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Archive for the ‘addicition’ Category

I really think we women are the queens of multi-tasking. Sometimes I stop and look at all the pies I have my fingers in and am amazed when I hit the pillow at night I don’t slip into a coma, rather than spending most of my time trying to convince my mind to go back to sleep. Part of night restlessness, of course, includes the eternal march back and forth to the bathroom that has become part of my repertoire in the last couple of years. John Phillip Sousa should have devoted some time to penning a piece about that. I have followed all the suggestions, “don’t drink anything after six”. Check. “Use the bathroom right before going to bed.” Check. I don’t drink alcohol, nor do I use any artificial sweeteners or consume processed sugar unless in small amounts. Then we get to reducing caffeine. Now, there I draw the line. Susie has got to have her coffee. Logically, it would seem if I drank coffee at 8:00 in the morning, it shouldn’t be processing through my system at 3 a.m., but apparently it can have an effect even after all that time has passed. Disappointing. Coffee is my only vice these days, and they will have to pry my favorite owl cup out of my cold dead hands before I’m giving it up. To be interesting, I believe you need to have at least one vice. This should be limited to something obviously that doesn’t cause you bodily harm, like collecting bottlecaps or being secretly addicted to Pringles. Whoops, it appears I have two vices going at the moment.

Yesterday was a grueling day at my house. The phone was relentless, as there is a lot going on in my world at the moment. Don’t get me wrong, I am more than thankful I have such a wonderful and caring group of friends who keep up with me, but still sometimes my lips get worn out with making words and I have run the white flag up the pole. My list of errands was starting to get past the manageable stage, so I decided to cross some of those trips off before I had to run an add for an assistant. Also, I am having my first small dinner party since the Pandemic on Saturday night which requires I actually purchase some food to put on people’s plates. When Rick and I owned our restaurant, we entertained a lot. Looking back I wonder I had time to pull together a large dinner party with the restaurant consuming most of our time, but somehow it all got done and I enjoyed doing it. The house we lived in at the time was set up for entertaining. This little house, as sweet as it is, is more an intimate dinner party than a large gathering. More than six people under this roof would feel like a crowd. As I’ve said before I refer to my kitchen as a “two butt kitchen” because if you get more than two people in the room at once you cannot avoid some intimate contact. I tend to deflect any offers of help cleaning up, because if someone else is in there with me we spend the whole time saying, “I’m sorry”, “excuse me” and it becomes annoying rather than helpful.

Surveying my to-do list I decided to go into Home Goods first. Home Goods is my happy place. You could just lock me up in there for days, and I would never call for assistance. Specifically, I was looking for a kibble container for Boo, the Queen of Cats. I’ve had the same jar for years, with kitty paws decorating the outside, and the lid finally gave up the ghost. Rummaging about in the pet aisle, a lady joined me on the other end with a small wiener dog in tow. The dog, I’m sure much to it’s humiliation, was wearing a pink tutu and had a matching pink and white bow attached to one floppy ear. Dachshunds really are such funny little creatures, with their long tubular bodies, and short little legs. This little one immediately went to the dog toy section. Without hesitation it began politely sorting through the shelf, sniffing this toy and sniffing that one, until finding one that apparently suited its needs. Retrieving the oversized stuffed toy with it’s mouth, the animal sat politely while the owner continued looking at something on the shelf in front of her. Made me smile. The toy was nearly the size of the dog who chose it and was, appropriately, in the shape of a hot dog in a bun. Sometimes life achieves perfect harmony. When the dog’s owner saw me smiling at “Sadie”, she told me Sadie comes into the store quite often and always selects her own treat. Animals really are amazing. When I look at what’s going on in our world these days, makes me wonder if they aren’t the ones who really have things figured out not we humans.

Sometimes, in a weak moment, I think about having another dog. Boo, of course, is not ever going to raise a paw in support of this idea. My sweet old cat believes my world revolves around her furry puss, and in some ways she’s not far off. What I would have done without her over the last few years, I really don’t have an answer for. Was I to get another dog, it would have to be an adult dog, a rescue probably, and already trained. I don’t have the bandwidth at the moment to train a puppy. I have a friend who recently got a Yorkshire puppy, and this little guy has become a full time job. As much as I love animals, I simply don’t have room in my day for long walks in the park, and cleaning up deposits on my rug. Nor do I want my currently disorganized world further disorganized with pee pads, and leash training. The dog, I’m afraid, will have to come later on down the road.

