I'm Still Kicking! - ghostriter's Blog - Bakersfield.com

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!!!

Fri, 30 Oct 2009 14:11:06 PDT

Here's a great big hug for all my friends out there in BlogLand. Happy Halloween!!!

Compounding Stupidity

Fri, 09 Oct 2009 14:18:48 PDT

I just read something that tends to negate my belief that those who run television networks have brains or education. It seems that professional muckraker Rush Limbaugh will be judging the Miss America pageant. Apparently there is no end to the stupidity of these beauty contests. I can actually picture a bunch of guys sitting around having a few beers, trying to come up with ideas to add scandal to an already exploitative show. Not only will they have a lineup of lovely ladies prancing around, each trying to prove she is more beautiful than everyone else, but they will be accompanied and judged by the most opinionated, self-centered, scandalous jerk in the country. I hope the owners of the pageant are planning on doing away with the speech portions of the pageant; Limbaugh won't let anyone get a word in crosswise, anyway. Let's just hope they don't let him try to sing. If they do, every news program in the US will be featuring the song stylings of Rush Limbaugh as their breaking news the next morning, in which case eating breakfast, for me, will be futile since it will all come right back up again.

If you haven't already done so, boycott these stupid pageants. I did years ago, and I refused to allow my children to watch them, either. If you don't turn it off for the principle of pageant exploitation, do it to save your own ears from loud, lewd Limbaugh.

Stash

Thu, 08 Oct 2009 13:38:21 PDT

Little Stash is doing so well now, and is growing to be a beautiful little boy! His tail has healed completely and is indeed part of his adorable personality. He is like the class clown in our house. When the other cats are trying to act regal, Stash is the one who does something wild to wake everyone up. He likes to hide around corners waiting for one of his buddies to come into pouncing range. The hallway is the kitty racetrack, with Stash and one or more of the other cats chasing one another back and forth at breakneck speed. It is so fun to watch.

Stash is also one of the absolute cuddliest kitties I have ever had. He loves to climb down from the back of the sofa and drape himself around my neck like a collar, which makes stitching or watching TV rather difficult at times. And his purr can be heard throughout the room, even over the TV sound. When I get up, he follows me anywhere I go in the house. He tried to follow me out to the garage once, and it took me 20 minutes to get him to come back to me; there was so many places for him to explore and climb on, and he was having too much fun.

So, thank you SO very much to those who donated for Stash's care. He is a completely wonderful little spirit and totally worth the cost and effort to save him.

What's The Excuse THIS Time?

Wed, 09 Sep 2009 15:22:24 PDT

Okay, it's happening again. I filled up my car last night and paid a teeth-swallowing three bucks a gallon. WHY? What is their excuse this time? What is the reason the gasoline companies are giving for this latest episode of price gouging? Did some misguided fool consider insulting the Muslim prophet again and bring the Middle East to the brink of war? (Oh, yeah, I forgot, the Middle East has been at war or on the verge of it since Christ was a corporal.) Or did some moronic speculator insinuate that gas prices MIGHT rise again next year, prompting gas stations to run out lickety-split and change their signs? I want to know why we are being gouged again. I am even more curious to know why no one seems to be balking at this but me.

This is what seems to happen at regular intervals. The gas companies jack up the prices to some ludicrous number they know consumers will scream about. Then, when people start to believe that it will never get any better, the prices are dropped to something almost as painful but not quite as ridiculous. That's the public pacifier. The oil companies are still raking in cash manicured hand over bejeweled fist, but since they dropped the price a little, people think these magnanimous billionaires are doing them a favor. I remember the first time this happened, about ten years ago. Gas prices climbed to $1.99, and the public gasped in horror. Then it went up to an astronomical two-fifty a gallon. People everywhere were screaming "foul". And then the public pacifier; the prices went back down a bit. Suddenly two bucks a gallon felt like a lace had broken in our financial corsets, allowing us to breathe a bit. And that false fresh breath continued to hover over us for a while. The gas companies got their wish; they raised prices to two dollars a gallon, and no one complained anymore.

When the gas prices flew up to four-fifty a gallon last year, I knew this would happen. Eventually, the price would drop to three bucks or so, and since it's not four dollars anymore, the public is duly quelled and appropriately grateful to those wonderful billionaire oil barons again. Well, I'm not fooled. I am SICK AND TIRED of shelling out ridiculous amounts of money for gasoline just so some fat-cat CEO can buy a million-dollar bling for his latest girlfriend. I'd rather use my money for something frivolous for me or my family...say, electricity or water, for instance, which aren't getting any cheaper, either.

