Zits & Wrinkles

We got to the vet, and Lily promptly had one of her little seizures, which the vet watched, and then said, “okay, that’s not a seizure.” Huzzah! What is it? It’s a dizzy spell. Lily has vertigo. It’s either caused by nothing/unknown (how humans usually get it), a viral infection in her middle ear (treatable if we get to it in time), a specific parasite (also treatable), or brain cancer/tumors (not quite so treatable, also least likely).

This is way better news than her having a central nervous system problem, as the vet suspected over the weekend. Also, it would seem that her history of yeasty outer ear infections is unrelated to the middle/inner ear, because her ear drums are intact and look healthy. Messed up? Yes.

Now I wait on the results of today’s blood draw, which will test for the viral infection and the parasite. If one of those comes back positive, we get new drugs. If neither does, we just see if it goes away or changes. Meanwhile, the vet suggested I give her a little dramamine to make her less dizzy. To not turn all the lights on if necessary/let her hide under the bed in the dark. To not pet her head/ears till she’s less sensitive to getting the spins. So Lily and I went to CVS and picked up the drams, then came home.

I gave her half a dramamine and she had a sneezy fit, which caused a dizzy fit, which… well, this:

(via this, via this)

Look, I never said Lily was normal.

When I got her at the Chicago Animal Care & Control in April 2005, she was about a year and a half old, fully grown, long and tall, and weighed about 5.5 lbs, straight off the street/spaying table. I brought her skinny ass home to my college apartment and toyed with naming her Katharine Hepburn (so long! so tall! so orange!). She immediately got an eye infection.

This post gets long, so I broke it off for Tumblr dashboard readers. I have no idea what this does on Google Reader, so click through if you gotta, you lazy bums (whom I love).

So I took her to the vet, who gave me meds to give her and told me to feed her kitten food to pork her up a bit. By the time she got her next eye infection a few months later, the vet told me to stop feeding her so goddamn much, because I was gonna give her diabetes. Whoops.

Lily has never been terribly “with it” or terribly “coordinated.” She used to half-jump to my couch and kind of bounce off, then wander away. She was never sure-footed or lithe the way cats should be. Once she rolled off a windowsill in my Chicago apartment, where, by the way, I decided she needed a friend if I was gonna live alone and be at work all day. So in came Bear. Things started out pretty well.

They eventually settled into a nice relationship.

(They both got skinnier after this, I promise.)

So we all lived happily ever after in Chicago, except the time I changed their litter and then left for the weekend and Bear peed all over my couch. Otherwise, you know, the occasional eye/ear infection for Lil, but everyone was fine. 

Then I had to be an asshole and decide I wanted to move to New York. My most saintly friend Megan offered to fly with me and handle one of the cats (because airlines know that one pet per human is all anyone can deal with and made laws about it). It was massively traumatizing (for me) because while Bear threw up her sedative as soon as we got on the plane and then sat calmly in her carrier for the next three hours, Lily LOST HER SHIT (not literally [yet]). By the time we landed, she was alternating between TERRIFYING SCREAMS OF “I AM AWAKE WHAT IS HAPPENING” and coma-like, horrifying stillness. I vowed to never do this again.

We moved into a 6-week sublet with relative ease. They were happy. The AC worked. The night before I moved out and into my real apartment, Lily pooped on the floor in front of the front door. I watched it happen. It had never happened before! “How strange,” I thought, “I hope she likes our new place better!”

And then she pooped on the floor at least once a day for two years. Except for the two weeks I was in Israel, when apparently she held it for the first 10 days or so. This was a less than pleasant experience for me and the people who hated her with whom I chose to live. Thus begins the guilt. Things were so wrong with that place and her that she had to crap on the floor all the fucking time. Nothing made it stop, not drugs or crazy litterbox measures or food changes.

