Saturday, December 31, 2011

Playing God

This is supposed to be a funny blog, but yesterday was basically the hardest day of my life, so bear with me as I pour my heart out to you in the best way i know how. This basically reads as a Sarah McLachlan commercial gone wrong, so I understand if you can't read it. I could barely write it myself.

I woke up this morning with my eyes welded shut, swollen and raw from the horrific things id seen the day before. It started off as a normal work day, i worked from home and around 11am i got up to get myself some cereal. I walked by the patio door (or doorwall, for my comrades from michigan) and noticed a stray grey kitty curled up in one of our patio chairs. We'd been meaning to take those downstairs for weeks and i silently cursed myself for not having been proactive before the snow hit.

He was moving a bit slow, and, bleeding heart that i am, i put out a plate of last night's marlin steak for him. He ate the entire plate, and that's when i noticed his eye was damaged and swollen shut. He had patches of fur missing and more scratches above his other eye.

I felt something inside me break and I realized that I had to do something. I couldn't just let him sit outside in the snow and cold to heal on his own. I feared he would run away and I wouldn't see him again. I rushed inside, got an old towel, wrapped him up in it and carried him to the garage. I put a little food and water for him. He immediately ran to a corner,  though I had set him up a bed, and I couldn't coax him out for anything.

K came downstairs with me, and we decided that we should make some phone calls. I contacted our local vet and asked what she thought I should do. She suggested calling shelters and seeing if we could get him in there, or to bring him in for a visit to have him checked out--at which point he would essentially be our cat, and we would take on responsibility for him.

We have 3 cats already, one has one eye and we're lucky the other two get along at all. K and I knew we couldn't take on a 4th, (truthfully, we barely get ours in for their shots on time, which I'm not proud to admit.) I started posting on facebook to see if anyone would take him, and calling shelters. Most of the shelters I called were full or had at least a 3 week waiting period before we could get him even submitted for approval to get in there. I didn't realize shelters were so full or had to be so choosing until now. And I will tell you, I'd hate to be the person at those shelters who has to make the decision on who to allow and who to turn away.

We called the vet back and made an appointment for later that afternoon. I at least wanted to get him checked out, then I figured we could keep him in the garage for a few days while we located a shelter that would take him. (We didn't know if he was sick, and we couldn't risk bringing him into the house to infect our other 3 kitties.)

We herded him into a cat carrier and managed to get him into the vet's office. I was shaking with nerves, I had barely eaten all day, and my stomach was in knots. I had no idea what was in store for us.

The doctor came in, a beautiful girl who couldn't have been more than 24 years old. She had kind, compassionate eyes, and she treated us with respect and handled the kitty with care. She pulled him out of the crate, and I doubled over in tears the moment I saw his face. It was worse than I had originally thought, we hadn't been able to get a good look at his face in the dark of the garage.

*Fair warning, this is graphic.*

His eye was punctured, and hanging out of its socket. His other eye was infected as well, though not as bad. He had patches of fur missing, and scars along the top of his head where it appeared he had gotten into a fight. My heart broke into a million pieces and I realized suddenly that we faced a more somber truth than we had thought. She softly examined his body and told us that they would have to remove his left eye. The vet's office offered to dip into it's stray fund and cover a large portion of the cost of the surgery for us, $400 of $500. The money wasn't an issue, I would gladly have paid the full $500 for him. But it was then that I realized that we would have a hard time getting him into a shelter like this, and I relived the life of our cat Gwennie, who ironically has the same eye missing and was stuck in a shelter for 4 years before K and his ex lovingly adopted her.

My chest tightened with the decision I was forced to make. Unable to control my emotions, even in front of the vet, I sobbed uncontrollably and said over and over "I don't want to do it. I can't make the choice." She left the room for K and I to consider our options. I considered having him have the surgery and taking him home until we could find another home for him, but I couldn't have him recover in the garage--he would need to be in a warm bed, with lots of blankets and constant care until he could get better. I couldn't imagine taking him home for the night and letting him suffer with this horrendous injury for that much longer while I attempted to call shelters to get him a home. On top of that, the doctor was going to perform the surgery the next morning and after that it would have to wait a week or more. I couldn't let him suffer for that much longer. The doctor suspected a respiratory illness and the possibility of feline leukemia. We wouldn't know until we had him tested, and we couldn't risk the lives of our 3 until we knew for sure. Ours would most likely harass him, and I couldn't stand to see that during the recovery process.

