The Odd Broad

Sick and tired

This broad is under the weather as of late.  Like everyone else, it seems.  More musings soon.  xoxo

Surprising myself

It's Sunday morning and I've been awake since 6:00 am, in anticipation of having to test Kittie's glucose. 

Last week I mentioned being nauseous at the very idea of pricking my cat's ear, and yesterday at the Vet's office was no different.  Hubby hasn't been feeling very well, but he gave it a go first and then it was my turn.  I positioned myself behind Kittie, as the doctor instructed, and flattened her ear with my thumb while holding the lancet tightly in my other hand.  As I went to press the needle in, Kittie turned her head to look up at me and leveled her green eyes right on mine.

Damn she's good.

The doctor thought so too.  "She certainly knows her mommy."

I reminded myself that I was doing this for Kittie's own good.  Eventually, after a few missteps, I did it.  And then the doctor asked me to do it again, to ensure I was comfortable.

Did I mention I think Hubby has the swine flu?  He's got the chills, fever, sore throat and his chest hurts when he coughs.  I've been attending to him like a good Florence Nightingale, but I still sort of begged him to wake up with me this morning for moral support.  He attempted to prick Kittie's ear first, which didn't go well at all.  The lighting was dim and that vein was hard to see.  Soon after, Kittie started hacking really bad, which completely freaked us out.  It was awful.  At the Vet's office, she'd been calm and hadn't flinched once.  This morning she was obviously upset and scared, and I decided right then to scrap the whole blood testing thing altogether.  It was just too much.  I must've been crazy to think we could do this, in addition to the insulin injections!  We'd just have to take her to the vet for this kind of thing. 

I went into the kitchen and took a deep breath.  If this was going to work, I needed to be the one to do it.  Not Hubby, me.  And then something dawned on me.  I closed my eyes and uttered a single, simple prayer.  I picked Kittie up, placed her on the table, and proceeded to pierce the small vein in her ear with the lancet.  Her blood sugar was 298.

"Good job, babe!"  Even though he was doped up on Nyquil, Hubby could still appreciate my accomplishment.  I think he was as shocked as I was.

It was nothing short of a miracle.  That's all I can say.  Hopefully I can deliver an encore performance this evening.  xoxo

Springtime flowers bloom, with an air of mystery...

Poor Corey Feldman.  If reports are true that he and Susie are indeed headed for splitsville, I'd like to offer my deepest condolences.  I was really hoping those two crazy kids were going to make it. 

One wondrous, rose scented thought does spring to mind: I smell a reality series!  Let's get those two Corey's back together!  What could be a more appropriate time for them to reunite than in this, Feldman's hour of need?

Please, God, I don't ask for much.  These two boys belong together!  For the sake of our nation.  America needs the Two Corey's.  The world needs them, for that matter!

I'm just saying.  It's a good idea and stuff.

Remember the episode when Feldman sang for Susie?  When he shouted/rasped into her face, "I REALLY LOVE YOU, BABY!" and made Susie cry?  (It would have made me cry, too, if Hubby screamed into my face while simultaneously projecting his voice into a microphone.)  Riveting television.  I had to cover my eyes and could only watch this musical monstrosity unfurl in bits and pieces.  But I want more.  Dear God, I want more.  Who the hell doesn't?

Florence Nightingale

I don't like needles.  Who does?  But I tend to take it to the next level: I don't like veins.  I don't even like talking about veins.  The mere idea of taking my own pulse is enough to make me lightheaded.

I wasn't always like this.  I'm not sure when it happened.  And...I digress.

Since my last post there have been many developments in the health of my little feline companion, Kittie (with an "ie").  After the doctor confirmed that the diagnosis was indeed feline diabetes, we searched for a vet closer to home.  (In truth, I did what I always do in times of need- I sort of "put it out there" as a desperate plea; specifically, I needed a compassionate veterinarian within walking distance.)  Someone was listening, because we found one on the first try.

This time the doctor we saw had kind eyes and didn't look nervous when my own eyes started to run.  A sweet, soft spoken technician named Mirilla shaved a small patch of hair near the scruff of Kittie's neck (hence my runny eyes) so we'd be able to clearly see the injection sight.  We practiced injecting Kittie with a syringe filled with water.  I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a bit traumatized, sticking a frigging needle into my cat; but I did it, and we've been doing it, twice a day every day.  (Just call me Florence Nightingale.)