In an effort to reduce my load a bit, the other day I handed the new man in my life a grocery list and sent him off to the store. Yay. Oh, not so fast. The first phone call came in about twenty minutes later. By the time he was done there were six calls in total with questions about this item or that. I could have been in and out and made a pie and had it cooling in the window by the time the trip was complete. My granddaughter went shopping with me a few years ago. Loading the bags in my trunk she said, “Nana, you are the fastest shopper I ever saw”. There’s some truth to that. I am an in and out girl, no side trips. My mother, on the other hand, when she shops, is soooooo slow. Each zucchini has to be examined. Only those passing the Mary Mack comprehensive vetting program will eventually be placed in the bag. Back when she was still living independently, I often visited her in the bay area. While there, a visit to the grocery store was often part of a day out. Mother liked to shop at several higher end stores. The kind of stores where pears are sold with little hammocks swaddling each piece of fruit. One store in particular, had a very attractive produce manager. Mother took me right up to him and while introducing the two of us went on and on about how good looking he was and that he was single. It happened I was as well at the time, so the innuendo was not lost on either of us. This hunky vegetable man kindly selected only the very best produce for my mother to take home with her. Really? Once we’d cleared the vegetable department with no matches made, we moved on to the meat department where every butcher seemed to know her name. After collecting the white packages of meat, we went on to the bakery where small pink boxes wrapped with twine marked “hold for Mary M.” would be waiting for her to pick up. It was like having a concierge grocery store at her disposal.

Grocery store, was fourth on my list yesterday. My plan was to run in and run out with only three items I needed. You know how that goes? You go in for a jar of pickle relish and come out with enough food in your cart to feed an army. While waiting in line, a lady walked through the doors not wearing a face covering. The store had an employee seated by the entrance to provide cart wipes and ostensibly welcome shoppers to the store. Secretly, I suspect they also are tasked with making sure masks are in place before people proceed any further. This lady was not happy when asked to put on a mask. For me, I’m so used to it that I don’t quite get the problem. Just put it on, do what you need to, and get over it. I could see this wasn’t going to go well. The CDC says fully vaccinated people can ditch the masks but unvaccinated people need to continue wearing him. How do you enforce that I wonder? It’s not like we get a stamp on our hands or something once our regimen of shots have been completed. People who weren’t inclined to wear masks in the first place are also likely to fall under the people who don’t want to get the vaccination in the first place umbrella. Why would you think they’d suddenly volunteer to wear one if it wasn’t mandated? Is is just me?

At any rate, this irate lady got her irritation out LOUDLY, and then stormed out of the store. K. Susie just needed her chicken, and now apparently twenty or thirty other items. Shopping seems to have become my favorite pastime lately. I like to attribute this to not being able to get out of the house for the last year and a half, but truthfully I think it’s hereditary. My mother is a consummate shopper. I have known her to arrive at a mall when it opened and remain there until nearly supper time. As a teen, I can remember helping to unload bags and packages from her trunk. These were stored in my closet out of the way of my stepfather’s watchful eyes. One by one the clothes, shoes, handbags, jewelry were introduced into the household. My stepdad would say, “Is that new”? My mother would reply, “This old thing”?

So today I am off to finish my list. Think I’ll get some fresh flowers for my table. Feels festive to have guests again. Have a great weekend.

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Yesterday I filled my car up for nearly $60. I have a mid-sized Ford Fusion so can only imagine what it’s costing owners to fill up an SUV or truck. Prices are definitely on the rise. After leaving lighter at the pumps, I stopped at the market for a pound of hamburger and some bread crumbs and left there $12 to the bad. This, not to mention, I checked out my own groceries and paid ten cents to place them in a bag.

Looking at my finances lately, I have decided I need to pare down on frills and extras such as premium movie channels, etc. I have a fire stick so really don’t need another well to draw from. As it is, I spend most of my time looking for something I want to watch. When I switched tv providers, included were a bank of premium channels for a year. This because they righteously screwed up the original installation and felt they owed me something for my inconvenience. Remembering another time when I got a similar “deal” and forgot to turn them off after the time they were given to me, I called my cable company and asked them to discontinue the free channels on the date they would become my responsibility. A half an hour later I hung up after listening to three hundred reasons why I should keep them and other deals I could involve myself in for less cash on the line. Proud of myself, I stood my ground and they are all going off next month. Yay.

