![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
grrgoylConversations from the Kennels
Tery called me on Friday from the hospital, telling me what kinds of changes had been going on behind my back. "I almost don't want to tell you this..." she began.
"What?" I asked nervously, trying to envision what new imposition I would be forced to endure.
"They've put a bookcase downstairs in the hall. Right outside the kitchen."
"So what?
"Well it's kind of big, and I don't want you running into it. I told Tabby 'the first time Elaine bangs her shoulder on this, it's outta here.'"
A) She's confusing me with herself, who is far more resistant to change than I. B) Working only two nights a week, I feel the least entitled to dictate how things gets arranged. C) Most importantly, I don't know what kind of dynamic whirlwind of activity she imagines me engaging in, but apart from the night of my first seizure dog, everything else I do with the supremely unhurried pace of the truly unsupervised. I amble. I saunter. I occasionally trot, but very, very rarely. The chances of me barreling smack into a large, stationary object are extremely slim.
Second, our cat Alsatia needed some (more) dental work done. Older animals do fall apart at a frightening speed. She was doing well, though, and the plan was for her to stay on IV fluids overnight and I could take her home in the morning. Dr. L asked Tery, "Will Elaine be able to remove the catheter?" This is funny, because the last 10 times animals have been left on IV fluids with me, something has always happened by morning necessitating me taking out their catheter -- usually it will "blow" (meaning it's slipped out of the vein and is just pumping the fluid under the skin), or the animal will chew it out; both things that technically aren't my fault, but I still feel mighty incompetent all the same. So it seems for me the challenge is keeping the catheter IN, not taking it out. I'm a pro at taking it out. I could join the Olympic catheter removal team, I'm so good at it.
Therefore it broke my heart a little come morning when Alsatia's IV was still running perfectly, and I had to remove it anyway. But she was certainly happy to leave.
Then I came home Sunday morning to discover we have ANOTHER neighbor with Christmas lights on inside. Are they dead too? What was it about this past Christmas that's making it so damn hard for everyone to let go? It's MARCH, people. Time to MOVE ON.
~*~
Toys for Grown-Ups
Tery, to my surprise, suggested we apply our considerable tax refunds towards a new stove. Nothing wrong with our old one, it's just the last almond-colored hold-over from the original set circa 1980. Normally I would insist on waiting until it actually died, but she reminded me that she cooks all my dinners so it was in my best interest that she was happy.
It's "silver mist" rather than stainless steel -- the look of steel, but without the easy scratch- and fingerprintability. The matching over-the-range microwave will be installed later this week -- Tery wasn't so sure about this purchase, but ever since realizing it was an option suddenly our current microwave takes up too much counterspace, and causes random obscene outbursts of rage from her while she's cooking. For me it's worth every penny if it cuts back on the side helping of stress and bitterness our meals are sometimes prepared with.
I couldn't have been happier with our salesman, Ken. He approached us immediately, making it clear that he wasn't going to disappear without warning. He looked like a poor man's Kevin Murphy. He joked with us and always stayed within range, a far cry from our usual treatment. Usually salespeople take one look at two women wandering through major appliances and assume we're just daydreaming or something (I'm sure Tery's two days' worth of hair grease doesn't help matters either). He gave us respect and attention, however, and we spent $1200 in his department (the most I've ever spent in one go and walked out the door emptyhanded -- "Where's my instant gratification?!" I lamented to Tery).
He was just too cute. Down-to-earth and dorky, he talked to us like we were old friends. I used the word "fortuitous" for some reason, and his eyes misted over. "Say that word again," he asked me. "Fortuitous?" I smiled. "That's a great word. I need to use that word more often," he said.
I wrote up an almost embarrassingly glowing piece of feedback for him on Lowes.com; I figure I never hesitate to complain about bad employees, it wouldn't hurt to spread some sunshine as well. I read it to Tery. She rolled her eyes over the phone and asked me when our wedding was. She'll never understand my love for geeky, awkward men.
It was delivered by two enormous guys. I'm sure between the two of them the strain of lifting it was equal to what I feel carrying a 40-pound bag of cat litter alone, but I still felt a ridiculous compulsion to apologize for them having to haul the old one back down the stairs. I don't know why, in situations like this I always feel like I'm inconveniencing people when really all they're doing is their job. Silly.
~*~
Malcolm Reynolds: Our Weirdest Ferret Yet
Here's another video, blessedly free of my look-how-cute voice:
Malcolm is our ninth ferret. We know a thing or two about ferret behavior. In all those years of ferret ownership, never once have we observed this. When you give him a fresh bowl of water, before drinking out of it he scratches around the rim, then plants both front paws in and paddles in it, scooping large amounts of water out. He doesn't do it if the water's been standing, and he doesn't do it if Gideon is with him. I asked him, "Little Man, do you think your brother and sisters want to drink that water after you've stuck your grubby paws in it?" Like most babies, he hadn't given it much thought.
Finally, two gay boys. Again I say that people can learn something about getting along with each other from ferrets.
