Mom

For some reason I want a note from my mom today, to see her hand writing and know she was thinking about me.

Travel Plans

Ollie actually broke his hip.  I felt like something was wrong.  Sparky thought I was over-reacting by driving him home to see our vet, the third since his midnight flight.   I wasn’t.  The first vet took the x-ray from the wrong angle.  The second vet figured he was fine because he was walking.  The third, our regular vet figured it out, x-rayed him right and because of the location of the splintered break suggested a fourth vet for surgery.

Ollie had surgery last week.  He’s in a playpen for the next six weeks. (I find it ironic that the first piece of baby furniture I have, courtesy of Tat, is being used for cat rehab.) Four vets, one surgeon, one metal plate, five small pins, and over a grand later, Ollie is healing, but not very well.  He needs physical therapy.

Now, not only do I have a cat that is allergic to cats, but I have a cat that goes to physical therapy.  Next thing you know, Scrunchy is going to request a Freudian analyst to discuss his separation anxiety due to early kittenhood abandonment and having no idea who he really is because he never even knew his father’s name.

In related new, Sparky is going to London without me this weekend because I must care for Ollie.  I am horribly jealous.  I’ve never been to London.

In non-cat related news, my work project is coming to an end.  May 1st I’ll be back in Boweltown. I love Hamburg and my co-workers, but I miss my other life. I miss my dryer and my garbage disposal and my new curtains and my gym and my manicurist, my best friend and my vet (not necessarily in that order).  I miss my old routine.

So, unemployed, I’m planning on travelling in May.  I have a date in Paris, but a certain cat might cancel that trip. First London and now possibly Paris.  Thanks, cat.  Good thing I love that fuzzy butt of yours.

I had planned a solo trip to Barcelona, Andorra, Portugal and Ireland.  Then I remembered that I am on a baby making cycle. Oh yeah, that.  Thanks, ovaries.

Try making travel plans around a fertility calendar.  It’s awesome.

Then to make matters worse, I realized that my ass looks exactly like my 60 year old father’s when I wear sweatpants. I asked Sparky if maybe I was being silly.  His response?

“Oh My GOD.  It does.  I think I just lost my hard-on for a year.”

Great.  Note to self: Get Sparky response training.  I really don’t care about his hard-on (except for baby-making reasons).  This is what I needed to hear:

No Jen, of course not.  In fact, now that you mention it, I find a remarkable resemblance to Angelina Jolie’s ass.

Lie to me.  Really.

Now for some personals:

Mim: Get off my blogging ass. I’ll call you this weekend about Barca after I coordinate my fertility calendar, business meetings, Sparky’s calendar and travel plans.  Its like a 3-d chess game.

Jami: I can’t come in June because of baby-making plans. Come here.  Travel with me in Europe.

Dad:  What are we doing for your sixtieth? I need to know.

Jeff:  If you don’t call me you rat bastard, I will hunt your skinny white ass down!

Well, Fu*% It.

I just got back from the second vet appointment in 15 hours.

You know, I think its going to take more than a nice set of pearls and a twinset to make a mother out of me. If can’t keep a cat from taking a header off our third floor balcony, what the hell am I doing thinking about kids.

I wrote this maudlin piece earlier, reliving all the guilt I felt coursing through my veins (along with that lovely cortisol which I blame for making me look ten years older in six months) last night and today, but it began to bore me.

Olli took a walk on a ledge via the balcony and fell. I didn’t know until Scrunchy alerted me Lassie style. I’m not even exaggerating. Scrunchy is either a really good big brother or didn’t want to miss out on any of that butt licking he and Olli seem to symbiotically enjoy.

Scrunchy wailed and herded me towards the window with cat fur extensions in place. His fur totally could have been an early Tina Turner wig.

We found Ollie outside and three floors from where he was supposed to be.

A late night trip to the vet and an x-ray later, he had no internal bleeding or broken bones. However, because the vet was wearing a Dr. Frankenstein-like white smock, I wasn’t so willing to say Olli was fine. Thirty meters is a long way for a little guy. And this Dr. was a little suspicious to me.

I stayed home today to make sure, spoon feeding Olli my pasta sauce because he likes that more than Wiskas Fish medley.

And I freaked out some more. I got a referral to a good vet (as opposed to Zee-Docktor of Anatomy and your-cat-ist-fine. Jeest-leeve-heem-vivf-me. Whaaaa-haaa-haaa-guy from last night.)

The good vet told me that Olli had a concussion, a bruised chin, bruised sternum, ribs and all four paws. He said that Olli probably had one hell of a headache, but he wasn’t in danger of curling up in a corner and dying the way I was imagining it. In other words, the cat is really freakin’ lucky.

Two pain shots later and an appointment for tomorrow, I was out the door.

I called Tat this morning to commiserate. I think she let’s me talk about my cats as if they were kids because she feels guilty for being able to pro-create so easily. Tat says one day “Hey, I think I want another kid.” She thinks about if for one more day and BAM! She’s knocked up. So I take advantage of that guilt by talking about Olli, Scrunchy and Kiska as if I’m about to sign them up for soccer practice.

Turns out, while I was up every hour, face pressed to the hardwood floor making sure Olli was still breathing, she was up with her two-year old. The kid thanked her for the diaper change and said “Bye” when she wanted to go to sleep.

Maybe I’ve got the night shit down, I just need to work on keeping them from sharp objects and high places.