I noticed immediately following that conversation ads promoting my cable company began showing up on my computer. Amazing isn’t it how they track us these days? The other day I had a conversation with my son-in-law about inflatable pools for kids. My phone was on, but sitting on the table next to us while we were talking. When I picked it up an ad popped up with a link to an inflatable pool sight. Someone, as they say, is listening. Wow. All of us with devices are being seriously tracked. I’m sure most of you have noticed you search for something on line and that item keeps showing up in ad form every site you go on after that. Kind of scary to think we’re being monitored that closely. Makes me feel like a lab rat in a cage. Next they’ll be inserting chips like Miss Boo, the Queen of Cats, has under her skin so they can really keep tabs on us, or tabby as her case might be.

As you might be able to tell I’m feeling a little out of sorts. Last night I had the most ridiculous dream, which I will share with you. You’re welcome. Makes me wonder what manner of mind this is resting underneath this blonde head. In the dream I had ordered a sandwich from Subway to be delivered to my door. This is less a dream really then a reality, because since I moved here the Door Dash guy and I have added our names to each other’s Christmas lists. At any rate, as I often do, I ordered turkey. When the doorbell rang I opened the door to find a portly gentlemen standing there wearing a chef’s hat and a red bandana looking for all the world like Chef Boyardee. In very broken English he began yelling at me while shaking my sandwich wildly over your head. “Youa, not Italian”, he’s screaming. “Where’s the meata”? “Meata”, I replied? “I ordered turkey.” “That’s a no meat” he went on as parts of my sandwich began flying through the air. “Meata, likea, pepperoni, ham, salami”. “Oh”, says I. At that point I woke up to find myself giggling. There you go. I’ve completely snapped a twig. I knew it was coming after a year and a half in this house.

Finally, they say we can go about our lives once vaccinated. I cannot tell you how much I want to embrace that. There are still, unfortunately, a lot of people out there who are vaccine hesitant or consider not getting the vaccination some sort of political statement. Here we are in a country with too much vaccine in supply with people turning down what is available, while other countries who are suffering and begging for it don’t have any. Life at times, is so confusing. Once I was at a lecture on eating disorders. The speaker said, “Only in America would you find people eating the food provided for them, and then bringing it back up”, while other countries don’t have a bowl of rice to feed their children. Words to live by.

Eating disorders are sort of a consistent vein running through our family. I believe my grandmother on my mother’s side might have suffered from one. Back in her day they didn’t know much about eating disorders, but if she was around now I’m pretty sure that might have been her diagnosis. The woman weighed about ninety eight pounds soaking wet. Every day I can remember her strapping herself into a whalebone corset. Even as a child I wondered what on earth she was holding in. Also, though she was a phenomenal baker, my guess is she didn’t consume a lot of what came out of her kitchen. My mother told me once my grandmother took a laxative daily, which is a big warning sign, and as I recall she ate half of everything she put on her plate which is another one. Mother has always been hyper focused on calories. Having a chubby kid must have been sort of a puckish trick the universe played on her. Even today with the dementia she still talks about calories when sitting down to a meal. My grandfather was a doctor. Mother said he didn’t approve of excess weight, as he felt it was unhealthy, and I believe that is where some of this might be rooted. He was a kind man, so I’m sure it wasn’t ill intended, but sometimes ill intended or not the arrow still hits it’s mark.

Growing up food was always an issue in our house. My stepfather was a naturally thin person. He could consume a half a brontosaurus, lie down for a two hour nap, eat a gallon of rocky road and lose three pounds. Just how he was wired. If you got up to get seconds from his table, he would announce loudly if asked if he’d like more as well, “No, thank you. I eat to live, not live to eat.” Whatever. Thin people don’t understand the struggle of people who simply glance at a Twinkie and gain ten pounds. They simply don’t get it.

In middle school I lost my baby fat. This didn’t occur naturally, like the sun setting in the evening. My mother initiated a diet regimen for me as I requested, coupled with exercise during the summer between seventh and eighth grade. That, along with sprouting up from 5′ tall entering high school to 5′ 6 1/2″ by the time I graduated I had whittled down to fighting weight. Apparently I have also inherited my mother’s speedy metabolism, which helps to allow me to keep my weight at a manageable level, where it has remained up until this point. Nonetheless, I do show tells here and there of tendencies towards eating disorders. I watch what I eat, I never eat sweets (or very rarely), I exercise daily, and before I used to weigh myself daily (I stopped that several years ago). When I snack I usually have four soda crackers and some cheese or an apple. My one real weakness though, my dirty little secret, are my Pringles. Got to have my salt and vinegar Pringles. Should they ever run out in the stores, guaranteed I’ll be standing on a street corner somewhere negotiating a deal with some tattooed guy with a nose ring for however many cases he has in his trunk.

