brunobaby

I'm going to brave the sauna-intense heat to go to the great big magazine store and get this new magazine. Oooh baby, oooh baby.

I also want to know where they came up with these statistics:

"According to the National Association of Professional Organizers:

* 80% of the clutter in most homes is a result of disorganization, not lack of space.

* 50% of homeowners rate the garage as the most disorganized place in the house.

* 80% of what we file never gets looked at again.

* 40% of housework can be eliminated by getting rid of clutter."

Eighty percent of what we file never gets looked at again? Even by the IRS? Oh, the things I could discard.

Is there really such a thing as the National Association of Professional Organizers? Yes, there is. But I don't see anything about those statistics there.

"It's not self-loathing. I just can't stand to live on this block during this f*cking parade!"

This was my favorite Three Stooges short when I was a kid. It's amazing how much they were able to get past the censors, particularly with the letters "D" and "F".

After waiting patiently for almost two weeks for my Dell computer to arrive, I called DHL and they put a trace on it, only to find out it was gone without a trace.

Since the price of the computer was about the same as the cost of Chico's hospital stay, and since at this point I'm totally disgusted, and since, let's face it, I may as well admit that I'm a total Mac head, I called Dell and told them to take the charge off my card. The representative I spoke with could claim English as a fifth language, but I will be receiving the credit in three to five days. Unless it gets lost.

I hardly slept last night because every time I heard anything that sounded remotely like a cat scratching in a litter box, I sprang to my feet and crept stealthily into the bathroom to see if Chico was having a recurrence. Once it turned out to be Ashley, once it was a cat on the scratching post, and twice it was Chico.

Then the two times that it was Chico, I had to see if he were producing a normal amount, and the way he's squeezing the muscles at the base of his tail...is that what he normally does or is he straining?

My paranoia is fueled by the discharge instructions from the animal hospital and the information on every web site I've been to saying if a male cat is blocked for more than a day he will explode from uremic poisoning. And it's further charged by the fact that I have to be at work and won't be back to check up on Chico until around six this evening.

My neighbor is home and she has a set of our keys, and I'm sure she'd be happy to check on him, but she would have to catch him at the exact moment that he's in the litter box having the problem. And it's not as if Chico can call me here at work and say "Get the vet! My teeth are singing Anchors Aweigh!"

So with no control over the situation, I've been resorting to the same superstitions I've used when I'm waiting for the results of a scan or a test. This afternoon I had to restrain myself from telling the cashier at Staples, "Wait! I have to put all my change back facing in the same direction or the cat will die!"

At any rate, I'm a careful owner and also, I'm not about to leave town for a day or two, so even if I caught him in the act this evening, there would be plenty of time to bring him back to the animal hospital. And Chico's a healthy cat--this is a condition, not a disease. As a last resort, there's an operation they can give him that, as the vet put it, "would turn him into a girl." It's not a pleasant thought, but it's there.

But no matter what they do to his plumbing, Chico will always be all lad.

There's been a rise in bedbug infestations in this city for the past couple of years, and I don't mean my relatives. And no, I'm not about to say that I'm the latest victim. Although given the husband, the cat and the blood sugar I wouldn't be surprised if the seven plagues of Egypt rounded out my week.

Here's one item, and somebody in the Comments links to a Bedbug Blog. And now I have even more of an excuse to declutter, my favorite activity.

BTW, the husband is resting comfortably, and the cat has been thoroughly Roto-Rootered and is being kept one more night for observation. I'm getting one of those Drinkwell fountains, and then handing the rest of my paycheck to the veterinarian.

The Italian says, "I'm tired and thirsty. I must have wine."
The Mexican says, "I'm tired and thirsty. I must have tequila."
The Russian says, "I'm tired and thirsty. I must have vodka."
The Jew says, "I'm tired and thirsty. I must have diabetes."

Got the results back from my annual physical of Monday and as I'd suspected, I have to see an endocrinologist. I have an appointment for a month from now.

Nothing alarming, and I'm already on a diet since last week, and that may be all I have to do.

Sigh. Crisis calories do count.

...he does have to spend the night in the hospital. This morning, he exhibited the symptoms every owner of a male cat has come to fear. He was running back and forth to the litter box straining to pee. The vet's exam confirmed what I'd suspected: A urinary tract blockage, probably an infection.

So now he's catheterized and under observation as they flush out the offending microbes with sub-q's and antibiotic drips. The vet tech wants me to call later for "a dull, uneventful update."

"Aha!" said my paranoia. "That's always when something unexpected happens!" But probably not, and tomorrow I will bring him home while the vet extracts a blockage of money from my bank account.

Update, 9:45 PM

"Dull, uneventful update"--He's flushed, unblocked and doing well.

Ashley and I are doing our nails and watching chick flicks.

Update, Wednesday 12:35 PM

Chico has to stay another night. He's producing a lot of stones...and he pushed out the catheter.

Can't say I blame him.

Tired of putting together playlists, I decided about a month ago to listen to all of the tracks on my iPod alphabetically by song title--about 6,000 songs.

Last night on the way home, I was treated to "Fire" by Jimi Hendrix, "Fire" by The Ohio Players, "Fire Eye'd Boy" by Broken Social Scene, and "Fire of Freedom" by Black 47. The second week that Jim was at St. Rose's, I discovered I had 66 songs that began with the word "Don't." I also have two dozen songs that begin with "Everybody."

Jim reaches a new plateau of "bad" about every three weeks. I had no idea there were so many levels. This isn't a sudden death thing, like a heart attack or an aneurism. It's more like an alien sneaks into your brain and starts flipping off the circuit breakers one by one. Jim's uncle Joe died from the same cancer 48 years ago, and his cousin said that at the end, all he could move were his eyes.

So I don't know where in the alphabet I'm going to be when I get "The Call." You know the one I mean. But if Uncle Joe is the way it's going to go, then I hope it's at "Green Onions" and not "Sunshine of Your Love." Which wouldn't give me much time to say what needs to be said, but I hear that the ears are the last to go.

I just bought a Dell laptop online. I should be getting it by early next week.

I've never made such a quick decision in my life. I'm gonna be getting a call from Amex saying "We want to make sure this is you, because you never make decisions that quickly."

I've always been a Mac-head at home but came into the office this morning saying "It's time to add a Windows to the household." And from now on, laptops and notebooks instead of desktops. I'm also looking for bookshelf speakers. We have Dynacos the size of end tables. I'm looking to downsize in every way. I want to have a bonsai apartment.

Of course, now that I've bragged about my purchase online, it's time to make a snap judgement about that renters' insurance I've/we've been meaning to get.