Refuse to be pacified. Three dollars a gallon is NOT a reasonable price, especially since everyone else in the lower forty-eight pays fifty cents a gallon less. But that is another gripe.

A Really Big Burger

Fri, 28 Aug 2009 13:40:35 PDT

My oldest boy came to my office yesterday to take me to lunch. This is a real treat; in the time I have worked here, I can count on one hand the times Alex has been here. But he had a couple hours to kill between his classes, so he took pity on poor old Mom and came to brighten my day. When he asked where we could go, I suggested Moo Creamery, which is directly across the parking lot from my office. "Great," he said, "I'm starving and I want a really big burger."

When we got there, I ordered my favorite salad, and Alex ordered a bacon double cheeseburger. The cashier told him that the bacon cheeseburger usually only came with one patty, but she would be happy to have the chef slap another patty on the grill for him. "Great," Alex told her, "and add a side of fries, too."

When our orders came out, we both nearly dropped our teeth. The chef/owner set a plate before Alex, in the center of which was the biggest burger we had ever seen. "Good Luck," she said as she walked away. As Alex contemplated the monster meal in front of him, the lady sitting at the next table leaned toward us. "I just want to see you try and bite into that," she said with a big grin. Alex not only bit into it; he finished that huge burger before I could finish my salad. I guess he was starving. The chef returned, and patted Alex on the back. "I'm impressed; I didn't think you could do it," she beamed, and then she put the untouched fries in a "doggy box" for us to take. As we sat there digesting, the lady at the next table spoke up again. "My son is coming home from college soon; I'm bringing him here to get one of those burgers."

"Great," Alex replied, with a quiet burp. "Just tell him he won't need the fries."

Help Save a Kitty

Fri, 21 Aug 2009 15:36:46 PDT

A week ago today, an injured kitten, about six months old, came to the back of our office with the ferals, looking for food. He was very friendly, and seemed to be looking for affection as well. Since he had not been there the day before, I assumed he had been dumped in the lot next to our building the night before; sadly, this happens quite often. But this kitty was different in two ways: one, he was fearless and affectionate, and two, his tail was badly injured. It looked as if it had literally been ripped in half, the fleshless bone jutting from an infected, open wound. But despite this grievously painful injury, this kitten showed no aggression, fear, or skittishness. I knew he would die if left with the feral colony, either from starvation or from the infected tail; I put him in a kitty carrier and took him home with me.

This is not the first time I have done this, nor will it be the last. I have been doing pet rescue for years, and I know that sometimes rescue means humane euthanasia. But I also know that some of my charges are very special, and this little boy is one of those. He will be a kitty who cheers his family when no one else can, who makes it wonderful to come home at the end of the day. He is a kitty with a lot of love to give; he deserves the chance to give it, and his potential family deserve the chance to receive it. And so I took him to my vet. It wasn't good news; Stash, as I had named him, alluding to his little brown fur mustache, needed the remainder of his tail amputated. He tested negative for FELV (feline leukemia, a debilitating, fatal feline disease) and except for his tail and a yukky case of fleas, he was in good health. The vet said he could do the surgery that day, and that he would neuter Stash at the same time. He said he would allow me to pay for the treatment in two installments, and I gave my consent.

I know that I am the one who takes this on, of my own free will, with no regrets. But this time, I am truly financially strapped, more so than usual, due to various unforseen problems. Stash's vet bill came to $475, half of which I paid the day I picked him up. But I am a loss as to where I am going to come up with the other half before September 17th, when it is due. And so, for the very first time ever, I am looking to my blog buddies. Do you have it in your heart to help me save this adorable kitten? He is so sweet, and absolutely beautiful, even though he only has an inch and a half of tail left; actually, his tiny tail adds to his personality! I am hoping my animal-loving blog friends will pitch in with donations to help pay Stash's vet bills. If you can do so, even if it is only a little, please contact me via email or message on the blog. I am attaching some photos of little Stash. He is six months old according to the vet, and will be a beautiful cat. And by all means, if you fall in love with him, you're welcome to adopt him. He will add untold love and joy to your home.

Gesundheit....

