Once More Unto the Tire...

I wanted to make lemon marmalade.

Everybody makes orange marmalade (well, everybody given to making marmalade at all, that is!) and those who are adventurous make citrus marmalada, a mixture of orange, lemon, and grapefruit.

I wanted to make lemon marmalade.

I've made marmalade in the past. About 20 years ago. And my Scottish friend I told me to put a teaspoon of whiskey on top of the jar just before putting on the lid. I gave them out as Christmas presents years ago, and this year I wanted to make lemon marmalade.

For one thing, lemons are added to other jams to increase the pectin content. Lemons are the gold mine for pectin on this planet. So I knew from the start I wouldn't have to worry if I had enough pectin!

I bought 8 lbs of lemons and asked Boyfriend to pick up a gazillion tons of sugar from Costco.  I went to Canadian Tire to pick up a dozen Mason jars. I schedued my day off to make marmalade and do the Christmas cards. My iPod was at the ready, Christmas tunes lined up. It was all systems go.

It took an hour to juice the lemons and quarter the skins. Ten minutes to boil, a half hour to cool.

An hour to pull the pulp from the skins and grind it. An hour and forty-five minutes to slice the peel into thin slivers.

Four hours on the boil. Now, when I say boil, I mean a very gentle boil. I wanted a full rolling boil, the recipe clearly said that if I cooked it quicker I'd get a lighter color.

But 18 cups of fruit and 20 cups of water don't boil quickly. And I don't actually know what I would have done had the thing decided to come to a rolling boil, because it was so near the top of the huge pot.

I did the test for pectin and got a positive result - yay! But no jelly was forming. Because for jelly to form, a full boil is required.

The marmalade got darker and darker. I got desperate. My jars were sterilized, it was eight o'clock at night, I'd been at this all day.

I broke down and threw in 22 packets of gelatin. And left it to do its slow boil thing while I raced out to THE TIRE to get another 12 Mason jars, having realized I had way too much marmalade for my original dozen jars. Boyfriend was set to skimming and stirring.

I came home, sterilized the second dozen jars, and ladled the marmalade into the jars. Then, being short of whiskey, ladled a tablespoon of Grand Marnier onto the top and sealed them.

It was a thoroughly enjoyable experience to be sitting in the living room and hearing the lids go "POP!" as the vaccum drew them in and they sealed.

This morning I tested the seal. I unscrewed the ring and turned a jar upside-down. The seal was perfect.

But the marmalade was liquid.

Not even sluggish. It didn't even look sticky.

My marmalade had failed to jell.

In desperation I turned to the internet. I had done everything right, except the "full rolling boil" everybody was talking about. I sent a panicked letter to one site asking for advice. I spoke to people at work who were known to cook. As I feared, I'm the only person daft enough to want to do this kind of thing any more - nobody could offer me any suggestions.

So when I got home tonight, I promptly set the rest of the marmalade (because of course, I had more than would fit in 24 Mason jars) on the boil. A smaller amount, in a smaller pot, and it boiled rapidly in moments. I did the jelly test, and lo! jelly formed. Yay!

So it was back to THE TIRE to pick up another 12 Mason jars, run home, wash them, sterilize them, ladle the marmalde into the jars, add a tablespoon of Grand Marnier, and seal.

And wash the pot and ladle, open a dozen of last night's batch, dump the contents into the pot, wash the jars and rings, throw out the used lids, wash 12 new lids, and sterilize jars, lids and rings while the marmalade boiled.

And, if I'm lucky and jelly forms, ladle it into the jars, add the booze, seal them, and do it all over again with the final dozen jars.

So, what lessons did I learn from this experience?

Well, for starters, maybe I could have made do with a dozen lemons, till I got the process down pat, instead of making enough to feed the five thousand, at one shot!

I should have started earlier in the day. And I should have bought cases of Mason jars.

But all in all, it was a pretty good experience. I was despairing, a few minutes ago, wondering why, again, I had decided to do something on such a grand scale.

Then I tasted a bit of peel that had escaped the funnel and dropped onto the towel.

And it's heaven. Oh yes, it's lemon. And it's sweet and candied and soft and freakin' delishious!

Almost making it all worthwhile!

Making Cat Food

This morning I had to make cat food - the three terrors had finished off the last of it last night around 9 p.m. Since I'm sick, I had no strength to make it last night. All I did was take the chicken thighs out of the freezer and left them to thaw on the counter. (In a dish. Just wanted to be clear on that!)

"Add fiber," the vet kept saying, "to help Maggie along with her bowels. Pumpkin is good." This, the day AFTER Hallowe'en, when there were no pumpkins to be found. Actually, I did see a can of pumpkin on the shelf at Maxi, right next to the pumpkin pie filling cans, but I prefer to put fresh ingredients in my cat food. So I've been using squash. Today was acorn squash.

Maggie and Bijou wanted OUT - in no uncertain terms! Since there was no food, they were bound and determined they were going to find some for themselves. And, as it turns out, Maggie has been a bit of a slut - someone taped their phone number to her collar tag the other day asking us to call them, and we had a short conversation. Yes, Maggie goes to see people when she goes out. So she wanted out to go see if her other "family" would feed her!

There was a more sinister note to that conversation, though. The person was warning us that a neighbour of theirs had set traps out for cats. Recalling that my vet had asked if someone near us had traps when Maggie was injured, I have put two and two together. This was how she got her injuries. What I'm going to do with this new knowledge, well, I don't know yet, but it'll be a topic for another blog.

Returning to this morning's endeavour: I set the squash in the microwave and the chicken in the frying pan, covered so they would steam. I gave Bijou her cream - she always starts her day with a saucer of cream, she has no trouble digesting it, unlike most cats.

Ordinarily, when I'm "late" providing sustenance, the two cats just lie around quietly. But we have the kitten to contend with now, and believe me, no one lies around quietly with Pixie running amok!

She picks on Maggie mostly, because Maggie is playful and tolerant and will actually play a bit with her. But of course she goes way beyond even Maggie's patience!