I tried for about 3 months in 2008 or 2009 to give her away, to get her back to the happy (if off-kilter) cat I had in Chicago, to get her away from the crappy carpeting, the constant comings and goings of four live-in humans and most of that year’s Upright Citizens Brigade Sketch Groups, the fact that you could feel the subway underneath us even on the third floor, the place that had such bad vibes for her. Doing this made me extremely sad and guilty, so I wasn’t too heartbroken when the one lead I had on a quiet, calm place fell through.

Eventually, for everyone’s sanity, we moved!

(waiting on movers at the old place)

Things are better at the “new” place, where we have been for two years. She does occasionally shit on the floor, but usually only to inform me that I need to clean the litterbox or that she is pissed off that I have been gone for so long. Which is to say, it’s usually in front of my bedroom door or the litterbox. Occasionally, there is a dingleberry in the middle of the floor (tmi).

—

Meanwhile, she’s had an ear infection for, oh, three years now. Sometimes I take her to the vet for bloodwork and her ear meds and give them to her for two weeks as prescribed, and she’s good to go… for about two weeks. Then it’s back. She’s just itchy. Last time I took her in, a few months ago, they said she was just itchy. Always gonna be like that. Okay.

Something else weird happened a few times, starting way back in the old apartment. One day, I noticed that she was having trouble walking. She was wobbling, like her back legs weren’t working. I had two immediate thoughts:

1) Oh god, my particularly hates-her roommate is poisoning her.

2) Oh wait no, she’s just constipated.

After about 30 seconds of wobble, she pooped on the floor and went back to normal. I saw her do this twice at the old place and maybe three times in the past two years in the new place. Disturbing? Yes. Regular occurrence? Hardly. Did I chalk it up to digestion? All the time.

And then this Saturday morning, I was in the Hamptons with the feller & friends, and Futt called to tell me that Lily was doing the wobble, full-time. She was disoriented and couldn’t jump and was really not in good shape. Futt took her to the vet, who essentially diagnosed her with Something Wrong With Her Central Nervous System And Maybe Her Brain, Probably Caused By Infection. Of course, my immediate question was “OH GOD, IS IT HER LARGELY UNTREATED EAR INFECTION HAVE I CAUSED THE DEATH OF MY CAT,” to which the very kind vet responded that in no way would an ear infection turn into a central nervous system infection. She maybe has a brain tumor. She maybe has meningitis. I can’t afford to get my cat a spinal tap, so I likely won’t ever really know “what she has,” but we’ve gone from the wobbles and acting like she didn’t feel well on Sunday, to a wobbly but semi-normal Tuesday, to today.

Today, she is hiding again (a doesn’t-feel-well behavior). And this morning, she started jerking. When she shakes her head in a normal pet way, this seems to induce a mini seizure—her head jerks, her eyes can’t focus and jerk around, she loses all of her already tenuous footing, and she falls over. After a few minutes, she gets her iffy footing back, and then she goes back to hiding.

(emerging from hiding, just now.)

Meanwhile, when I went to go see how hiding was treating Lil, this is how I found Bear on my bedroom floor:

(Clearly disturbed by her sister’s situation.)

Though, Bear has basically followed Lily around all week. When Lil’s under my bed, Bear tends to be nearby in my room somewhere.

Anyway. I told the vet all of this on the phone today, and she says it sounds like Lily is having little seizures. This is definitely a new symptom. So we’re going back at 3:40 to see what the vet can see. I’m sure just getting there will induce one, so I’m not terribly concerned about replicating the symptom for the vet, though now I know that if I make her shake her head, she’ll do it without question.

That’s what’s going on with my cat. All the long story is basically to say that I have dealt with a lot with this orange weirdo, and even though I might be the only person in the world who actually likes her (okay, except Futt and maybe Kathleen and Saintly Megan), this has been a massively difficult week. She doesn’t seem to be suffering very much, until she flops over and/or seizes. It’s just hard to watch. It’s hard for me to leave, it’s hard for me to concentrate, it’s hard for me to sit here and wait till 3:30 when I can walk out the door with her to the vet. It’s hard not knowing how much each visit is going to cost me, it’s hard not knowing what the vet will say. It’s hard not knowing if anything we’re doing is helping her in any way. I just want my weirdo to be comfortable, safe, and as healthy as possible.

