My Boys

[This is a post I started a couple of days ago, and I'm just going to post it or else it will hang out in my "edit" box forever. Sorry it's not really complete.]

One other thing I did over this mostly unproductive weekend was hang out with my boys a lot. For those of you who don't know them, here they are:

Alex, the lover:















Darby, the mighty hunter:















I don't understand people who don't like cats, or who claim that cats are boring and don't have personalities. Most of these people, I believe, either
A) have never lived with a cat;
B) never took the time to really get to know the cat they lived with; or
C) had the unfortunate experience of living with a cat who was also an asshole.

Yes, cats, like people, can be assholes. So can dogs. For those of you who hate it when people anthropomorphize animals, you'd better stop reading now, because I do it a lot. Having lived with cats and dogs all my life, I've seen a wide variety of personalities, quirks, and mannerisms in them. I've known cats and dogs who are more interesting and have more diversity of feelings, moods, and behaviors than some people I've encountered. They are individuals. They are, each of them, unique.

Take my boys, for example. Alex, I've had since he was about six weeks old. He's my baby, and I, with no question, am his mama. He adores me. He follows me everywhere. As I write this, he is sitting two feet away, gazing at me through half-closed eyelids. (Both cats, and most cats, spend much of their lives half-asleep--not totally asleep, as many people believe. It's like this semi-permanent meditative state they've perfected. Admirable.) Alex is a cat casanova, a total lover. He's laid back, clever, sweet, charismatic, and cute, with just a little bit of a naughty streak. And, he has developed a variety of distinct facial expressions, ranging from utter and obvious contempt (usually reserved for his brother) to wide-eyed innocent curiosity. Alex's human movie star equivalent: Johnny Depp. (Does this mean I have a subconcious wish that Johnny Depp would adore me and follow me around with sleepy eyes? No, that's completely ridiculous--that wish is NOT subconscious.)

Darby, I got when he was between two and three years old--no way to know, exactly. He was a cat of the street. (Admittedly, the street was in Westerville, but still.) He's gorgeous, tough, and schizophrenic. He's incredibly smart in some ways, and not that bright in others. Also, he has the memory of a goldfish. I've probably let this cat in and out of the apartment about 54 times this weekend. He'll come in, and then immediately forget he was just out, and go out again, and then come back in 10 minutes later. (I know, it' s partly my fault for indulging him--but sometimes, moving from the couch to the door and back again is the only exercise I get over the course of several hours. Also, this cat can make some noise. You try ignoring the Yowl of Doom--excruciatingly audible inside and outside the house--while you're trying to read or watch "Law & Order.") Darby is one those cats who will be sitting quietly in one room, and then suddenly, for no discernible reason, decide he has to be in a different room RIGHT NOW, and he'll just bolt out. And then back again. He reacts to catnip the way I imagine humans react to getting a massage while on PCP. He is extremely auditory, with a variety of purrs, coos, and yowls in his repertoire, but he has only three expressions: perfectly content; really, really surprised; and manic. He has been known to bring me gifts of birds, mice, chipmunks, and baby rabbits. I am both appalled and touched by his gestures. Darby's human movie star equivalent: Russell Crowe. (Does this mean I have a subconscious wish that Russell Crowe would bring me dead chipmunks? . . . )

Inertia

I've fallen into this awful pattern over the past few weeks in which I make all these plans for getting stuff done on the weekend, and then when the weekend rolls around, I accomplish . . . almost nothing. Seriously, it's like a disease or something. I've tried making a list on Friday of things I want to get done, but it's gotten to the point where even as I'm writing out the list, I'm chuckling to myself and thinking, "There's no way in hell you're going to get around to that, you know. Cute of you to try, though."

This week, for example, I wrote out the following list of Things to Do Over the Weekend [with additional notes in brackets]:

1. Do some work work (Chapter 6 manuscript, Chapter 2 first pages).
2. Clean office [which hasn't been dusted since I moved in three months ago--no kidding].
3. Clean bathroom.
4. Clean kitchen.
5. Unpack at least two boxes. [I still have about eight to go, all full of nonessential stuff.]
6. Tear down boxes in basement. [Yes, the ones I used to move in three months ago.]
7. Go shopping for spring clothes.
8. Get gifts for niece and nephew [whom I'll be seeing in Wisconsin next weekend].
9. Order copy of credit report.
10. Blog.

