Teddy Bear, Teddy Bear, Turn Around

So.

It’s just me and my Willie now.

(I shall pause for a few moments whilst you chuckle and guffaw. He’s my CAT, dammit)

The day before we moved into the new place permanently (in late September) we took the Beast, resident Doggie and scourge of the neighbor round the corner’s lawn  for her final drive, her final walk, and her final goofy go-round. And it was horrible. A great big sobby mess. And I still get tiny twinges of guilt when I look at the piece of paper I signed saying yes, it was time for her to go to that giant dog-run in the sky. Trash didn’t fare much better that day, choosing to go out, get hammered, and tell everyone and anyone what a horrible person he was for murdering his dog. That’s why I chose that Friday as the date–I knew he’d go on a horrific bender. He loved that dog more than life itself (which is what drove me nuts–loved the dog, but left me to deal with all the joys of handling the prozac-addled elderly [yet still adorable, with her teddy-bear eyes] 75 LB maniac and was never home).

It would have been a lot easier had she had cancer. Or some tumor. Or some fucking end-stage disease where it was clear there was no other option, but no. What she was was fourteen, elderly, arthritic, unable to handle the stairs (of which there are three flights in the new place). And no matter how much I walked, prozac’ed and tried to re-train her silly elderly ass, thanks to the frickin’ seperation anxiety shite, the minute I went out the door she’d go mental, howl, and *ahem* do things that were only meant to be done outside. And I am not talking about flying kites or outboard motorboating.

I could no longer handle it alone.

Everyone said it was time. They said it wasn’t fair on me. And said that I did the right thing for both myself and the Beast.

I will still feel the guilt for a very long time though, I suspect.

Guilt that was compounded on Thanksgiving Day when the elderly Whorecat started acting funny. My usual vet was closed for the holiday. This godforsaken island doesn’t have an emergency vet–and even if it had–I couldn’t afford the upfront three-hundred dollar fee most of them charge–at least with my usual vet I could have worked out a payment plan. Talk about feeling like a low-life dickhead. I checked up on her constantly as I cooked dinner. Trash and Dim followed her around. I held her in my arms for an hour or so and she hopped out and under the dresser near the window–her favorite spot. I served the desserts, Dim went home, Trash to his GFs. I peeked in on her, talked to Mickey on the phone, and found her dead when I checked on her afterwards. It wasn’t unexpected to a degree–she’d just turned eighteen or so. 

It doesn’t mean it didn’t suck.

My new landlord was nice enough to donate the hole her son had been digging in the yard as her grave.
Trash, though we are splitting this apartment, has been persona non gratis since his old GF has come back on the scene–which is fine–it’s like having my own place. It worries me, though. I’ve asked him over and over if he plans on moving in there–he says absolutely not. My only worry is from a splitting rent standpoint–if he ditches I’ve got to scramble for a back-up plan. No sod can afford rent in this damned city alone anymore.

Annie (for reasons I cannot get into because everyone and their brother reads this thing [allegedly]), is no longer speaking to me. This is ‘temporary’, so she says. I have a feeling, however, that it’s not. In fact I’m pretty damned sure. She was the last friend I really had on the island–everyone else moved long ago.

My own fault really for always keeping a very, very small circle of friends.

So now?

It’s just me and my Willie.

A spinsters worst nightmare.

The Boxer Rebellion

Many people have said over the past few years ‘Och, if EFL just drives you SO insane why not MOVE already?? Gawd!! I’m sick of the whinging. Sheesh!! Fuck off, Babs. No, really.’

What many of you might not have understood, through no fault of my own (cough), is that while this ghettofied hellhole was indeed just that, a ghettofied hellhole–it also had a few advantages. Those advantages being A) semi-cheap rent B) EFL, at the time, seemed to be the only landlord on the island willing to let them keep The Beast, resident Doggie and scourge of the neighbor round the corner’s lawn.

Now for that dog (partially) and semi-cheap rent (more partially) we have tolerated insanity beyond all reasonable measure, as I’m sure you’ll all recall. Such as: being evicted every five minutes, getting phone calls if a cat farts at 8 PM, getting lectured on how to turn the faucets off properly, the magical washing machine that we were no longer allowed to use because it would break the oh-so-delicate pipes. Etc. And best of all, since EFL has no family nearby, nor any friends that she hasn’t alienated, ringing me every five minutes with one of her many medical problems. It has driven me to the brink of insanity and back, let me assure you.

What is one supposed to say to an elderly widow when they’re having a sugar attack?? Or chest pains??

‘Oh sod off. I’ve got goofing off to do!! Fend for yourself!!’

Of course not. Only they of the most hardened heart would be able to say that.