Fri, 24 Jul 2009 14:09:32 PDT

I hate sneezing. I really hate it. Sneezes come at the most inopportune moments, like when you're attempting to pass a swerving semi truck at eighty miles an hour, or during the vows at someone's wedding. Sneezes often cause numerous other annoying and mortifying side effects, too; if you are a woman and have given birth more than once, you know exactly what I mean. That said, the last thing I want when gripped by a sneezing fit is for anyone to call attention to it. The point I am trying to make is, why do we feel the need to bestow verbal blessings upon hearing anyone sneeze? Even total strangers receive our best wishes with every nasal explosion. Speeches, dinner dates, even arguments are subject to interruption. Regardless of how angry you are at someone, you will stop mid-rant to respond if they sneeze. "How many times do I have to tell you...gesundheit...."

Why do we do this? Personally, I think it is one of those traditions that we could do away with. I suggest we follow our own sneezes with the response of our choosing. When I sneeze, I am not interested in blessings. My word of choice happens to be dammit.

World Trade Center

Thu, 11 Jun 2009 21:34:27 PDT

When I lived back east, a friend of mine and I used to take a drive to upstate New York together on occasions when she needed to pick up her children from their dad's home. On the way, we enjoyed stopping at the World Trade Center for lunch. We would grab something yummy to eat and sit in the courtyard, staring up at the awesome towers and having a blast just watching people. When we had the time to spend, we actually took a trip up the elevators to Windows On The World. We never ate there; we couldn't afford it, really, and were not dressed for it. But oh, the view! It was absolutely breathtaking. I will never forget it, and fervently wish that I could take my husband and my stepkids up there and share it with them.

When the towers fell, I was sad, not only for the obvious reasons, but because I had wonderful memories of that great place, which I would ever see again. Since 9-11, I have taken to looking for the World Trade Center in movies. I smile when I see the towers, standing tall and proud and beautiful. My most recent WTC "sighting" was last weekend, while watching Trading Places with Dan Aykroyd and Eddie Murphy. I like that one. Not only is it a really fun movie, but the WTC is not simply in the background. It is up close and personal. Near the end of the movie, Aykroyd and Murphy actually walk between the towers; you can see the distinctive decorative construction along the bottom that is recognizable to everyone as one of the largest pieces recovered from Ground Zero. I remember walking between the towers in the exact same spot with my friend, and it is a great memory. The movie brings it back for me. Not the horror or the grief; the happy times I spent there.

Do you ever see the World Trade Center in movies or TV shows? What have you seen the towers in? How does it make you feel? Or do you have something else that you look for while watching movies, something that brings back a happy memory for you? I would like to hear about it. I would also like to find out if there are other WTC bytes out there. I'd like to see them...for old times' sake, you know.

Slobs

Tue, 09 Jun 2009 17:25:43 PDT

You never know who could be watching you at any given moment. For example, if you pull up into the parking lot of an office building and park in front of a large, mirrored window, you should assume that there is someone sitting on the other side of that window working at their desk. It is also safe to assume that this person is bored out of their mind and just dying for something interesting to look at outside their window. That person could even be me. Actually, if you happen to be one of the two men who pulled their El Camino into the parking space directly on the other side of the window from my desk today, it was me. I was watching you from the minute you parked.

The first thing I noticed was that the car did not seem to be very clean. This is Bakersfield, however. Dirty cars are a given, especially after the light, misty spray that occurs on rare occasions, which some people call "rain". Since it nearly rained a couple days ago, I gave the dirty car a pardon. But when the two men climbed out, each holding a Styrofoam cup the size of a gallon of milk, my attention was caught. I happen to be the unfortunate individual who has been charged with informing patients that they must leave their drinks and food outside. And so, I noted the huge drink cups and hoped they were empty, which they were. This fact was immediately apparent when the two men took a final slurp from their straws and proceeded to toss the cups into the lovely flower bed outside my window. I drew in my breath in outrage. How dare they! I was so incensed by this that I determined to ask the men when they entered the building to go right back outside and pick up their trash. I thought better of it, though, when I realized that our waiting room was packed with the late-afternoon crowd. It would have been grossly unprofessional of me to pick an argument with the two men in the presence of witnesses. Therefore, I decided to do them and my office a favor by taking care of their trash for them. Outside I went, without a word to the slobs (although, I must admit, I threw them a glare as I passed). I picked up the Styrofoam cups from the flower bed and deposited them into the nearest trash receptacle...or at least, the next best thing.

I would love to have been a fly on the wall when those guys found their trash in the back seat of their El Camino. They really should not have left the windows open. This is Bakersfield, after all. Someone could take something out of their car...or in this case, return it to where it belongs.

