Category: Fostering

Thanks, you guys, for your suggestions yesterday. I hope none of you were offended by my suggested use of “The Micks” as a name to call Maura’s litter; I didn’t intend to offend anyone. I always thought the term came from the fact that so many Irish surnames start with “Mc”, but after reading further, I realized it ain’t necessarily so.

In any case, I’ve decided to go with “The McMaos,” as suggested by Ms. Darkstar. KarmaCat suggested I go with O’Malley as a surname, pointed out that that would make Maura’s initials MOM, and I was going to go with that ’til Ms. Darkstar popped in with McMao. Which just cracks me up every time I say it out loud!

Other suggestions I liked included “The Shamrocks”, “The Clovers”, “The Hooligans,” and “The Lucky Charms.”

Also, as a correction to my entry yesterday, I got an email from the shelter manager regarding spaying pregnant cats:

Yes, we do spay pregnant cats and yes we have spayed them right up pretty close to term. Every spring we get call after call about pregnant cats. Although we do spay many of them, most of us hate to. So early in the “season” the first couple pregnant cats we take are left to have their babies. When foster homes are full and there is no more space available then it becomes necessary to spay them while they are pregnant.

After I posted yesterday’s entry, I realized that there was just no way all the shelters in this area could hold all the pregnant cats and their litters – it’s not possible, given how many people don’t spay and neuter their cats.

Which is to say – SPAY AND NEUTER YOUR DOGS AND CATS, PEOPLE, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD.

(I knew y’all knew that – I just had to say.)

Okay, sit down. Are you sitting? (Or were you standing over your computer reading this quickly because if you’re not sitting down, you’re not really on the computer? I do that, too, especially when Fred’s all annoyed because he wants to watch something on TV and I can’t tear myself away from my computer. “I just have to check this real quick, I’ll be right there, I’M NOT SITTING DOWN THEREFORE I AM NOT ON MY COMPUTER!”)

So, sit down.

On Monday, I was talking to Fred on the phone, and he said “I have to read you this email from Bob. You’re not going to like it.”

“Oh god,” I said. “What?”

Bob is the guy who spotted Mike, Gus, Veruca and Violet outside his office window back in October. Who called Fred and told him, which made Fred go running over with a box to rescue that awesome litter and bring them home to me.

::Sigh:: I miss Mike and Gus!

Anyway, the email said, in short “There are more kittens over here. I saw the mother cat briefly, but haven’t seen her since I spotted the kittens.”

“I hate him,” I said to Fred.

We discussed and dithered and discussed some more. The thing is, we wanted to try to trap the mother cat so we could get her spayed and either find her a home or release her to go forth and bring no more babies into the world. But if Fred went and took the kittens right then, the mother cat wasn’t going to keep coming around. I made Fred call the shelter manager and ask for her advice. Her advice was to leave the kittens, bring the trap to work with him the next morning, and set it up using mackerel as bait. We have a Havahart trap which we’ve actually never successfully used before. (Something was getting into the garden, I think, and Fred was trying to trap it, but it never caught anything, and thank god for that!)

So yesterday morning, Fred set up the trap (he gets to work before it’s light out), and went back to check on it during the day a couple of times. He couldn’t set the trap up where the kittens were, since they were under low-to-the-ground Holly bushes, so he set it up nearby. When he left work at 3:00, there was nothing in the trap. He rebaited the trap with fresh mackerel, and then the first kitten came running out from under the bushes to greet him.

He picked it up and pushed it back under the bushes, and it ran right back out with another kitten behind it. The kittens refused to stay put under the bushes and he was worried that they’d wander into the parking lot and get hurt, so he decided to bring them home.

Is it weird that I was just a tiny bit disappointed that none of them look anything like Gus or Mike?

I believe they’re about a month old. They are SUPER healthy looking and acting, just like the Wonkas were. They’re at that age when they’re on the cusp of everything – just about ready to eat solid food, just about ready to use the litter box, just about to figure out that whole “playing” thing. Only one of them is the tiniest bit timid, but they’re very friendly. Oh, and all four of them are boys. I’ve never had an all-boy litter before! All girls, yes, but never all boys. First time for everything, I suppose.