And, for my efforts, I am happy to say EFL has FINALLY allowed me to start using the washing machine again.

I am unhappy to say she is also giving us the boot. This time it’s real.

And she’s done it in a rather sneaky and roundabout sort of way.

A way which I shan’t forget anytime soon.

Actually–before I even get INTO how she gave us the boot let me backtrack.

It was the night before said booting, and she’d called me down because she wasn’t feeling well–something that happened a lot lately. It wasn’t bad enough to go to the hospital–she just wanted a cup of tea. So I made her a cup of tea and she chatted a bit about how her painkillers weren’t working and how nothing ever works and everything stress-wise was driving her nuts. So I told her what I always did–‘Find your zen place, EFL–think about that and just that’

(I realize that’s probably not how the whole zen thing works but hey!! It usually got her to calm down. So fuck off)

She told me how she’s only ever happy at the shore. So I told her to think of the shore and nothing else. She even mentioned how she’d love to live there in a nice little apartment. Love, love, LOVE to live there!!

I walked out yelling ‘Think of the shore!! It’s all about zen, EFL!!’

Me and my Big Fat Frickin’ Mouth.

She found her zen place, alright. At least I assume she did.

I couldn’t ask her the next day.

Because when I went tootled downstairs the next day, she was very, very still.

Very, very cold.

And very, very dead.

I don’t think this zen stuff is all it’s cracked up to be.

Cranberries

So.

The Beast, resident doggie and scourge of the neighbor round the corner’s
lawn, had been acting odd for a good long while. Being the good resident of the interwebs and Ace Dr. Googler (having misdiagnosed myself with everything from cancer to the Bubonic Plague) that I am, I did the same for the mutt.

My initial diagnosis, when taking into consideration her age etc?? The Dreaded Doggie Dementia.

What fun.

Not only do I have a family chock full of eejits, but now I’ve got a dog
with friggin’ Alzheimer’s?? She’d had a good chunk of the symptoms. And
she’s the same age as Wednesday. Which is fourteen. Except in dog
years. And I would do the math but I failed math too many times to
embarrass myself here and now. I could get the calculator, but it’s always fun reminding half the free world (read: the 3 or 4 of you that might read this) that when it comes to math I SUCK.

She seemed to have her good days and her bad days. I told Trash, though, that when her bad days started to outnumber her good days, we’d probably have to do the humane thing. It just wasn’t fair to see her turn into a basket case every time I left the house, whether it was for two minutes, or two hours. And frankly, it was doing my head in, as well. I was planning on how to leave the house while leaving her alone for the least amount of time (ie: coinciding with Trash’s arrival home from work) or cutting deals with him to OH MY GOD STAY HOME for ONE bloody night with her so Icould go out. Because you see, when left alone, she howls like she’s out on the lonesome prairie. And you can bet your sweet bippie the landlord would leave hour-long messages on the voicemail complaining about the very same. I could see her side of it, but to be honest, the dog could yap for five seconds and she’d say it went on for three and a half weeks.

Whatever.

Anyway!

Last week. Another thing happened with said Beast. And I told Trash we
MUST bring the Beast to the vet. And I prepared him for the worst. I
spent three days previous to her appointment crying. Feeling guilty that I was doing this for my convenience–my sanity, really. Even though it wasn’t any good for the dog, either, the way she was behaving–the way she was living. Glued to my side, going batshit the second I was out of sight. Trying to dig in a closet where there was A) no dirt and B) no bloody room for her to sit. And numerous other things that turned her into a barking loony.

Yes. I was fully prepared to tell the vet it was her time, as I was sure this was what the vet would tell me. Especially when I told him about the Dreaded Doggie Dementia, along with the other Major Issue she was having.

So there’s me, Trash and Annie (who had come along for moral support and also, was our ride there, because most major transportation systems frown on taking a 75lb shepherd-akita-whatever-else-was-at-the-docks-that- day mixes on their buses) in the waiting room.

Annie is semi-ok.

Trash is being manly-man, but misty-eyed.

I am a fucking basket case.

Racked with guilt. Feel awful for the dog. Wondering if I’m doing this more for her or me. Because yes, I love the dog terribly, but I know things would be a lot easier once she’s gone to the Big Boneyard in the Sky. For instance, I can actually start saving for a new apartment now (try getting an apartment on NYC with a dog–HA!! Ma and Trash took this place mainly because EFL said ok to the Beast and no one else would). I could leave the house and NOT have to worry about what time I got back because the mental case will go fruity otherwise. And Trash is rather braindead when it comes to sharing dog-care duty, babysitting wise, thinking the landlord is exaggerating and should zip it. I, however, am slightly more considerate, and far more paranoid of losing my domicile.

