crevette: (magicalmuscularcrotch!)

It seems like I've spent most of today waiting.

Waiting for work to come in. Waiting for my period to come. ([livejournal.com profile] major_thom4321 seems to think my uterus is some kind of evil creature capable of taking over my body for a week out of every month. I think he's over-reacting just a tad. (kIlL!! kIlL eVeRYOne!! wiTH a sPORk!!)

That said, I'll be quite pissed if my uterus holds onto the monthly gorefest to screw up my Three Day walk next weekend. Yes, not this weekend, but next weekend I get my life back. I don't quite know what I'll be doing with myself then except stopping all the eating I've been doing (I've gained some weight with all the training walks and such and it's NOT all muscle.) But I sure as hell don't need to be running for the portalets with a duffle bag of feminine hygeine products because 1. combine portalets and a period and you've got the most craptastically disgusting thing EVAH. 2. If I am on the rag, I *WILL* kill Perky Bataan Death March Cheerleader with one of my orthopedic insoles and a shoelace. 3. Did I mention EW? 4. I'll put my back out with the weight of my products. 5. EW!! 6. kIlL! kIlL tHeM aLl, pRecIOUS! kIlL! mAIm!!!

I'm listening to the 70's internet station. As an aside, I'm pretty sure that I hit my tolerance for 70s shlock a few hours ago when Debbie Boone's "You Light Up My Life" came on.

Every single one of us who is a refugee of the 70s remembers that song in constant airplay and the utter pain it caused. It is possibly the most repugnant song of the decade, easily beating out such gems as "Muskrat Love" and "Afternoon Delight" for the title. It took me every bit of control I had to not run into the front room, rip the desktop out of the computer desk and slam it into the wall repeatedly while screaming, "kIlL iT!!! kIlL iT!! deBBy boONe sUCkS aSS!! kiLlzzzzz iT nOW!!!" But that could be my uterus talking, you know.

I'm waiting for the Draino to work on the bathroom sink. Joy. At least I have my newest Will Turner action figure set to keep me occupied so I don't have to dwell on how much the plumber will cost us this time. I can't help it. I love these little action figures, and this one comes 'with Cannibal Bone Cage Trap'. It says on the back--I shit you not--"Set the trap by opening the spring loaded bone cage...then twist the trigger knob to snap the cage down on Will and take your prisoner to the Cannibal village!"

Well, I ain't takin' him to no Cannibal Village, that's for damn sure. Unless you want to think that I nicknamed my crotch "Cannibal Village". Which would probably give most of the men I know nightmares for weeks. It's all very Fruedian and shit.

I could play with this for HOURS. I also like the fact that there are a total of four of these playsets--Two with Jack Sparrow and one with Davy Jones--and Will is the only one without a tentacle accessory. I wonder why? Hmmm.

I'm waiting for a call from Leyla's vet about a new form of medication. She's supposed to be taking anti-anxiety pills--what a house cat can be anxious about is beyond me, but still--so I contacted this online formulary company and had quick melting pills flavored like Tuna made up for her.

Those pills got here last week and as soon as I got them I popped one out and tried to offer it up to her like a treat. It's tuna, right??? Right.

She looked at the pill, looked at me, looked at the pill, and tried to run.

So I did the next best thing and caught her so I could pry open her jaws and shove this 'instant' melting pill down her gullet.

Leyla did not like this. She did not like this enough to make it very clear that she did not like it, which for a cat that spends 22 hours of the day unconcious, is pretty impressive. (as an aside, her vet told me to watch out for a side effect that involved her passing out. "Yeah, right", I said.)

She has learned the trick of locking her jaws tight. See, you're supposed to be able to put your fingers in the hinge of her jaw and it's supposed to open up so you can shove the pill down her throat.

She's developed jaws of iron. I couldn't get her jaw to budge one bit, and her back end (with claws) was going about a million miles a minute, like a fur covered Cuisinart.

So then I think to myself, well, it's a slightly mushy pill. Maybe if I push it onto her teeth, it'll melt into her mouth and she'll ingest it. Yeah, right.

Instead she pulls out her SUPER SEKRET WEAPON of drool.

Yes, drool.

I've never seen a cat drool like this in my life. She was drooling through her teeth, which hit the melty pill, which made the pill melt on my hands and run tuna flavored drool strings down my arm.

Yes, it was as disgusting as it sounds.

So that was day one.

Day two, I managed to drag her out from under the bed and managed through a wrestling move I saw on TV get her pinned and her mouth opened. I threw the pill in. She spit it out. That instant melting thing? Not so instant. It just got gooey. So then I got her mouth open again and tossed it in. She spit it out. Now it's even nastier. Finally got it in one last time (I thought) and she got away from me and stared at me with unmitigated hatred while she stood there--and then vomited all of her red tuna supper on the cream colored rug in front of Thom's carpet.

And yet later, I found the (still undissolved) pill stuck to the fur on her back. Hmmmm.

So day three and four, I ground it up and stirred it into her food.

She did not eat for two days.

Day five I put it whole into her food. She ate an island around it.

Day six I called the formulary to find out about an alternate dosing method. Sadly, my preferred method of an airgun delivered system of darts that I can shoot into her bald ass from across the house (to improve both her health and my aim at once! It would ROCK!) is not available (and probably not legal, upon reflection) so I have to get the transdermal gel that we rub into her ear.

We're supposed to wear rubber gloves when doing this, but I have a feeling that I could use a touch of anti-anxiety meds myself after this past week.

And the cat is so much more nervous now that whenever Thom reaches for an Alavert, she hides under the bed.

And the sink is still clogged. ::sigh::

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crevette

September 2016

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