on the price of a pedi, she quoted me a different (lower) price. When she finally, in exasperation,  gave me the written estimate  $75 had been marked through and $50 was circled.

Because nothing about my dreams is ever straightforward, the estimate had the name of Sally on it.  Which left me wondering if Sally was another customer requesting an estimate? Or was Sally the name of my assigned nail tech?  Or was she Sally?

Before I could ask for clarification, a Lorretta Swift  look-a-like (Margaret "Hot Lips" Houlihan of M*A*S*H fame), sans the camo, began calling my insurance company to request authorization for my knee surgery.  I couldn't get a clear view of her nametag, but it started with an "S." Maybe the scheduler was Sally.

S obtained authorization and hung up before I was able to ask for further clarification. She began to schedule my surgery and pedi. I was horrified!

I was not ready to go directly to surgery. No, she assured me, today is the pedicure, the knee surgery has to be scheduled 7-12 days out.  She quoted some insurance regulation as the rationale.

I quickly informed her 7-12 days out I would be smack-dab in the middle of my 3 week working vacation.  I would be attending a confrence during the middle week. I informed her the timing for surgery would simply not do. "Besides," I asked, "what will my copay be?"

I continued to bombard her with questions and reasons 7-12 days from now was simply not workable:  Did she obtain authorization for both knees to be done at the same time? If she obtained authorization for only one knee--can she call back and request authorization  for both?  And then I begain listing all the reasons I would not be able to have surgery in just a few short days.  I have far too much to do between now and surgery: clean and organize my house, board the FurBoys, obtain home rehab services if I still need extra rehab after my stay in inpatient rehab.  No, I explained, there are just too many loose ends that need taking care of before I can intertain thoughts of knee surgery.

S calmly told me I would have a 30% copay on the 30K surgery and started to redial my insurance company to ask the details. The pricetag of 30K told me she received authorization for only one knee.  

I awoke multiplying 30K by 0.30 and vowing to obtain my own authorization since she obviously did it wrong. 

My copay should not be 30% and quite frankly, I expected a higher total cost to be quoted.  Sometimes you just have to do things yourself to ensure rget are done correctly.

Of course, if the  airport-mall-hospital is out of network, 30% would in fact be my portion of the bill.