Pardon the crappy pictures – I hope to get more later today.

The super friendliest of the bunch.

The one on the right is the slightly timid one – but even he was climbing up into my lap this morning.

Checkin’ out one of the litter boxes.

Fred’s in charge of naming this bunch. He suggested a few possibilities, but he’s still thinking about it.

Still no babies from Maura today. I had kind of hoped she’d birth those babies on St. Patrick’s Day – I swear, every single time I go into the room, she’s gotten visibly larger – but I’m not going to hold my breath.

“That is not a baby head, that is a rib.”

“That’s my liver, dummy.”

“Annnnd that’s my spleen. Now that we know all my internal organs are intact, is it time for a snack?”

Newt had us worried. He disappeared for five days (for those who don’t know, Maxi and Newt are our free-roaming cats. They came “with” the house, were originally supposed to belong to a neighbor, but decided they liked us better. We say they’re not OUR cats, but even we don’t believe that anymore. They spend a lot of time in our house, but basically come and go at will.). Maxi’s disappeared for a few days before, but Newt never has. When it had been three days, Fred started assuming that Newt had shuffled off to Buffalo (I’m sorry, I just laughed out loud after I typed that. It’s the height of dorkiness to laugh at your own joke, I know, but I can’t help it).

This morning, Newt was casually waiting at the door to be let in and fed. He’s perfectly fine. I guess it being Spring (at least by the calendar, though the temperature sure doesn’t make it feel very Springlike), he decided it was time to go walkabout.

Previously
2009: Just imagine a great big bald head with Fred’s face on it, and you’ll get the picture.
2008: Guess who flew to Pennsylvania so she could eat cupcakes with Nance and Rick, snuggle the cutest dog on Earth, and reunite with Maddy?
2007: No entry.
2006: everyone’s Irish today, right?
2005: Guess it must run in the family.
2004: The cats are on my fucking NERVES.
2003: You KNOW you’re fascinated!
2002: No entry.
2001: No entry.
2000: The Big Butt Fairy visits us every year though. Just like clockwork.

Yesterday I had my semi-annual dental appointment wherein they glare at my teeth, tell me to stop drinking soda, inform me that I’m a teeth-grinding motherfucker, and then poke at my gums with sharp and shiny instruments.

After my appointment last Fall, I decided it was time to get the hell serious about this brushing and flossing thing, and made a concerted effort to brush my teeth twice a day and floss every morning. It didn’t happen every single day, the flossing thing, but it happened more often than it had been. I was sure I’d go into the dentist’s office, the hygienist would get the pretty bib on me, take a look at my teeth and gasp in admiration.

Yeah, not so much. She did allow that the area of my gums (front left, as I do not know any dental location terms) was slightly less red, but that I needed to try to floss more often (apparently I am not the best flosser on earth, what a shock), stop drinking soda, and wear my bite splint every night.

I’m such a grinder of teeth in my sleep that the pointy parts of my back teeth (molars?) have worn down and may eventually need fillings.

I don’t actually think that I grind my teeth in my sleep anymore, though – Fred hasn’t heard the squeaking sound in ages. He also doesn’t have to come into my room to get to the bathroom the way he did at the previous house though, so it’s entirely likely that I’m grinding away every night and he just isn’t hearing it.

My next appointment is at the end of September. Now pardon me while I go floss.

I have a freakin’ cold. It started off last Thursday – I felt fuzzy-headed and sleepy all day long. I also had the beginnings of a sore throat. Friday the sore throat got worse to the point where I was slightly concerned that I might have strep throat.

Instead of going to the doctor, I just decided to wait and see. “Wait and see” is my favorite move when it comes to feeling poorly. I highly suspect that when I shuffle off this mortal coil, it’ll be because I had a blinding headache and decided to wait and see if Tylenol would help an aneurysm go away.

Over the weekend I was fuzzy-headed and sleepy, then yesterday the fucking cold moved into my chest. I’m not coughing much at the moment, but when I take a deep breath, I can feel all the crap in there waiting to come out. Also, I’m a snotty motherfucker and have been blowing my nose like crazy.

At least the fuzzy-headed feeling is gone.