Now, had I been realistic, my list of Things to Do Over the Weekend would have looked more like this:

1. Go out with friends Friday night.
2. Sleep until noon on Saturday.
3. Browse the Internet.
4. Read novel.
5. Play online poker. [Yes, I've fallen off the wagon a bit, but under strict financial limits.]
6. Get the cats hyped up on catnip; watch them run around and go crazy.
7. Order pizza.
*8. Watch "Walk the Line."
*9. Watch an awful Halle Berry movie. ["Gothika"--truly awful and nonsensical.]
*10. Watch three episodes of Law & Order.
11. [Pending] Go to a movie with friends.
[*Note that these three were under the vicodin influence--can't do much else in those circumstances.]

Notice the complete and utter lack of overlap between these two lists? Kind of depressing. I think I'm just going to have to accept the fact that I'm not much of a "weekend worker."

Having said that, I have now officially accomplished #10, and I'm going, NOW, to get to work on #1. If I don't stumble upon a web site first that catches my eye . . .

This Is Your Blog on Drugs

Ah, sweet sweet vicodin, my wonderful, pain-numbing friend.

I now believe that the pain relief I thought I got from the prednisone was all in my head. Or coincidental--this pain seems to have a mind of its own, and it comes and goes as it pleases, with no regard for what I do physically. I don't need to bend or stretch a certain way to bring it on. Sometimes lying down a certain way makes it go away, and sometimes it doesn't. There is no rhyme or reason.

But even this all-powerful pain is no match for the vicodin that I finally got yesterday, after calling my doctor on a Saturday morning and practically begging him to prescribe it, which he finally did.

What happened was, at some point early on Saturday morning I rolled over in bed, which, as I've mentioned, is a risky proposition these days. Usually I just wake up briefly with a bit of pain, get comfortable again, and go back to sleep. Not this time. As I rolled over, I felt a tremendous jolt in my right hip that shot down my leg--it felt like an actual electric shock. I don't even know how to describe it--it was scary painful, like some permanent damage had been done. And then, it became quickly evident that the pain had invited itself in and made itself a cup of tea and planned to stay for a while. It was unbearable. That's when I made the call and got the drugs that I'm on right now as I write this (so forgive me if this post is a little scattered).

And believe me, the drugs do help, but they're a mixed blessing. All of yesterday, instead of working as I had planned, I kept myself on the maximum dosage just to keep the pain away. And did basically nothing else but lie on the couch and watch TV and sleep--that's all I could do. And while I'm a big fan of lying around and being lazy on occasion, it's much better when one does that by choice . . . and this was not my choice. It was my stupid back that made me spend my day that way, and I'm getting really sick of this shit.

So today, I stuck to the minimum dose and was actually able to leave my apartment, but there was a trade-off. Although I wasn't totally whacked out, and I was able to go to brunch and for a walk in the park with a friend, I was in pain all day. It wasn't anything like yesterday morning, and it wasn't unbearable, but it was there. So, when my friend left a little while ago, I popped another pill--and I'm afraid, dear readers, that I'll be fading fast here and will have to sign off shortly.

To be honest, this choice I'm having to face lately between either not being in pain or being a productive person is starting to freak my out. It can't go on indefinitely. And it's only a matter of time, I'm sure, before I drive everyone around me insane with the constant bitching about it. So, I'm going to call my doctor tomorrow, put my foot down, and just demand an MRI, since he is apparently not going to suggest one. I want to get to the bottom of this thing once and for all. Much to the relief of all of you, I'm sure.

O.K., eyes are drooping, brain is mushing out. Going to go enjoy some pain-free oblivion for a while.

Jagged Little Pill

Well, it's official--I'm on steroids!

What happened was, I called the doctor's office yesterday and spoke with a nurse and got some more information about the prednisone issue. Turns out, they only want me to take it for two weeks, which is not enough time to develop the more extreme and grisly symptoms I described in my last post. Their thinking is, if my problem is arthritis, the prednisone will take care of this particular flare-up, and then I can go on an exercise regimen for maintenance after that. And if I have something else wrong, like a slipped disc or sciatica, the prednisone won't really help, and then I'll have an MRI.

It makes sense, I guess, but I still wasn't sure I wanted to take the prednisone at all. Then, at 2:00 in the morning last night, I was woken up by a shot of pain that actually made me scream. Guess I tried to actually roll over or something, which I haven't really been able to do lately. After that, I couldn't get into a comfortable position, and the pain just never went away--I was basically up all night. At 7:00 I finally got up and took the damn pills.

And you know what? They may be evil, but they work. I can tell the difference already, after one dosage. The constant throbbing pain is gone. Some positions, like driving, are still uncomfortable, but all in all, I'm practically back to normal. When I changed clothes after work, I didn't even have to sit down while doing so--I actually remained standing while putting my pants on. That might not sound like a big deal, but for me, it's a major accomplishment--I haven't been able to do that for two weeks.