Unfortunately, I am sure the Styrofoam will find its way into someone else's yard. But at least those guys will know that someone was watching them be slobs.

Music?

Tue, 02 Jun 2009 21:40:59 PDT

Once upon a time, I was an avid music lover. I spent high school and college singing with a few bands, attending every rock concert available, and blowing out the speakers of all my dad's cars. My parents yelled through my bedroom door to "turn that noise down" at least every hour for about six years. I once considered hiring a private detective to track down two hundred CDs that some jerk stole from my car. But my love of music died very recently. More specifically, in the last two and a half years, around the time I started working for my current employer. That was when I discovered that it was possible to hate a song so much that you could spend hours awake at night in an attempt to exorcize the infuriating tune and moronic lyrics from your head.

The reason for my workplace torture is that one of my coworkers decided long ago that the office radio is her own personal domain. She is the only person allowed to touch the thing, regardless of the fact that she is not the one who actually owns it. And every day, from open to close, all we are subjected to is the so-called "hits" upchucked by KLLY95. This amounts to about seven lousy songs that are played ad nauseum, at least five times every single hour. And so our ears are assailed by such untalented individuals as Beyonce, Britney Spears, and some woman who can't seem to come up with a reason to finally write a love song for some unnamed guy. It really gets interesting when I am working with a preteen patient and her mother, trying desperately to keep up my contact lens monologue while the strains of "rolling 'round on me in between the sheets" plays in the background. It's very embarrassing.

Before you ask, we have tried numerous times to either change the channel or turn the thing off altogether. No matter what we do, KLLY comes back like an evil spirit, ready to haunt us again. Someone kissed a girl who shoulda put a ring on it, and it's too late to apologize because it starts at your toes and goes to your nose...on, and on, and on. Talking to the radio queen is fruitless. She refuses to hear of it, even though even she complains about some of the crummy KLLY selections. We think we have figured out part of the reason why, though. It is really kind of a high-school-crush thing, involving her boyfriend...whose name is KELLY.

So, do any of you great bloggers out there have a suggestion for those of us at my office who have begun humming show tunes to ourselves rather than listen to that inane radio anymore? And just so you know, I already suggested that Mr. Kelly change his name, hopefully prompting his girlfriend to change the radio station. However, I don't think he wants to be known hereafter as KRAB.

The Ultimate Insult

Wed, 06 May 2009 12:37:21 PDT

The link below leads to an article I just read. It hit me so close to home that I had to bring attention to it. The article concerns Nikki Catsouras, a beautiful eighteen-year-old girl who was killed in an horrific accident in her father's car. The particulars of the crash are in the article. What I am trying to call attention to here, and hopefully to gain support for, is the family's legal and emotional battle to have death-scene photos of their daughter blocked from further Internet publishings. It seems that some of our fine, upstanding CHPs took photos of the gruesome gore at the scene and then forwarded them to their friends and family. The CHP officers were summarily suspended, and one of them resigned. The rest is history. The photos are now a popular Google topic, since so many morons can't resist the lure of blood and guts photography. I, myself, did a search for Nikki's name, only to find that I had to scroll through three pages of search results before I found a true memorial site for Nikki whose headline did not advertise those horrible pictures. (No, I did not look at the photos, in case you asked.) This poor family is confronted by these photos on nearly a daily basis, and this injustice has affected all their lives, exponentially multiplying the pain of losing their daughter and sister.

Anyone who has read my blog knows that I lost my youngest son, Jordan, to an accidental gunshot a few years ago. Due to the nature of Jordan's death, we received accusing phone calls from strangers and acquaintances for a while after the accident. Those were devastating enough. But if I'd been subjected to what the Catsouras family has endured because of the circulation of those photos, I would have gone with Jordan a long time ago. Not only does my heart go out to them, but I feel a kinship with them, and a desire to see an end to this horribly intrusive injustice.

