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9/27/06

by @ Wednesday, September 27th, 2006. Filed under Fostering, Life, Picture Entries, psc, reader cats

very annoying self-important neighbor)”,” I suggested. Fred laughed appreciatively. “That would be the ultimate in passive aggressive,” he said. Hey, we’ll only be living here for another six months or so. Let’s BURN THOSE BRIDGES!

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Several of you have asked whether the weight loss surgery could have caused the Primary Sclerosing Cholangitis. I’m pretty sure Fred asked Dr. GI that very same question, and Dr. GI danced around the question a little, but in the end said he didn’t think so. They don’t know what causes PSC, but it’s widely believed that it’s an autoimmune thing. In fact, it’s possible that a few years ago, when I first saw Dr. GI, when he tentatively diagnosed (is it just me, or is it scary how the older you get, the more you realize just how uncertain doctors can be? I want a FIRM diagnosis, a “I have no doubt that you have this, and this is how we’ll cure you, and you WILL live forever!”, but that doesn’t seem to happen all that often, at least not with ME.) me with a fatty liver and told me to come back in six months so he could monitor my numbers and perhaps get a liver biopsy if things hadn’t improved AND I FORGOT AND NEVER WENT BACK, that could have been the beginning of my PSC symptoms, only the symptoms of the onset of PSC are so subtle that it never occurred to me that there was a problem ’til I turned all Marge Simpson.
So no, we can’t blame weight loss surgery for the PSC. We CAN blame it for the gallbladder, though. Stupid weight loss surgery! (Yeah. At this point, I’d still do it again without even hesitating.) And on a side note, both Fred and reader Cristin sent me the link to this article. It certainly gives me even more hope that I might not be facing a liver transplant one day!
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Saturday, I dropped off my prescription for Urs0 Forte, the medicine Dr. GI prescribed for me. The pharmacist told me they didn’t have that in stock, but she’d order it and it should be in on Monday. “Do you want me to see how much it’ll cost?” she asked. “Yeah,” I said, then remembered that Fred was waiting for me. “No, never mind. I need it no matter how much it costs, so just go ahead and fill it.” “Okay, see you Monday!” said the pharmacist. Saturday afternoon, as I was sitting in the kitten room feeding Maddy, Fred came to the door. “You need to call Pharmacist Chick,” he said. “She said the Urs0 Forte is very expensive, and with the generic version it could save you about a hundred bucks a month, so I can only imagine what the cost of it is!” I handed Maddy off to him and went to call the pharmacy. “Yeah, your prescription is going to run you about two hundred and thirty dollars a month,” she said. I made some sort of horrified sound that went a lot like “Yeek!” “But there’s a generic version,” she went on. “It only comes in 300 mg pills, though, so you’d have to take it three times a day instead of two, but it’ll save you about a hundred dollars. Would you like me to call your doctor and see if he’ll write a new prescription for the generic?” “Yes, please,” I squeaked, doing the math and figuring out that even the generic was going to cost $130ish a month. Good god. At least our insurance company covers 80% of generic drugs. Yesterday morning the pharmacist called to let me know that Dr. GI had okayed the generic, and I could pick up the prescription anytime after 2. With that $100 a month I’m SAVING by getting the generic (I call that Robynomics – Fredonomics would be where I’d point out that I could just not take the medication, put the money in a savings account every month, and my funeral would be paid for by the time my liver exploded) I think I should be allowed to go on a book-buying spree, don’t you?
