2001
| July 30, 2001 It's been a long, hard 6 months on my project and 13 months now battling my son's leukemia, that tuned my life upside down. The project wrapped - for we are in shakedown mode now and will release by Saturday. The 4th. End of quarter. We are launching this first class, Advanced Chip Synthesis eLearning Workshop, in the middle of a bad year in the valley. Travel went. Training is on hold. Companies are scrambling. So, having completed this compressed schedule, earn while you learn adventure, my part for the most part being completed, I slept this weekend. First time in months. I read. I hung up the drapes I had purchased 6-8 months ago. I relaxed. Just a tad. Which means that I feel so much better! My family room looks closer to human-inhabitable. Just another week or so of work and I might even like it! So I am basically happy. Still tired. But happy. That still doesn't give the cat permission to get into my room or, horrors, up on my bed. Advantage is good but I do draw the line. The one time the dog climbed up I sent her airborne with my foot. Followed by the cat. Trim still likes to lurk in her bed until I turn over (on the theory that I will not see her) and then she will sneak out of her bed and get next to me in mine. She on the floor. The problem is, at nearly 60 and having had 2 babies, I often get up in the night. And step on her. Or throw out my back trying not to. Step on her. No matter how often I yell, scold and order her to "STAY", she does this. And if, when I am waking up as I often do during the night and discover her out of her bed, all hell breaks lose. I march her right out the back door. She stays in her bed about three nights, and the process starts again. She's smart. Just hasn't figured out how to stop her tag from clanging. I get really ballistic when she lays in the clean yet unfolded laundry that I have managed to kick off the bed. That really gets me. In cold nights, of course, I sleep under it. It's been warm. Or I am having hot-flashes. It's that time of the month - the "give Estrogen a rest" time. My system's timing is like the Internet red worm, those last 10 days of the month are hell. So this evening, feeling slightly punchy for I have actually slept this weekend, and my arms are not quite so sore (I see a doctor in the morning), I was hunting for my heel-softening cream. I have two tubes, but can't seem to locate any. And my heels, callused from wearing sandals at the hospital and especially from walking to the car late at night in the cold wearing back-less sandals, are splitting and peeling. I neglected them for months. Vaseline does help a little. Dr. Scholl's cream helps a lot. So I wandered into my bedroom determined to take care of Momma for once. The cat, Ranger, the orange menace, had snuck into my bedroom (which is now off limits to cats) and was on my bed. This is sacrilege! Especially since, as usual, I have about 3-4 loads of laundry in there. And somewhere in that pile, I have actually washed my Touch Me Miracle Bra - and the bra extender. The bra extender is necessary for me to be able to breathe since I gained 40 lbs sitting at my son's bedside at the hospital. I screamed. It doesn't matter that as soon as I opened the door he had leapt and run out of my room, knowing that he should not have been in there. I yelled. I assisted the cat down the hall (I was barefoot). I scooted him on the carpet. I spanked his butt. He smirked. This is a game with Ranger (who weighs in 10-12 lbs). It won't stop him; he will lurk and dash in again when I am not looking. We do this several times a day. He gets in. I route him out. He gambols and frisks down the hallway. Ha. Ha. Not this time. I am still talking to myself as I stalk back to my room with hurt and tender feet when my younger son, bedridden this week with drug withdrawal symptoms (pain in feet), made the mistake of laughing. He had also made the mistake of rolling over without the sheet, mooning me. Cancer patients like to lay in sheets and no clothes. If you saw the size and number of the stretch marks - one inch or more wide, 5-6 inches long, and super-sensitive, you would understand. They are around his waist, on his back, under his arms. They are painful. But laughing at mother is still not allowed! Oh no! I have a gun. I have a high-powered water pistol I use on the cat. Pump-action. I pumped it up. Oh no you don't! I pumped it up while in his doorway. He defied me, grinning like an idiot. I got him. Chest. Butt. Arms. Curtain. Mattress. He sat up and wiggled his butt on the sheet. "Now you have to change the bed." Laughing like a loon. Ha! I hit him again. He grabbed a quilt for the nether regions. A pillow for back protection. I shot up the fold in the quilt. I had seen at that moment that he had gifted me with a urinal offering so I grabbed it in the other hand, before I spilled it. He tried to hit me with a pillow. "Don't spill the urine!" I yell as I retreat for the moment. I dump this offering (all it needed was to spill that on the new carpet that will already need replacement before I sell the house). I re-pump the gun. For good measure, I shoot him again. The carpet can't get much dirtier. I then stalk the cat. "Oh, Ranger. Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty!" The fool tries to run. He can run, he cannot hide. He is orange. The rug is dirty but it is white. Needless to say, he is now a very wet cat. Cleanest cat in the county. Now if I can just teach him to bury the offerings in the litter pan. He gets even with me later. He purrs and rubs himself on my legs. Leaving cat hair in the Vaseline. The little sneak. |
For information about this file or to report problems in its use email dewhite@best.com