Please, read the article, and pass it on. Even in America, some things should remain sacred. The circulation of death-scene photos dehumanizes everyone involved, and this unconscionable practice must stop.

http://www.newsweek.com/id/195073/page/1

Kittens

Wed, 06 May 2009 09:56:28 PDT

Well, Snoopy's kittens will be six weeks old this coming Sunday. They have grown into beautiful kittens, and because they receive lots of attention and affection, they are very social little babies. There are two black boys, a black girl, a tiger striped girl and a fluffy gray and white girl. These kittens have been an infinite source of joy and entertainment in our home since their birth, and every day, as I cuddle one of them, I wish I could keep them all. However, since I do not own an animal shelter and I am not interested in going to the funny farm for being a cat hoarder, I must find homes for our darling babies, as well as their mom, who started out as a rescue in our home before we discovered that she was enciente. Snoopy, however, will be staying a little longer with us after the kittens are weaned. If you read my past blog posts about her and her kittens, Snoopy is a petite kitty. The birth of the kittens, and her subsequent nursing of them, has taken a lot out of her already tiny body. Despite being very well fed and cared for during the past weeks, she is painfully thin, and will need high-calorie, high-protein food and supplements after the kittens are weaned. Once she is back to her beautiful self, she will be up for adoption as well.

If you have room in your heart and home for a new baby, or if you know someone who does, please contact me through the blog, or via email at imstillkicking@msn.com. Only when I have placed all of my darlings in safe, loving homes, will my mission in rescuing them be complete.

Flu vs. Fruit

Wed, 29 Apr 2009 14:32:12 PDT

For over a year now, I have been buying fresh fruit and homemade tamales from a little Mexican girl and her mom. They come by my office with flats of strawberries, mangoes, and melons in the spring and summer, and tamales in the fall and winter. I am a sucker for this stuff. It reminds me of when I lived in the Philippines, and vendors would come to my door with fruit, veggies, and the best fresh seafood I have ever had.

Today, my vendor came to my office again, and she had fresh strawberries and melon, and plastic containers full of some delicious-looking sliced mango, which I just love; I bought a package. But as I sat at my desk munching mango, my two coworkers watched me with looks of disgust and horror painted all over their faces. "How can you eat that?" one asked. "Now you're gonna get swine flu" said the other. I never even considered any of this, but my coworkers seem to be terrified of this swine flu thing. Nevermind that we work in a doctor's office and are exposed to many people on a daily basis. Iif we are going to get swine flu, we will most likely get it from one of the hundred or so souls who walk through our door every day.

I really doubt that I am doomed to contract swine flu from eating a nice, fresh piece of fruit. If I were, I think I'd already have it; the strawberries I had for breakfast this morning came from the same place as the mango. I bought them last week, and my family is not sick yet. But along with my nonchalant lack of fear comes something else: the refusal to panic over every perceived threat that is broadcast over the digital wires. Every day, I listen to well-dressed, well-paid anchor people tell me about yet another danger lurking around the corner waiting to kill me. Bird flu, mad cow, cancer of the hair...it is all the same. Some will get it...others will not. When it comes down to the skeleton of the matter, we all, each and every one of us, is going to die of the exact same thing. That certain killer is called...DEATH. It'll get us all in the end, and sometimes it gets creative, like, say, using a flu virus from a pig. The point is, I refuse to worry about it. I take precautions, like anyone else. Actually, I probably take more of them because I work in the medical field. I wash my hands at least twenty times a day, and I use hand sanitizer every time I return to my work station. In my line of work, it is just smart. And, largely due to that, I think, I rarely get sick. But, sometimes, in spite of my workplace cleanliness, I do get sick. It happens. But having lived through an extremely stressful several years, I have come to one conclusion: the stress of worry will kill you faster than any of that other stuff.

So, here I sit at my desk, finishing the last of my mango. It is really yummy. And I will probably buy some more next week, when my friend comes by again. I know these people, and I trust them. I will not by hi-tailing it down to Cabo for a vacation anytime soon, though. I'll wait for the swine flu to pass. Maybe I can get a weekend in then, just before the next plague shows its face. And it surely will. It's always something.

Snoopy and the Gang

Wed, 01 Apr 2009 12:48:58 PDT

Snoopy's kittens are now ten days old, and they are beginning to open their eyes. They are also showing signs of distinct personalities. They also have names. The two larger black boys are nearly identical, and are named Linus and Woodstock. Linus is the strongest and most vocal of the babies, and from my bedroom, I can hear his meow through the closed door to the dressing room. The little silver-gray girl is Sally; the darker striped girl is Lucy. And the smallest, the little black boy who nearly died, is Charlie Brown.