Hubby did it flawlessly on his first try, naturally.  As for me, I'm still floundering a bit.  (Lots of following Kittie around, wielding a syringe, blurting out prayers to Jesus, Mary and Joseph and anyone else who'll listen.)  But I'm doing it.  And Kittie honestly doesn't even seem to give a good crap, the sweet furry thing.

On Tuesday we went back to the vet to learn how to check Kittie's blood glucose level.  Ideally, in the beginning at least, they'd like us to do this twice a day.  This will help to regulate the diabetes, and might even be the key to getting her off insulin for good.  (There's a chance Kittie might be what they call a "transient diabetic.")  The home blood testing is important.  But Crikey, does it scare the shit out of me.

For this, we'd need a glucometer.  Perhaps I was out of line, but I called my aunt to see if she still had Nanny's glucometer.  (One of my grandmother's many catchphrases was, "I'm a freaking diabetic!" and I know she tested her blood sugar daily towards the end.)  Now Kittie was a freaking diabetic, too.

How would Nanny feel about my using her glucometer on my cat?  Was this an inappropriate thing to do?  I couldn't help but wonder.  My grandmother had a fantastic sense of humor and my guess is that she'd be roaring with laughter.  I hope I'm right.

When I opened up Nanny's kit, the "lancing device" still had a lancet in it, the tip of which was covered in blood.  Nanny's, from what I gathered.  This brought on a wave of sad shock, to see my grandmother's blood, right there before me, when she'd been gone since May.  I wondered what I should do with it?  I've been known to collect an inappropriate memento from time to time (don't ask), and I seriously considered saving that bloody lancet.  Wasn't it a piece of her?  In the end, I tearfully threw it away, talking out loud to myself: "that's not my grandmother!"

And it wasn't.  I know that.  I did dream about her that night, though. 

And then it was the day we learned to use the meter.  I'd been nauseous all afternoon just thinking about it; and by the time we got to the vet's office I'd psyched myself up into an awful state.  The doctor was calm and very kind.  She shaved (again with the shaving!) the backs of Kittie's little Spock ears, so we'd be able to see the vein that runs along their edges.  Incidentally, earlier that day a friend suggested it would be "easy" to check my cat's blood sugar.  ("SO easy!"  I made a mental note right then to knife her in the morning.)

When the doctor suggested microwaving a washcloth and applying it to Kit's ear, so the vein would bulge and be more visible, I nearly lost my shizz altogether.  She performed a demonstration, but I was a little distracted, as I was entering into swooning mode.  Kittie's blood sugar was 402; too high, but 167 points lower than on the night she was diagnosed nearly a week prior. 

"Does one of you want to practice?"

I looked at my husband, eyes bulging.  "Maybe you should give it a try."

He wasn't buying it.  "I'll be okay doing this, I think you should practice."

The doctor agreed.  "It's best to practice it here, rather than trying to do it at home for the first time."

I'd do anything for this cat, but all the same, I felt panicky, ganged up on; I felt...fucking faint.  The doctor brought me a cup of water and let some air into the small room.  Soon after I was holding the tiny lancet between my sweaty fingers, trying to focus on the small vein that ran along the edge of my cat's adorable little bat ear.  She shined a penlight on it, and the ear became almost translucent.  Holy shit. 

Breathe, psycho.  I leveled with the vet.  "Doctor, I didn't really watch you when you did it earlier, I think I had my eyes closed.  I'm sorry."

She coached me through it, and although I wasn't able to successfully draw a drop of blood, because I was pricking the ear too timidly, I was still aiming in the correct spot.  It was a start.  I went home feeling hopeful.

The next morning we weren't able to perform the meter reading, which was disappointing and upsetting, but we have another appointment on Saturday and hopefully we can get a second lesson then.

In the meantime, Kittie remains as cheerful and feisty as ever.  I've been told a diabetic cat can live a normal, happy lifespan, and indeed she does seem to be tolerating these insulin shots like a trooper.  My hopes are nothing but high. 

It's going to be okay.  xoxo

PS: We didn't have the recommended coffee can handy to contain the first week's syringes for disposal.  What this means is, we put them (safety caps on, of course) into our garbage bag, which we then deposited into the dumpster in the alley.  A friend told me today that this is like "leaving a loaded gun" (with the safety on) in a crowded playground. 

I may have to knife her, as well.   

Green eyes, you're the one that I wanted to find...

