Before I get into the reason behind the title, some cute pictures.
They still use Spot’s bed. But the pair don’t fit inside it as well as they used to. Two weeks ago at the vet Lumi was weighed – 3.25 kilos or over 7 pounds! Half a stone! He was only barely 5 months old. He is going to be a big kitty!
So, here is the reason behind the post title. If you are easily grossed-out, stop here!
I think I’ve mentioned that Lumi always wakes up with me. He always comes and licks my eyes and ‘meeps’ in my face – every morning since we brought him home. Recently he started licking my lips and smelling my nasty morning breath. Cats are weird.
This morning was much the same. I was flat on my back, Lumi was right on my neck/chest giving me kisses and purrs.
Then he turned around, like he was going to lie back down on my right shoulder. I felt something wet drag across my cheek and my lower lip as he turned. I was immediately concerned- why is my kitten wet when he just woke up?
I turned my head to look – and got a close up view of a kitty-willy.
Yep, he had his little lipstick out, and almost stuck it in my mouth.
Lumi, I love you too – but not like THAT!
I needed new work boots! As you can see. Exactly the same model, but so nice and shiny clean it seems a shame to beat them to hell, too. I managed to wear them from 9:30 to 4:15 today before I got sore. They just need to loosen up a bit. Condsidering that I have walked an average of 8km (5miles) a day at work this week, that isn’t a bad break-in time before I realised I might be heading toward blister-toes.
I’m married to a shoe-guy. He is also the shopper of the family. He is also really, really good at spotting a good, rare shoe at a great price. So now I have two beautiful sets of Doc Martens. I love that he knows me so well that he gets me amazing boots or kicks (sneakers) that I will actually wear! The black ones are called Coralie, quilted leather. The brown ones are…who knows. Now, I just need to be the kinda gal who changes her shoes three times a day so I can wear them all…
Himself just did a load of laundry wearing nothing but garden-clogs. That might not sound so strange.
However! Our washing machine is in a shed entirely outside of the house. Yep, I got treated to him coming and going, stark naked in the rain (literally).
Our neighbours must be scarred for life – oh yes, they could easily look down from one room and see him in all his, ahem, glory! And they thought me in a bikini was bad!
Do you have someone who does crazy things to make you laugh, too?
(aren’t you glad this is a photo-free post?)
In keeping with the last post with a musical title.
Our next door neighbors have started to let their cat outside. She is spayed, and has a bell on her collar – both good things!
But man, she sure pisses my Spottie-Cat off! The dog doesn’t know what to think. Chase? Not chase? She usually picks ‘whining in just that high-pitched-note that makes Spiders want to scream.’
There isn’t any agony. I just couldn’t resist the pun!
I was sitting outside reading, and felt something on my bare foot. First instinct was to fling whatever it was off, but something made me look first.
And you wouldn’t be seeing these pictures if I hadn’t done my nails yesterday for a wedding. It’s officially spring when the rainbow toenail polish is on!
I think she needed a warm place to rest. I’m always warm!
She stayed about 10 minutes on my toe. I went back to my book. The next time I looked…
I don’t think I’ve ever reblogged one of my own posts before. But some unknow person was perusing my blog today, and found this. After a re-read, I’m pretty happy with it and want to share it again.
Hardly anyone reads the old crap, right? And yeah, I’m tagging this as humour for the wayI wrote it, and that fact I survived to laugh about it.
Content warning – lots of blood, and possibly sexual misconduct by a doctor.
This story is about the first time (that I know of) that I almost died.
“When I was 16, I kept getting colds and bronchitis all the time. It got annoying. So my parents and I talked it over and decided that I should finally have my tonsils out. I was sort of old for the surgery, but I have been a lot less prone to that sort of illness since having them out.
I don’t remember much about the surgery itself. I know they made me take my shirt off, and I clearly recall my surgeon saying to the others in the room as he moved the sheet down (why!?!?) to expose my chest, that I was “very mature.” That bothered me for years. I was ashamed to even speak about it. It felt like visual group rape. I’ve often wondered: did he/they give me a suggestion to not talk about it when I was all the way under the anaesthetic? Because after I told someone the first time, it got easier until it didn’t bother me any more.
What will bother me until the day I die is that not that he was a bit scuzzy and inappropriate, but that he cut too far down on the right side. Really, really far down. I have a pocket between my tongue and what should be throat-meat, but isn’t. Quite often, food that is small and hard gets stuck in there (peanuts and popcorn shells are the worst) and the only way to get it out is to fish it out with my index finger or suck it out while making vile-sounding slurping snotty noises. Thanks, doc.
I haven’t even gotten into the disgusting part yet. Honestly, it gets worse!
We were given a slip of paper with post-operation instructions. It said: ‘about a week after your surgery, the incision may open up and bleed. This is nothing to worry about if the amount of blood is a teacup or less.’
What the leaflet failed to mention is what to do if it was more than a teacup.