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I went to physical therapy yesterday to report to my physical therapist that I was having no back pain at all, and she – well, she and I together – decided it was time to discharge me. We spent most of the hour filling out the discharge report, and at one point she said “How long can you sit without back pain?”, and I said “I sat at my computer for three hours the other day and had no back pain at all.” Then I couldn’t just leave it at that, noooooooo. I had to open up my big fat mouth. “Well, if I sit in the recliner with the laptop on my lap, my tailbone starts to hurt after about an hour and a half, but that’s just because of all the cushioning I’ve lost back there!” And I laughed gaily. The physical therapist, on the other hand, did not. “Your tailbone shouldn’t ever be hurting,” she said sternly. “But it’s just when I sit in the recliner in the same position for a long time,” I said weakly. “It still shouldn’t hurt, no matter how much cushioning you’ve lost.” I sighed. “If we have time, I’ll take a look at it before you go,” she said. “But… it’s really not normal?” I said sadly. “No, not at all.” I immediately remembered something she’d told me the first time she was working on my back. Apparently a lot of people come in with hip problems that end up being tailbone issues, and if the tailbone is flexed outward (you don’t really think of your tailbone as being a flexible thing, do you?) they have to fix it by coming in from behind it. It involves gloves and lube. I didn’t want to do anything that involved gloves and lube with my physical therapist, thank you. I berated myself for opening my BIG FAT MOUTH, and hoped she’d forget about it. But of COURSE she didn’t, and I had to climb up on the Table of Doom so she could see (feel) what was going on with my tailbone. To my IMMENSE relief, it wasn’t flexed outward, it was just rotated to the left, and she worked on it for a while and swore it was back where it was supposed to be. I thought I could feel the difference for a while, but last night it pretty much felt like it always did. As far as I knew, anyway. I got a free t-shirt and a hug from the physical therapist, and I was out of there lickety-split, before she could change her mind about the gloves and the lube. I’m going to miss the hell out of those back massages, though. I might even have to suck it up and start going to a masseuse. Probably not, though. I still don’t much like being touched by strangers.
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I am way way WAY too pleased to announce that last night a little after 9, while we were watching TV, Maddy (who had been alternately sleeping and playing all evening) started howling like she was starving to death. Never mind that I’d shoved three syringes of cat food down her throat not two hours earlier, AND about a tablespoon of formula to top it off, she was starving. STARVING. PEOPLE I AM STARVING, HOW CAN YOU STARVE SOMEONE THIS CUTE? HOW? So I got all determined that if she was hungry, by god, she was going to eat some soft food on her own, and I was NOT going to give her formula TOO. I went and put some cat food on a plate and warmed it up, then went into the living room and sat on the floor and called to her. And she climbed up on me, all whining and sad about how hungry she was – STARVING, I SAY! – and I pushed some food in her mouth, and she got even sadder like, “Why you hate me, lady? Why you not just give me food in my mouth that I only have to swallow? A LOT OF FOOD.” And Fred said “You’re not going to give her some through the syringe?”, like I was a BAD MOTHER, and I said “All right, go get me a syringe!” He did, and I filled it with food and put it in her mouth and squirted food into her mouth, and then she swallowed it, and I squirted more, and she swallowed it, and I was once again resolute. “If you’re hungry, Maddy, EAT!” I commanded. I held a finger with cat food on it up to her mouth, and she wailed and squirmed away. And so I grabbed a syringe and dabbed the end of it in the cat food and held it up to her mouth, and she licked the food off. “WHY won’t she eat off my finger, or off the plate if she’s so hungry?” I appealed to Fred. “I don’t know,” he said helpfully. Maddy squirmed and wailed some more, and so I held her in her favorite feeding position, where she stands with her back feet on the floor and her front paws wrapped around my hand, and put some cat food on the end of my fingers and held it up to her. She started eating it off my fingers, so I got more for her, and more, then showed her where the plate of food was. But she wailed and squirmed. “Whyyyyyyyyyyyyyy?” I wailed along with her. “Whyyyyyyyyy, Maddy?” “Wait,” Fred said. “Stand her back up and feed her like you were doing before.” I did, and Fred came over to us and crouched down. He grabbed the dish of cat food and held it up right under my fingers. “Now put your fingers on the dish,” he instructed. I did, and I’ll be darned if that cat didn’t start eating off the plate. Slowly, as she ate, we moved the plate to the floor, and I took my hands away from her, and she kept eating. She ate all the cat food on the plate, and then Fred went and got some more, and with a little help from me (I had to push the cat food up in little piles so it was easier for her to eat), she ate almost all the food he’d gotten for her. So Fred, he’s not only a handyman, he’s also a cat-feeding genius, that’s right. Now my next question, those of you who’ve dealt with kittens this small – when will she start drinking water? I keep a small bowl of water near her cage, but she shows no interest at all in it. Is there something I should be doing? I wouldn’t want her to get dehydrated. I adore this picture. She looks like a little cartoon! More pictures hither.    