If Pixie were with her mother and siblings, she'd be learning about the limits of other cats' patience from them, so for the most part, when Maggie hisses at her or swats her, I mostly let her alone. The kitteh has to learn socially acceptable behaviour!

Well, as I was cooking, Bijou and Maggie were at the back door, yowling their heads off to go outside. I had to keep assuring them I knew what they wanted. They looked most doubious.

Pixie kept running around just out of reach of both of them. Swatting and hissing, the older cats would dart from one spot to another in the kitchen and living room, trying in vain to get away from this holy terror that was plaguing them.

It's not that quick a process to make the food, though its by no means as difficult as cooking a meal. Once the chicken is steamed, I grind it in my hand blender. I also grind the squash, since parts of it are still quite firm after it's cooked. Then I cook oatmeal in either beef or chicken broth in the pan the chicken was cooked in. I add ground flax seed, remembering I have to keep the fiber content high for Maggie's sake. Once it's all mixed together, I spooned out servings, but I had to let them cool in the fridge for about five minutes before I could give it to the kittehs. As a final touch, I stirred in 1/4 teaspoon of feline veterinary vitamins to each serving, and finally fed the cats.

And then there was peace. I drew up my chair to sit and enjoy the near silence. Only the licking and smacking of jaws was heard for five full minutes. It's a gratifying sound. Three very happy kittehs. Lick, smack, lick, smack...Quite rewarding.

Then the big two went out, and the little one chased me around a bit, but she finally curled up in a ball on the couch beside me and is now fast asleep, dreaming up new devilment to offer the other two when they come back in.

Posted by Deb at 8:59 AM

Miracle Maggie

So our adopted cat, Maggie, came home from the (veterinary) hospital today, in much better shape than when she went in.

To recap: roughly a month ago Maggie went missing for two days. Now, for many cats, that would be standard behaviour, but not for any cat of mine. And Maggie was especially faithful - at least to her mealtimes, if nothing else! The first evening, Boyfriend and I went out on our bikes calling for her, since adult cats can roam six city blocks and we were going with the idea that she was just out having a good time.

By the next evening I figured if she had been able to come home, she would have. So I brought my flashlight and went sneaking into the neighbourhood's back yards, intending to shine my light into all their sheds and listen at their garage doors for meowing.

In the very first back yard I had access to three sheds, and while I was calling her name at the third one, I heard a meow behind me, turned and saw Maggie coming toward me.

Stiffly. Very, very stiffly, and looking confused. I picked her up and brought her inside and put her down. She had cried when I picked her up. She wandered from room to room in the house as if she didn't understand something and cried as she curled up in a ball in her basket. Boyfriend said let's go to the vet, this cat is in pain.

And there began a month I hope I never have to repeat, and I'm pretty sure the cat wouldn't want to repeat it, either! The vet quickly realized her tail would need to be amputated - she had an elongation injury it seemed, and had no more control over her tail.

But the other problem was life-threatening: Maggie could not urinate on her own, and seemed to have only partial sensation around the anus. She needed to be emptied two or three times a day, manually, which basically means you squeeze the bejeezus out of your cat.

It hurt her, and it was possible we were damaging her by doing this. See, the sphincter was closed tight - and they said she didn't have the muscle tone they were expecting when they would palpate her. At first they said not to take the tail off, since why put her through surgery if she would never be capable of emptying herself. So we had her home for a few days, walking on a leash, taking her twice a day to the vet to be emptied, trying to give her precious time to heal.

In desperation I asked if massage or acupuncture would help her regain control, (and those who know me well know that was severe desperation on my part!) and my vet referred me to a veterinary acupuncturist who works at the DMV in Lachine.

The DMV? Well, I don't know what the "D" stands for, but the "M" is for medical, and the "V" is for veterinary. It's a veterinary super-hospital, and a whole bunch of specialists practice there.

At her second acupuncture treatment, the vet who was performing the acupuncture ran upstairs to consult with the neurologist and got me a consultation with her that same day.

And that's when things turned around. The neurologist said get rid of the tail, put a catheter into the bladder and give her bladder a full 7 days to rest. After the catheter came out, we were to put her on meds that alternately relaxed the bladder sphincter and made the muscles in the bladder contract.

This of course meant hospitalization, staying put in a cage, and wearing a collar, for the cat.

Now, I don't know if you've ever seen a dog in a collar. They're pretty unhappy about the prospect. They bump into things and get stuck on stairs. But a pussy-cat, who is used to grooming itself every ten minutes, is in a state of utter, total, and abject misery in a collar.

I grit my teeth. She's young cat, she's an affectionate cat who enjoys human company, who likes interacting with people. I was going to do what had to be done, even if it meant a month in a collar for her. Over her whole lifespan - another 16 to 20 years I hope - a month turns out to be a relatively short time.

It's just that you can't tell the cat that it's only a month. You can't explain to them what's happening, why you're doing all this to them. All they know is, they're stuck in a cage and can smell themselves more each day, but can't do anything about it. To them, they're being tortured. Oh, and pills are being rammed down their throats too. I mean, we people don't enjoy our hospital stays, and at least we know why we're there and how long we are likely to remain, and at least we can scratch ourselves where we itch!

So I went to visit her every day. For fifteen short minutes each day, the collar would come off and she could lick herself - though not the stitches or the catheter. I'd brush her, and take her out to look out a window for a minute or two. Then it was back in the cage with the collar for another day.

I was going on grit and faith alone. The people at my home vet kept shaking their heads and reminding me they didn't think this was going to work, that they had never seen a cat so injured recover bladder and bowel control.

My counsellor had been trying to get me to come up with a word to meditate on each day, to help me relieve stress. It was at this point that Boyfriend wrote the word "faith" up on our whiteboard.

And it really took faith to go through with this. There were no guarantees the treatment would work, but if anything was certain, there would be a helluva vet bill to pay. All on Mastercard, of course. Ka-ching ka-ching. I had to have faith that my employment would continue, that I would be able to pay off the bills.

