Buried under work at the moment. So very, very much to do and so little time and even less energy to do it in. *sigh* Do I sound like a broken record yet? Because I certainly feel like one.
The cats are better. They each got a dose of Advantage and the itchies are just about gone. No more flea poo on the bed either. Freesia has lost 1.5+ pounds in the past year. I've started giving her gooshy food, the hopes of keeping her from losing any more muscle mass. The boys cry and cry while she's eating, but they really do not need the extra calories.
I can't get warm. Like, for the last three days I can't get warm. I'm beginning to fear that I'm getting ill. I just shiver, even with the sweater and blanket and thick socks and such.
So wish I could stop thinking about this work project and just curl up in bed with the kitties and shiver myself to sleep.
I got a call from the Sierra Club tonight, asking me to join their monthly giving program. Rather than give a larger sum once or twice a year, you give a smaller amount (like $10) a month and they don't call you or send you requests for more cash.
The program sounds like a good idea. I support the Sierra club - I've gone on their service trips, I use their checks, I give money when they come to my house. So I had no problem with the idea of their monthly program. But the problem was, they wanted me to give them my credit card number right there over the phone.
Now, hold on there a minute.
I am not a user that is scared of making transactions on the web. I have no problem ordering goods from a catalog and giving my credit card number to them that way. But the difference is that I call them, not the other way around. The Sierra Club is not the first organization to do this. I've gotten calls from the local police union and such asking for card or account numbers before. They say they do this to save money on postage and mailings, which I can sympathize with. But I always ask for them to mail me a paper request anyway. Why?
Because it's stupid for me to give someone I don't know my account info over the phone! Hello! I understand that the woman I talked with was probably being completely honest with me, and I would love to think that we live in a world where we can trust each other so completely. But in the off case that she wasn't?
So, even though she didn't think that you could, I did find the link to the monthly giving on the Sierra Club website. They really should have that in their scripts. I would have liked to been able to give her "credit" for making the "sale," but alas the online form does not allow for that.
We've had another incident in the War On Bugs. It started a few weeks ago. Freesia seemed to be a little itchier than usual. But the weather was turning cooler, so I figured she was losing her summer coat and starting to grow her winter one. I figured that that also accounted for the increase in hairlog occurrences.
Then I noticed that there were bits of dirt on the bed after she had been sleeping there. It wasn't big and black flecks like when she and Smudge had ear mites 2 years ago. This was much, much finer, like grains of sand. Again, strange, but I didn't really think much of it.
Then an event happened that proved that this was not just a change in seasons. I saw a bug come to the surface of her fur, and then bury back into the fluff before I could grab it out. In a matter of days she was completely infested. I had E call the vet while I was in Canada last week to make an appointment for her. The soonest we could get her in is Wednesday.
I feel so horrible about the whole thing. In her 11 years, Freesia has never had fleas. I don't know if these are even fleas, they are the size of sesame seeds. She sat on the bed looking at us last night, so wanting to be loved and cuddled and all I could see was bugs. We locked her out of the bedroom—not being able to stand the though of her sleeping with us with all those bugs on her. I itch all over just thinking about it.
The thing is, I don't know where she got them from. Freesia, Smudge and Horus are all indoor only cats. Horus got outside once months ago, but he wasn't out for long. Did we unknowingly bring sand fleas back with us from when we went to Carmel at Labor Day? Did they come in the new wheat-based litter we are using? Are they in the carpet from the indoor-outdoor cat that used to live in the house? I just don't know.
I feel like I've let her down. She so wants to be cuddled and loved. She's so itchy. Her fur isn't as thick. I know she's miserable. And then mommy goes and locks her out of the bedroom! I'm waiting until Wednesday when I bring her to the vet rather than pick up Frontine or Advantage on the way home because a) I want to make sure it really is fleas. b) She's been losing weight and I want the vet to check about that. c) I want the vet to look at all the scabs she has on her head from fighting with Horus and Smudge.
Oh insect hordes, you will regret this!
You would not know it if you were to look at our house, but we are in the midst of a long seige war. It is us, the mammals, against the insect hordes. The cats do their bit, catching the moths and flies that come inside (since we don't really have screens for our windows). E is in charge of the Relocation of all Eight-legged Interlopers. I am in charge of pointing out infestations and making a ruckus until it is cleared away. We are all very good at our jobs.