I have a mental picture of when it started: a combination of my actual view and a sort of distanced movie of where I was and what I was doing. I was outside, at the end of our driveway, right by one of the odd, light grey, cinderblock-and-concrete-stucco pillars that lined the road in front of our house. There was a small popcorn tree behind me, and I was facing toward our red-clay driveway. I was talking to one of the two beautiful, white long-haired cats that ‘belonged’ to a neighbour (my grandmother adopted one later, the other was a tom and went feral). I leaned over to pet the kitty, who had trotted across the street to see me, and suddenly I had a strange tickle in my throat.
I opened my mouth to talk to the kitty and blood sprayed on to the driveway.
I can no longer recall if I ran right inside, or gave myself a moment or two to figure out what was going on. I’m not prone to panic, and blood has never bothered me, so I’m guessing I didn’t scream for mom and run inside immediately. When I did go in, we found the leaflet and read it. One of us grabbed a smallish coffee cup (no tiny teacups in our house) and when I had filled that up, mom brought out a massive, three-quart, square Tupperware container from the cupboard. The very same one my sister and I had puked into for years when we were small and very sick. It was so deep there was little chance of splash-back, you see. Mom was practical like that.
Even better, this thing had measurements on the inside of the bowl so we could see just how much blood I was losing. The measurements were in quarts. We dumped in the coffee cup-full of blood, in the interest of accuracy. It had jelled already – perhaps due to the properties of saliva, perhaps that’s what blood does anyway – and it slopped into the bowl, keeping the shape of the cup. That was when I first realised that what was going on wasn’t “normal.”
The spray was at the very back of my throat (probably coming from the right where Dr. Inappropriate had cut too deep; it directed to the left). My mouth was constantly full, and I swallowed quite a lot without meaning to. That didn’t bother me, either. What did bother me is when it finally stopped, and I discovered that I had clots of blood everywhere inside my mouth – the worst were stuck in the top surfaces of my teeth the way potato chips do sometimes. I had to pick them out with my tongue, and swallow or spit.
The bleeding had stopped, so I grabbed the relevant Encyclopaedia Brittanica off the shelf to see how much blood someone of my age and size should have inside them. I’d lost almost a quart, according to the awesome Tupperware bowl. Brittanica said I should have about 4 quarts (a quart being about 950ml). Current Googling gives me a lower number.
In any case I was fine, it had stopped, no panic, and we’d all learned something interesting.
Then a short while later it opened up again. We rang the doctor, and he said to go to the hospital. I kept spitting into the container – good data for the hospital, right? Before we left, it had stopped again. I had closer to two quarts in the bowl, and I now knew that wasn’t a safe amount.
It was a small Florida town, and we had a (new at the time) hospital in town so the drive was short. I was fine, cheerful and chipper as I could be, and the bleeding had stopped again for the longest time yet. They decided I should to to another hospital in the next town over, and have Dr Inappropriate cauterise the area to stop the bleeding. They put me into an ambulance.
They strapped me down, as they do in ambulances apparently (this was my first and only experience inside of one). I started bleeding again on the way. I was tied down on my back, spraying blood at the back of my throat, not even able to talk because I would choke, and unable to sit up and spit it out. I always thought from movies that when a kid was in an ambulance a parent was allowed inside, too? Stupid movies. I remember feeling a bit of panic at that point, waving my arms as much as I could under the straps and gurgling for help. I swallowed a lot more blood before they let me up and I could spit. Into my mother’s bowl, still keeping track. I know I had lost over 2 quarts by then – over half my blood supply in a jellied square mass on my lap. That’s not counting the amount that I had swallowed.
By the way: ‘human’ vampires are bullshit. I know, for a fact, from this experience, that the human body can not digest fresh human blood. I will never forget what it looked and smelled like coming out the other end.
I might have gone a bit light-headed by the time I’d arrived at the other hospital for the cauterisation. I don’t remember anything else.
I know that my mom was irritated that she never got her awesome Tupperware bowl back, though.”
Someone had a bit of fun at work today. Being as it is April 1, it could have been anyone!
The target? Our recent health and safety rule to disallow using pallet trucks as skateboards in the warehouse. It is a bummer as skating around was so much fun! Oh well. We understand all the reasons why, and are being good about it.
Signs went up. I really want to know where the image came from!
But, um, it’s Ireland, and the word ride is used in…a unique way here. Suffice to say, you don’t offer someone a ride in your car. You offer them a lift. Otherwise the snickering drowns out the rest of your sentence.
Sex. It means having sex. Nearly always. I think you can still say ‘ride’ and not mean sex if you are talking about a vehicle with two wheels, like a push-bike, or a motorcycle, or a scooter (and didn’t I go all Irish there, with push-bike? It’s a damn bicycle).
In any case, a pallet truck technically has five or six wheels, so riding one puts it clearly into the giggle-zone. Maybe it’s because I’m a blow-in and was laughed at way too often in my first few years here; but after a decade here the new signs always give me a niggle of a giggle (a blow-in is someone from somewhere else, it might be the next county over, or the other side of the planet. It’s an affectionate term, but also reminds us blow-ins that we will never be local, ever).
So…back to the point and less of the Irish version of English: someone had fun with one of the signs. Can’t imagine who it was.
Happy April 1!