The only thing that would make me feel better is if the damn sun would come out.

That, or kittens.

I decided yesterday to name the new Momma kitty Maura. I think it fits her nicely – I thought about adding an Irish-sounding last name, but couldn’t decide on one. I liked the sound of Maura Ryan or Maura Murphy or Maura O’Reilly or Maura McGillicuddy – really, the problem is that I couldn’t decide which one I liked, so I just went with Maura. I have a nice list of Irish names for both girls and boys, so I think we’ll be okay when the kittens come.

Of course, I don’t know how I’ll refer to the litter as a whole – I thought of calling them The Micks, but thought that might be offensive, since according to Urban Dictionary, it’s a derogative term. (Really, spell check? You’re putting the red line under “derogative”, but can only offer “derogation” as an alternative?) I myself have some Irish blood in me and find it an affectionate term rather than a derogative one – but how ’bout it, y’all? Any Irish readers out there who find it offensive?

Every time I go into the kitten room, Maura meows at me once or twice, and I say “Give me those babies!” She seems intent on holding on to them for the time being, though. Yesterday she rolled around on her back for a few moments and allowed me to gently touch her belly. I felt what very well could have been the head of a kitten. Last night, Fred said he thought he felt a kitten head in a different location. Who knows, though? We’re certainly not experienced with the pregnant cats. Kara gave birth the day after we got her, and she was very restless, so I didn’t get much time to examine her underside before she popped out her babies.

“Them wasn’t baby heads. Them was my liver and kidneys, STUPIDS.”

She certainly is happy to see me when I go into the room. She meows at me and then waits for me to sit down, and then she walks back and forth, rubbing against me, purring like crazy. Sometimes she settles down against me briefly before she gets up and starts pacing again.

“Why do you keep feeling my liver, lady?”

She really seemed to like the purple velour pants I was wearing yesterday (don’t judge! You know you covet them.) and kept kneading on my leg. At one point she even sat in my lap, but again that was just for a brief moment in time before she had to get up and get moving.

Amy asked yesterday, if you can’t feel the babies, and don’t see them moving, how do you know that she is pregnant?

I only know because people who are more experienced than I told me that she is. Otherwise, I’d likely just think that she’s kind of porky. Lisa asked if her nipples were prominent and dark pink yet (um, Maura’s nipples, that is. I suspect Lisa would know the state of her own nipples. HEE.), and they don’t appear to be, but we can feel the milk sacs forming. Maybe Maura will allow me to take a closer look at her underside today, and I’ll know better the state of her nipples then!

Meg asked, Okay, I guess I’ll be the one to ask: Your shelter doesn’t spay pregnant cats? I don’t do rescue anymore, but we used to spay everyone, regardless of pregnancy. It’s difficult and heartwrenching. We just had so little resources, not enough foster homes, not enough money, and basically not enough good homes. As far as I know, as long as the mother is healthy and a foster home can be provided for she and her babies, the shelter doesn’t spay pregnant cats. I can’t imagine having to know that a healthy pregnant cat was going to be spayed, I think that would break my heart. 🙁

Speaking of pregnant cats and spaying, here’s one last story for you (I can go on and on when I’m talking about cats, obviously). When we bought this house three and a half years ago, Maxi showed up in our back yard one day. She had clearly given birth and was a nursing mother, but we didn’t know where her babies were, or if she belonged to anyone. She came around more and more often (lured, I am sure, by the food bowl on the front porch), then Newt began to join her. (We originally called Newt “Daddy”, because we assumed he was the father of her litter, but when they both went to the vet for spaying and neutering at a later date, the vet said she thought he could be from an earlier litter of hers – therefore, her son rather than the father of her babies. Obviously, we don’t know for sure, though.)

It was probably a month after she first showed up that I was working on something inside the house, and Fred told me to follow him. We walked out on the porch, and there were Maxi, Newt, and four kittens.

Please note Fred standing there, trying to get his hands on those kittens.