Over the past few weeks we have all settled into a pretty acceptable cease-fire. There haven't been as many months and bugs flying around inside, and the spiders have mostly confined themselves to the garden areas. I wasn't too happy about them weaving their webs of death in my flower pots, but since they didn't jump at me when I watered, I was happy to let them be.
Today however, they went too far. I opened the front door and there was a HUGE spider (okay, about 1-inch diameter, with legs) that had woven a web that covered the entire front door. Now, I work with yarn and fiber. I can appreciate good weaving when I see it. But this guy had gone too far. It was impossible to walk out of the house without being trapped in his web.
So, I did what any sensible, intelligent, rational person would do. I screamed, slammed the door and got E. As the Minister of the Relocation of all Eight-legged Interlopers, I saw it was fully within his duties to move said trespasser off the doorway. Which, thankfully, he did. I was sure to tell Mr. Spider in no uncertain terms that the doorway was not an acceptable homesteading location and he should chose more wisely next time. I'm sure if any of the neighbors were listening they think I'm crazy.
[Editor's note: Yes, I know that spiders are our friends and that if they weren't here the planet would be overrun with bugs. That's why I no longer get out the broom when I see them, but let E relocate them outside the house.]
This fall is turning out to be quite full of memories and anniversaries. Yesterday was the 16th anniversary of my father's death. As I wrote back in March, he is now gone for as long as I knew him. This is a strange place to be. So much as happened to me in the last 16 years. It's strange and sad to think that he hasn't been a part of it all.
Yes, you can wax philosophic about how he knows and has been there because I carry him in my heart. As long as I remember him, he's not truly gone. Blah Blah Blah. Folks always tell the grieving shit like that. At times it is a comfort, but mostly it's not. The truth of the matter is he's gone. Dead. Buried. He never saw me graduate high school or college or grad school. He never saw me get married (or divorced). He never saw the freakin' Internet, for god's sake.
But I think what gets me the most, is that I'll never have an adult relationship with my father. Our relationship is frozen in the parent-rebellious teen stage. When I wonder what he would think of my life now, I can't help but think of him in the judging parent role. I never got a chance to grow with him out of that.
You'd think that after 16 years the grief would be different. And yes, that is true. It's not the stabbing pain of a fresh wound that just won't heal. Now it's more of a scar, one that is tender when poked at, but mostly forgotten in daily life. But is still surprises me at just how tender it can be when poked. It's sad. And longing. And more sad.
I know, I know, two posts in the same day. Whatever was I drinking tonight? For those of you following along at home via LiveJournal and RSS, you won't see this. But the background of ChachiInCharge has changed from its pale blue to a pale pink.
Why the change in color you ask? Well, it's because October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month. And pink is the official color of breast cancer. So head on over to http://pinkforoctober.org/ and you can learn more.
You can also check out the National Breast Cancer Foundation to learn more about what you can do. And remember ladies, do your monthly self breast exams. Get your sweetie to assist you if it helps. Early detection is the key.
My dear friend Kate and I had a good little heart-to-heart last week. We were talking about the vast quanities of things we are working on (e.g., crafting, reading, gaming, volunteering, working, diet, exercise, etc) and the complete and total lack of energy and umph to get up and do them. Even when I do manage to do things, my To Do list never seems to get any smaller. There is always more, and more, and more to be done.
Kate looked me in the eye, and asked "Do you think it's because we are older and we just can't do all we did when we were 20?" Well, she could have knocked me over with a feather right then. Being older can't be it. I still have trouble coming to terms with the fact that I'm an adult. I can't be old enough to be slowing down.
As I continued to muse on this over the weekend, something occurred to me. I am of the age where I grew up being told that I could be anything. I could have it all: the career, the family, the house, the kids, the white picket fence - the whole middle-class enchilada. (Do they still teach little girls that? I don't know.) Of course, they neglected to tell me that in order to do it all I'd also have to be a Type-A, OCD, crazy woman who never slept and was on the fast track to an early grave.
And I realized, as much as I understand that it's not realistic to try to "have it all," deep inside of me is a core that still believes that I can. The ugly part that comes with this belief is if I can't have it all, it's not because the standard is unreasonable. It's because I'm not trying hard enough, not smart enough, not thin enough, not something enough, oh god there must be something wrong with me. *sigh*
Somehow I really don't think that all our foremothers who marched on Washington, fought for the ERA, and burned their bras wanted their daughters to end up feeling inferior and unworthy when they couldn't meet an unrealistic ideal.