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Reader yawny pet pics!
Mary says, I know you love cats, but here is a picture of Nieko and Gracie. They have the same parents but were born a few years apart. Nieko really preferred being an only child! Gracie worships the ground he walks on, follows him everywhere and basically annoys him to no end! I LOVE this picture. It’s like, “I’m bad! I’m bad! I’m the baddest badass ever!” “Yeah, darlin’, sure you are. Whatever.” Stephanie says Okay, so Ace isn’t yawning in these pics, but he would be if he didn’t have his face stuck in a glass and a canteloupe! I’m only amazed that I don’t have pictures of Sugarbutt with HIS face stuck in a glass. I better be careful – if he sees that picture of Ace, he might get ideas… This sweet little fluffy cat is Kizmet, and she belongs to Shelly. She’s got some attitude going on, doesn’t she? And Shelly says, here is Baxter, our dog. In one of the pics, he is actually singing (he howls along when you blow a harmonica). That reminds me of when I was a kid and my brother Randy would get our dog Taffy to “sing” with him. I love cats, but they’ll rarely sing with you. Well, Miz Poo will try, but she just ends up whining annoyingly instead. This is my sister’s feisty little monkey, Punki. I LOVE pictures of cats with their tongues sticking out. They crack me up.
Thanks for sharing your pictures, Mary, Stephanie, Shelly, and Debbie (though Debbie didn’t probably intend to share that picture of Punki with y’all – but I’m sure she doesn’t mind!)!
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Dsc01837 “That screamy little kitten scares me.”
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Previously 2005: Did I bring “a book” with me? HELL NO I didn’t bring “a book” with me – I brought FIVE books with me. 2004: No offense to you stoners out there, but the Warrens totally look stereotypical stoners. 2003: No entry. 2002: I think I’m going to start calling him The Todd. 2001: Does that kid’s face just scream “dilemmanated”, or what? 2000: No entry. ]]>

9/25/06

by @ Monday, September 25th, 2006. Filed under Life, medical crap, psc

* That way, I can see what’s going on in your bile ducts, get a better look at what’s going on in there, and maybe take a biopsy.” An alarm went off in my head. “Uh…” “So I’d like to schedule that as soon as possible,” he said. “But I can’t have that done, can I?” I said. “Because of the weight loss surgery?” “Oh!” he said, and I could almost hear his palm hitting his forehead. “You’re right, I’d forgotten about the gastric bypass. You’re right, we can’t do an ERCP since you had the surgery.” A long silence as he thought about it. “What we’ll have to do is keep a close eye on your numbers. Like I mentioned when you were in the office, there’s a higher risk that you could develop bile duct cancer – 10 percent of PSC patients develop it – and I’d like to do a tumor marker test on you at least yearly.” I wrote frantic notes, wishing I had a recorder on the phone, because I was sure there was going to be something he said I wasn’t going to remember right. “Now there’s no way to cure PSC – it’s a disease of the biliary tree – but there’s a medication I’d like to start you on. You’d take it three times a day… no, wait. I think I’ll prescribe Urso. It comes in 500 milligrams, and you’d need to take it twice a day.” We had a brief discussion about where I wanted the prescription called in. “Now, the only other thing – PSC is often associated with Ulcerative Colitis. You don’t have Ulcerative Colitis, do you?” “No,” I said. “Your bowel movements are okay?” I blushed, even though he couldn’t see me, and no doubt as a GI he’s elbow-deep in shit the majority of the time. “Yeah, they’re fine.” “Okay, well I’ll call in the prescription, and you’ll start on it twice a day. Call the office and make an appointment to see me in three months for a routine followup, so we can see how you’re doing and check your numbers, okay?” “Okay,” I said. “Have any questions for me?” he asked. “No,” I said. “Okay, well, take care and I’ll see you in a few months!” “Okay. Thanks for calling,” I said. I hung up the phone and went upstairs to tell Fred that the doctor had called, and what he’d said. And Fred started asking me questions to which I had no idea of the answer