50
So it seems I turned 50 in April. It didn't even hurt. In fact, I think 40 was a bigger deal. And that was no big deal. Obviously I haven't been on fire to pen my thoughts about the whole thing, since all these many weeks have passed.
About the only landmark 'birthday gift' I've noticed is a definite increase in tiredness. It seems to take me all weekend to recover from the pay period. I can't remember the last time I felt full of energy. The best I seem to be able to achieve these days is the absence of tiredness. There is definitely more resentment at having to do more than a few things at home after work. I really hope this is only a temporary episode to be blamed on the old hormonal plane going down in flames (that probably ought to be its own blog entry). And I totally, absolutely and utterly overestimated how much time and energy I was going to have to make and sell stuff at the farmers' market this summer in addition to working a full-time life-sucking job (another blog entry all its own).
Anyway. I'm just not one for big landmark birthday celebrations. I don't really care for a lot of birthday fanfare any year, for that matter. I definitely like something good (and preferably naughty) to eat, and several things to drink over the course of the week. I like it to be acknowledged and duly noted. And that's about it.
Having said that, I could have done without most of the noteworthy events of the week of my birthday. I tend to start bracing myself around April 15th for some kind of event that involves pain, death, destruction, gunfire, or explosions. Usually without fail something of national or world importance happens around the second or third week of April. And this year delivered mightily, thank you very much. Not one, but two disasters: the Boston Marathon pressure cooker bombings, and a gigantic fertilizer plant explosion near Waco, Texas.
Then there was plenty of fur-kid anxiety right here at home to take attention away from my particular day. Valrhona started limping on and off sometime in March. Then it became more constant, so we took her to the vet for an exam (always a fun thing anyway because she's the hardest one to load into the carrier, then she starts doing her contortionist freak-out once you get her inside it). They managed to get an X-ray of her right rear leg which showed a luxating patella and a 'joint mouse', both of which were causing her to limp. If these were not surgically fixed, the result would be even worse arthritis and permanent lameness. So what else to do but consent to an expensive meeting with a specialist surgeon, and the surgery itself on April 17th?
It literally was a dark and stormy night on the 17th. I really couldn't enjoy the storms like I usually do because I was worried about how the surgery was going, and the clinic didn't call the entire day and evening. I exercised, showered, got ready for work, and watched Mocha Java hide in the litter box because he's terrified of thunder. Finally I called them just before leaving the house for work at 9pm, and they reported they had just finished up and she was 'resting comfortably'.
When Tim brought her home the next day, she stumbled out of the carrier, limped as fast as she could to the couch in the den and curled up into a pathetic, pouting ball. She clamped her mouth shut against all forms of medication, even temptingly wrapped in her brother's smelly, moist food or tuna, or diluted in canned tuna juice. She squealed whenever we tried to move her. I couldn't stand it. So we weren't too compliant with the pain meds or antibiotics that first day.
Things went better the next day when she was more herself. I discovered I could encase her antibiotic pill in a tiny wad of sharp cheddar cheese and put it among the nuggets of her food. The liquid pain med went down with tuna juice.
So far so good. All done with the meds. Until the day I noticed her incision looking a little too pink and moist, and saw her licking it. She was lounging in the sun, and the light really illuminated the ugliness. So, back to the vet. Another week of antibiotic pills, plus orders to put on the special plastic collar to prevent her from licking her knee. Otherwise known as the Cone of Shame. And we thought we'd had it pretty slick being able to avoid putting it on her ('wow, she's totally leaving the incision alone'). No, she wasn't.
Putting her regular collar on her is a big enough ordeal. She's squirmy as an eel and compact as as a sea urchin. If she feels confined in any way, or senses something approaching her face or neck, she's reversing faster than a senile driver confusing the gas for the brake pedal. Putting the Cone of Shame on her was pretty much hell. I ended up stepping on her toe in the struggle (of course on the foot of the surgery leg) and she screeched, and I felt lower than whale shit. It was the low point of an already low week.
Tim was out of town (in Jackson MS) for work this entire particular week, so there was no one else but me to do all those little things that combine to add up to many minutes of coping with regular old household stuff. Minutes that you sometimes don't have when you are an hourly monkey with precisely a five minute window in which to swipe your badge at the time clock, and have a half hour commute. I guess I could have simply left messes in place and dealt with them when I had more time. But the morning I only had an hour and a half turnaround for multiple tasks between work and volunteering was the morning Ferrari chose to step into the litter box, and without turning around, let loose a golden arc of cat piss all over the laundry room floor. A small pond of cat piss is, in my opinion, a time-sensitive mess.
This took place seconds after Valrhona had gone down the basement stairs (another post-surgery violation) when I had removed the baby gate (our half-ass solution to keeping her off them) and turned my back for approximately 27 seconds. Reeling like a drunkard because she was wearing the Cone of Shame, I could only watch as she nearly fell backwards down the stairs before she managed to hook her claws into the carpet. And gallop clumsily back up the steps.
As I was standing in the front hallway letting loose a primal scream (I think it was something along the lines of 'son of a bitch'), I was quite clearly thinking how illogical and immature I was being. Yelling because a pet pissed/pooped/puked on the floor? How many thousands of other messes have you cleaned up over the years without a word? So much for my fantasy zen attitude toward life's difficulties I figured I would surely have when I hit the big 5-0.
OK, so Ferrari is pretty much deaf now and probably couldn't hear it. And there was no being with opposable thumbs anywhere nearby to hear me. I guess certain things, or combinations of things still push my scream button. Other things don't push it any more, but still...