And I had to question my priorities. Was this really an emergency? Hubby pointed out that there are thousands of deserving, homeless kitties in Montreal, any one of which would have been thrilled to eat my homemade food and be a part of my family. I put off going to Louisiana to visit my father for years because I didn't want to run up a huge Mastercard bill. Now here I was, six months later, doing exactly that, for a cat.

I was talking to a friend at work when I accidentally said the words that helped cement my decision. It all boils down to this: do you consider cats and dogs disposable? 

I can't help every kitty, but I can take care of the ones in my charge, and give them every chance to lead a happy and healthy life. 

Throughout this past month I have been praying for a miracle. There is no other way to describe it. I needed - Maggie needed - a miracle to happen. She needed to regain bladder and bowel control after a terrible injury.

I kept explaining my position to the Universe/Great Mother/God. In the grand scheme of all the miracles that we'll need to house the homeless, feed the hungry, clothe the poor, stop wars, end poverty and save the species of the earth, what I was asking for was a very small miracle indeed. Un petit rien, in fact. In Sunday School I sang "God sees the little sparrow fall, it meets his tender view..." Well, my kitty needed a small miracle.

Last Thursday night, they removed the catheter and started the bladder meds. Friday morning the vet examined her, palpated the bladder and was stunned to feel muscle tone. She squeezed the bladder and it emptied easily, without hurting the cat. And a half hour later, while she was busy examining other animals, the technician came running to her to say that there was urine in Maggie's litterbox.

The whole hospital apparently lit up. And when I went for my daily visit, I lit up too! I was going away for my quilting retreat, and Boyfriend was taking over daily visitation duties. But for the first time in a month, we had hope. Just before I left for the retreat, I wrote "hope" up on our whiteboard.

Today she came home. Oh, she's got pills to rival any octogenarian. And she can't go outside on her own - we put her on a leash, so that severely curtails her fun. No pun intended! I'm sure the whole month she was in the hospital she was thinking, "Just let me go home, let me go outside and play in the sun! Let me just be able to lick my own ***!"

And she goes back in a week for more tests. But we're over the worst of it.

Her tiny miracle has happened - I'm changing her name to "Miracle Maggie." And the word on the whiteboard is "THANKS!"

ADDENDUM: Maggie's previous owner sent me this photo of her. I'm planning to make it my Christmas Card this year, with the notation inside…"My Mommy spent so much money keeping me alive this year that this Chrismas card is all you're getting."

The Adirondack Chair

It's by the "Bear Chair" Company, and it's also called a Muskoka chair. I've been asking for one for about twenty years, and wanting one for about twenty years before that. Hubby gave me one for my birthday this year.

My grandparents had two of these chairs at their house in the country. Which burned down about 40 years ago. I loved those chairs. They're comfy, and their arms are wide enough to put a drink on (my favourite part!). I also like that they're made of wood. Natural. A connection to the earth.

Well, earlier this labor-day weekend (oh, you don't scare me - I'm stickin' to the union!) I decided to take it out of the box and see how bad it could be to put the thing together.

See, all these years of whining about wanting an Adirondack/Muskoka/Bear Chair did not prepare me for receiving one in an un-assembled state. I was somewhat dismayed that neither of my Knights-In-Shining-Armour offered to put it together for me, but I put it down to both of them wanting me to show the world how I was a woman who could not only bake a cake, but put together a complex wooden structure, using man-tools, as well!

Unfortunately, I have an annoying habit when I open a box that comes with pieces, screws, and instructions. Yes, I confess - I read instructions.

And much to my horror, the instructions said I had to PREP the wood. Not only apply some kind of stain or waterproofing, but before I could even start doing that, I had to sand every piece first.

I stood there staring at the pile of wood, the bag of screws, and the instructions, for quite some time, contemplating ignoring the instructions altogether and simply putting screws into the holes. That's what I really wanted to do, you see, so I could be sitting in my Muskoka/Adirondack/Bear Chair DURING part of the labour-day weekend.

But alas, years of experience have taught me that unprotected wood rots. And, having waiting forty or so years for my chair, I figured one more weekend wouldn't actually kill me.

So I began the process of sanding on Saturday. Today I applied Thomson's Water Seal. 

But while I was painting, something wonderful happened. I started to remember my dreams.

Not plans for my life. I mean dreams that come in the night during REM sleep. I had entered a meditative state that approached the moments before falling asleep, and my dreams began playing to me while I painted.

No, there were no fumes. I was in the garage, sitting by the wide-open door.

This was real. This was a "Zen and the Art of Archery" moment. It arrived all by itself when my mind was quiet and it was wonderful.

I didn't understand the dreams any better with my waking mind, but it was a very pleasant experience.

The moral of the story is: It's fun to put things together. Wood smells nice, and quiet time is valuable even though you don't know what's going to come out of it.

Lawnmowing for Women and Sissies

If you're a woman who has never had the experience of mowing a lawn, this article is for you.

If you're a first-time home owner, or are simply just starting to mow a lawn for the very first time, this article is for you.

If you have ever run over an extension cord while mowing, this article is for you.

If you have ever pulled on a cord to start a gas mower more than 3 times in succession, this article is for you. It's especially for you if you've ever yanked so much on the starter cord that you thought your teeth would fall out.

If you've ever popped a hernia while using a manual mower, this article is for you.

Why There is No Perfect Mower

There are advantages and disadvantages to every type of mower. There is no one mower that will suit every user or every type of lawn. And make no mistake, the lawn, and the user, figure prominently in the functioning of your mower!

The Flat Lawn: A Manual Mower for Type A

First of all, I've never actually met one. A lawn that is perfectly flat, that is. But say you bought a house with a postage-stamp sized lawn that is actually flat and free of holes. Say also that you are a Type-A, go-getter personality, who enjoys physical labour and wants to cut the grass three times a week. Get yourself a manual mower, and enjoy! Clean it after each use, oil it, and get the blades sharpened, and you'll enjoy a lifetime of crowing it over your gas-guzzling, cord-cutting, deafened neighbours. You can cut the lawn  in the middle of the night if you want - this kind of mower makes only gentle whispers.