Snoopy is a wonderful mama, but she does enjoy getting out of her room sometimes, while the kittens are sleeping. I let her out for a break when I am home from work, when I can monitor the situation. She never goes farther than my bedroom, though, and can always hear when the babies call her. She is also very protective and vigilant, even when she is out and about. One day, Diesel, one of my other cats, dared enter the dressing room, and he tried to poke his head through the open closet door and investigate. That didn't fly one bit with Snoopy, who immediately flew off the bed where she was having a good cuddle and ran to the rescue. Now, Diesel and Snoopy usually get along well, which is good since Deez is at least three of Snoopy. At twenty-seven pounds of solid muscle, Deez is our largest cat. But that did not faze Snoopy one bit. She chased Diesel out of that bathroom, growling like she was a mother Siberian tiger, and Deez actually ran! I think he was completely shocked that little Snoopy would go after him like that. He, along with the other "kids" in our home, are much more careful when they go near the master bath now. Mama Snoopy is always on the watch.

Unlike humans, who tend to gain lots of weight during pregnancy, cats use much of their body fat to nourish the kittens, and are often quite thin immediately after kittening. (I sure wish I was a cat!) They need high-calorie high-protein food to give good milk and regain their weight. Snoopy is beginning to fill out again after giving birth, and her fur is soft and shiny again. She is also playful and mischievous again, reminding us that, although Snoopy is a mother, she is still very young.

Next week, the babies will start to move around a little more. Things should get really interesting then; stay tuned!

New Babies

Tue, 24 Mar 2009 09:57:01 PDT

Several weeks ago, just before we moved into our new house, a friend of mine asked for a favor. She had been feeding a young cat who was the sole survivor of a litter that some heartless cretin had thrown into the creek behind her house. She noticed that this kitty, smaller than the other ferals she was feeding, seemed to be picked on quite a bit by the other cats. She also seemed more tame, and my friend was able to coax her into being touched. "Can you take this kitty and find a home for her?" my friend asked. I said I would try, and the next day she brought the kitty to my office. The first thing I noticed about the kitty was that she was absolutely gorgeous, with fluffy, solid black fur and huge gold eyes. The next thing I noticed, a short time later, was that my new rescue kitty was pregnant.

It is possible to spay a pregnant queen, but I just can't bring myself to do it. And so we watched as the kitty got bigger every week. We named her Snoopy, since she never met a cabinet or closet that did not need exploring. Snoopy's little belly grew to the point that it nearly brushed the floor, and it had to be as big around as she was long. I began to worry, since she is a small kitty and I have had petite queens who had difficulty delivering their kittens. But I underestimated this kitty.

Saturday night, Snoopy started acting like she was ready to deliver. She meowed frequently, and her meows had a different quality than her usual soft voice. She tried desperately to open the closet door in my dressing room. Ready for a long night, I took a pillow and blanket into the dressing room and prepared for a kittening vigil. I managed to stay awake until four a.m., but nothing had happened yet, and I fell asleep. It was seven thirty when I jolted up, looking for Snoopy. I found her in my closet, two kittens nursing, and a third, still encased in the amniotic sac, cold as ice. I was devastated; I had left her, and a kitten had died as a result. I picked up the cold kitten, wrapped it in a wash cloth and held it, with the intention of burying it later. But to my shock, the dead kitty let out a meow! I pulled the membranes away and ran a sink of warm water, and then immersed the cold kitten in the water up to its neck. After a couple minutes in the warm water, the kitty began to move. I dried him and placed him with his mother, who started licking his face, as if to say, "Oh, I thought you were gone! Glad to see you, son!"

I watched and helped, when I could, as Snoopy delivered two more kittens. I had been concerned about her young age and inexperience, but she cared for her babies expertly, as if she were an older, more experienced queen. I was thankful that I'd acquired her early, and that she'd had time to know me. She trusted me completely, and only became agitated when anyone other than myself or my husband entered the dressing room.

As I write, the kittens are two days old and thriving. Snoopy dislikes the isolation, having become accustomed to sleeping with us at night and having a morning cuddle before we left for work, and so I visit her for a cuddle-time as often as I can. She is a wonderful mama, and her babies promise to be every bit as beautiful as she is. When they are old enough, they will be up for adoption, as will Snoopy. Alas, I can't keep them all, and when they are adopted, I will be doing a lot of crying. But that is part of pet rescue. As a rescuer, we go into it knowing that we cannot keep every foster that we care for, and that with every one who is adopted goes a little piece of our heart. But still, we do it, always with the hope that the families who adopt our babies will love them as much as we do.

Stay tuned for updates, and more photos of Snoopy and her babies.