so we both came back downstairs and spent a good part of the afternoon Googling and finding out more about PSC. For instance, Primary sclerosing cholangitis is most prevalent in males (3 to 1 ratio to females) under 50 years of age in association with ulcerative colitis (75%). Most often, the first manifestation is biochemical, with elevation of alkaline phosphatase. Further advanced disease may result in episodes of acute cholangitis, with fever and perhaps jaundice. The disease is still considered relatively slow progressing, with a period from asymptomatic to symptomatic disease of 10 to 15 years. Once symptoms develop, liver transplantation is not uncommon within 5 years. Not only did we spend a good part of the afternoon Googling; we really spent most of the weekend sporadically Googling around, and the more we Googled, the more we realized we didn’t know. By 4:30 Friday afternoon, I decided I was going to make an appointment with Dr. GI so that I could see and talk to him face-to-face, and I was going to make Fred go with me. I wasn’t able to get ahold of the office Friday afternoon, so first thing Monday I called and ended up with an appointment Wednesday at 3:15. After I called the office and made the appointment Monday, I did a stupid thing. I opened up Google, and I typed in “Life expectancy for Primary Sclerosing Cholangitis patients”. And what I found scared the SHIT out of me. Because I was seeing five years, I was seeing three years; the longest life expectancy I was seeing was 17 years. I’m 38. 38 + 17 = 55. 55 is TOO YOUNG. I didn’t want to die when I was 55! I immediately started having mini panic attacks, where I’d be doing something like folding clothes, and I’d tear up and couldn’t breathe, and had to go lay down until I could breathe normally again. I was able to hold it together when Fred was home – because he was distracting me from my worries – but during the day it was happening once or twice an hour. I think it’s safe to say I was freaking out. I told Fred on Tuesday that I planned to ask Dr. GI what the average life expectancy is for patients with PSC. “WHY would you want to ask such a morbid thing?” he objected. “Because I want to know!” I said. “Well, I don’t!” “Then I’ll ask you to step out of the room so I can ask him,” I said. “I don’t think you should ask,” he said. “Well, we’ll see,” I said, knowing that I was going to ask. Wednesday came, and all day long all I could do was worry about the office visit with Dr. GI. What if he told me I needed to get on the organ transplant list right away (my Googling indicated that sooner or later all PSC patients need a liver transplant)? What if he told me if I were lucky I’d get 5 good years? What if he wanted to do another liver biopsy? I took Fred to work Wednesday morning, then left the house at 2:45 to pick him up and head for Dr. GI’s office. We only waited for a few minutes in the waiting room, then went back so that the nurse could take my blood pressure, temperature and pulse (all of which were higher than they’ve been recently; more on that in the next section). We sat in the exam room waiting for Dr. GI to come in for a few minutes and made nervous conversation. Dr. GI came in and basically re-told Fred everything he’d told me on the phone. He went over exactly what PSC is again, we had a long conversation about the disease, and then I got out my list of questions. 1. How do you know this is Primary Sclerosing Cholangitis rather than Primary Biliary Cirrhosis? (Primary Biliary Cirrhosis is seen more often in women than men, and has a lot of the same symptoms) Because Primary Biliary Cirrhosis doesn’t involve abnormal ducts the way PSC does. 2. What percentage of PSC patients end up needing a liver transplant and in what time frame? (Because Google seemed to indicate that it was pretty much 100%) He couldn’t really answer this, because as he said, PSC patients don’t need a liver transplant until cirrhosis occurs. He personally only has two other patients with PSC, and it’s such a slow-moving disease that he hasn’t seen cirrhosis in either of them. 3. Since the ERCP is the definitive test and I can’t have it, are there other options? Surgical options? Fred asked if there wasn’t a way to get in there laparoscopically, go through the intestines, and get into the liver that way. Dr. GI said that it was possible, but the recovery time from something like that would be too long to make it worth it. There’s something called a Percutaneous Transhepatic Cholangiogram where they basically go into the liver from the top, inject dye into the liver and get better x-rays. If they’re concerned about cancer showing up, they might do that, but for now he’s confident enough in his diagnosis of PSC (which he got to by eliminating other possibilities as well as following the signs that pointed to PSC) that he doesn’t want to do the Percutaneous Transhepatic Cholangiogram. 