But beware - if you skip a mowing and let it go more than three days, expect a hard time. This puppy has no gears - it's push-push-push every agonizing step of the way. If you go away for a week and come home and have to cut more than 1/4 inch off your grass, you may as well save yourself time and go wait in the emergency room, because you'll have a heart attack or bust a gasket doing it!

If there is the slightest chance that you will miss out on mowing every third day from April to November, get a different mower.

Normal Lawns

Most lawns are not flat. They've got gopher holes, swingsets, flower beds and trees that need to be mowed around. They have little hills and valleys that are invisible from the porch or the street, and insignificant until you twist your ankle pushing a mower through them. Now you must decide what kind of personality you are to determine the proper mower for you.

The Jock Who Loves Engines and Is a Lazy Bugger

This character wants a gas mower. To find out if this is you, answer the following questions:

1. Do I enjoy taking engines apart and cleaning them at least four times a season?

Because if you think that once a year will do, you'll end up yanking on that cord a lot more than you bargained for!

2. Am I responsible enough to actually take my used oil to a proper facility for disposal?

Because if you're likely to dump it down the drain, you're a shmuck - get an electric mower! 

Ok, you say, I'll save it up in a container and take it to a facility once in a while. Fine - but be be honest with yourself about just how "once-in-a-while" you really are. Do you really want all this toxic stuff in your home for forty years? It's not like you can sue anyone when you get cancer, if it's your own bloody fault for never disposing of it properly. Have you got toddlers running around who might decide that the coffee can would be great to catch bugs in and who might pour the stuff you've been saving for years down the drain, then put bugs in the tin and lick their fingers? Face it - people do stupid things, especially when dealing with dangerous or toxic substances. It's better to haul the stuff away as you finish with it than to leave it lying around in an unlabelled container, waiting for trouble.

3. Am I actually going to put the mower somewhere out of the rain and snow?

Because if you leave it out to get rained on, sooner or later it ain't gonna start. And if you don't empty and clean the thing properly before winter, you're going to need a major engine rebuild in the spring. And after a few rounds of this kind of mistreatment, you end up buying a new mower every couple of years, which is darned expensive.

If you only like the idea of a gas mower, because you think that electric mowers are for sissies, but you're not actually going to maintain your mower properly, man up and be a sissy and get an electric mower!

The reason people like the idea of gas mowers, by the way, is that they're powerful - they can cut the really long grass with no particular difficulty.

Of course, it's better for your lawn if you cut it regularly - twice a week in the spring, once a week in the summer. You cut off less of the plant each time, you don't have to bag the clippings, they just fall invisibly down and nourish the lawn as they decay.

But if you like to leave your grass till it's waist-high, you'll need a gas mower. Either keep it tuned yourself, pay to have it tuned, or pay someone to cut your grass more often, and preferably use their own mower while they're at it.

The Careful Planner

This kind of person suits an electric mower that has a cord.

The beauty of electric mowers is that they're light, easily maneuverable. Easily turned. Actually a great mower for a woman or un-athletic guys.

The problem is the cord. Most everybody will run over a cord at least once in their lawnmowing career. But it doesn't have to be that way.

Locate your plug in relation to the grass you have to cut. Find out which side of the mower the cord will fall on. Plan your mow. Plan to move away from the plug, with the cord falling on the side you have already mowed.

It's that simple. As you mow back and forth, if you're moving away from the plug, the wire will always be lying on the freshly-cut grass, never in your way on the bit you want to cut.

But you have to spend at least five minutes of your life actually thinking about this, or you'll end up having to flip the cord over the mower, or run over it. Mind you, once you've figured this out, you should be able to remember it for the next time!

If you're a klutz who can never remember which side the cord is on, which side of the car your gas tank is on, or how to vote in a Quebec election, get a cordless. It may cost more initially, but you'll save money on extension cords over the long haul.

Everybody Else

A cordless electric mower can have many advantages over both gas and corded mowers. First, it's easy to start. There's no cord to run over, so you can twist and turn to your heart's content.

It can be a little heavy, but that's easily solved by getting a self-propelled model. Squeeze the little handle, and the thing drives itself. This can be especially handy on those hills I mentioned earlier. And on bigger hills, like the sides of descending driveways for example, should you be unfortunate to own one of those, it's a godsend.

There's a little trick with any self-propelled mower though, because once the wheels have been engaged, they lock into that direction. If you let go of the handle at the same moment as you stop moving forward, those wheels are still locked to go forward only. The trick is to mow a little bit forward - 4 or 5 inches only - after disengaging the drive. That returns the wheels to normal functioning, and you can yank it backwards easily.

The Actual Mow

Preparation

A good mow starts with preparation. The day before, check the fridge. There must be at least one beer, and it's got to be cold. Mowing is work!

Planning

Try to mow in the morning, when it's cool. If you sleep till noon, you have no shade to mow in. It's hot. Really not much fun.

A Word About Rain

Grass can be cut after a rain, it's just not pleasant. A gas mower doesn't care, it'll tear through anything. If your grass is too long and you're bagging it, well, I told you to get someone else to cut it for you!

Simplify

As mentioned previously, very few of us have flat, unobstructed lawns. Most of us are dealing with obstacles. In a perfect world, there would be no grass right up to the side of the house - there would be a foot or two of mulch or gravel around the house, around each garden, around the poles for the swings, around the composter, etc. If that were the case, you wouldn't need a whipper-snipper.

Now, personally, I hate whipper-snippers. I just know that at some point that thing is going to go after me - and I'm just not into lacerations. I'd rather get rid of all the grass along the edges of the house, driveway, gardens, trees, composter, and everything else that obstructs the smooth mowing of the lawn. This takes time, money and effort. So my rule of thumb is, I mow what I can. You want to whipper-snipper it, knock yourself out. To date, in the year Boyfriend and I have lived together, he's mowed the lawn three or four times and whipper-snippered it twice. I've done the rest of the mowing. The tall tufts of grass at the edges of the fences and the foundations bother me, but not enough to get out the whipper-snipper. One day I'll have dug all that stuff out from around the fences and the foundations and there will be stone or mulch there, and I'll mow right to these new edges proudly. Till then, the tufts of tall grass will wave accusingly at Boyfriend, saying "When you gonna whipper-snipper us?" It's his problem, not mine.