I never in my life thought I would be able to make the decision that I did yesterday, but with a strength I didn't know I had, I played God. With shaky hands and tears staining the paper, I signed the release to euthanize him. She offered to take him back where they would do it privately, but I insisted that I wanted to stay with him. After all, though we had been in each other's lives for less than a full day, I was the only person he was familiar with. The vet came in with the vet tech, both with compassionate eyes and soft hands, and K and I stroked and talked to the kitty the entire way through, holding hands behind K's back. I told him I was sorry he had to go through this and that I loved him. And I do love him, I will never forget his presence in my life, or the piece of me that his existence and death changed. I gave up a part of my innocence that day, but I couldn't help but hope that I prevented a slow death alone outside in the cold.

There comes a moment, when a living creature's fate is placed in your hands, and you are given the choice to let them live or die. Something snaps inside of you, and you are forever changed. You suddenly want someone, anyone to tell you what to do. What the right decision is, to absolve you of the burden to have to make the decision. But ultimately it is your choice, and with little time or knowledge, you have to make one of the hardest choices you'll ever have to make. You have to give voice to a creature that cannot talk, and follow your heart the best way you can. The only way you can, out of pure love and compassion. It changes you.

They injected him, and his body went limp, it looked like he was sleeping. And where I had felt mad panic and pain a few moments before, I suddenly felt peace. No more suffering for the little guy, he wouldn't have to endure the cold, fear and pain any longer.

It has hit me in waves over the last day and a half--heaving, uncontrollable sobs that only K holding onto me can stop. My face is unrecognizable, eyes puffy and swollen and my heart is broken into a million pieces. I don't pray often, but right now I'm praying I made the right decision.

Thursday, December 29, 2011

It's not you, it's me.

Dear Maury,

I love you, I truly do. You've provided me with an unending supply of laughter and tears, shock and dismay at who was born a man or woman, and whether or not that dude sitting on the stage really IS the father.

I've enjoyed your smug smiles as you declare paternity results, and the various styles of glasses you've adorned through the years. You're respectful, gentle, but you know how to lay down the law when ladies start throwing chairs up in that mother. You keep it classy, Maury, and I respect you for it.

But with my New Year's resolution of trying to slow my life down and de-stress, I think we should start seeing other shows.

I'm sorry to have to let you down, Maury, but the yelling and screaming has instilled a dangerous level of anxiety in me that only a fellow named Dawson can cure.

It's not because he's younger than you, I swear, because age is just a number. But I just couldn't resist his overscholarly dialogue, witty snapbacks and his love triangle with Jen and Joey Potter. His calming demeanor and bromance with one Pacey Witter hooked me, and the feeling is so strong I cannot resist.

Maybe we'll meet again, Maury, once my life slows down and I build back up a tolerance for yelling, but until that day, here's a peck on the cheek and a hearty handshake. I will always love you. Good luck finding out who the father is.


Tuesday, December 27, 2011

An Inappropriate Christmas

Well, kiddies, I hope you all had a lovely holiday with your families and drank enough eggnog to drown out the sounds of the Yule Log on TV.

Mine and K's families spent Christmas together, and if you've read enough of this blog to know how many times I use the f-word daily, you can imagine it was quite the inappropriate scene.

So this year, to follow up last Thanksgiving's table-wide chant of "What WHAT? IN THE BUTT!" (Yes, both mine and K's mom joined in. You should see this shit, we're like the fucking Partridge Family.)

"I said: What what? (In the butt)"

With K, his brother and sister there and their mom present at the dinner table, I proclaimed that I got triple points for your mom jokes. It's like Shotgun, you have to be in the presence of said mom. Points are multiplied by number of siblings present. K and his siblings missed out on the double XP once my sister and JB left for the evening. TFB, bitches!

We sat at the end of the long table so as not to disturb others with our inappropriate chatter. It didn't really work, because every time I quipped "that'swhatshesaid," the rest of the table went silent. Naturally.

Half way through the prime rib, K's younger brother decided to play the penis game and yell "FELLATIO" instead. He won that game, since I didn't have the balls to yell it louder, and my respect for him grew three times that day.