Will Smith posted a picture on social media of his weight gain during the pandemic. He’s not alone for sure. Almost everyone I know has packed on some pounds over the past year and a half. I’ve got a few extra I’m trying to ignore myself. Always when summer shows up and the bathing suits come out of storage I begin to survey the damage done during the winter and dust off the weights in my closet. I don’t use them mind you, but I do dust them off.

So we come out of hibernation and feel the sun on our faces once again. Wonderful. Unfortunately, our sun is shining a little too often so we are in a bad drought situation here in California with our largest reservoirs looking pretty darn sparse. I have already packed my to-go in a hurry bag just in case. With all this dry fuel, fire season could be relentless and I want to be ready to move should the need arise. The urge to relocate again is upon me and I find myself looking at other states and what they have to offer. No matter where you go the weather is becoming a problem, but boy I do hate these fires and find myself dragging my feet about stepping into summer once again.

So with that general mishmash of everything and nothing I’ll leave you for today. Have a safe and smile packed weekend.

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Watching Governor Cuomo this morning on the news speaking to the charges against him levied by three women who felt he exhibited inappropriate behavior in their presence, I found myself thinking “some things never change”. At what point, if ever, are men going to get the idea that touching without permission or speaking of things of a deeply personal nature with a woman they are not in a personal relationship with is not okay. No matter your level of power you have achieved or how much money you have in your bank account, it is still not acceptable. Now, it remains to be seen if he is guilty. That I leave for whatever court or governing body designated to determine. It still amazes me he would place his career on the line to behave in such a manner. Is it arrogance, pure and simple? Entitlement, perhaps? Boggles the mind.

God knows over the years, I’ve been chased around a desk or two. In high school I won several awards in track for the 100 yard dash. If one of my associates back in the day was planning on chasing me, and hoping to be successful at it, he would have needed to strap on his running shoes to keep up with me.

Aside from the obvious more overt forms of harassment, another behavior that chapped my hide, hopefully changed by now, was being referred to as “honey”, “sweetie”, or my least favorite, “babe”, in the workplace. That used to make the hair on the back of my neck stand directly at attention. Nope, definitely not your babe. My mother gave me a perfectly good name, Susie, and unless we have a relationship beyond a working one, I would love you to use it. Also, don’t put your arm around me, do not place it on my knee, arm, shoulder, big toe or any other part of my being if you have not seen a definite green flag indicating I would enjoy that attention from you go up the flagpole on my end. I’m just saying. Imagine the looks on co-workers faces if a woman walked up to her supervisor or another male co-worker and called him “hon-bun” or “boo”.

When I was in my twenties I was employed as a secretary for a company manufacturing industrial sump pumps. The building was divided into two sections, the office and the warehouse. The latter was the much larger of the two. Every day, as part of my job description, I had to walk the entire length of the warehouse to pick up that days paperwork for me to process from the shipping and receiving department. Cannot tell you how much I hated that walk. The warehouse staff consisted largely of men. Among ourselves, the ladies who had business out there, referred to the walk to the shipping department as “walking the gauntlet”. If an attractive girl was in the area, whistles could be heard usually followed by wolf calls or comments about their bodies. In my case there was a young man in the welding department who had zeroed in on me. I had a man in my life and was not in the market for making a change. Every time I would pass this guy’s station he would hold up a welded metal sign decorated with hearts or bearing a statement such as “I heart you” hammered into it. This always prompted hoots and whistles from his co-workers. Ignoring it for months, and my suggestions he grow up or find another object for this affection proving unsuccessful, I finally went to my immediate supervisor, also male. After explaining the situation his response, “Boys will be boys. I’m sure it’s just playful kidding.”. Really? Thanks for the support. Back then, you didn’t report things like that. Most probably you would either have been labeled a trouble maker, or could even put your job in jeopardy.