We go into the examination room and everything went so fast–it was just a blur. The minute I said something the vet explained no it’s actually THIS. The other thing?? No it’s actually THAT!!

‘You see, the thing is, Babs, she loves you too much. She wants to be with you all the time’

(Talk about guilt fucking OVERLOAD)

So. The Major Issue?? Solved by a week-long regimen of pills and prescription dog food.

The Dreaded Doggie Dementia??

Isn’t dementia at all. And is instead Separation Fucking Anxiety.

And he’s put the Beast on Crazy Meds to try and sort it!!

Leave it to us to have the only dog on the block thats just as medicated as the rest of the family.

I cannot begin to explain the joys of trying to hide a capsule of Clomipramine twice a day in the sneaky cow’s dog food.

If her behavior continues, however, I may well just explain the joys of sneaking it into MY food.

Because I might just need it.

Oh Noes!!

To Whom it May Concern,

 

If anyone could please help me remember the difference between Ozzy’s cell phone number and Herself’s, I’d be most obliged*. Especially since I’ve been stuck on the phone with her for forty-five minutes straight. Halp!!

 

* As would my eardrums.

 

Hugs and Kisses,

Babs

Something Blue

Did I tell you lot my exciting news back a few months ago??

I don’t think I did–and allow me to shout it from the rooftops–I have moved into the 21st century!!

All I need is a space-age tinfoil suit and a hovercraft now. Like, totally.

Yea verily, no longer am I stopped from playing online games, downloading various applications, or SURFING THE BLOODY INTERNET by snarky little signs, blips, and pop-ups that shout ‘Dude. Windows 98?? Are you SHITTING me?? You are SO not allowed to use this firewall/game/relevant update to every other puter system known to mankind EXCEPT YOURS’

I am only just now getting used to the bizarre new-fangledness of Weendows Veesta.

I can watch all the silly movies the neph and the niece have you-tubed. WITHOUT IT SKIPPING!!

I surfed, scanned, and chatted all at once. WITH NARY A LAG!!

I mean, for gods sake people, I can now wheel-scroll down through notepad.

(Although I was quite perturbed to discover that Word isn’t part of the package and god DAMMIT that’s what I use for proper writing. Not that I’ve done any in the past god knows when. Because my brain no longer works. I mean, sure, I can use Works instead, but I’ve been using Word for HOW long?? Bastards)

We shall not speak of Spider Solitaire. Or Mah Jong Titans. Or various other games on Social Websites that may or may not end with Wars and such as I SWORE were ridiculous and what was the point?? I mean you click to attack someone?? That’s ALL?? And buy a few things?? This is nothing like Toejam and Earl!! I am not going to play these games.

And I am totally not addicted. Ahem.

By the by, the flat panel screen thingie?? Wicked sweet. Because now my vikings and penguins once again have a home on my dresser/desk. Because my old monitor, which was roughly the size of Rhode Island, has vacated the premises.

(And by ‘vacated’ I mean ‘sits in the corner of the living room waiting for me to find the proper hook-ups to get some stuff off of the Ancient Puter and onto this Magical Machine’)

Oh. And because I can watch DVDs on here–and who needs cable when one can go to Hulu and Joost?! And every other channel known to mankind. Except the BBC whom, apparently, are veryfuckingsnotty about people outside of the UK watching their precious TV shows.

(Having said that I do so sincerely hope the sites I mentioned aren’t equally as snotty because, well, then I’ll just look like an idiot, won’t I??)

Anyway–behold!!–the new nerve center of Spaztardicus Wrecks*

*One snide remark about my Colin Firth wallpaper and death shall ensue. Consider yourself warned.

So

Let’s try this again, shall we??

Maybe THIS time I can manage to post within a century of my last post.

Meanie

A busted loo and Saint Patrick’s Day.

You would think that one has nothing to do with the other, yes??

Well!! You haven’t been reading here very long then. Obviously.

Now. You might remember that I mentioned in the post previous that Trash was going to fix the loo. Last Sunday he said ‘OH MY GOD I CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE I’M GOING TO FIX THE LOO!!’

And I rejoiced. REJOICED!!

No longer would there be the turning on and off the water every frickin’ time one had to, well, you know. Nay!! In a few mere hours the melodious noise of a proper flush would be ringing  throughout the house.

Huzzah!!

Except.

And isn’t there always an except??

Trash, as most of you may know, is no plumber. He knows how to follow directions though, so how could this possibly go wrong??

Wrong it went, as it turns out. No matter how he sorted it the end result was always more fucking water on the floor than in the tank. Says Trash to me, ‘I give up. Tell her to call a fucking plumber’

As if this wasn’t bad enough, since the tank was now leaking like a sieve the minute one fucking ounce of water got in there, we were forced to revert back to the ‘dump a pot of water in the pot’ system, which, HELLO, IS GROSS AND MESSY AND EW EW EW!!