I guess my biggest fear right now isn't what the drugs are going to do to me over the next two weeks--how much weight can you gain in 14 days, after all?--but that I'll feel better and then won't follow through on the physical therapy and exercise and will allow myself to get to this sorry state again. That must not happen! So, I'm asking you, my friends and loved ones and the occasional lurking stranger, please keep on me about exercising. Bitch and hassle and nag, a lot, I'm begging you.

Believe me, you don't want to be around the consequences if you don't.

Debilitating Pain--The Lesser of Two Evils?

Well, it's Monday, and this past weekend was basically a journey through pain. Not any emotional pain stemming from the Major Life Event, but actual physical pain--namely, back pain so intense that I couldn't not think about it, couldn't concentrate on anything else.

I can't really remember, at this point, exactly when my back problems started. The first time I can recall it being this intense was about 10 years ago, when I was bartending. I lifted a case of beer (the right way! using the knees, not the back!), and I just felt something . . . snap. Or pop. Or twitch. I don't remember exactly, because in the next instant I was struck by a lightening bolt of pain, which I do remember pretty much exactly. That little incident put me out of commission for a week, during which time I actually went to a chiropractor and had electro-shock therapy. Sounds kind of barbaric, doesn't it? That's because it is. No matter how much they try to dress it up, make you comfortable, and call the procedure "mild," the fact of the matter is, you're getting juiced. I hated it, decided I didn't trust chiropractors, and will not go through that again. (My back did get better after a couple of weeks, but I'm convinced that was due to the passage of time rather than the jolts I was subjected to.)

Anyway, I've had an on-again off-again problem with my back ever since then. It comes and goes, but usually, even when it's acting up, it's nothing I can't live with. Then, a week ago Thursday, I was setting a large pot of water down on a back burner on the stove, and as I stretched out my arms and lowered the pot, I felt that familiar snap, crackle, whatever in my lower back. And then the pain hit. And it hasn't really left. On Friday, it got so bad that I had to call off work--I couldn't even drive 10 miles to get there.

So I finally broke down and went to the doctor last Monday, and had x-rays taken on Thursday. On Monday he prescribed some anti-inflammatories and muscle relaxers, which haven't done any good. Then today, the nurse called with my x-ray results. Turns out, I have . . . arthritis. You know, that painful thing old people get.

Another myth debunked.

Apparently, lots of people in their 30s and even 20s have arthritis. And the diagnosis itself didn't even freak me out that much. It was what the doctor prescribed that freaked me out. He wants me to take prednisone.

I'd heard of it but didn't know anything about it, so I did a Google search, just to see if there were any, you know, disturbing side effects or anything. As it turns out, there are a few:

*headache
*dizziness
*difficulty falling asleep or staying asleep
*inappropriate happiness
*extreme changes in mood
*changes in personality
*bulging eyes
*acne
*thin, fragile skin
*red or purple blotches or lines under the skin
*slowed healing of cuts and bruises
*increased hair growth
*changes in the way fat is spread around the body
*extreme tiredness
*weak muscles
*irregular or absent menstrual periods
*decreased sexual desire
*heartburn
*increased sweating

"Inappropriate happiness?" Yeah, I would say that if I turned into a fat, sweaty, hairy, blotchy, bug-eyed, acne-ridden, tired, moody person with no sex drive, any happiness would in fact be inappropriate. But wait, it gets even better:

"Some side effects can be serious. If you experience any of the following symptoms, call your doctor immediately:"

*vision problems
*eye pain, redness, or tearing
*sore throat, fever, chills, cough, or other signs of infection
*seizures
*depression
*loss of contact with reality
*confusion
*muscle twitching or tightening
*shaking of the hands that you cannot control
*numbness, burning, or tingling in the face, arms, legs, feet, or hands
*upset stomach
*vomiting
*lightheadedness
*irregular heartbeat
*sudden weight gain
*shortness of breath, especially during the night
*dry, hacking cough
*swelling or pain in the stomach
*swelling of the eyes, face, lips, tongue, throat, arms, hands, feet, ankles, or lower legs
*difficulty breathing or swallowing
*rash
*hives
*itching

O.K., I have several problems with this second list. First of all, can "confusion" really be a symptom? If I called my doctor every time I felt "confused," he would sue me for harassment. In fact, I felt very confused while studying this list--I thought, "Why does my doctor want to torture me? What did I ever do to him?" A very confusing consideration. Also, I question whether, given these side effects, "loss of contact with reality" would really be such a bad thing. I think I would kind of hope for that symptom.