I went on from that job to working as an Executive Assistant to the manager of a plant manufacturing aluminum cans. I would have been in my late twenties at the time, my boss just approaching his fortieth birthday and his first mid-life crisis. My job was to support him in all business related matters of a secretarial nature involving plant operations. I felt more like a work-wife. Many of my days were spent having his car washed, picking up his laundry at the dry cleaners, and on several occasions I even picked up his children after school when their nanny was unavailable or took his poodle to the groomer. Aside from being incredibly clueless when it came to employee/supervisor boundaries, the man had a serious drinking problem. Every Friday we had a staff meeting after lunch which he chaired. Friday was also the occasion of many three martini lunches with his managers from which he generally returned well liquified. My instructions were to have a pot of strong coffee on the hot plate in the conference room for him to avail himself of immediately when he came back to the office. At one meeting he came in totally inebriated. Weaving toward his chair, he sat in it, lit a cigarette (everybody smoked then), took a sip of his coffee, leaned back and completely flipped over. Lying there with his feet in the air he announced, “meeting over”. Ya think? Seriously, they did not pay me well enough for that.

The first year, I only lasted one, I was there he announced he was taking me to Charlie Brown’s for Secretary’s Day. Oh boy. Charlie Brown’s was a fairly high-end steak house chain popular back in the day. Before we even were seated, his first martini had made the cut. I suggested ordering right away as the place was very popular and he had driven me there and I didn’t want him drunk driving me back. Another martini hit the runway before the salad had arrived. On his third, he excused himself to find the men’s room. Coming back to the table, he went to sit down and missed the chair entirely ending up on the floor. I believe I had already seen this movie. The waiter helping him to his chair, raised his eyebrows in my direction. What, he’s not mine? Next he launched the trite (I know it’s tried. Like mine better.) and true “my wife doesn’t understand me” speech during the entree while downing one more for the road. Now, I knew his wife, she was around the same age I was and resembled Cheryl Ladd. They had two beautiful little girls, a gorgeous home with a pool, and a vacation home in Maui. Yet, here he was settling neatly into a cliche situation with his secretary. Hated to break it to him, but I didn’t understand him either. This brings to mind the old expression “don’t poop where you eat” (politely put). I excused myself when the slurred speech began, and called a cab leaving him seated at the table. The very next day I polished up my resume and began looking for another job. I already had two children at home thank you very much.

There were many other times when men at my job said or did things that today would be considered not PC. I am a big girl and well able to handle myself in most situations but it doesn’t mean I don’t find them offensive or annoying. With two children dependent on me to put food on the table it wasn’t always expeditious to open my mouth and place my job on the line, even if it was the right thing to do.

Rick told me once that before he came to the United States to go to college (he was born and raised in Cairo), his grandfather told him to understand that this is a country of extremes. We tend to lean far to the right and then swing far to the left. Probably some truth in that. Not everything is offensive or politically incorrect, I don’t believe. Saying that a woman looks nice, for example, does not imply to me anything disrespectful in the least. Some women feel differently. Again, this is why we all have brains, to form opinions (hopefully somewhat educated) and exchange ideas, often opposing.

Another topic coming up quite frequently lately with PC stamped right on it’s library card is books. Certain books are being banned or pulled from libraries or required reading lists because their content might be considered questionable in the combustible climate we are living in of late. I’m on the fence on this one. Books are a true passion of mine. Truly, I would feel naked without a book on my nightstand with a bookmark peeking out one end. One of my favorite books of all times, To Kill a Mockingbird, is being censored in some circles as racially inappropriate. Certainly for those who have read it, the story line is tightly woven around racism. However, in fairness to the writer, racial inequality in Alabama during the Great Depression, was not an unfamiliar scenario. You cannot rewrite what was, but perhaps you can explain to readers now, that this is what the hope for change is all about going forward.

So much to think about on a gorgeous Thursday morning. Thankfully a little rain is headed our way here in Northern California. We surely need it. Another dry year does not bode well for our fire season.

Have a glorious weekend. I am headed out for a walk before hitting my workload.

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For the most part the symptoms of my recent Covid infection have either abated or in most cases, disappeared completely. Each group seemed to have arrived and departed in waves. Just when I thought I was completely out of the woods, Covid brain arrived on the scene. This is a fun one. I first noticed it while trying to decipher a fairly simple email detailing instructions on how to proceed on a project I was working on. I read and reread the information. In spite of willing my brain to absorb what was written, the data kept seeping out of my left ear and disappearing into the atmospheric continuum. Finally, I had to call the client and have a phone conversation to get it to sink in. Duh and double duh. Not that I can’t be dense times, I most certainly can. However, these were not instructions on how to build a nuclear device, it was how to lay out a flyer, something I’ve done a hundred times before.

