Mill Girl Musings

Smell ya later, 2011

2011-12-31T14:36:00.000-05:00

I love this time of year! Quiet pondering of what has passed and confidence in what is to come.

In 2011, I picnicked below the Eiffel Tower, watched bears in Virginia, and ate curry gravy fries in Montreal. My first real surgery taught me about pain and what it means to be fully vulnerable. I had a moment of ultimate honesty with someone, and it made for a positive turning point in that relationship. I freed myself of back pain after 11 years, and all it took was some gentle yoga poses and stretching. I spent a lot of time with all of my dear Masshole friends. I laughed a lot.

I love these broads.

I went public with this silly blog! It was more terrifying than I expected, and also more rewarding. I appreciate the positive reinforcement I received from you online and in person. It makes up for all the time spent biting my nails at home alone thinking, You’ve gone too far, Ahlquist.

It was a difficult year for many people close to me. I have watched a lot of people hurt and process that hurt. It tugs at me and puts all of my own pains in perspective. But I believe in new beginnings. I believe that January is a magic resetting of the clock. And when I’m frustrated with the crap going on around me, or how I allow myself to be swallowed up in that crap, I always think of a quote from Love Actually (no snickering). After years of harboring a secret love for Juliet, Mark bares his soul at her doorstep. Like an exorcism. And as he walks away, he straightens up and, with resolve, says, “Enough. Enough now.” There’s no better time than NYE to stand up straight and acknowledge you’ve had enough. And that the future, with all of the complications it’s bound to bring, holds a lot of promise.

2012 is going to be fantastic.

xoxo

You didn't really want ANOTHER piece of pie, did you?

2011-11-27T21:19:00.000-05:00

Day 472 of turkey. Shoot me.

I'm in detox mode so that I can get on with life and still fit through my apartment door. I made a raw soup yesterday that was incredible. I know. "Raw soup" sounded like shit to me too. Fuck the raw soup. Bring on . . . something, anything, cooked. But it rocked and I can already feel my ass shrinking to its normal ample size. I'll share the recipe another time.

Because right now, I'm here to help you step away from the pie. Kids, gather 'round. Auntie Kiki is going to share a chapter out of history.

***

I've been reading a lot about Jamestown lately. The Virginia settlement that started in 1607. It's fascinating. If you are every curious, my two cents are as follows:

The Jamestown Experiment, by Tony Williams, is a good primer. Williams is a high school teacher, and his book is highly readable.

After cutting your teeth on that, Love and Hate in Jamestown, by David Price, is a more indepth look at the same story. Written by a journalist, the difference between the two books is striking.

But whatever you do, don't EVER put yourself through this terrible experience. Not even for Colin Farrell. What a terrible waste of time--I blame the screenplay. Dull and confusing if you don't know the story; frustratingly FACTLESS if you've just read two books about the topic. Books that quote journals and letters. Seriously disappointing.

I digress.

Since reading the books, I've asked people what they remember about the Jamestown Settlement. A bartender asked if it was a true story. Someone else said, "Didn't they eat shoes?" Oh, it's better than that. So. Much. Better.

***

So, picture it: It's winter 1610. You've been a lazy fuck all year and didn't store up food like you should have. What food you DO have is crawling with worms. You've pissed off the natives, and they've surrounded your little fort so that you can't leave without *pew* *pew* arrows flying very accurately at you and killing you. But damn it, you're hungry. So maybe you shrug and eat all the horses. And then maybe you look around and realize that the cats and dogs are competing with you to catch rats and mice, so you eat the cats and dogs. *burp* Some time passes, and you are back to eating a half-cup of wormy gruel each day. It's protein, right?

For a little switch up, you begin to chew on the leather of your shoes. Ugg, can you even imagine?

Even I'm disappointed at that joke.

You might become a tad delirious when the shoe thing doesn't work out for you. You watch your fellow colonist lose his everloving mind and leave the fort to forage for snakes or roots or SOMETHING to eat. *pew* *pew* Goner. Shit. What are you going to eat? Wait--shit! You'll try eating excrement! *cough* *spit* Nope. That stuff tastes like shit.

Don't do it, dude. Seriously. I'm shit.