Anyway, prednisone is a steroid, and I look at ingesting something like that as an absolute last resort. I'm just not ready or willing to go there yet. Instead, I'm going to try a regime of exercise, massage, and some herbal supplements a friend recommended and swears by. (Hi, Paul!)

In the meantime, I'm going to make an effort to appreciate my current physical state. It does involve some pain, but it's also relatively svelte, smooth-skinned, and even-tempered, and it comes with non-bulging eyes and a minimum of facial hair.

Laundro-Adventures

Well, it's Sunday afternoon, and I can't put it off any longer--I have to go to the laundromat. Of course, I am actually putting it off by writing this blog entry . . . but that's a better reason for putting it off than trying to squeeze in one more episode of Law & Order first. So, my afternoon is settled: (1) blog entry; (2) laundromat; (3) no Law & Order. Glad I've got that all sorted out.

I have to go today because of the universal laundry economic indicator--i.e., how many clean pairs of underwear one has left in relation to condition, time, and willingness and ability to instead just buy more underwear. It's a simple formula, really. Let's study an example:
Number of pairs of clean underwear I have left: 2
Number of pairs of clean underwear I have left that I wouldn't be embarassed to be caught wearing in the event of an auto accident: 0
Ability to go to Target and buy more underwear: High
Willingness to go to Target and buy more underwear: Very low
Necessity of going to the laundromat today: Very high

Going to the laundromat is something I now have to do periodically, ever since the Major Life Event. At first, it was horribly depressing. After all, I was used to having my own washer and dryer in the basement, with a clothesline and folding table, etc., all very convenient. And the whole process of dragging everything out to the car, having to pay for every wash and dry, worrying about whether the machine is going to rip my clothes to shreds or whether someone else left a pen (or something worse) in the washer, and then hauling everything home while trying not to drop anything on the ground or wrinkle it . . . all of that is definitely a pain. I dread it.

However, going to the laundromat does have its advantages. First and foremost, I get everything done in a couple of hours, as opposed to the process dragging out all day (or over the course of several days). Also, I do not have the option of leaving the clothes in the dryer (or even the washer) overnight and having to deal with a wrinkled mess later. You have to get in and out of there--you have to just get it over with.

Another advantage of the laundromat, albeit a subtle one that not everyone would appreciate, is the adventures you can have there, the drama you might witness. It's a good opportunity to observe people from the sidelines, and I get a lot of story ideas from these folks.

I should mention that, on purpose, I go to the local laundro-bar. I'm sure you've seen these--the glorious combination of laundromat and bar that was inevitable in the grand scheme of human progress. Granted, in many ways, these laundro-bars are actually worse than regular laundromats--they're generally dirtier, and the machines are frequently broken. But you have to take into consideration the clientele, who are just so much more interesting than the usual laundro-crowd, which generally consists of sweatpants-clad college students reading magazines and drinking coffee.

The laundro-bar, on the other hand, attracts some characters. Some examples of stuff I've experienced there over the past several weeks:

1. Witnessing three domestic disturbances in the laundro-bar itself. Thankfully, no physical violence occured, unless you count the woman who pushed her boyfriend/husband/baby-daddy into the moisture-extraction machine. (He didn't actually fall into it, he fell against it, and I don't think he felt anything, anyway.)
2. Meeting one of the regular bartenders, who looks all of 24 years old and is running for Congress. As a radical-left independent. He needs something like 5,000 signatures on a petition by May 1st to get on the ballot; as of two weeks ago, he had about 250.
3. Running into the same woman and her young daughter every time I go. The woman looks about 50 and the daughter is maybe 3 and a half. The woman is very protective and seems like a good mother. I always wonder what their story is, besides apparently going through an awful lot of laundry.
4. Seeing an older, down-on-his-luck-looking guy actually sleeping at the bar, waking up to order another beer, getting upset when the budding politician refused to serve him, denying that he had been asleep, and then falling immediately back to sleep again before being escorted out 20 minutes later by the cops.
5. Watching a man talk to his clothes in the dryer. As in, "It's O.K., don't worry, you'll be done soon" as he watches them spin around and around. Sometimes he would move his head around in circles too, in rhythm with the dryer--showing solidarity with the ordeal his clothes were enduring, apparently.

So, some of this might freak a lot of people out, but I find it fascinating. I often take my notebook with me and scribble down some of these striking visions into human nature/behavior. Will let you know if anything interesting happens today.