Because after all, is it really Christmas without the Penis game?

Wednesday, December 21, 2011

Gift Bags and Werewolf Urine

Gwennie, in a less werewolf-like state.
Well kiddies, it has been a wonderful but chaotic week in the mitten state. We returned home yesterday, exhausted, mugged the kittehs and went to bed early after a brief rendezvous with Mulder and Scully (seriously, we're on season 7--are they EVER going to do it?)

I awoke around 1am to the sound of one of the cats rustling some paper, or a bag, or some other extremely loud shit. I reached over and pushed Gwennie off of the nightstand. Take your feline antics elsewhere, momma needs her beauty rest.

She jumped back up, and I pushed her off again. After a third noisy leap onto the nightstand and more annoying rustling, I reached over to punt her like Baxter.

I didn't have my glasses on, but I quickly realized she had gotten herself stuck in the handle of a paper gift bag and was trapped like a goose in a plastic pop holder.

I leaped out of bed, and tried to pull the bag over her head. No dice. She was WEDGED. I called for K to come assist me, grabbed some scissors and prepared to cut her free.

Now the thing about Gwennie is that she won't let you pick her up. Ever. She is a pirate with one eye (K rescued her from the shelter) and freaks the fuck out if you lift her off of the ground.

K picked her up like a dirty baby, I put my glasses on and grabbed the scissors. Suddenly, shit got very Twilight and Gwennie transformed into a werewolf. She started snarling, hissing, and BITING as K held her tightly. Tears poured down my face as I tried to secure the scissors under the bag handle.

A flurry of hissing, biting and crying ensued as tufts of fur flew all over the room. She also peed on the bed for good measure, JUST before I was able to cut her free. I stood shaking for a minute, then we both started laughing. We high fived at our awesome parenting and teamwork skills and thanked our lucky stars that this didn't happen while we were gone in the mitten state. Now excuse me while I go on a gift bag cutting rampage around the house and snip all the handles.

PS: She's totally fine this morning and urine free. I, however, am another story.

Wednesday, December 14, 2011

Eating My Feelings

If you're looking for me today, you can find me curled in the fetal position in front of my fridge with the door open, surrounded by empty Tupperware containers playing a little game called "Eat My Feelings." It's also known as "Shit, I Bought a Ton of Fruit Last Week and If I Don't Eat It Before We Leave It'll Spoil."

Better than Monopoly, I swear.

We're heading to the mitten for an early Christmas with my fam, and I'm freaking the fuck out as usual. I hate leaving the kitties for an extended period of time, for fear they'll go crazy and eat the Christmas tree and poop all over the floor. Which will probably happen.

I am also borderline OCD, made worse by the fact that I work from home and rarely leave the house except to throw snowballs at my bitchy mail lady, so every time I DO leave, it takes at least 20 minutes to check the stove five times, unplug EVERYTHING, and recheck the stove another five times.

And that's just when I'm leaving for the gym.

So you can imagine that when we go on vacation, my OCD heads into overdrive.

Hence the ever increasing pyramid of food containers piling up on my kitchen floor in a desperate attempt to salvage our foodstuffs.

Does anyone else get this way when they leave the house? Or am I just out of my mind? It wouldn't surprise me, honestly.

Monday, December 12, 2011

I robbed Home Depot

I totally robbed Home Depot on Saturday. I donned the ski mask, black gloves, ninja suit and straight robbed them. (Ok, not really, but I might as well have been wearing the outfit for the crime I committed.)

K dragged me to the Depot kicking and screaming for a new toilet seat of all godforsaken things. He appeased me with a king sized PB Twix to keep me from throwing a fit. It worked (sortof) and I held his hand as he led me around the store through the aisles of swirly twirly power tools to the sea of bathroom amenitites.

With the assorted color selection, who
wouldn't want to wear these as jewelry?
As we all know, I need toys to play with to keep me occupied, so K gave me Cable Clamps. I put one on each finger as rings, then punched him in the kidney like they were brass knuckles until we headed for checkout. 

Forty minutes of my life that I can never get back later, we checked out with a cart full of crap and I removed my cable clamp rings one by one so the cashier could ring them up. We got to the parking lot and suddenly my face drained of all color and my jaw fell open as I realized that while playing Pretty Pretty Princess with the cable clamps, I had forgotten a bracelet.

