The life and times of an uncertain blogger

Our almost 17 year old cat, Rex, became very ill this week, and we almost lost him.

I can hear you now saying, “Jebus, woman…he’s 17 years old. Of *course* he is experiencing health problems. He’s ancient!” But the fact is, he’s been relatively healthy his entire life, with only a few bouts of seriously bad constipation in his old age and a case of very well controlled kidney disease. (It sounds worse than it is; his numbers are always in the normal range or just outside the normal range.)

But this week, Rex was sick on an entirely different level. Though we took him to the vet right away and began treatment immediately, he continued to go downhill, had yet another vet visit, and then Friday, I found him lying in a pool of water in my shower, lethargic and unmoved by his soaked, cold body. Michael rushed him to the Veteranary ER to find that his temperature was five degrees below normal and his kidney numbers were much worse than usual. We were scared.

They hooked him up to IVs to rehydrate him and warmed him up, and as of yesterday morning, his temperature was back to normal. We visited him in the afternoon, and he ate two teaspoons of food, which was a lot considering he hadn’t eaten in five days. They’ve been giving him excellent care, and we go back today to find out if we can take him home yet.

So, while I’m not for changes to the human health care system, I can tell you that I’m very happy with the pet health care system. They don’t need to change a thing except possibly lowering the fees just a little. Still, it’s worth it to have a beloved member of the family with us for a while longer, feeling like his old self again and playing with his tail like a kitten.

Stumble It!

Well, I was beginning to think I’d never be able to say this again, but…

I got a job!

Six months to the day after I was laid off as part of a mass lay off at the last company at which I worked, I started work at my new job, and I couldn’t be more excited.  I really like the people I’m working with, I’m thoroughly impressed with my boss, and the work is exciting, fast paced, challenging and compelling. How did I get so lucky?

As someone who has worked steadily since I was 14 years old — often at multiple jobs — being out of work for six months was frightening. Even scarier was the fact that there just didn’t seem to be any jobs in my area of expertise available. I got close a couple of times — once, I was second out of over 2,000 applicants — but even those positions paid over $15k less than what I had become accustomed to making. It was completely demoralizing and depressing, but I kept pressing on, and from this experience, I learned that the job search is easily as hard work as any position I’ve ever held. A year and a half ago when the company I was working at was bought out, and my position was moved over 1,000 miles away, I had three great offers within two weeks of beginning my job search. This time, during six months of constant applications, resumes and cover letters, I had zero offers.

Of course, I don’t have to tell any of you that it was the economy. Ten percent of you are out there looking for jobs right now, and I’d venture to guess than 80% of you are biting your nails, afraid that a pink slip will come with your next pay stub, while the remaining 10% are either fortunate enough to be secure in your position or oblivious to the sword of damacles that is hanging over your head.

As for myself, all I know is that I have never appreciated having a job more, and I will do whatever I can to excel at it, so I can keep it.  I know that I am one of the lucky few who got laid off in this economic downturn to have gotten a job, and I’m even luckier to have gotten a good one.

Stumble It!

Just as we baby-boomers were getting used to life without such icons as Ed McMahon, Farrah Faucett and Michael Jackson, news came Saturday, July 18, 2009, of the passing of 92 year old Walter Cronkite, the greatest newsman to have ever lived.

Not many people know that Walter also called Oklahoma football for WKY radio in 1937.

Cronkite, just 21 when he worked for the Oklahoma City radio station, later recounted that his early work on the broadcasts lacked solid preparation and knowledge. I wish there were some recordings of those old games, so we could hear it for ourselves, because he obviously fixed those problems throughout his career.

For those of us who grew up watching Walter Cronkite, a part of our childhood has now passed with him. He was the one who told us when JFK was assasinated. He was the one who thrilled with us when we first landed on the moon. He was the one who told us about countless soldiers who died in Vietnam. And he was the one who taught us history, through his wonderful “You Were There” programs.

Even though our political leanings differed, I always had great respect for Cronkite as a journalist. He was always thorough and told the news without bias, something not seen by most anchors today. And speaking of anchors — Walter Cronkite was the first newsman to ever be called an anchorman. As a matter of fact, he came so identified in that role that eventually his own name became the term for the job in other languages (Swedish anchors are known as Kronkiters; in Holland, they are Cronkiters).

Because of his non-biased presentation of the news, Cronkite was voted the most trusted man in America, a title he richly deserved. I’ve missed his newscasts since he retired, but I miss him more today. There will never be another like him.
 

Stumble It!

Upon learning of the death of Michael Jackson, John Mayer said, “A major strand of cultural DNA has left us.”  I don’t think anyone could have put it better.

It’s hard for me to wrap myself around the fact that Michael Jackson is gone. A truly iconic person such as he is such a part of us as a people that, to think of a world without him, leaves me feeling sad and befuddled. Just as you can’t pull a strand of DNA from a person, you can’t pull Michael Jackson from our culture. He has permeated it, molded it, and surprised it since he was 10 years old.

His voice, as a child, was pure and beautiful. His rock, pop and disco music set feet dancing, and balads like “I’ll be There” and “Ben” were beloved by all — race, age, sexual preference be damned; no one could resist that amazing voice. 

And even when you think it can’t get better, his body moved in ways that equaled or bettered the greatest dancers.  It’s said that when he was in his late teens and 20s, he had dinners with Fred Astaire and other great giants of the dancing world. I can only imagine the shared synergy at these events, because what emerged were moves never imagined. No one could pop his body like Michael Jackson. The moonwalk had been done before, but Michael reinvented the move. Other dancers accompanying him paled in comparison.

He was exciting, beloved and revered across the world.