After some time goes by, you begin to have those cartoon daydreams where people start to look like food:

Waikiki Wabbit, 1943

So your ethics loosen a little and you think maybe it wouldn't be such a bad thing to eat your neighbor, the one who died this morning of hunger. Hey, not bad! Raw is tough chewing, and he's a little lean, but who can be picky at a time like this?

Eating the dead becomes the new "black" there at the settlement, but there aren't always dead bodies lying around . . . wait--there are!! We just need to DIG UP THEIR GRAVES! This guy's only been dead three days, how bad can he taste? Well, pretty bad, but no matter. *Mmmm, full tummy*

It's gotten pretty bad at this point; you're actually looking feverishly at people, hoping they kick soon--and hoping it won't be you. But what if you're a seriously screwed up fuck who can't stop thinking about food? And what if you have this . . . idea . . . one night while your pregnant wife is asleep in your arms.

You might convince yourself that it's okay to kill your wife. The baby, of course, you remove from the womb and toss into the river--because, shit, you're not THAT crazy. But back to wifey. Mmmm. Wifey. Perhaps dismembering her body is easier if you dwell on every time she bitched at you for not polishing your boot buckles. Or for that time she was making eyes with Ebenezer over a fresh body last week. Yeah, that'll learn ya, bitch! *shakes salt on body part* *eats*

But you get caught. *wah wahhh* You try to deny it. But people are pissed and hang you by your thumb nails until you confess. After they begin adding weight to your ankles, you do confess. "Yes, I ate that bitch! With a fine Chianti. *ffffff* You're greatly relieved to be put to death. Finally, you are dead. Funny, no one eats your body. 'Cause some people have standards, jerk.

THIS IS ALL TRUE.

Oddly, another faction of colonists upriver did great that same winter, The Starving Time, as it's called. They ate pigs and berries and had no idea what unfortunate things their fellow colonists were up to. Another shipload of colonists had crashed into Bermuda that year and were living the dream all winter. Bet they were a little sad to eventually arrive in Jamestown. The point: It didn't have to happen.

*Auntie Kiki closes book*

***

Go ahead. Have a snack now. Yeah, you don't want any, do you? And I bet raw soup doesn't sound so bad now, does it?

You're welcome.

Dribs and drabs from October

2011-11-06T22:07:00.000-05:00

Yeah, yeah. Bad blogger. I know I've been tardy. But cut a girl some slack. I've been through wind storms and snow storms and power outages. It's been a rough month, yo. Let me catch you up on some of the stuff keeping me busy.

1. I'm addicted to The Wire.
I'm loving this show. I think I'm just about through season 3. And I learned new slang, spoken by Rhonda: "I see you dress left." This naive white gal right here may have rewound that and then paused and considered it for a moment. Then Googled it juuuust to make sure. Tee hee hee.

What? This isn't how YOU watch The Wire? While stitching in a comfy chair?

2. I've been cleaning up a LOT of vomit.
Little Millinocket is having a hard time keeping food down. I was finding vomit everywhere, mostly under my shoe, slipper, sock, whathaveyou. We had just gotten her bowels under control ("TMI, Mumma!"), and now we're working on the food thing. We eat a half portion and wait to make sure it stays down for about 15 minutes. Then we go back for the rest. In this way, she has become hobbit-like, following me back into the kitchen for second breakfast.

3. I heart the Boston Book Festival.
Loving the BBF every year! I listened in on a brilliant panel honoring the 150th anniversary of the Civil War. It was clear that the panelists were happy to be discussing it in Boston and not, oh, say, Mississippi. I know this because they pretty much said so.

Per the website:

Our distinguished speakers include Adam Goodheart, author of 1861: The Civil War Awakening; Tony Horwitz, author of Midnight Rising: John Brown's Raid and the Start of the Civil War, Charles Bracelen Flood, author of Grant's Final Victory, and Harvard president Drew Gilpin Faust, author of This Republic of Suffering. The session will be introduced and moderated by Annette Gordon-Reed, author of the Pulitzer Prize-winning The Hemingses of Monticello and Andrew Johnson. Sponsored by Liz and George Krupp.

4. Friends don't let friends go to Sephora alone.
Because I don't drink alone, after attending the BBF, I decided to go shopping. I am way too much of a hick now to be trusted alone in Sephora. I'm like a bird, drawn to pretty, shiny things.