Maybe we'll find that zen when I'm 60??
About the only landmark 'birthday gift' I've noticed is a definite increase in tiredness. It seems to take me all weekend to recover from the pay period. I can't remember the last time I felt full of energy. The best I seem to be able to achieve these days is the absence of tiredness. There is definitely more resentment at having to do more than a few things at home after work. I really hope this is only a temporary episode to be blamed on the old hormonal plane going down in flames (that probably ought to be its own blog entry). And I totally, absolutely and utterly overestimated how much time and energy I was going to have to make and sell stuff at the farmers' market this summer in addition to working a full-time life-sucking job (another blog entry all its own).
Anyway. I'm just not one for big landmark birthday celebrations. I don't really care for a lot of birthday fanfare any year, for that matter. I definitely like something good (and preferably naughty) to eat, and several things to drink over the course of the week. I like it to be acknowledged and duly noted. And that's about it.
Having said that, I could have done without most of the noteworthy events of the week of my birthday. I tend to start bracing myself around April 15th for some kind of event that involves pain, death, destruction, gunfire, or explosions. Usually without fail something of national or world importance happens around the second or third week of April. And this year delivered mightily, thank you very much. Not one, but two disasters: the Boston Marathon pressure cooker bombings, and a gigantic fertilizer plant explosion near Waco, Texas.
Then there was plenty of fur-kid anxiety right here at home to take attention away from my particular day. Valrhona started limping on and off sometime in March. Then it became more constant, so we took her to the vet for an exam (always a fun thing anyway because she's the hardest one to load into the carrier, then she starts doing her contortionist freak-out once you get her inside it). They managed to get an X-ray of her right rear leg which showed a luxating patella and a 'joint mouse', both of which were causing her to limp. If these were not surgically fixed, the result would be even worse arthritis and permanent lameness. So what else to do but consent to an expensive meeting with a specialist surgeon, and the surgery itself on April 17th?
It literally was a dark and stormy night on the 17th. I really couldn't enjoy the storms like I usually do because I was worried about how the surgery was going, and the clinic didn't call the entire day and evening. I exercised, showered, got ready for work, and watched Mocha Java hide in the litter box because he's terrified of thunder. Finally I called them just before leaving the house for work at 9pm, and they reported they had just finished up and she was 'resting comfortably'.
When Tim brought her home the next day, she stumbled out of the carrier, limped as fast as she could to the couch in the den and curled up into a pathetic, pouting ball. She clamped her mouth shut against all forms of medication, even temptingly wrapped in her brother's smelly, moist food or tuna, or diluted in canned tuna juice. She squealed whenever we tried to move her. I couldn't stand it. So we weren't too compliant with the pain meds or antibiotics that first day.
Things went better the next day when she was more herself. I discovered I could encase her antibiotic pill in a tiny wad of sharp cheddar cheese and put it among the nuggets of her food. The liquid pain med went down with tuna juice.
So far so good. All done with the meds. Until the day I noticed her incision looking a little too pink and moist, and saw her licking it. She was lounging in the sun, and the light really illuminated the ugliness. So, back to the vet. Another week of antibiotic pills, plus orders to put on the special plastic collar to prevent her from licking her knee. Otherwise known as the Cone of Shame. And we thought we'd had it pretty slick being able to avoid putting it on her ('wow, she's totally leaving the incision alone'). No, she wasn't.
Putting her regular collar on her is a big enough ordeal. She's squirmy as an eel and compact as as a sea urchin. If she feels confined in any way, or senses something approaching her face or neck, she's reversing faster than a senile driver confusing the gas for the brake pedal. Putting the Cone of Shame on her was pretty much hell. I ended up stepping on her toe in the struggle (of course on the foot of the surgery leg) and she screeched, and I felt lower than whale shit. It was the low point of an already low week.
Tim was out of town (in Jackson MS) for work this entire particular week, so there was no one else but me to do all those little things that combine to add up to many minutes of coping with regular old household stuff. Minutes that you sometimes don't have when you are an hourly monkey with precisely a five minute window in which to swipe your badge at the time clock, and have a half hour commute. I guess I could have simply left messes in place and dealt with them when I had more time. But the morning I only had an hour and a half turnaround for multiple tasks between work and volunteering was the morning Ferrari chose to step into the litter box, and without turning around, let loose a golden arc of cat piss all over the laundry room floor. A small pond of cat piss is, in my opinion, a time-sensitive mess.
This took place seconds after Valrhona had gone down the basement stairs (another post-surgery violation) when I had removed the baby gate (our half-ass solution to keeping her off them) and turned my back for approximately 27 seconds. Reeling like a drunkard because she was wearing the Cone of Shame, I could only watch as she nearly fell backwards down the stairs before she managed to hook her claws into the carpet. And gallop clumsily back up the steps.
As I was standing in the front hallway letting loose a primal scream (I think it was something along the lines of 'son of a bitch'), I was quite clearly thinking how illogical and immature I was being. Yelling because a pet pissed/pooped/puked on the floor? How many thousands of other messes have you cleaned up over the years without a word? So much for my fantasy zen attitude toward life's difficulties I figured I would surely have when I hit the big 5-0.
OK, so Ferrari is pretty much deaf now and probably couldn't hear it. And there was no being with opposable thumbs anywhere nearby to hear me. I guess certain things, or combinations of things still push my scream button. Other things don't push it any more, but still...
Maybe we'll find that zen when I'm 60??