When we finally determined that Maxi, Newt, and the kittens didn’t actually belong to anyone in the neighborhood, we snatched them all up, brought them into the house, had the kittens spayed and neutered, and adopted them out through Challenger’s House. (We named them Fezzik, Westley, Inigo, and Princess Buttercup.) They were adopted out pretty quickly (despite their initial skittishness, they warmed up pretty quickly), and then we needed to have Maxi and Newt spayed and neutered so there’d be no more babies. I made the appointment, and then the night before they were to go, Fred said as he was feeling Maxi’s belly, “Oh no. I think I feel a kitten head. I think she’s pregnant!”

We were positive we were going to end up with another litter of kittens to foster, but when the vet examined Maxi it turned out that she wasn’t pregnant.

Obviously Fred was feeling some internal organ and mistook it for a kitten.

We should totally name a litter of kittens after organs, don’t you think? Surely someone would want to adopt sweet little Kidney! Ha.

Sugarbutt does NOT approve of this “kitten” nonsense.

Previously
2009: In an alternate reality I was bellowing “Well NO ONE INVITED YOU TO DINNER, PRINCESS!” and smacking her upside the head.
2008: No entry.
2007: No entry.
2006: It’s like I’ve never met myself before or something. “Yeah, I’ll let the spud take the car to school, and I’ll be stuck at home, thus NATURALLY I will feel compelled to do housework!”
2005: Old pictures.
2004: (Bwahaha! That’d be the shortest study in the history of mankind, eh?)
2003: No entry.
2002: No entry.
2001: Takes all kinds, I guess.
2000: A life of excitement, thrills and chills, lemme tell ya!

A few weeks ago, as you might recall, I posted about Hoyt, one of the foster kittens from the True Blood 6. The people who adopted him found out, through an emergency visit, that he had Feline Lower Urinary Tract Disease (FLUTD). They asked the shelter manager if she knew of any good homes because if this turned into a chronic condition, they weren’t going to be able to afford regular $1500 emergency vet visits.

I didn’t expect anything to come of it, but I posted about it just to see, and then Michelle came forward and said that she wanted him!

I held my breath and emailed her to make sure she was serious, then sent her the contact information for the shelter. She did all the usual stuff, filled out the application, talked to the shelter manager, and then the shelter manager talked to Hoyt’s parents to make sure they were really prepared to give him up. They were, and the date was set for the transfer, and I was even invited to come to the shelter to meet Michelle and see Hoyt again.

Did I mention that Michelle lives in North Carolina?

So, I fretted for two weeks about the whole thing – fretted that Michelle would change her mind (though she never once gave ANY kind of indication, in fact she was thrilled to be adopting Hoyt, but I’m never so happy as when I’m worrying, you know), fretted that her car would break down on the 7-8 hour trip to Alabama, fretted that she’d get here, we’d meet up at the shelter, and then Hoyt’s parents would change their minds about giving him up.

In other words, it was business as usual for me. At least I had somewhere to direct my need to worry, right?

This past Saturday came, and I left the house, headed for the shelter. Michelle was already there when I arrived, filling out paperwork, so I crossed THAT worry off my list. We went into one of the cat rooms and petted cats and waited for Hoyt and his parents to show up. They did, so I crossed THAT worry off my list, too.

(I don’t know what I’m going to worry about now!)

So Hoyt’s parents put him in the small bathroom so that he could use the litter box and calm down a little from the drive and then we stood around and talked about Hoyt.

You guys, there is no doubt in my mind that Hoyt’s parents love him and were heartbroken to be giving him up. They told us story after story about him, and he is obviously growing up to be one sweet, silly character of a kitty. He’s a talker, and will hold conversations with you, or with the wall (heh), and he loves to be held on his back like a baby. And gorgeous? OH so gorgeous!

Did I bring my camera with me. OF COURSE, I’m offended that you’d even ask such an obvious question.

Did that camera have a memory stick in it? OF COURSE NOT. Gah!

So since Hoyt had had time to chill out (though I think he might live in a state of chill, really), we went to see how he was doing. He was doing just fine, thank you, and Michelle got to hold him, and I got to pet him, and he settled down in Michelle’s arms and watched the cats in the cat room through the windows. He talked a few times, and I don’t know WHY I was so surprised, but his voice sounded exactly the same as when he lived with me!