(all photos by me, except the good one (the first one), by Kathleen)

Let’s talk about working from home. No, wait—let’s talk about high school first:

In high school, I would come home and do my quantitative homework immediately (and by “immediately,” I mean “after play practice,” duh). That’s problem sets, worksheets, finite stuff I had to fill out or hand back in. Then I’d talk on the phone or on sturdy old AIM for hours, eat dinner somewhere in there, and then I’d eventually think about the qualitative pieces of homework, like reading and paper-writing. Was the reading for a history, science, or social studies class? Yes? Then I didn’t do it. Was the paper due tomorrow? No? Then I didn’t even think about starting.

I didn’t start working on a paper before the night before it was due until probably my late sophomore or junior year of college. My professors probably knew this. And then, in my professional life, I had to learn how to do it all over again, only I couldn’t stay up till 3am kicking myself for not starting earlier, I had to actually get it done in the hours I was in an office.

So! Now that I’m out of an office but still working, how am I doing?

It’s hard, y’all. I try to structure my days around existing appointments (work meetings, doctors, grocery delivery, cat medicine distribution {oh, we’ll get there, don’t worry}), but without real time limits and the necessity of real pants wearing, buckling down and working is very difficult. So I’ve tried to minimize distraction by keeping the heck off tumblr. But that still leaves me plenty of time to:

1. Nap
2. Discover turntable.fm (generally speaking, I preside over http://turntable.fm/nerds_just_wanna_have_fun, but sometimes I wander)
3. Hard-boil eggs
4. Make and consume semi-fancy breakfasts and turkey sandwiches
5. Drink coffee

Forced concentration was never my forte, but when I get in the zone I stay there. My zone time is very valuable these days, as my current and potential future employment relies on it. Hence, a little distance from the internet. I have not forgotten you!

But y’all, the zone! The zone is magical. There is something so satisfying about looking up and realizing you’ve been nose-to-the-grindstone accomplishing things for hours with minimal distraction and largely unbroken concentration. And this is how I know that even though there are days I don’t want to work, I’m not just some layabout who doesn’t EVER want to work (see: MTV’s “True Life: I’m A Sugar Baby,” which I watched last week while cat-sitting). I like work! I like accomplishment! I like feeling capable and smart and like I’m an expert at something other than feline medication distribution and amateur egg-boiling. 

So I guess this is growing up: satisfaction by professional accomplishment rather than social. I’ll take it.

nickdouglas:

“If you’re not a fan of the uppercase, lowercase method, you’re probably over 13 and should choose two “deep” words and combine them to create your ideal screen name. For example, ‘existentialmodernism’ or ‘espressodefacto.’”

—

The Art of AIM in the 20th Century by Stephanie Georgopulos

My “deep” screenname was ‘decafsilicon’. (And I’m stuck with it forever.) What was yours?

2003 was the year I became not-a-teenager, so I am a touch older than the demo here. However, 2002/2003 was the year I changed my screen name from “ashnitzel” to “andthenabbysaid.” I did everything in Papyrus for a few years (ouch), and I was a master profile creator, complete with my zip code, dates of upcoming travel, inside joke quotes from friends, and lots and lots of song lyrics. I am suddenly starting to realize that this sounds a lot like my 16yo cousin’s facebook profile, which makes me feel like maybe I should go easier on her. Hm.

I’m pretty sure this person (whose name and face I have removed, because it’s not about him/her, it’s about the protective distance of the internet) doesn’t want to know what’s so funny about Jews for Jesus to me. I’m pretty sure this person doesn’t care that I think all religions exhibit equal levels of hilarity, and that I don’t care what anybody believes or doesn’t believe, just so long as it makes a person happy and fulfilled and he or she doesn’t hurt anybody. Religion does a lot for a lot of people, and far be it from me to take that away from them. Just because I find the facts of religions funny doesn’t mean I don’t understand the value of religious belief.