I won't lie; I'm feeling a little deflated as of late.  Last night, after sensing something wasn't quite right with Kittie, we took her to a vet to be checked out. 

I've noticed she's been peeing an awful lot lately and knew that couldn't be good.  When I called to make the appointment, the woman on the phone asked what my pet's name was.

"Kittie," I answered.  "With an "ie."  (Oh yes.  I went there.)

An ominous kind of feeling had me sort of crying before we even walked through the door.  But still, I wasn't fully prepared when the doctor came back into the room and told us Kittie had feline diabetes.

"Okay," I nodded, perhaps a bit too quickly.  I kept on nodding vigorously as she explained that Kittie was far too overweight (the nerve!) and we'd have to put her on a special diet.  But I stopped nodding when she told us in the same breath that we'd need to administer shots of insulin to her twice daily for probably the rest of her life.  It would be a serious commitment, she continued.

Her tone was matter of fact and clinical, but not completely unkind.  I lowered my head into my chest and tried in vain to conceal the fat tears escaping from my eyes.  I couldn't keep nodding anymore, not really.  I couldn't even look the woman in the eye.  Eventually she handed me a paper towel.

And there we were.  Our little friend was sick and was going to need us now more than ever. 

Pain is relative, and I fear only an animal lover will understand.  I just feel so anxious, upset and alone.  I can't even clip Kittie's nails, let alone stick a needle in her!  Will she understand it's for her own good?  Or will she think I'm trying to hurt her?  I suppose I'll never know.

On my way home from work tonight I stopped into church, a place I haven't stepped foot in since my grandmother's funeral this past May.  There in the darkness, I fished $1.50 out of my bag, lit a candle and let myself cry for a moment as I asked God for a little bit of...strength. 

Yes, I sing "Green Eyes" by Coldplay to my cat; you wanna f*cking make something out of it?

I said no, no, no...

Hubby and I attended my friend Lindsay's Halloween party last night.  (She was dressed as JonBenet Ramsey, complete with babydoll dress and pageant sash that read "never good enough.")  I was Amy Winehouse and Hubs was Kenny (f*cking) Powers.

Not many people knew who Kenny Powers was, but Hubby worked it.  And it was amusing to see him wearing a mullet.  I wished to make my ensemble as realistic as possible, so in addition to my bouffant wig, wife beater and black skinny jeans, I added dark circles under my eyes, temporary tatts and bruises on my arms.  I also puffed on fake ciggies all night.  Indeed, as the evening wore on, my pretend nicotine habit escalated to two or three smokes at a time.  (Very hardcore.  People kept asking me for a light.)

This morning I reflected on the fact that I'd posed for many a snapshot, always in character.  I even mugged for the camera with a friend "burning" my forearm with one of the fake cigarettes.  At one point the girl dressed as Courtney Love pretended to shoot her syringe into my arm.  (Say cheese!)  Surely these photos will be ones to show the (hypothetical) grandkids.

We live in a one bedroom apartment, always tight on space, but somehow I don't have the heart to throw my Winehouse weave away.  She's been hanging out in our hallway all day, smoking and cursing...

Surely there must be room for a bouffant in my life?  Perhaps I'll wear her to work tomorrow.

Mrs. Whimby's Daughter

I've been singing to Lukey the Wonder Nephew since before he was even born.  He's definitely the most receptive audience I've ever had. 

I sing him songs, mostly improvised, the most colorful of which is about a woman named Mrs. Whimby and her illegitimate daughter, who is just about to be married. 

This little ditty blossomed into existence right after I moved back to Boston.  We'd had a Brigham's ice cream party at work and the delivery man brought along a small yellow stuffed dolled.  That doll's name was Mrs. Whimby.  Anglophiles that we are, my sister and I decided almost immediately that Mrs. Whimby would have a cockney accent.  Lukey really took to Mrs. Whimby; indeed, the two became nearly inseparable.  (Luke loves her dearly in spite of the fact that she's kind of an old slut.)

When I first moved into my apartment I had virtually nothing to entertain a baby with.  Nothing, that is, except the little stuffed bear wearing a wedding veil that Sissy bought me when I got engaged.  It would have to do.  I began to sing, child star style.  The tempo was upbeat, maniacal, with a Polka/German drinking song feel:

I'm...Mrs. Whimby's daughter, and today's my wedding day

All I'm asking, Lukey, is would you give me away?