We talked for a while longer, and then it was time to put Hoyt in his carrier and load him in Michelle’s car. Hoyt’s mom and dad said goodbye to him, and then went off to their car before they started crying (which was a relief, because no one cries alone when I’m around!), and then off Hoyt went to his new home in North Carolina!

I fretted a little, as is my way, while waiting to get word that they’d made it home safely, but Michelle was kind enough to let everyone know that she and Hoyt had made it just fine. She also reported that whenever she said something to another driver, Hoyt popped up to give ’em hell, too. HEE.

Here are a couple of pictures that Hoyt’s mom and dad shared:

Don’t his eyes look GREAT?

And then yesterday, Hoyt took paw to keyboard to send an email to let everyone know how he’s doing.

Hi Mom & Dad,

Thanks for letting me come here – I will write you again soon!

This is PitStop, Hoyt’s big brother. This picture is cracking me UP. He’s all “HelLEW, laydeez!”

He’s a very good typist for a cat, isn’t he? 🙂

Thanks, Michelle, both for adopting Hoyt and for sending pictures and an update. I know that Hoyt will be happy in his new home and very well taken care of!

Previously
2009: (Nance is laughing at me right now, I guarantee it.)
2008: No entry.
2007: No entry.
2006: So when I reached down to pet his head, IT WASN’T HIS HEAD I GOT. ::shudder::
2005: Killing the messenger.
2004: Howling and hissing and growling and yowling ensued.
2003: No entry.
2002: No entry.
2001: Gather ’round, younguns, and hear the heartbreaking tale of farts and betrayal…
2000: You still love me, though, right? Um, right?

Before I forget, Jennifer asked in my comments yesterday:

You’ve yet to explain the mushy aspect of Satan’s Uterus. Lurid minds want to know.

First of all, “Satan’s Uterus” made me laugh, and OW (but HA!). Second of all, marinating in all that endometriosis-y goodness is apparently what made my uterus mushy (or “boggy”, as they sometimes refer to it). I did much Googling over the weekend to find this information out, turned around and told Fred “APPARENTLY the mushiness of my uterus was caused by the endometriosis!” and Fred said “Yeah, well, that’s what I figured from what she said after she did the surgery…”

Okay, well, HE DIDN’T TELL ME THAT, just said “And she said your uterus was mushy” as if she’d just casually tossed that in there for no apparent reason, all “So, the surgery went fine, took her ovaries, all endometriosis-ed up, she’s in Recovery, should be along soon, have a great day, ohright, uterus was mushy, whatevs.”

I wish there were a more exciting explanation, frankly.

And that reminds me – I told Fred the night before surgery that every single time I go into surgery, I fully expect that the surgeon is going to get me open, and then stare in amazement into my abdominal cavity and say “What the HELL is THAT?!”

I like to imagine my surgeon standing over me like Vincent standing over the briefcase in Pulp Fiction, my abdominal cavity shining a golden light up at her while she stares in amazement.

I might need a life.

ONE WEEK, UTERUS-FREE, CAN I GET A WHAT-WHAT?!

(Please don’t give me a what-what. I don’t know what-what it is, and I’m not sure where I’d put it.)

Today, I am feeling really good. We’ve hit the point, post-surgery, where my spirits are really good, I’m feeling fine, and yet I’m a little frustrated because there’s so much I’d like to get done but am physically unable because it involves lifting.

(Example 1: filling the bird feeders.)

This is the danger point, where I have to stand over myself and sternly tell myself to take it the hell EASY, because all I need is to injure myself and end up flat on my back and add more time to my recovery.

(Example 2: vacuuming the house.)

But I promise, I will take it easy. I’m going to spend a little time in front of the computer, then I shall haul my ass to the couch and watch some TV, maybe do a little reading. Tomorrow I’m planning to drive to town and do a few quick errands.

I’m taking it easy, I promise!

I got a lovely bouquet from my peeps at Challenger’s House:

Flowers make me so happy.

AND a very happy and healthy looking mini rosebush from my parents:

Seriously, how happy looking is that little rosebush? I can’t wait ’til it blooms!