Okay, so you have all these obstructions. All of them are arranged in such a fashion as to make lawnmowing more difficult. A series of twisty-turny, uneven passages where you have to turn in tight spaces and go back over areas you're just mowed to get to the next impossible area.

The rule for backing up is, it's okay if it's fewer than eight steps. Longer than that, it'll probably save you effort if you can figure out how to turn around. If your lawn has such an obstacle course on it that there's nowhere to turn and you have to walk backwards more than eight steps, dig up more of it and put down crushed stone. Your knees, back, ankles and wrists will thank you.

Make Rectangles

Go over your problem areas in little back and forth sections to make them into squares or rectangles. Take six or more turns to get around trees, angling the mower a little each time. Every lawn has nooks and crannies that have to be dealt with before you can get into smooth, straight line mowing. The goal is to get these nooks mowed with a minimum of fuss so they end up with straight edges which can be incorporated into straight-line mowing.

Après-Mow

Clean the underside of the mower. (Ick.) If you do this regularly, you can do it with a stick in a few seconds. Leave the stuff to dry and harden, your mower and blades will rust sooner.

Wind up the cord. Plug the battery in. Sit with a well-deserved beer and relax for at least a half hour.

You Missed a Spot

Invariably, someone will point out a spot you missed. Do not get angry. Smile warmly and say calmly, "You're very welcome to do it yourself, Dear."

The Six-Million Dollar Cat

Well, Maggie is home. She's been examined, poked, shaved, x-rayed, ultrasounded, blood-tested, fed intravenously, and boarded for 5 days.

She had an inflammation of the upper intestine.

In a way, it was an answer to prayer, because the initial exams indicated a "mass," meaning cancer. But the ultrasound cleared that up, it was a simple inflammation. Whew!

We don't know for sure why her intestine became inflamed. All we know is that right now, she appears to be doing better.

So she's been given back to us, with special food and instructions to keep her inside at least a few days to limit her feeding and pooping options. (We need to get a sample.)

Bijou is seriously pissed that Maggie has returned. And Maggie, though glad to be here and not in a cage, is seriously pissed that she's not allowed out.

They go for each other's food, of course. Maggie, released from hospital, was looking forward to my homemade food, and stared at me, incredulous, when I only gave her the same c**p she'd been eating all week. And Bijou went after Maggie's food, because it was Maggie's.

Well, it's not cancer. There is a chance we'll have her for some years now. And that she heals up properly and goes on to live a full, fun-filled life.

Remember how I didn't go to Louisiana to visit my dad for 10 years because I couldn't afford to? Well, what I paid today for Maggie's treatment this week added up to more than the trip Daughter and I took three weeks ago. So, am I an idiot, or what? Stupid cat! Or stupid me?

Putting my money where my mouth is

Cats. Dogs. Expenses.

Examinations. Innoculations. Blood tests. X-rays. Surgeries. Flea protection.

And that doesn't include food, litter, toys.

Having a pet, properly, is an expensive business.

Now let's talk about this "properly" bit.

I recently acquired an add-on cat, Maggie, through a set of unfortunate circumstances happening to Maggie's previous owner. Oh, and my particularly soft heart. (I'm a sucker for a furry face.) Because when I see a loose dog loping happily down the street, I figure it's somehow my responsibility to find its owner or give it a new home. Because when I see an un-spayed female dog, I spay her. Because when I see a doggie with a "cherry-eye" I get the vet to operate on it.

They can see me coming a mile away. The animals. And the vets.

"There's one born every minute."

I have been part of the SPCA. I have walked with them in the St. Patrick's Day parade. I have volunteered there, looked into their building schematics, figuring out their heating and ventilation problems. Walking their dogs. Cleaning cat cages. Fostering a cat - who, unbeknownst to anyone, had hepatitis, and losing my own cat because she contracted the disease from the cat I fostered, breaking my heart twice for the price of one.

Some people are "called" to the ministry, or the priesthood.

Some people are called to work with children. To teach. To be doctors and nurses. To help the homeless. The elderly.

Animals are my thing. I've picked Ghandi's saying for my email "signature." 

“The greatness of a nation and its moral progress can be judged by the way its animals are treated”

I knew the name of the cat down the street (Murphy) a full EIGHT YEARS before I learned any of the names of Murphy's family.

When my mom made me watch "Turner and Hooch," I was furious with her, because I asked her before I agreed to watch the movie, whether the dog died or not. She said no. The dog dies. I saw her looking at me sideways a few minutes before the dog dies in the film. She tried to defend herself by saying "I forgot!" To which I replied, how the F***K can you forget the MAIN CHARACTER dies?!!!!!! Because, to me, Hooch was the main character. Tom Hanks was an EXTRA. Are we clear?

This is not something I decide. This is beyond my control. Oh, I can control my actions. I can make decisions whether or not I can afford to spay this cat or that dog. But I cannot control the pull on my heartstrings, any more than I can ignore the sound of a baby crying.

The sound of a baby crying is in our instincts. If we're human at all, we want to stop that sound. We cannot sleep through it. Like an air-raid siren, we are not meant to sleep through it.

And protecting animals is in mine. From disease, from pregnancy, from trauma, from fleas.

If I could, I'd give every single Caribou up north a dose of  "Revolution," the flea protection. And a mosquito net.

If I could, I'd feed every single polar bear. Every deer.

Alas, I cannot spay and neuter and protect from heartworm and fleas every dog and cat in the North America.

But I recently, in my trip to Louisiana, helped one dog and one cat, spaying the dog and having her cherry eye operated on, giving her innoculations and hearworm and flea protection. And giving the cat flea protection.

And I recently said I'd pay for Stepson's dog to have her blood tests and innoculations and spaying.

And tonight I took Maggie in for an examination, overnight stay, stool check, blood test, and x-rays to determine the cause of the liquid we're finding on her nether regions.

And when that's done, I have to pay for her innoculations, and Bijou's, and her flea protection, and Bijou's.