We had that moment where we looked at each other and it ran through both of our minds: do we just go? It's $1.29. But my guilty conscience just wouldn't let me and I ran back inside to the cashier and embarrasingly declared "I'm sorry, I stole this!" He laughed, and gave me a knowing look that said: 'You're crazy, why the fuck didn't you just take it? But I admire your moral high ground nonetheless.' (Yes, a look can say that much.)

I returned to the car talking a mile a minute, as I always do when I finish a robbery, and verbally recounted the embarrassment of my criminal ways.

When we got home, we unloaded everything we had, and I rifled through the Home Depot bag, realizing suddenly that when I had gone back in to pay for the stolen cable clamp, I then LEFT it at the cashier counter. I could have made out with a free cable clamp, now I just paid for one that I didn't take.

That Karma is one complicated bitch.

Thursday, December 8, 2011

Hey Santa, I want a Chia Herb Garden.

I don't know whether it was PMS or the magic that is Mariah Carey's Christmas album, but I found myself blubbering like a baby on the way home from the gym the other day. Out of sheer happiness.

Christmas makes me feel like a 12-year-old girl who just got a kiss from Justin Bieber. I wanted to jump out of the car, make a snow angel, and give Santa a run-and-jump hug at the north pole.

Our tree is decorated, I'm wearing my reindeer sweater, and I'm drinking peppermint mocha through an IV. I'm in the MOOD.

And here's my Christmas list:
- Chia Herb Garden
- Pajama Jeans
- A new hair straightener
- Chia Cat Grass
- Baby Bullet (I like it better because it has a smiley face on it.)
- The new J-Biebs Christmas album
- For Mar Car to go back on tour post-twins

Hey Santa, I'm ready when you are. But just so you know, I can do without another seasonal battle with my evil mail lady.

Tuesday, December 6, 2011

Elbows out

Yesterday I got out my brass knuckles and headed to the mall for the biggest, sweatiest shopping bonanza of my life. Christmas shopping is a full-contact sport. I got myself prepared by putting my game face on (black stripes under my eyes and a temporary tattoo of Santa's face on my cheek.) I adorned every ring I own (brass knuckles), and strapped on elbow and knee pads. (Elbows out is the only way to get through Target without getting knocked to the ground.)
The parking lot is Level 1. You must navigate through the painted stripes of death like Frogger, dodging morons driving silent Priuses packed to the roof with Snuggies and Tickle Me Elmos. Mall patrons are generally drunk and frequently pull out of parking spots with the sole intention of T-boning you.

Once you get inside the mall, strip down to game uniform: sensible shoes, a ponytail and a purse you can strap over your chest. Leave your winter jacket in the car, even if it's snowing. Trust me on this one, I learned this lesson the hard way yesterday.

The trick is to stick to the list, get in, and get out. Don't get in line behind Calculator Lady or Change Counting Man, unless you want to turn those brass knuckles on yourself. If you can make it to the car in one piece, load your crap in the trunk so people don't steal it, and dump a bottle of gatorade over your head in celebration of your win.

Thursday, December 1, 2011

Dear Mark Zuckerberg

Heeeey, Facebook. You know, I don't give you much trouble. When you force us to update and conform to change, I grumble a little, but trust you and think: well, this must be better for all of us. I don't join the groups I Hate Facebook, or Kill Zuckerberg. I don't participate in the worldwide boycott of Adidas sandals.

But when I ask you to sort my stories in chronological order; could you do it please? This morning I scrolled down to see an old high school friend's wife was on her way to the hospital to have their baby. I liked the status, and smiled to myself thinking, hey! What a wonderful day. I scrolled down past 3 more statuses from various friends stating what they ate for breakfast, how many times they pooped today, etc., when I reached ANOTHER status from the same friend stating that the baby was born.

How big an ass was I, liking that status AFTER the announcement that they were on their way to the hospital? HHIS (hangs head in shame.)

Mark, I count on you to help keep my social standing to a maximum. Help me remember the birthdays of people I met one time in a bathroom stall at a bar. Let me know when someone enters into a new relationship so I can stalk their new beaus, or when someone becomes single again. And most of all, help me to spy on those friends who I haven't seen in 15 years, who are having babies and getting married. Because what else is facebook good for, if not for spying?