And though I didn’t snap a picture of the tin itself, a tin of the MOST fabulous popcorn from Nance and family. Seriously, I’ve HAD Kettle Corn before, but this is some serious GOURMET stuff. It’s one of those tins with three flavors (LOVE the three-flavor popcorn tins!), and it’s got Kettle Corn, Cinnamon Toast (OMIGOD!!!), and Crunch Caramel. I actually had to put it in an out-of-the-way place so I wouldn’t stuff a handful in my mouth every time I walked into the kitchen. It’s so good I simultaneously want to eat it all immediately, and eat it slowly so it lasts. It’s a conundrum!

Jake thinks the box the popcorn came in is the BEST Jake Cave ever!

LOOK who I found on my memory stick!

That’s Ouiser in the front, M’Lynn and Clairee in the back.

Drum and M’Lynn.

I forgot they were so little!

“What’s this ‘recovering from surgery’ bull? When Spanky wants his Snackin’! Time!, Spanky WANTS his Snackin’! Time!, and I recommend you hop to it, lady!”

Previously
2009: It was like nails on a chalkboard every time someone said it.
2008: We’re very protective of our property, if you couldn’t tell.
2007: No entry.
2006: Don’t call me paranoid – it happens to me ALL THE TIME.
2005: I feel like every time I run an errand in the Jeep I’m tempting Fate.
2004: I am blogrolling’s bitch.
2003: We figured if nothing else, we’d just start killing and eating cats.
2002: No entry.
2001: No entry.
2000: ***Warning! Adult language and situations ahead! Skip the first three paragraphs if you’re easily offended***

GOODBYE, ORGAN THAT SHALL NOT BE NAMED! DON’T LET THE CERVIX HIT YOU IN THE TUBES (?) ON YOUR WAY OUT!

We’ll be leaving for the hospital in a while. I’m slated to have surgery at 7:30, so have to be at the hospital at 5:30.

I’m glad that this is almost over, and already bored to death with the idea of having to spend the night in the hospital. I don’t wannnnnnna. I wanna go home!

I’m sure I’ll be home before I know it, right? Right.

The Kindle is charged and loaded with books, the iPod is charged and loaded with the second season of Gossip Girl, and the phone is charged and ready to Twitter/ blog.

What do you wanna bet I end up not touching the Kindle or iPod? (Better to have them with me and not need them than wish I’d brought them.)

Someone told Fred the other night that while recovering from surgery, I wouldn’t be getting out of bed for two weeks.

We both snickered, because laying in bed for two weeks? Me? I hardly think so. (To be fair, she probably didn’t mean that I’d be literally on my back in the bed for two weeks straight. But still.)

Then I realized that she didn’t know that this wasn’t my first surgery. This isn’t, in fact, my second or third or fourth surgery, even.

Surgeries I Have Had

1. Age 5ish: tonsils out! What I mostly remember from this is that another child – a boy – threatened to tell my parents on me if I didn’t brush my teeth…?

2. Age 15: Giant Cell Cystic Tumor (benign) removed from my right knee; bone removed from both hips to replace the bone that had been eaten away by the tumor. What I mostly remember about this surgery: the fucking drains, one on each hip. Every single time the surgeon came into my room, I asked when he was going to take the damn drains out. They were not physically painful, but their mere existence caused me great physical anguish. I had a cast on for most of the summer, and good christ do those things get itchy underneath. (Hmm, here’s some interesting information about Giant Cell Tumors: A female predominance exists, with a female-to-male ratio of 1.3-1.5:1. GCTs occur most commonly in the third decade of life; less than 5% of GCTs occur in patients who are skeletally immature. In the Mayo Clinic series, 84% of the GCTs occurred in patients older than 19 years. I was a medical oddity! Color me shocked.)

3. Age 20: C-Section. The spud was due on the 22nd. On the 25th, they did an ultrasound and estimated that she weighed 10 pounds, 4 ounces. They recommended a c-section, I agreed, and it was performed the next day. (She ended up weighing in at 10 pounds, 2 ounces. And she wasn’t even the heaviest baby in the nursery!) I developed some sort of infection (they were never able to figure out what or where was infected, but antibiotics took care of it in any case) and ended up staying in the hospital for a week.