My first Husband, D, said one time that he kept working hard to keep me in furs. And he meant the live ones.

So I realize now why I go to work.

It's to keep myself in furs.

Maggie and Bijou, Day 13

There is an uneasy peace. There is now a bowl of water, which must be shared. Food no longer sits out in its saucer, warming up to room temperature, since Maggie will eat everything in sight. Bijou must learn to eat her meals at mealtimes.

Bijou's habit of lurking in the basement leaves Maggie free to lounge on all the furniture upstairs. Bijou better twig on to this quickly, or she'll become the downstairs cat.

Y'all come back...

Eight days without Star Trek, Words With Friends, Facebook, or email. I don't want to look at my credit card bill, not for at least a couple of months, anyway! I'll just start paying it down and look when I can screw up my courage.

For the first time in somewhere between 10 and 15 years, I went down to Louisiana to see my Father and Stepmother. They both have Alzheimer's, and my Stepsister asked me come down and see them while they both still remembered who I was.

It will take me a while to process through all my experiences, but the short version is, I am glad I went. It tore my heart to pieces to leave them again, and the sense of loss is profound, discouraging. In the face of so much needing to be done, I feel terribly helpless.

I can hardly believe what my Stepsister faces every day, caring for them. They don't realize, or they don't admit to it, that they are unable to care for themselves. They resent every meal - it's never what they want to eat. They don't want you to help them get around, do their laundry, bring them something to drink. They sit on the couch and stare out the window. If you try to talk to them, they bite your head off.

Daddy gets impatient with Mother. In his mind, she should ditch the walker and start cooking and walking again, get moving. He has convinced himself that everybody is making her into a cripple.

My Dad never had a good grip on reality to begin with. He's always been bull-headed and obstinate, and the Alzheimer's is exacerbating that. He insisted to Daughter and me that all he had to do, should he want to get on a plane, is put on his old Air Force uniform and sign in, that he wouldn't have to go through security. No amount of information or facts is going to ruin his illusion. We ended up just shaking our heads.

And that's what everybody spends a lot of time doing - shaking their heads. Daddy insisted that sometimes the garbage was picked up on Sunday, and sometimes it was picked up on Monday, and sometimes it wasn't picked up at all. I bit my tongue back from inquiring whether the days when it didn't get picked up happened to fall on Sundays...

My Stepsister asked me to try to speak to him about going to the dentist. His teeth are in terrible shape, and of course he doesn't have medical or dental coverage. Because he "doesn't believe" in doctors. He has no backup plan. If he gets sick, his children have to pay the medical bills, or let him die. That is the choice he has left us with. I did my best trying to convince him to go, but I may as well have saved my breath to cool my porridge.The people we all knew and loved are, for the most part, gone already. All that remains are the two shells of people we once knew, who must be cared for and tended as best we can.

Their previous caregiver, a granddaughter of Stepsister, had brought a cat into the house. My Stepmother hates cats. Daddy likes them, but Mother gets so riled up he has taken her side in complaining about it. "Simon Peter" is the cat's name, and he is absolutely precious. He's one of those cats people would love to have, that sits in your lap sleeping and purring as long as you want to sit there. He is delightful. We put an ad up on Craig's list.

Stepsister brought a dog she had rescued, and Mother isn't any better about that. Daddy enjoys the dog, but again, Momma complains and gets mad, so he feels duty bound to ignore it. "Missy" spends her days chained up in the yard. She never comes inside, she never gets walked. She doesn't know to play with toys or chew bones. A local male jumped the fence and she had a litter of puppies.

Well, I just couldn't let that stay that way. I took her to the vet. She's been spayed, her eye has been fixed, she's now been given all her shots, de-wormed, and has a 6 month supply of heartworm meds. Simon Peter has also been given a six month supply of flea protection. And we put an ad on Craig's list for Missy, who has the sweetest temperament in a dog I've ever seen. Hopefully, with all this done for her, she'll stand a chance of having a good home. Even if Stepsister keeps her, at least she won't have any more puppies and she'll be healthy.

It's not just lack of funds that has kept me away from Louisiana all these years, though that has been the primary problem. I don't like the way people treat animals there. I don't like the way they treat black people. I don't like the way they treat their children. I don't like the politics, I don't like the religion. And I don't like the climate.

About the only thing I do like is the people I've met, my Stepbrothers and Stepsisters and their families. But we have to agree to disagree on pretty much everything else. There is no conversation we can have that is not fraught with the danger of turning into an argument, unless I can keep my mouth shut and refrain from expressing any opinions. Some of the things people say make my blood boil, but I know I have to "keep shut" or I'd shock them so much they'd run me out of town, tarred and feathered.  Of course, there are exceptions, but most of these people are so convinced they are right about everything, that they are morally superior to the rest of the world, that their religion is flawless... I just can't deal with the intolerance, and with what I perceive to be ignorance. Here are people who are too poor to buy health insurance, but they're determined to kill any health care reforms, in my opinion out of blind ignorance. They're so "free," they're free to die without health care. They're free to get shot in the head by yahoos out joyriding - as happened to my Stepbrother - but they'd die before they'd give up their guns. They have experienced all the problems stemming from their systems first-hand, but they blame anyone who is trying to improve their lives. I love my Stepsisters, but one of them tried to describe her beliefs to me and I just had to ask her to stop. They can sit there and tell you to your face that god created this earth four times, and the last time was Adam and Eve, six thousand years ago. And that there are exactly one hundred universes, and this is the only universe that has fallen into sin. And this is from the mouth of an intelligent, loving woman who gave up her job to come and care for her Mother and Stepfather. I love her. I cannot understand how she can swallow what I perceive to be B******t. But it brings her comfort, and she needs all the comfort she can get. My Stepbrother and his wife have visited South Africa a number of times. To go hunting. And to build a church. Yeah, because that's what Africans need, more churches. Anybody thought about schools, hospitals, doctors and nurses, teachers, wells?

I brought down a season of the Red Green show. My dad really enjoyed the couple of episodes he watched. Mother got insulted by the "man's prayer" - "I'm a man...but I can change...if I have to...I guess..." It's hilarious! Daddy smiled. Mom was mad.