I’m pretty sure this person assumes that when I say something exhibits “hilarity,” I therefore consider it a “joke,” which, as I’ve just explained, is an incorrect assumption. I’m pretty sure this person doesn’t want to hear that I spend exactly none of my time wondering what if they are right? about any religious groups. I’m pretty sure this person doesn’t intend to fully infer that my life is a “joke”—because that is the inference: if I’m “wrong,” then my life, anything I do before I die and some entity informs me that I’ve gone about my 28+ years incorrectly, is a “joke.” Joke’s on me! All the joys and sorrows of my existence didn’t count (?) because I picked the wrong book/building/deity. So if I’d picked “right,” my joys and sorrows would be… what? More real? My life would be a non-joke, a serious something?

There is no joke, internet. We’re here! Let’s just be here and find the fun, funny, wonderful things about it.

That’s a ZIT INSIDE A WRINKLE. Comprendez-vous?

I’m too self-deprecating to call my blog “Stunning Blue Eyes” and too vain to call it “Out-Of-Bed Hair.” So Zits and Wrinkles it is, the glory of being 28.

I spent the weekend in the Milwaukee suburbs watching my friends Kay and Hasan get married. Hasan is Turkish, and on Friday night, his mother and sisters shared this Turkish tradition with Kay and her friends and family. I made a pretty rough heart out of my glob of henna paste, but it definitely “took.” This pic is from Saturday morning, but the heart is definitely still there today.

It was a very fun and very special weekend, and I’m glad so many of us got to share it with the happy couple!

Greetings, internet.

I am logging in from a weekend of boat rides, movies, nachos, rosé, wandering, feller, Bossypants and season 1 of Nip/Tuck to tell you that I just did the crazy cat ladiest thing I have ever done.

So, I* leave dry food out for Bear & Lily all day, but then I also feed them one large can of wet food a day, half in the morning and half in the evening. The cans live on a shelf in the pantry (fine, we don’t have a pantry, the cans are stacked up in front of our DVD collection, whatever, it’s New York) until I open them. When I have opened them and fed the ladies the first half, I refrigerate what’s left in the can, like it says to do.

But whenever I serve them the cold half of the can, they balk. It’s really cold! Our fridge works! That’s some cold-ass pâté! It takes athletic chewing and nonsensitive teeth, I guess. Lily sort of nudges at it and wanders off, and then Bear, who balks at no food, eats Lily’s after hers. Not fair to my gal Lil!

So just now, I pulled a cold half-can of Turkey Formula (I feed them a really expensive, fancy brand of food {in other words, one that does not have the word “fancy” in the title}, but they’re still “formulas,” don’t judge) out of the fridge. I looked at the congealed juices solidified at the top of the pâté loaf and the bottom of the can. I touched the cold, dry parts in between. And I thought, “If I were them, I’d want to eat this warm.”

And then, without thinking, I ripped the paper label off the can, turned the stove on low, and plunked that sucked on our front right burner.

I’m sure the inside of these cans are lined with something toxic that shouldn’t be heated up. I’m sure they are not like the tin cans you see cowboys heatin’ thur beans up in when they’re drivin’ cattle and/or hunting Josh Brolin with the girl who should have been Katniss. But 30-45 seconds on a low burner was just enough for that congealed goop to animate into clearish turkey sauce, and then when I stirred it into the rest of the meatloaf (It really is meatloaf—no fillers! That is why it is so expensive and why we must continue to live in a place where my DVD shelf stores my cat food), it all got warm and mushy. I was no longer cutting cold congealed chunks into my cats’ dishes, I was stirring in a sauce (and 1/4 of a canine Prozac, for Lily, who yes, is a feline, but they do not make cat Prozac)!

Obviously, they inhaled it. Now they are sitting on the floor/our new air conditioner’s box, licking their chops and staring at me for more. My apartment is filled with the toasty, confusing smell of warm Turkey Formula.

I feel brilliant and also, naturally, like I have gone completely off the rails.