Tery called me on Friday from the hospital, telling me what kinds of changes had been going on behind my back. "I almost don't want to tell you this..." she began.
"What?" I asked nervously, trying to envision what new imposition I would be forced to endure.
"They've put a bookcase downstairs in the hall. Right outside the kitchen."
"So what?
"Well it's kind of big, and I don't want you running into it. I told Tabby 'the first time Elaine bangs her shoulder on this, it's outta here.'"
A) She's confusing me with herself, who is far more resistant to change than I. B) Working only two nights a week, I feel the least entitled to dictate how things gets arranged. C) Most importantly, I don't know what kind of dynamic whirlwind of activity she imagines me engaging in, but apart from the night of my first seizure dog, everything else I do with the supremely unhurried pace of the truly unsupervised. I amble. I saunter. I occasionally trot, but very, very rarely. The chances of me barreling smack into a large, stationary object are extremely slim.
Second, our cat Alsatia needed some (more) dental work done. Older animals do fall apart at a frightening speed. She was doing well, though, and the plan was for her to stay on IV fluids overnight and I could take her home in the morning. Dr. L asked Tery, "Will Elaine be able to remove the catheter?" This is funny, because the last 10 times animals have been left on IV fluids with me, something has always happened by morning necessitating me taking out their catheter -- usually it will "blow" (meaning it's slipped out of the vein and is just pumping the fluid under the skin), or the animal will chew it out; both things that technically aren't my fault, but I still feel mighty incompetent all the same. So it seems for me the challenge is keeping the catheter IN, not taking it out. I'm a pro at taking it out. I could join the Olympic catheter removal team, I'm so good at it.
Therefore it broke my heart a little come morning when Alsatia's IV was still running perfectly, and I had to remove it anyway. But she was certainly happy to leave.
Then I came home Sunday morning to discover we have ANOTHER neighbor with Christmas lights on inside. Are they dead too? What was it about this past Christmas that's making it so damn hard for everyone to let go? It's MARCH, people. Time to MOVE ON.
~*~
Toys for Grown-Ups
Tery, to my surprise, suggested we apply our considerable tax refunds towards a new stove. Nothing wrong with our old one, it's just the last almond-colored hold-over from the original set circa 1980. Normally I would insist on waiting until it actually died, but she reminded me that she cooks all my dinners so it was in my best interest that she was happy.
It's "silver mist" rather than stainless steel -- the look of steel, but without the easy scratch- and fingerprintability. The matching over-the-range microwave will be installed later this week -- Tery wasn't so sure about this purchase, but ever since realizing it was an option suddenly our current microwave takes up too much counterspace, and causes random obscene outbursts of rage from her while she's cooking. For me it's worth every penny if it cuts back on the side helping of stress and bitterness our meals are sometimes prepared with.I couldn't have been happier with our salesman, Ken. He approached us immediately, making it clear that he wasn't going to disappear without warning. He looked like a poor man's Kevin Murphy. He joked with us and always stayed within range, a far cry from our usual treatment. Usually salespeople take one look at two women wandering through major appliances and assume we're just daydreaming or something (I'm sure Tery's two days' worth of hair grease doesn't help matters either). He gave us respect and attention, however, and we spent $1200 in his department (the most I've ever spent in one go and walked out the door emptyhanded -- "Where's my instant gratification?!" I lamented to Tery).
He was just too cute. Down-to-earth and dorky, he talked to us like we were old friends. I used the word "fortuitous" for some reason, and his eyes misted over. "Say that word again," he asked me. "Fortuitous?" I smiled. "That's a great word. I need to use that word more often," he said.
I wrote up an almost embarrassingly glowing piece of feedback for him on Lowes.com; I figure I never hesitate to complain about bad employees, it wouldn't hurt to spread some sunshine as well. I read it to Tery. She rolled her eyes over the phone and asked me when our wedding was. She'll never understand my love for geeky, awkward men.
It was delivered by two enormous guys. I'm sure between the two of them the strain of lifting it was equal to what I feel carrying a 40-pound bag of cat litter alone, but I still felt a ridiculous compulsion to apologize for them having to haul the old one back down the stairs. I don't know why, in situations like this I always feel like I'm inconveniencing people when really all they're doing is their job. Silly.
~*~
Malcolm Reynolds: Our Weirdest Ferret Yet
Here's another video, blessedly free of my look-how-cute voice:
Malcolm is our ninth ferret. We know a thing or two about ferret behavior. In all those years of ferret ownership, never once have we observed this. When you give him a fresh bowl of water, before drinking out of it he scratches around the rim, then plants both front paws in and paddles in it, scooping large amounts of water out. He doesn't do it if the water's been standing, and he doesn't do it if Gideon is with him. I asked him, "Little Man, do you think your brother and sisters want to drink that water after you've stuck your grubby paws in it?" Like most babies, he hadn't given it much thought.
Finally, two gay boys. Again I say that people can learn something about getting along with each other from ferrets.