And that's the feeling I come away with - disapproval. They disapprove of me, of my lifestyle, of my sense of humor, of my beliefs and my morals. And I disapprove of them. And that's pretty much all we have in common - our mutual disapproval. Oh, and that we love each other.

Will that be business, or pleasure?

So tomorrow, I step on an airplane for the first time since I got married 33 years ago. I've heard things have changed a bit since the last time I went flying...

Thank god for Boyfriend - he's got luggage, and it all fits the legal requirements. Plus, in imitation of how he does things, I started packing last week, with the result that there is no last-minute panicking about anything.

Now all I have to contend with is my own personal panic, which, as most of you know, is an ongoing story...

Let's see... the first scenario I came up with was some pervert wanting to strip-search my Daughter, since she's beautiful. Stepson had told me about the time he and Stepdaughter flew out west to see their aunts. Stepson looks the part of the shifty-eyed ne'er-do-well: wrinkled clothing, two day's growth of beard, a heavy smell of cigarettes permeating his aura. Stepdaughter, on the other hand, is clean, well-dressed, and cute.

Stepdaughter got searched. Going, and coming. Nobody bothered to look at the Lout. But everyone wanted a poke at the cute woman.

I've heard a lot about these newfangled x-ray machines, about people's suspicions it's just another way for men to look at naked women under the guise of protecting the world from terrorists.

So you see, I'm convinced Daughter will get searched, just on principle.

Next panic: what are we going to do?

That was a question my Cousin asked me. See, I grew up with this family, I know exactly what we're going to do. We're going to sit and talk. We're going to make supper, and clean up. And then we're going to sit and talk some more. We're going to repeat ourselves. We're going to go to bed, then get up in the morning and do the same thing all over again.

Eight days! What a thrill!

The latest panic came to me when I pictured the U.S. Customs Official asking me, while looking at my passport, whether I was travelling for business or for pleasure.

Well, let's see. My father and his wife are in their 80s. They both have alzheimer's. My dad's been ornery all his life, which the alzheimer's is exasperating, and my stepmom is now "confused."

We'll be staying in the house with them and my stepsister and her husband, who I don't know very well but have spoken to on the telephone about six times in my life.

My stepsister suggested we come down while Momma and Poppa still know who we are.

I saw on Daughter's FB post that one of her friends said something about the French Quarter. Hah! We're not going anywhere near that! We'll be going to the intersection of nowhere-to-go and nothing-to-do! I even looked up dining establishments on the internet, in the hopes of taking my family out for a change of pace. The list is a who's who of international cuisine: Subway, MacDonalds, IHOP... All of a sudden going to the grocery store looks pretty exciting by comparison.


And don't forget church. We'll get asked to go to church. Oh, I'll drive them there, and I'll pick them up. And I'll go in afterwards and let all their friends hug me. But no, I'm not going to church. It interferes too much with my grip on reality.



And heaven help us if somebody starts to talk politics.


Have I mentioned Daddy's satellite dish - that he's blanked out all the channels with parental restrictions on? Discovery, A&E, TLC - these are all a distant memory. On one channel, some advertisement showed cleavage, and Daddy turned it off. On another channel, whales were seen to be mating. On a third, someone said "Damn." Off, off, off.


So, no tv. Unless you want to watch the religion channel. Benny Hinn. No matter that his scams outnumber the scams in the house of representatives... Mother and Daddy don't have the internet, so they don't know about that...


And no drinking. Nobody drinks alcohol down there. No wine, no beer, no liquour.


Nothing, in other words, to alleviate the stress at all, or lighten the mood one iota.
I'm hoping to be able to give my stepsister a break for a couple of days, and care for my folks with the help of Daughter, and my finger on speed dial to my stepbrother, whose wife is a registered nurse...

So, "pleasure" is a far cry from the truth, but you shouldn't lie to a Customs Official! 


Hopefully we will have a few pleasant moments in all of this. Hopefully we will connect with my folks and be able to enjoy their company for eight days, and help out, and make friends with my stepbrothers and stepsisters. Hopefully it will be a good visit. Because it may very well be the last.

 

Fixing the Toilet: A Proud Homeowner's Story

So last week I found out my cousin will be staying with me one night next week.

Time to redecorate!

But seriously, I went out and bought a new toilet seat. Hubby's comment, when he saw how much it cost, was, "There's one born every minute..." However, this seat doesn't come crashing down. It closes, slowly and quietly. No more midnight slams, and no more broken bits on the toilet seat caused by impact.

That was the easy part. But then I picked up a replacement set for the innards of the toilet. See, our toilet needed "help" in flushing. You had to hold the handle down - the whole time, until you heard the water actually go glug glug glug down the drain. Otherwise it would stop mid-flush.

It was also a bone of contention between Boyfriend and me, because it was his position that 4 seconds was enough to hold the handle down.

I disagreed.

But the one thing we could both agree on was that you're not supposed to have to hold the handle down at all.

So, as I said, I proudly brought home a kit containing all new innards. Detecting a slight lack of enthusiasm on Boyfriend's part when I brought it home, I opened the package and proceeded to read the directions, figuring, heck, how hard could this be?

Flummoxed. Flabbergasted. Astounded.

It's blooming rocket science! There are hundreds of little parts! The instructions made me long for a set of Ikea instructions! Nothing resembled the diagram. Everything has to fit "just-so," half an inch below something and half an inch above something else.

There is no room for error!

My cries of dismay were heard calmly by Boyfriend, who peered over the top of his glasses at me and asked me why I was frustrating myself looking at all that.

So I took it on faith and put it all back in the box and waited for the day to come when Boyfriend would perform this miracle for me. Which was today.

I shivered in anticipation while Boyfriend walked to and fro around the house, picking up tools, towels, buckets, and what-not. I was asked to pee one last time, and the project began.

Now, let me point out that Boyfriend is a first-time homeowner who talks about having genetic memory of how to build things passed down to him from his father. Which sounds like rather shaky ground to begin a project on to me.