Once inside, it's every girl for herself.

A nail polish merry-go-round, people!

This is what happens when left to my own devices. Shameful, looking back.

5. I totally occupied Boston.
I went from the pretty Copley Plaza area:

Rocking the Au Bon Pain
streetside on Boylston.

To the Occupy Boston scene:

I'm torn on the whole thing. I worry about its disjointed nature. While there are a lot of brilliant people in every city talking about brilliant things, there are some carnie aspects that bring me down.

What is her point?

To the dude juggling, this is not
--I repeat--NOT Lollapalooza.

A very cute hippie girl offered me an apple while I stood on the sidelines. I heard some people talking about war, and others discussing falafel. I think I'm getting old. I'm still a tree-hugging, bleeding-heart liberal. I just don't want to listen to someone who isn't old enough to vote but is living in a North Face tent on the Greenway.

6. I watched a man spit out his beer. Repeatedly.
I was in Salem, enjoying a sidecar at 43 Church,

when a friend tells me to watch this guy at the bar.

This guy kept taking a swig of beer, then spitting it back in his glass. Watch the game for a bit. Swig beer. Spit. I know we're in a recession, but shit. No need to be drinking your beer three times.

7. I ~~hiked~~ walked a bit.
The clouds were cool one day, and the leaves were almost past peak, so I went to Great Bay National Wildlife Refuge, where I saw absolutely no wildlife and wore the wrong shoes. Mental note: bring wellies next time.

I lied; there were turkeys.

8. I occupied Salem.
All the years I lived in Salem, I never went downtown around Halloween. I threw parties at my apartment instead. This year, with threats of terrible weather, I drove down from NH, hopped the train in Newburyport, took pics, and hooked up with friends for day drinking.

Pedestrian mall

1637 burial ground

These people are being swindled.
I know b/c I used to work here as a tour guide.

Outside the old burial ground is a small park with these stone benches, each carved with a name of someone who was killed during the witch trials. Here is Rebecca Nurse:

Oh, and wait--what's this:

Awesome. Some fat bastard sitting on Giles Corey. Three hundred years later, and he's still groaning, "More weight..."

So much better than those
lame 2-D haunted houses.

Oops, someone forgot something.
Like PANTS.

Whatchu lookin' at, Roger Conant?!

She just kept meowing. And people gave her money.

Don't fuck with a girl packing heat and drinking a martini.

"I'll eat your souuuul."

Noelle and Melanie getting their drink on.


Yes, some babies ARE ugly.

9. I was rendered useless by a freak snowstorm.
A few raindrops in Salem became a snowy nightmare as the train pulled into Newburyport that night. Barely an inch on the ground and trees were down, cars were strewn all over the highway, and the power and heat were out at home. I spent about four days play-camping in my apartment. Long underwear, a serious sleeping bag, a wind-up radio, and a headlamp. I read three books. Not so bad.

Fuck, I don't have a #10. But I've already wasted enough of your time. Off to bed.

When a fried pickle is NOT a fried pickle

2011-10-05T22:00:00.001-04:00

Hey, kids, it's fair season! Despite crumb bum weather, the fam rallied and hit the Deerfield, NH, fair last Thursday. Roll the tape, Gladys.

Art
Every year, I gush over paintings done by the mysterious Ted Nichols (stalking has produced no legit evidence of his existence). He typically does a New England house scene. This year, he added ice fishing to his repertoire.

And then there are the photos.

My, what a lovely photo of an old graveyard. Blue ribbon? Absolutely! And look at this picture next to it...

Gladys, can you zoom in?

Why, for the love of god, did someone 1) take a photo of an accident, 2) frame it, 3) consider it submittable, and 4) take home a blue ribbon? Maybe I should print out the side-by-side pic, frame it, and submit it next year. I'll title it "Injustice."

***

Does this umbrella make me look fat?


I now regret cutting my hair.

Animals
Bear with me here. This is where I high-five all the cows and sheep and take pictures as though they're grandchildren. I promise we'll get back to the snark in a moment.

Awww

So cute I just wanna pinch ya. *pinch* *pinch*

Then, amidst all the adorableness, is this fucker.