I began to notice myself having more than usual blonde moments over the next few days. I made the coffee as I do every night before retiring, but neglected to put the pot under the machine after filling it with water. This would have been less concerning had I not come out half awake the following morning and pushed brew without noticing my omission. Whoops.

Yesterday I took stupid to new heights while trying to take Boo, the queen of cats, to the vet. I have been in my new house over two years. Time to find a new vet, and past time to update vaccinations and to get her a general well check. Vet visits, I have to say, are not something Boo is a fan of. This lack of enthusiasm often spreads over to me. The vet I made an appointment with was recommended by a friend. Though not having been to the office before, I had a general idea of the location. The woman on the phone explained due to Covid, owners no longer accompany their animals inside. Instead they pull into a numbered parking space and call the number provided them when they arrive and animals are retrieved by hospital employees . Works for me. So, I pulled into the parking lot a few minutes early, and didn’t see any numbers by the parking spot I was in, or any parking spot. Odd. I dialed what I believed to be the correct number off my recent call list. The person on the other end answered “hospital”, to which I responded, “Hi, I have my kitty waiting to be picked up but I didn’t find any number by the parking space.” Silence, followed by a little more silence. Finally, I broke the stalemate and said, “Hello”? I believe the operator wanted to ask at that point if I was on drugs or needed to be directed to the psychiatric ward, but instead responded “ma’am this is a hospital”. I was thinking to myself, “Your point would be?”, when she said, “We don’t see kitties here. “ Oh, like a real hospital, for humans. A light went on in an otherwise dark corner of my brain. I had called them yesterday about another Covid test and their number was one below the vets. Whoops. My bad. Looking at my recent call log I located the right number and called it. This time a friendly voice answered, “animal hospital”. Bingo. Once again I explained I had my cat in the car, but didn’t see any numbered spaces. The young woman said she’d be right out. After several minutes, still no one emerged from the building. My phone rang. Apparently the vet assistant was standing outside her building and unless she was transparent or Boo and I were, something was amiss. Drat the luck. I asked her to repeat the address please. Sigh. This was indeed a veterinary hospital just not the one where I had an appointment. Apologizing to the world in general for my dingyness, I pulled out and went in search of the right address. Thankfully, I pulled into a parking lot full of numbered parking spots. Whoopee. Boo was retrieved. The vet called shortly with good news, she’s healthy as a horse (a little vet humor) even bordering on being a little chubby (aren’t we all these days).

The vet, a lovely woman, who took the time to speak to me on the phone said Boo was sweet and wonderful. My Boo? Are you sure you’re looking the right carrier? White cat, calico markings, evil grin? Truthfully, I have to say she is picture perfect when in the vet’s office. I swear, if asked to open her mouth and say “aah’ she would. They give her a pill and she swallows it politely. They send me home with the same cat and the same pill and a little pill gun to shoot it towards the back of her mouth, and it takes three men and a roll of duct tape to get it into her stomach. Amazing. When she had surgery on her ear they put one of those collars around her neck to keep her from bothering the incision. Right. My “sweet” pussy cat took her head and banged it as hard as she could on any hard surface available until it was completely unusable. When I took the tattered remains of the collar back to the vet and asked what I should do, they looked at me as if I was somehow incapable of managing my animal. Really? By the time we hit the third collar they were looking far less skeptical.

This vet today told me Boo was in perfect health but would need her teeth cleaned. This information made my teeth clench. Her teeth were cleaned seven years ago and it is expensive. This will be my Christmas present to myself for the next seven years at $100 each year. I should have purchased that vet insurance when I was thinking about it. The vet asked if I brushed her teeth. Uh, no. She went on to say they don’t expect their cat owners to do this, because if bitten they could get an infection and the fact that the animal is dead set against it ends up being traumatic for the animal. It takes me an hour and stealthlike precision to detail to get Boo into her crate, the likelihood of her sitting still while I’m prying her mouth open and brushing between her teeth ranges right in between 0 and sub 0. I’m just saying. I can’t even find a groomer willing to bathe felines due to their aversion to, well, just about everything they don’t want to do. When the drawing for felines was still in the designer phase back in the beginning, they must have added the feature of cats cleaning themselves knowing this would be a problem down the road.

So, we are back home. Boo is stuffing those little chubby cheeks with her treat for acquiescing to being cared for. Bless her furry little snout.


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