4. Age 22ish: Endometriosis removed from my c-section scar. The gynecologist hypothesized that during the c-section, a bit of endometrial tissue was dropped into my incision and grew there. A few weeks later I developed an incisional scar, and the gynecologist numbed the area, cleaned out the infection, and closed it back up. While I was awake. I had forgotten about that ’til just now. It didn’t hurt (since it was numbed), but good god am I getting the oogies thinking about it.

5. Age 25ish: Wisdom teeth removed. (I don’t really consider this a “surgery”, but they did knock me out to do it, and there was a recovery period, so I’m counting it.) All I wanted to eat while I was recovering from having my wisdom teeth out was Spaghetti-Os. Which sound pretty damn good right now, believe me. The worst part about recovering from this was that just as I figured the healing was done, it felt like the bones in my face were shifting. It ached horribly. Gah.

6. Age 32: Had a tube put in my left ear. I don’t remember a damn thing about the surgery except that the next morning when I woke up (at home – it was just day surgery), I ached from head to toe.

7. Age 38: Weight Loss Surgery.

8. Age 38: Gallbladder removed.

9. Age 40: Lower body lift.

So this surgery I’m going in for tomorrow will be my 10th surgery. I expect that, recovery-wise, it’ll be a little worse than the gallbladder removal (because they did that laparascopically) and not nearly as bad or prolonged as the lower body lift. She didn’t mention drains, so hopefully I won’t have any of those (I didn’t with the gallbladder).

Let me put it this way: with the lower body lift, where they made an incision alllll the way around my body and stitched up my abdominal muscles and stuck drains all over the damn places, I was doing dishes (“doing dishes” – putting dishes in the dishwasher) and some light laundry. There’s no way that having a little bitty organ removed from my body is going to keep me bedridden for two weeks, is all I’m saying.

Not that I’m going to push it, either, don’t lecture me. I plan to watch plenty of bad TV and take it easy. I have 10 episodes of Hoarders saved for just this occasion, and although Fred never did get the Blu-Ray player set up to stream Netflix movies, I’m sure I’ll have plenty of stuff to keep me occupied. That’s what remote controls are for, after all!

Dropping the Magnolias off yesterday morning went just fine. Drum howled most of the way to the adoption center, because he’s elected himself the mouthpiece for the litter, but once I was actually in the room and getting their cage prepared for them, they were so interested in what was going on that none of them thought to complain any further.

When it was time for me to leave, all except Clairee were already in the cage, checking out the toys I’d put in there. I picked up each of them and gave them a hug and kiss, and then put them back in the cage and shut the door.

When I leave kittens at the adoption center, I always watch them from outside the room, through the window, to see how they act. The Magnolias seemed a little confused, but not scared.

Except for M’Lynn, who went into the litter box to hide. Oh, M’Lynn. Break my heart, why don’t you?

But guess what? M’Lynn AND Truvy were adopted last night! Not together, but still. My little skittish girl won someone’s heart, which does not surprise me at all! I’m keeping my fingers crossed that Drum, Ouiser and Clairee are adopted this weekend.

Okay, I’m outta here.

Like I said yesterday, I’ll likely be Twittering, and maybe even posting here via my cell phone. I’ve changed the setup of the page so that the most recent 10 entries show up if you go to the main page. That probably means that the page will load slowly, sorry about that. Fred will try to remember to post something here letting y’all know I came through surgery just fine (feel free to email and harass him if he hasn’t posted anything by, say, 1:00 Central time.)

I don’t know when I’ll be back and posting regularly – I wouldn’t expect too much before Monday, if that. I don’t intend to spend much time in front of the computer, but who knows?

See ya when I see ya!

Stinkerbelle sure does love her Tommy with a passion.

Previously
2009: Usually, Fred’s Ross and I’m Chandler. Or Joey. Except that I’m kinda ditzy like Phoebe. I am an amalgam of Friends characters!
2008: No entry.
2007: No entry.
2006: Unless maybe it’s a magic leotard and the source of all her powers?
2005: “Life’s too fucking short to read books that suck.”
2004: Damn you, DVR! I WANT to love you, but you’re toying with my emotions!
2003: No entry.
2002: No entry.
2001: No entry.
2000: I’m not sure what effect, if any, it had on her.