Manic Thursday

Fri, 20 Mar 2009 14:26:43 PDT

Yesterday, there was a full moon. I am certain of it. No, I realize that the full moon was last week, but I am convinced that we were being influenced by the full moon on another planet in some parallel universe or something. All day long, we encountered people at our office who acted as if they had escaped from the psych ward. By the time my lunch hour came, I was seriously thinking of drinking my lunch.

First, a woman came in who is honestly in the running for one of the five worst people I have ever dealt with in my entire career. She started out by berating the first person she saw when she walked in and continued to escalate her language to the level of truly abusive. The doctor came out and ousted the cretin from our building when she started getting physical with one of our staff, who was reduced to tears by the entire episode. I am seriously considering sending this woman a note in a plain white envelope with one single question: "Do you really think it is wise to threaten strangers who know your address?"

Later, a man came in who simply would not stop talking, no matter what. He monopolized my friend for ten minutes, during which she was unable to do any work or attempt to help any of the people lining up at her desk behind Mr. Motormouth. In an attempt to rescue her, I finally picked up my phone and called her on the other line. She talked to me on the phone as if I were a patient until the guy finally backed away. I was glad to see him finally sit down, and I know she was relieved. She was getting really tired of hearing the intimate details of his divorce, I could just tell. I think the other patients in the waiting room were sick of hearing about it, too.

Then, a woman brought in the most obnoxious child I have seen in a long time. This girl was ten years old and had the nastiest attitude I have seen in a child that age since...well, since I was that age. (I was a real brat for a while. Still am, actually.) She spoke to me and to her mother as if we were nothing but gnats who were flying in her face, annoying her. Normally, I really love kids, and I am good with them. I can almost always cheer up a child who is upset because they need glasses, or because they don't need them, which happens more often. Not this kid. She was one big drag, from start to finish. I looked at her chart and discovered that the girl was on two antidepressants. I shudder to think what the brat would have been like without them.

I was so glad to see five-thirty finally roll around, and I crawled into my car anticipating going home to a quiet house, loving kitties, a playful dog and a vodka tonic. My day was not over, however. On the way home on the 58 freeway, a woman in a silver SUV with an Arizona license plate passed me, and I was shocked by what I saw; she was reading a book while driving! She had a paperback open and propped on the steering wheel, and I watched as she repeatedly looked down at the book, then glanced up, and down again. I honked my horn at her. When she looked in my direction, I rotated my finger around the side of my head in a classic "you're crazy" gesture. She threw a different gesture at me, and then accellerated to at least 90 and flew down the freeway ahead of me. At least she put down the book first. It was about then that I spotted one of those "report drunk drivers; call 911" signs, and I seriously considered calling and reporting her for DUI. How are the cops to know that, in this case, DUI means Driving UnIntelligent.

So far, today has been relatively uneventful. Oh, wait...I'd better knock wood. You never know when the next full moon will occur...somewhere.

2Tat or Not 2Tat

Fri, 13 Mar 2009 00:52:49 PDT

If you are looking for Lindsay Lohan's "ghost" tattoo, this is not it. However, I truly believe this guy could do it for you, were you so inclined.

When my son, Alex, decided to get his first tattoo, we both scoped out several places, including the establishment where I got my first one. Luckily, Alex was introduced to a new tatt parlor by a friend of his, and that is where he went.

The place is called "Pretty In Ink" and it is located just off Oak and Truxtun, across the parking lot from Jake's TexMex Restaurant. The place is run by a husband and wife team, who are both apparently gifted artists. I was in attendance as Alex received his first ink, a tribute to his love for automotives, and of Chevy V8 trucks in particular. When I saw the black outline work, the first step in a multi-faceted project, I really liked it. But when Alex went back for the color stage of the project, I was floored by the detail and vibrance of the colors and shadows. They did such phenomenal work that I began planning the design for MY next tatt, with the intention of having the artists at Pretty In Ink make it a reality.

Check out the photos of Alex's artwork. To hear him tell it, the design is not quite done. However, I think it rocks, just the way it is. I look forward to having the folks at our new favorite tatt studio do my next piece. I would unequivocably recommend Pretty In Ink. Their work is excellent.

Preaching Out of Church

Tue, 10 Mar 2009 10:40:02 PDT

Yesterday morning, my first patient was a nicely-dressed lady who wished to be examined for a new contact lens prescription. She had run out of contacts, and her glasses were broken, so she was without any reliable vision correction. I asked her how long she had been without contacts; she answered cheerfully, "oh, about six months." When I asked why she had procrastinated her exam, she said, "I didn't have the money before, but I'm fine. God takes care of me and I put my trust in him."