Okay, so maybe I lack a bit of confidence in him, but Boyfriend compounded this by his habit of talking to himself while working. I wasn't in the room with him, but I could hear him clearly.

"I wonder why that's still leaking?" in a puzzled tone, floated softly down the hallway.

A few minutes later I heard "Oops! That was close!" and I couldn't stand it any more.

"I'm going out!" I exclaimed as I sailed out the door to pick up new summer-weight blankets to put on the beds for our guests.

Well, I am pleased as punch and right proud to report that Boyfriend successfully managed the job!

Nothing broken, and no leaks.

And you can let go of the handle!

Yay!

EEEEEWWWWW!

Well, today I made good on a New Year's Resolution. I went to a podiatrist. If you're squeamish, don't read today's entry. You have been warned!

I have a very thick callous on my right foot that's been there ever since I cut out my two plantar's warts back in my twenties.

Yes, I did. Twice. After getting the acid and using it for weeks, the things pulled out easily one day. Then a callous grew over the holes, but the pain stayed and quickly became unbearable. So I cut through the callous and found the warts hadn't completely gone. So I started treatment again and dug around them and finally got them for good. Then the callous grew and grew and grew.

I'd use pumice, lotions, get pedicures, and in desperation would take scissors to it. I'd taken to calling it a hoof.

Turns out there ain't much can be done about it except keep it soft and use a pumice on it once a week. The scissors are out. Even the doctor winced when I told her that.

The other item was three toenails that have become thick. A number of years ago I went to my family doctor and asked about it, he squinted at it for a second and said "I think it's a fungus." He wrote me a prescription for a topical fungicide, which I promptly lost. I simply didn't believe it.

Guess what. It's a fungus. It makes the nail thicken and darken, and where I used to have just one affected nail, I now have three, due to lack of proper sterilization of tools after cleaning.

Yuck.

There's a fungus amongus.

There were three solutions presented to me, none of which is a topical fungicide - so now I have to follow up on that again!

Solution 1, which only works 30% of the time, is a medicated nail polish that has to be applied every day. She didn't think it would work for me, since my "colony" is so well-established.

Solution 2 is pills that have to be taken for three months, for which I'd have to get a prescription from my family doctor. It is effective in 70% of cases. The catch - they are hard on the liver. Ah - I already take medication that is hard on the liver. Not a candidate. Next!

Solution 3 - the laser.

Now there's a solution a sci-fi fiend can relate to! Yes! Lasers lasers everywhere! Zap! ZZZZZING! BZZT! Kill! Kill! Kill!

Of course, this isn't under medicare. It remains to be seen whether my work insurance will cover it as well. It takes at least four treatments and is effective in 70% of cases.

The good news is, the fungus itself is not dangerous. Just ugly, and, if the nails grow thick enough, uncomfortable. I'm not going to lose my nails, my toes or my feet.

She then proceeded to take out what looked for all the world like a dremmel tool and grind my affected nails thinner. Only this one has water spraying from it too, like a cement saw! Now my nails are a shadow of their former selves, but a bit patchy-looking, actually uglier than before. But thin. And for twice the price of a pedicure (which is now out of the question, since I'd be contaminating the equipment) I can go back any time and get them thinned down again.

So time will tell. Part of me would like to try the laser, since it's so cool it's hot!

The Shopping Gene

I didn't get it. The shopping gene.

Whether it was because my grandparents, themselves survivors of the Great Depression, taught me to be extra thrifty, or because I never learned how to dress myself fashionably, or because I've never given my wardrobe a second thought, I have missed out on the art of finding something to wear.

I watch "What Not to Wear." I take mental notes of people with body shapes like mine and what suits them. I have even steeled myself to the fact that I may have to drop big bucks on various items.

But despite a 2.5 hour long search through the mall today, and all the sales, I still came home with nothing.

Well, I may go back after some reflection, but nothing leapt off the shelf at me, which did come as a bit of a disappointment, after all. I had dressed up for a winter walk, waddled ALL the way around the mall, looked in 5 different shops. The only things I tried on were shoes, which I had not gone looking for, but which I need anyway.

I did see some nice tops, which is what I was looking for. I have a lot of tops I don't wear. They're polyester, which makes me sweat. Or the neck opening is too big and I feel like I'm in danger of catching a cold, even in summer. Or the v-cut is too deep and shows my bra, which may be nice on a knockout 20-year old like my Daughter, but on me it tends to look like I'm too stupid to realize my underwear is showing, "Pair auld wumman..." sort of thing.

So I'm looking for something in a 2x size, which right away cuts out 80% of the merchandise available. Designers never go larger than XL, if they even go there at all. And designers for plus-size women (80% of women, in other words) seem to think that we all enjoy exposing ourselves. It's not like our heads are any bigger than any other woman's head, for crying out loud! What's with these tent-sized necks?! Giving new interpretation to the phrase "Boat Neck" or "Crew Neck." Hey - we live in the bleeding Arctic circle here! Can we not have a normal neck opening? Our heads are not the size of beach balls! And forget wearing a scarf - I've already got big boobs, I don't need to drape yet more fabric on top of them. I just want to cover the damned things!

Once I do find a top with a normal opening, it's usually got hideous markings all over it, or 3D flowers or flounces or some such other nonsense. Again, I'm already fat, I don't want to draw more attention to my chest area! Such things look great on size 2 models with no tits. We larger women look much better in clean, structured lines.

So that means all these soft, flimsy "sporty" tops look awful on us as well. All that drapey fabric looks great on windows, but only serves to accentuate every bump we've got.

So say I find a top with a normal neck and no outlandish decorations. Guess what - it's black! Yay! I'm in mourning!

And if I do manage to find one in a color, it's polyester and makes me sweat.

I'd pay for silk - if it had a nice small neck and wasn't covered in ridiculous appendages.

As I leave the mall, I walk past the men's wear and sigh with jealousy. Nobody ever puts pom-poms on men's shirts or cuts the opening down to the navel, and you don't see row upon row upon row of black shirts for men. And most of them are 100% cotton.

Who designs for plus-sized women, anyway? I can't fathom what they're thinking.