4. There are Vitamin A, D, E & K deficiencies with PSC. Do I need to worry about that? Those deficiences only start showing up when there’s an issue with cirrhosis. Since I’m not cirrhotic at this point, it’s not a worry. 5. Do I need to get vaccinations for hepatitis a & b? Definitely (this is the first question where he appeared impressed by a question), because if I were to contract either of them, it could be a bad hit on my liver and could cause problems. Guess where I need to go for the hepatitis vaccinations? The Health Department. FUN. 6. Is my bilirubin continuing to go down? It is; it went from 4.1 to 3.7, and has gone down further than that. Dr. GI went on to say again that PSC is a very slow-moving disease, and that with the medication he was prescribing for me, it would probably slow down even more. In fact, he said “Once you start the medication, you may never show another symptom.” Fred smiled at me. “You might as well ask your morbid question, now.” Dr. GI looked questioningly at me and I blushed. “He doesn’t want me to ask what the life expectancy is for patients with PSC,” I said. Dr. GI said, basically, that since it’s such a slow-moving disease, he just didn’t know the answer to that. I might never develop cirrhosis of the liver, never need a liver transplant, and like he said – as long as I stay on the medication, I might never show another symptom. I’ve gotta say, he made me feel a lot better about the whole thing, like it wasn’t a death sentence. Might I develop cirrhosis and need a liver transplant at some point in the future? Sure, maybe. I also might be driving to Target tomorrow and get run over by a semi. We’re all going to die; I was just glad to hear I had a chance get old and crabby (instead of young and crabby. Ha!) As we were ready to leave the exam room, Dr. GI pointed out that some doctors might be annoyed by our liberal consulting of Dr. Google, but he thinks that it’s a good sign – someone who’s done a lot of research about their disease is concerned about their health and interested in being informed as much as possible. That’s how I feel about it, too. Then I suggested that Fred and I should have t-shirts made up that said “I got my medical degree from Google”, and he (Dr. GI) laughed. On the way out I stopped at the lab and had blood drawn so that we could get baseline numbers to go by in the future. I made an appointment for December, and then we were out of there. And that, my friends, is what’s going on with my liver. I have a disease that predominantly affects young white men, a disease that is very slow-moving and will necessitate taking Ursodiol for the rest of my life. Please note: I love you all and know how helpful you like to be, but please keep in mind that I am under the care of a very competent gastroenterologist, one I trust a great deal, and he and I will determine my course of treatment. I’m not going on any herbal diet, I’m not going to try this medication or that, I don’t want to hear about your uncle’s cousin’s mother’s brother who had PSC and died a horrible, painful death, okay? Please. Thank you. Mwah! Unsolicited advice makes my liver hurt. * This is not really what he said; I got the explanation via Google to explain it to y’all!

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Addendum: Dr. GI called this morning to let me know that he’d gotten my blood test results, and my liver panel is lower than it’s been in the last few months. The tumor markers came back completely normal (ie, there’s nothing indicating that I’m tumorous) and everything looks good. He also made sure to say that I should keep taking the new medication (which, yeah, I was planning on doing), and he’d see me in three months.