Paul McCartney called Michael Jackson “a massively talented boy-man with a gentle soul,” and that’s how I hope he’s remembered. In so many ways, Michael was a true case of arrested development. Because he’d never had a childhood of his own, he yearned for one so badly that he could only identify with children or with others who had been child stars.

He was an innocent in so many ways, and even when his actions came into question, I think his intent was that of a child yearning for some connection.  Even his apparent abuse of prescription drugs was, most likely, a means used to quell his emotional, as well as physical, pain.

Whatever the case, the world would not be the same without Michael Jackson in it. His music will endure, we can watch videos of him dancing, but we’ll never know what more he could have delighted us with.

Stumble It!

ARGHHHHHHHH!!!

I was going to write, “There; I feel better now,” but the sad fact is, I don’t! For the past two weeks, I’ve been plagued by the worst allergies I’ve ever had in my life!

I know I’m not alone out here. According to everything I’ve read, we’re having the worst allergy season we’ve had in years, with the most heinous culprit being ragweed. Everyone is sneezing, itching, wiping their eyes, sniffing and coughing. If misery loves company, I should be thrilled about now. To be honest, though, I’d be more thrilled if it were just those other people suffering, so I could go on living in ignorance and comfort

When I was young, I wasn’t allergic to anything at all. I could roll around in poison ivy, and it wouldn’t phase me. (I actually did this once with my boyfriend. ::cough:: The next day, he was covered in calamine lotion, and the only sign I’d been there was the knowing smile on my face.) My poor brother, on the other hand, was highly allergic. I can still see the rash on his arms, which always looked angry and inflamed and was usually bleeding to some degree from his constant scratching. I felt for him, but I really had no idea what he was going through.

Now, I do!

Over the past twenty years or so, I’ve slowly developed allergies to this and that. I’ve had three allergy tests (ooOOooo! Needles!), and each one has shown that I’m progressively becoming more allergic to more things. The last time I took one (last year), it showed that I am at least a little bit allergic to everything they tested me for except dogs and cats. Thank goodness, since I have four cats and two dogs!

This bout with allergies, though, has been like nothing I’ve ever experienced. It started with a little itching, then became an angry, bumpy rash on my lower legs and hot, red, itchy skin over the rest of my body, except for my head. At first, I took a back scratcher to bed with me. When it didn’t do the job, I tucked a hair brush into my hand before nodding off. (Oh, how I now love that hair brush/skin shreader!)

When the itching got so bad that I couldn’t sleep or sit still anymore, I rushed to the doctor, who put me on Prednisone and a really strong topical steroidal cream. At first, it helped, but as soon as I began lowering the dose to avoid becoming addicted to it, the itching came back with a vengence! Now, my head and face also itch. Joy.

I suppose I should be grateful. After all, I’ve never felt more alive. Unfortunately, I have also never felt more like I’m covered with other live things like mosquitos or stinging ants.

I itch; therefore, I am. It’s times like these, though, that I wish I could just not itch and sleep. That’s it…sleep, perchance to dream…of not itching!

Stumble It!

So, we have this person at work we’re calling “the phantom pooper.”

We have no idea who the phantom pooper is, but we know that she was raised in a barn, because she obviously snacks on hay if the smell she leaves behind is any indication.

It all started about a month ago when the call center for our company moved onto our floor. Gone were the quiet days when we could consentrate on our work. Instead, the floor was filled with clutter, loud noises and a plethora of new smells. A trip to the restroom was often an escape in those early days, but that didn’t last very long, once the phantom pooper left her mark.

And I don’t mean “left her mark” rhetorically, by the way. She quite literally left her mark, in the form of the long, stinky, brown skid-mark she always leaves on the toilet seat.

No, I’m not kidding.

And that’s not all! In addition to the skunk stripe she leaves as a calling card, she also leaves toilets unflushed, pee on the seats and floor (How does a woman do this?), and diarrhea spashed along the back of the toilet bowl. (Again, HOW does this happen?)

The concept of a courtesy flush is alien to her. She is proud of the smell of her poop and wants to make sure the rest of us can smell it, too!

The phantom pooper has become a subject of much conversation around the water cooler. Just who is she? What the HELL does she eat that smells so bad when it’s digested? In what position must she sit on the toilet to leave the diarrhea spray against the back like that? We warn others of her visits. “For the love of all that is holy, don’t go in there right now!”

I actually brought packs of matches to all my friends, so we can light one upon entering the restroom. Our only hope is that the fumes don’t combust and singe our eyebrows off. So far, so good.

We have begun an unofficial forensic investigation, and we know these things about the pooper:

• She’s a big girl - Only a big girl could leave a skunk stripe like that on the toilet seat.
• She’s not clean - She doesn’t wipe her rear end, people!
• She’s insensitive to the needs of others - Those of us who are clean would like a restroom free of crap stains, floaters and pee puddles.

We have a few suspects. The big girl who comes to work with her pants unzipped because they’re too small and wears a short shirt, so everyone can see her open fly is the prime suspect.

I was actually in there the other day when she came in, talking on her cell phone. (This is another clue that she’s the phantom pooper. Who uses the restroom and talks on the cell phone at the same time? How does she wipe? What does the person on the other end of the phone hear?) From my stall, I heard her say to the person on the other end of the line, “It smells like smoke in here!” I answered her, “That’s from the match I light so I don’t have to smell everyone’s crap, since someone isn’t clean!” She just chuckled and farted.

Oh, yeah. I think we’ve found our gal!

Letters from HR have been sent out and have done no good, so now it’s up to my forensic squad to solve the problem. Once we’re completely sure who the pooper is, we’re giving her some object lessons on bathroom etiquette and a care package…moist towlettes, body spray, air freshener, her own pack of matches!

Until then, I’ll be using a restroom on one of the other floors. None of them smell like roses, but at least there are no racing stripes!

Stumble It!