Oh, yeah. The cats got a new cat tree for Daddy's birthday.
It was the only one I could find in black that would support both of them...as long as it is braced against the corner. He could knock it over otherwise. It's heavy duty, but so is Jem. I am thinking about ordering another one once the sunroom is finished. Oh, yeah, the floor is going down in the sunroom in a week or so. That's a story for another post.
Anyway, cats are no longer tree-less, because they get what they want.
I was feeling a little rebellious today, so I used Mr. Fancy Chef's bread knife to cut celery AND cauliflower. I know! Culinarily Challenged, rise up! Let's show those kitchen snobs we don't have to follow their rules! In kitchening, there are no rules!
What?...There are? Oh, you call them recipes? Thought those were like guidelines. No? Very specific...huh. Who knew?
Anyway, back to me, I washed the veggies and reached over to the trusty old knife block and out came the big, Buggidy-Buggidy Knife. I call it that because that's the noise it makes when it slices my skin, unlike the smooth "swip" sound of the un-serrated type of WMD cleaving through my fingers or in one instance, the skin slightly above my knee. Long story, don't ask. The kitchen is full of Weapons of My Destruction, trust me. Everything within 20 feet of the hotbox hates me.
Where was I? Oh, yeah, so instead of putting it back and choosing a smaller and probably more appropriate knife, I went with my bad self and chopped those suckers up. I even made up a song about it, which I will spare you from, but just know that I was feeling pretty full of myself. Then the cat started fussing at me. (No, it had nothing to do with my singing. Jerk.) She started staring at me and yelling all bossy-like. I admit it. I gave the cat an extra can of meat so she wouldn't tell Mr. Fancy Chef what I did.
The last time Mr. Fancy Chef was around while I was forced to make my own eggs lest I starve to death, he made some comment about my cooking being similar to when a demon touches a bible: all smoke and sizzle, but no one wants to touch the results. I am sure he meant that with the utmost love and respect. And I'd like to say this is a case of "if you can prove you are all thumbs you don't have to lift a finger", but it's not. I can't cook. (We've covered this.)
I have issues beyond that which modern medical therapies can handle, but I do what I want. (And I want to stay out of the kitchen,)
So, it's been awhile...stuff happens. (Cats are OK. Oh, and so are kids and husband.)
NOTE: this isn't a "poor me" post. I am just babbling about what a weird thing this was and how maybe when the internet tells you something can't possibly be the case, check with a trained professional.
Sometime shortly after my last post, I got "the flu". That's what I call anything that involves body aches. After about a week, I got better. Phew. That sucked. A friend and I had started walking a few days a week, and as time wore on, I noticed I was getting really sore after my walks. I figured I was still getting over "the flu". It finally got to the point that "Killer Hill" was too much for me. One night I got home from our walk and struggled to go up the stairs. My legs burned and I felt like I had done a 40-mile hike through the mountains instead of a couple of miles of gentle walking in the neighborhood. (Not that I would actually know what a 40-mile hike would feel like since I don't even like driving for 40 miles. Someone else can have my spot on the AT.) I was still sore a few days later, which was odd, and it became harder and harder to walk up the stairs or even up the driveway to the mailbox. I also started noticing that I wasn't able to lift as much as I could a month or so before. Crap, I am getting old.
During this time, I was also having what we assumed were side effects from something I had taken unrelated to my "oldness". My hairdresser commented that my hair was thinner and I was finding hair in the shower and in my comb. I had tremors and some funky memory issues. I can't even remember all the weird things that were going on, but they all seemed completely unrelated. So, TO THE GOOGLES! Yes, I know, Google is not my friend, at least when it comes to medical stuff. (My vet loves when I call and say the Googles says the cat either has a hairball or esophageal cancer. ) The Googles is amazing when I can't remember who played Floyd Smoot on Petticoat Junction or what year Roosevelt Brown was inducted into the HOF. How to make a Singapore Sling? How much will the door lock actuator cost for a Ford Fairlane? What was the name of the Egyptian dancer in that Gunnar Berndtson painting? Google's got you covered. Anyway, we came to the conclusion that I had several things all at once, possibly MS, thyroid issues, sleep apnea, and allergic reaction to alien abduction probes. CDC said we don't have deer ticks, so no Lyme disease. Ugh. What the heck was going on?
When we got to the point where I couldn't lift my 22-pound cat (what? he's big boned!), we decided to see what someone who actually went to med school had to say. We told my doctor all the crazy symptoms, and she said: "I am thinking Lyme disease is likely." No MS? "Nope." No aliens? "Probably not." But we don't have deer ticks here! "The CDC keeps telling us that, and I keep finding people with Lyme disease who haven't left the state. 6 so far this year. Let's do some bloodwork." So, we ran every test known to modern science, and everything came back normal...except I tested positive for Lyme. Go figure. I never noticed a tick. "Only 30 % of people actually see a tick". Am I gonna die? "Eventually, but not from this." So what do I do now? "Take antibiotics for a really long time and rest."
So, I spent the next couple of months napping and being a waste of space, but the drugs she gave me made me immune to malaria, and I could snort lines of anthrax with no ill effects. (I didn't test that theory, but the Googles said I could.) Eventually, I started to feel better. My hair stopped falling out, the tremors stopped (mostly), my memory improved, and I could do the stairs without napping afterward.
I am now walking with my husband 6 days a week. I started out struggling to get to the end of the driveway, and I am now up to 3 miles a day at a brisk pace. I have done Killer Hill twice, but neither time was pretty. I can carry a hamper of laundry up the stairs and can tote my cat around like he weighs...less. There are good days and bad days, and I may never get back to full strength, but I am so much better. I thank my lucky stars every day that I had the ability to relax and get better. I didn't have to hold down a job, get the kids to school, cook dinner, or worry about paying my bills. Also, I don't think I got it as bad as some people have. I have heard stories of hearing loss, permanent disabilities, and all sorts of other really unfortunate symptoms. I have no idea how long I had it, but I think that week of "the flu" was somehow related. People go years without a proper diagnosis, especially in states where there aren't suppose to be deer ticks. And honestly, with all the seemingly unrelated symptoms, it kinda feels like you are a hypochondriac nutcase. Who gets all that stuff at once? So, when in doubt, check with a professional who is willing to look outside the textbook. Had she not run the Lyme panel, I would still be sick and freaking out.
Now, about that Singapore Sling...because I do what I want.
It was the only one I could find in black that would support both of them...as long as it is braced against the corner. He could knock it over otherwise. It's heavy duty, but so is Jem. I am thinking about ordering another one once the sunroom is finished. Oh, yeah, the floor is going down in the sunroom in a week or so. That's a story for another post.
Where was I? Oh, yeah, so instead of putting it back and choosing a smaller and probably more appropriate knife, I went with my bad self and chopped those suckers up. I even made up a song about it, which I will spare you from, but just know that I was feeling pretty full of myself. Then the cat started fussing at me. (No, it had nothing to do with my singing. Jerk.) She started staring at me and yelling all bossy-like. I admit it. I gave the cat an extra can of meat so she wouldn't tell Mr. Fancy Chef what I did.