Walk me down the aisle, to my fiance...

I'm Mrs. Whimby's daughter, won't you give me away?  HEY!

Mrs. Whimby's daughter didn't know who her biological father was, you see.  My sister was more than a little disturbed.  She told me to stop, if I remember correctly.  Luke looked at me as if he was having a bad acid trip.  And then he laughed.  More than laughed, he guffawed.  Naturally, this song became an instant staple in my repertoire, with several verses ensuing. 

My collectible Michael Jackson doll and Harry Potter action figure were both eventually incorporated into the song:

I'm Mrs. Whimby's daughter, and today's my wedding day

I'd marry Harry Potter, but he up and flew away...

He's summering in Maui now with Michael J...

I'd marry Harry Potter, but he's off with Michael J!  HEY!

On a side note, my Michael Jackson doll has been resting on a shelf in our hallway since his untimely passing; and we've since set my Harry Potter action figure next to him.  Hubby has placed Michael's hand on Harry's...wand.  It's not right.

And I digress.  It's remarkable how babies really listen to everything you say.  Lukey already knows his numbers, can sing his ABC's and a bevy of other songs.  Last weekend my mother was singing a song she'd sung since Lukey was born, and he was finishing each line for her, in tune even.  (Yes, this baby even understands the concept of pitch!  I know I'm his auntie and all, but musically he's extremely intuitive.)

"When did you work with him on that?" I asked my mother, impressed.

"Oh, never really, I've just been singing it to him forever..." she answered.

A light bulb went off in my head.  I turned to Luke.  And I began to prompt him, singing:

I'm......Mrs. Whimby's...

"Daughta"

And today's my wedding...

"Day"

What I'm asking...

"Nokey"

Is would you give me...

"Away!"

Walk me down the aisle to my fee-an...

"SAY!!"

I'm Mrs. Whimby's...

"Daughta"

Won't you give me...

"Away!  Yay!"

Christ almighty, Luke David had been listening.  And now he knows how to say the word fiance.  This boy is not even two.  God I love that child.

The Accidental Carnivore (or "Pork You")

As you may have heard me already mention, on September 1st I decided to give up meat.  Well, actually, I tried to become Vegan and succeeded for a good two weeks, but there are times when I desperately hanker for a hunk of cheese.  (So I've eaten a bit of feta.  And what's homemade pesto without the parmesan?)

I've come down with the flu twice since this experiment began, and after talking to two long-term vegetarians who recently began eating fish, I decided that maybe I should give it a try as well.  (Making me more of a Pescatarian?)  I've eaten shrimp twice and one night we baked some cod.  I've never particularly liked fish, but I liked it that night, because I was a woman on the edge. 

I want to be clear though: I've eaten no red meat, or milk, or butter; no chicken stock, even, which I probably consider to be the most difficult staple to do without.  There have been no evenings filled with roasted pork tenderloin, no Thai basil chicken.  Mashed potatoes certainly don't taste the same without milk, but you won't find me adding any to my spuds.  No siree, Barbara. 

This is something I've taken very seriously.  Nobody can believe I've lasted this long, least of all myself.  Just yesterday, in fact, I privately marveled at how amazing it was that I hadn't eaten chicken, pork, or beef since the start of September.  Pretty freaking monumental, if I do say so myself.  (Smug-e-ty smug smug smug.  Smug as a bug in a rug.)

I plopped down on the couch next to Hubby and proceeded to watch Ina Garten grill beef sliders.  (Oh, I haven't given up watching other people prepare meat, masochist that I am.)  I continue to lust after meat.  Even as I mentally replay the image of those poor chickens being sent to the slaughter in the PETA video, it still can't totally curb my desire to bake them in a pot pie.  Old instincts die hard, I suppose.

Beef sliders.  Beef sliders covered in melted cheese.  They looked nice.  Real nice.  And then it hit me.  It hit me like a ton of bricks.  It was as if someone had dropped a cow on me.

"OH MY GOD!!!!!"

I gasped in horror and covered my mouth with my hands.  I stared blankly at my husband, unable to utter another word.  (Yes, it was all very dramatic and musical theatre but what do you want from me?)

"What?  What's the matter?  What is it?"

It would be a good forty seconds before I could spit it out, and even then I didn't want to say it.  Because if I said it, then it would be true.  And it couldn't be true, although I knew there was no denying it. 

"I FUCKING ATE MEAT YESTERDAY."