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When the nurse at Dr. GI’s office was taking my blood pressure, temperature, and pulse, I noticed that they were all higher than they’ve been lately. I don’t remember what my blood pressure or pulse was (they were well within normal ranges, anyway), but my temperature was 98.4, as opposed to the 97.3 it’s been. “I think my blood pressure and pulse have gone up because I’m stressed!” I said to Fred when we were waiting for Dr. GI. “I don’t think so, Bessie,” Fred said. “I think it’s because you’ve gone off the Metoprolol*. Its job is to lower your heart rate, which it did, and I bet that’s why your temperature was low, too. Have you been less cold lately?” “I have!” I said. “Then there you go.” Indeed. *I took myself off the Metoprolol because I felt like between the supplements I have to take every day and the Metoprolol, Synthroid and Birth Control pill, I was always popping a pill. So I went off the Metoprolol and the birth control (since the only reason I was taking it was to regulate my period, and lately it wasn’t doing that worth a shit), conscious of the fact that if I started feeling heart palpitations I’d have to go back on it. It’s been a few weeks now, and I’ve really only had one episode of my heart palpitatin’, so I’m planning to stay off it. The irony here is that no sooner do I get rid of two medications than I get prescribed another one I have to take twice a day. Urgh.
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By the way, what THE HELL did people do before Google? How did they ever find anything out? I know that there was a time when I could somehow figure out what a song was without being able to type in part of the lyrics in a Google search box, but I’ll be damned if I remember HOW I was able to figure that out. Google’s going to take over the world, isn’t it?
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Miss Maddy continues to do well. She’s a little more interested in the soft food. Over the weekend I took to putting some soft food in an oral syringe and squirting a little into her mouth at a time. Yesterday was the first day she was actually interested in having more of it. Not interested enough to eat it off the plate, mind you, but we’re heading in the right direction, anyway. I know she can lick, because she licked my arm last night, and I know she can bite, because she’s a bitey little brat, now all I have to do is convince her that she wants to eat food off a plate rather than having it shoved in her little princess mouth at every feeding. She’s up to 15 1/2 ounces as of this morning. She’s been playing a lot more, and showing interest in the big cats (who lose their little minds and run away when she runs toward them). Fred scared her last night, and she hissed at him. My baby is growing up! I think she’s going to be a feisty little thing. Oh, and did I mention she’s using the litter box exclusively? Pooping AND peeing. No more cat pee on my hands – and I can’t say I miss it! She might have a ways to go in the brain department though – really, what can you expect from a one-month old? – because she’s not quite getting the whole “doorway” concept. When I go in to the kitten room and she sees me, she gets all excited and runs over to the door. I open the door, and then she does… this:   “Argh! I know there’s a way through here….” And yes, she’s a month old as of yesterday (that’s with a guesstimated date of birth, granted), and we’ve had her for two weeks now. It’s amazing, the amount of change she’s gone through in those two weeks. Here are a couple of pictures to compare her then, and her now:   Like Fred said, she looks more like a cat and less like an alien now. Look how much her ears have grown! All of today’s pictures can be seen hither.    
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Reader yawny pet pics!
This is Charlie, who belongs to Treena. Treena says, This is Charlie – she looks pretty ferocious, right? It’s all an act, she’s a total flirt – her nickname is Saucy Whore. My husband randomly snapped this pic like six months ago, and to this day is way more pleased with it than he should be. He uses it as his icon for EVERYTHING…and sends it to me at least once a week under some clever ruse. I am really going against my better judgement sending this to you, because if you post it, I’ll never hear the end of it I am somehow charmed by the idea that he sends the picture to you under some clever ruse, Treena. That completely sounds like something I would do – and I have to say, I’ve used this picture as about every user icon I have, so I can relate to being proud of a picture. This is Dusty, who belongs to Carol. Carol says, Dusty is my wonderful Lawrence, KS humane society kitty. He has lived with us since March. We also have a 19 year old from the Pensacola, FL humane society. This is Gimp, who belongs to Amanda. Amanda says, I think you have seen this picture before, but I think ol’ Gimp is ready for the big time now. Sweet Gimpy is the only creature in my house who will yawn for the camera… I also have two other cats, a husband and a 2-and-a-half-month-old baby!
You guys have got some seriously gorgeous (and funny!) cats. I’m loving the pictures I’m getting – thanks for sharing, Treena, Carol, and Amanda!