I was not a happy camper.

I was further shocked by EFL’s getting right on the ball to find someone to fix the loo, rather than ask why Trash hadn’t sorted it fifty times straight. The deal had been IF he could fix it he would–and let me tell you, no one was more shocked than I when she acquiesced straightaway.

(You know, on thinking, I should have just told EFL three weeks back that he’d tried to sort it and couldn’t and HELLO, all of this would have been dead and done. But NO!!–I am a moron what attempts to live up to their word. God DAMMIT)

The next morning I was down at EFL’s on an unrelated matter (read: she couldn’t find her glasses so she rang me for help) when lo!!–the handyman type that her friend recommended rang.

Perfect!! Will just sort when he can come by to fix the throne.

‘Tell him to come by tomorrow’

I start hemming and hawing and mention that, REALLY, I’m supposed to go to the parade. And OH MY GOD IT IS TRADITION AND I CANNOT MISS THIS.

Handyman hears my exchange with EFL and very helpfully says ‘You know, I can drop by on Wednesday instead–it’s no problem’

I agree that Wednesday is fine, because while, yes, the pot-slosh flush is highly erratic and sometimes messy if your aim is off by one iota, I am willing to suffer it for one extra day for good ol’ Saint Pat. He asks me what the problem is so I start to explain it to him when EFL starts babbling ‘Oh no!! It can’t be Wednesday!! I have a doctors appointment then’

GAWD.

Ok. Fine. I will even suffer one EXTRA day for the sake of Tradition Familial (even though there was no familial going to the parade with me, or anyone else for that matter).

I start to tell him Thursday is ok when EFL starts yapping, hissing, and shaking her head no vigorously. ‘It CANNOT be Thursday. It will have to be tomorrow’

‘But we’ll be here on Thursday’

‘No, no, no, no, Babs, it’s got to be tomorrow!!’

(And really, it doesn’t matter if EFL is afoot or not, she isn’t going to come up here, so what the fuck does it matter?? He can give her the bill the day after or whatever)

She is adamant in spite of my protests and keeps saying ‘You can watch the parade on TV, can’t you??’

So with a heavy sigh I tell him tomorrow will be fine and even he says ‘Well at least you can watch the parade on TV’

WHY DOES NO ONE GET THAT IT’S NOT THE SAME?!

Off the phone I get, and EFL tells me that the reason Thursday was unacceptable was because the friend who recommended this fellow happened to mention that said fellow is a ‘true alcoholic’ and often disappears for a week at a time. ‘And tomorrow is Saint Patrick’s Day, Babs!! He’s libel to go on a week-long bender and not show on Thursday!! So it’s tomorrow or nothing’

We will forego the obvious question of just WHY EFL would hire someone with such a glowing reputation etc etc (not that I’m criticizing–hell, half my family would give the Betty Ford clinic a run for the money)–but, you know, one would THINK this might put her off. What’s REALLY pissing me off is that I KNOW chances are really fucking high that EFL will cancel her appointment on Wednesday anyway. Saint Patrick’s Day is my ONE big holiday–the one day of the year I always make sure I take off–and I know I’m getting fucked out of it for things what WILL NOT HAPPEN.

Pardon my French, but you know what?? She’s such a fucking twat.

Saint Patrick’s Day. Handyman arrives noon-ish. Looks over the loo. Tries this. Tries that. Informs me that it’s missing a few bits (some extra washers that hadn’t come with the kit, as we have a Fancy Terlet apparently). Also informs me that he’d been drinking over the weekend, didn’t feel well, and had debated whether to even come over. He’s going to go get the parts and he’ll be back, whens that kids??

Oh yea–fucking Thursday!! Which EFL seems to have no problem with NOW. It’s 1:30–so there’s no way I’d be able to get to Manhattan on time. So I missed my National Holiday so he could drop by, fiddle with the loo for five fucking minutes, and tell me he’s not really into working today.

And, of course, she cancels her fucking appointment on Wednesday. As I knew she would.

He comes back Thursday, sorts the loo (and it was established, much to Trash’s good cheer, that he’d done everything right except one tiny bit that he couldn’t help), and we can flush the loo like normal people again.

(Note I didn’t mention how kitchen sink managed to go exactly then and flood the entire room as I was running water over eggs. Because the god damned bottom pipe decided to fucking detach itself at that very moment)

I go downstairs to fetch his money from EFL (who is not receiving visitors because Madam does not feel well) and she says ‘Tell him I said God sent him!!’

It took all my strength to stop myself from mumbling ‘Well St. Patrick sure as fuck didn’t. You stupid cow’

Fin.