Mother f*cker.  Reader, it was true.  Something about those mini sliders had jogged my memory.  I was flabbergasted.  I'd fallen off the wagon, and hadn't even realized! 

Sliders.  The day prior was the Halloween party at work, and I was in charge of it.  Sliders were on the menu; cute little sliders with tiny buns and little tomato slices.  My mom was in town and she and Sissy brought Lukey the Wonder Nephew to the party.  (He was the cutest damn cowboy you ever did see, complete with John Wayne swagger.)  I'd been quite busy all day; all week, for that matter.  At one point I made a plate up for Lukey with a chicken finger, mini pizza and a pig in a blanket.  Our little cowboy went straight for the pizza. 

And that's when it happened.  Like a dream, I can now clearly remember reaching for that chicken finger, and taking one bite, then another.  A minute later, without even being aware, I mechanically popped that frigging mini wiener right into my piehole.  I feel I should mention, I WASN'T EVEN HUNGRY!  And by that time both bits of food were stone cold and therefore not very tasty.  Neither my mother nor my sister thought anything of it, and I didn't either, until the next day at 2:00 pm when I watched the Barefoot Contessa get her grilling on.

Am I a complete nut job?  Who falls off the wagon without noticing?  Is this something people do?  Should I be nervous?  Is my subconscious so starved for pork and poultry that I would accidentally consume it?  Or was I so preoccupied by work duties that I momentarily became a nervous eater? 

If I am to fall off the wagon, I'd like the act to be pre-meditated.  I'd like it to be a fully conscious decision.  I'd like the meal to be...really effing delicious.  Truly worth it, you know?  Not a goddamn mini wiener and a cold chicken finger!

When I went back to Sissy's house that night I even complained that there was nothing for me to eat.  (Because I couldn't eat meat.)  Even that night, when I got home, I remarked to Hubby that the only thing I'd had to eat that day was a crappy slice of pizza.  I really, truly believed this was so.  I reheated some pasta puttenesca, devoured it, drank a glass of wine and promptly fell asleep.

I must be mental.  Do I have early onset Alzheimer's or something?  And here I'd been acting all high and mighty for forgoing eggs and chicken stock when I'd already tumbled head first off the chuck wagon!  And furthermore, I didn't even get to enjoy it! 

If that's not a kick to the balls then I don't know what is.

Poor little chicken.  Poor little piggie.  I'm really very sorry.  I honestly didn't mean to eat you.  xoxo

Arts 'n Crafts

Over the past two nights, I've spent roughly seven hours cutting teeny tiny shapes out of construction paper.  Lots of glue sticking ensued.  The end result: thirty-one custom made goodie bags for the Halloween party at work tomorrow.  That's right.  The Odd Broad got her craft on.

I enlisted Hubby's help and he came up with the Frankenstein design.  God bless that man.

xoxo

Funky cold medina

A girl from my graduating college class was recently cast in a Broadway show where she'll be acting alongside Angela Landsbury and Catherine Zeta-Jones.

How nice for her.  I told her as much, on her Facebook page.  (And then I died a little inside.)

A few days later, I noticed her FB status update said something like (and I'm paraphrasing here):  "...trying to figure out what this FUNK is all about.  Could it be astrological?"

SHE'S IN A f**king astrological FUNK????!!!!  Holy shit.  In all fairness, I realize a funk is usually relative.  But it really got me to thinking.  I'm prone to the occasional bout of funkatude, the moody blues, moments here and there when I'll question certain choices and wake up in the middle of the night in a mild sort of panic. 

I don't own a home.  I don't even own a car.  I don't have any children.  I've all but abandoned my acting career, my childhood dream; and leaving New York really seemed to put the final nail in that coffin.  I try not to think about that last one, though.

Sometimes, if I'm feeling especially morbid, I can feel as if I'm floating aimlessly...

The irony is, most of the time I'm actually quite happy and grateful.  I am married to my soulmate; to a man who does kind, sweet, funny things and who tells me he loves me at least ten times a day.  We just booked a trip to Aruba.  And it's okay that we don't own a home yet.  I certainly don't want to drive, and as for children...

I have Kittie.  And, of course, my wonder nephew.  (And a flat(ish) tummy.)

I hate questioning myself like this because it's not generally the way I do business.  I have my own path, as we all do, and usually I trust very strongly in that.  Except for when I don't.  And that's okay, too.