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Dsc01201 They sure hate when it rains (though Tommy has been known to go out and play in the rain. No one told him cats don’t like to be wet).
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Previously 2005: No entry. 2004: No entry. 2003: I’m sure my tendencies toward dumbassery has something to do with it. 2002: Sometimes when I’ve just finished doing my Firm tape, I feel like my brain is leaking out my ears. 2001: Maybe I should just shave my head. 2000: No entry.]]>

9/12/06

by @ Tuesday, September 12th, 2006. Filed under Life, medical crap, psc, reader cats

* * * Let me state right up front, for the record, that I DO NOT LIKE this asshole who’s SUPPOSEDLY replacing the floor in our bathroom (“supposedly” = 8:30, and he’s not here. I fully expect that he will not show up at all.). From the fact that he showed up four hours after he said he would to give us an initial estimate, to the fact that he’s a CHATTER, to the fact that he has the most annoying laugh god has seen fit to put on this here planet, to the fact that when he called on Friday to find out where we were DESPITE the fact that he had been to our house and I had to give him the same goddamn fucking directions FOUR TIME (he was dropping off the wood for the floor), to the fact that he told Fred that the wood “should have” cost $115 but he got a deal on it and got it for $80 (this after he told Fred on Monday that the wood would cost $70), to the fact that I think he is WILDLY overcharging us, to the fact that he was originally going to do the work on Monday, oh did I say Monday? I’ll start taking up the old floor on Monday, no wait, I’ll do it TUESDAY, there is not one solid thing about the man that I don’t loathe and detest. I worked on Fred for the ENTIRE weekend, trying to convince him that he should ask his father to come over and the two of them could lay down the new floor (after all, is Fred not a kick-ass handyman? I think he is!) and save us many hundreds of dollars, but Fred was unwilling to be an ass and do that, then call up the floor guy and be all “Since you’re so busy, we went right ahead and did it. I’ll send you a check for the supplies and a bit for your time, mm’kay. Buh-bye.” I just couldn’t convince him to do it. Fucker. Once this fucking job is done, I will write that piece of shit asshole a check and I will be so thrilled to see the ass end of him that I will most likely do the goddamn Cabbage Patch as he goes down the driveway. And I’m sure he sees “SUCKAH” written on our foreheads, but I’ll get my ultimate revenge in the fact that we’re seriously talking about having the floors in the new house professionally redone – but NOT by him. HA.

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Speaking of being vastly overcharged for something, can I say that it is absolute bullshit how much money I ended up spending on the spud’s senior portraits? What I really should have done is to not buy any portraits from the “official school photographer” (such bullshit – when I was a senior in high school, we went to whatever photographer we damn well wanted to go to), and instead gone to Sears, who I am quite certain would happily drape her in a black cape and take some pictures of her for NOT $30 a 5×7. Considering that Shutterfly will print out a 5×7 for a buck, I sense I’m being royally fucking screwed over by the goddamn advantage-taking photographer. Who’s probably lighting his cigars with $100 bills as he drives around in his limo. Anyfuckingway, these are the two that are going into the yearbook. I think they came out well, but there were actually several good pictures, which I’ll be getting in the “proof” (ie, Momma can’t afford to spend $1,000 on a goddamn senior package) size. The two below, I’m getting in various 8×10 and 5×7 sizes for various family members for Christmas.
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Now we come to the yawny reader cats section of the entry. I’ll post the pictures in the order I received them, so if you sent me pics, rest assured they’ll show up sooner or later! And send me yours if you haven’t already – I’ll put them up through September. That’s Harry on the top, Izzy on the bottom. They belong to reader Debby. Thanks for sharing, Debby! (I love the way cats’ eyes look so evil when they’re at the biggest part of a yawn. It cracks me up!)
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Previously 2005: Ants ain’t fuckin’ welcome here, if you hadn’t guessed. 2004: No entry. 2003: What above the Bumsen is up with that? 2002: It’s the front yard or bust, baby. 2001: That’s pretty much how we all felt. 2000: That’s the price of getting old, my friends.]]>

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