I get this type of answer nearly every day. Why, oh WHY, do some people feel the compulsion to throw their religion into the face of every person they come in contact with? I can only imagine the look on my doctor's face if I went to her office, asked for a refill on my asthma medication, and added off the cuff, "But I am okay; I look out for myself because I am an atheist." She'd probably prescribe some antipsychotics with my Advair.

There is no professional situation that invites religious commentary, unless, of course, you happen to be at a church or seminary school. Comments like the one my patient slapped me with are tantamount to asking, "so, are you a believer like me, or do you need 'saving'?" Any comment I could make to that, other than, "well, okay, then", would open up a dialogue that I would rather not discuss, especially at work, and I am certain my boss would agree with me. Those remarks do nothing but make the person on the receiving end feel uncomfortable, rather like a betta in a bowl. Everyone is listening, now, what do YOU believe in?

When you go to the doctor, bring your medication list, your medical history, and any complaints or problems you have. Bringing us coffee or snacks is always welcome, as well. But please, leave your religion in the car.

A Truly Sad Day

Fri, 20 Feb 2009 17:23:01 PST

Today I've done a lot of crying.

First, it was while reading the account of the funeral of 8-year-old Brandon, who was killed by a hit-and-run moron a few days ago. Then, later in the day, I found a story about little baby Diesel, who died from the cancer that he was being treated for. He was only four months old. And finally, when I logged on for the last time before leaving work, I read about Darlene, the lovely Tehachapi lady who recently married her sweetheart, knowing she only had a few days left before her cancer took her. She got to enjoy being married to Scott for only twelve days; she died today.

Three wonderful spirits, three lives that should have lasted far longer. My heart goes out to them and to their families. But also, I am reminded of my own sweet boy who left five years ago. I miss him so much.

Who knows...maybe, wherever Jordan is now, he has three more friends to keep him company until I can be with him.

Oh, man...crying again.

Have a loving weekend, friends. Enjoy those you love. Treasure every minute that you spend in their company. Have fun.

Bad Air

Fri, 06 Feb 2009 15:04:10 PST

The air here is toxic, I swear. I have been using my inhaler regularly all day, but sometimes I think it is better not to breathe at all. I fear for my own health and safety should I take a deep breath and inhale the noxious fumes into my lungs. My coworkers have also been affected by this pollution, and so we take turns going on breaks...outside, into the fresh Bakersfield air.

You thought I was speaking of the notoriously horrible air quality in Bakersfield, didn't you? Well, actually, today, the air is wonderful and clear. It has been raining sporadically all day, and it is truly a breath-of-fresh out there. The toxic fumes I am referring to are emanating from a seemingly harmless source, a little old lady in our optical lab. She is sitting at a dispense table, innocuously trying on frames, and she is making us all nauseous. I personally am seriously allergic to her, and continue to suck on my puffer looking for relief. She is otherwise nicely dressed and friendly, and is truly oblivious to the havoc she is wreaking in our office with her particular version of poison. In case you have not figured out what that poison is, let me give you a hint: It comes in fancy bottles and teenagers often spray unsuspecting patrons with it as they enter a department store. Yep, you guessed it...perfume.

I am thoroughly convinced that some women completely lose their sense of smell when they get older. Perfectly lovely ladies will bathe in bottles of perfume so caustic, I am surprised it doesn't cause acid burns. The nice scents they chose in their younger years and wore tastefully and sparingly give way to gallons of cheap, heavy, florals that should sport labels from the Health Department warning of potential breathing problems for anyone within a fifty-foot radius of the wearer. These "scents" are more aptly described as "odors" and smell positively awful on absolutely everyone. And yet, these ladies see fit to use entire bottles of the stuff before leaving home. I think I may have solved a medical mystery, here. Maybe the reason that men more often predecease their wives is because they have inhaled too much of their spouses' cheap, nasty cologne.

Men, on the other hand, seem to choose better colognes as they get up in years, and they use those colognes carefully. I had a gentleman in my office last week who was in his early seventies. He was casually dressed in jeans, polo shirt and cowboy boots, and his cologne was so heavenly that I was tempted to go sit in his truck while he was in with the doctor, and...just breathe. I ended up asking him for the name of it; I plan on buying some for my husband.

I think the solution is quite obvious. Ladies, just let your husbands choose your perfume for you. As far as I can tell, men have better noses. And repeat after me: less is more, less is more....