This is a guinea hen. Pros: eats mosquitoes and acts as a guard dog. Cons: These miserable prick birds have a loud scream that sounds like "buckWHEAT buckWHEAT buck-fucking-WHEAT." And if you are, say, a teenager regularly woken by them in the morning and freak out and yell at them, they yell back. Louder. So you can imagine how this next photo traumatized me.

Aww, the sheepies.

What the...

Good for you, celebrating the end of DADT.

And one more cute one to bring us back on track.

And an ox to humble us...

"I want you to go in that bag, and find my wallet.
It's the one that says 'Bad Motherfucker.' "

Food
I've blogged before about the vital substance that is fair food. And the importance of going to the fair with many people in order to sample all the goodies. My brother and I were ill by the end of the day. Here is some of the damage.

Mmmm, funnel cake. I have traded in fried dough for this delicious, sweet, cakey goodness. I know, I can hear the tsks now, but it's fried cake and I don't feel I need to justify it further.

Chicken and corn dogs.

And this is where it all comes to a screeching halt. So, fried pickles are simply awesome. Eating them for the first time goes something like this:

Pickle 1: Eww, it's a pickle. And it's fried.
Pickle 2: Huh. The salty goodness is overwhelming the repellent nature of this food combination.
Pickle 3: MY PICKLES. YOU CAN'T HAVE ANY.

But this year, our regular pickle chick wasn't in her usual spot. Little brother and I kept our spirits up and wandered a while, looking for another pickle vendor.

Then we started to panic.

Then we saw this.

Um, no. Fried pickles do NOT take second billing. And, little food stand, why aren't you open? Sadness.

And then--in the distance--a sign: fried pickles. I eagerly ordered them and watched the back of the man making them. And then he put them in my hand. And I made a face like someone had kicked my puppy. I turned to my brother and presented him with this:

Spears?! Fried pickle fucking spears?! Unacceptable! Gladys, call the mayor!

Sigh... the pickles are supposed to be cross cut. The pickle-to-fried coating ratio is supposed to be more even. This is just lazy. I bit in and all the coating fell off the spear. I had a mouth full of hot pickle [no snarky remarks, people]. And when I went in to dip, the pickle was too wet to hold any sauce.

See, they're supposed to look like this:

2009 Deerfield Fair--a kinder, gentler time in fried pickle history

General WTFery
And the Least Appetizing Food Enticement Award goes to:

This next one is the stuff of nightmares. Why was no one else concerned about this? Farmers, women, children--all walking by and thinking nothing of the fact that this cow is being eaten from within by an alien (writes the woman who held the camera and said, "Ewww").

This little trolley of death is an institution at the DF. An equally creepy guy dressed in a suit rides it around all day and traumatizes children. *shudder*

Some old bag:

Yeah, you're jealous of my hotness. And I feel for you.

Most Disturbing Ride Award:

Thank God there were super heroes on the scene to help with a serious sheep situation. (Yes, those are capes.)

And little brother wraps it up with a shitty ending:

Roughing it in Boston Harbor

2011-09-05T22:45:00.000-04:00

For years, there has been talk about camping on the Boston Harbor Islands. Hats off to Noelle, who's a git'r done kinda gal, for making it a reality.

The original destination was Peddocks Island, where parts of Shutter Island were filmed (if you're a wuss like me, you haven't seen it and didn't know it was about a psychiatric facility that used to exist on one of the islands--more information here). Unfortunately, Hurricane Irene did damage that displaced anyone set to camp there this weekend. However, once I saw the view from the sea, I said a quiet thank you to the Department of Conservation and Recreation for saving me from peeing my pants.

Peddocks Island greets you with dilapidated buildings and an abandoned church.
No thanks.

We were rerouted to Lovells Island, a 62-acre island that more than doubles its size during low tide. Camp sites are first come, first served. There is a group site on one side of the island, far from everyone else, which is cool except there's no real shade; it's pretty much an open, grassy field. And there are about 12-15 sites otherwise, three of which are spectacular. The path to these sites is one of the prettiest parts of the island:

At night, the sandy path glows, as does Boston. The sun sets directly behind the city, which then becomes a cluster of sparkles that are impossible to capture with a camera. And once the sky is completely dark, a glow appears behind the Pru, and we wondered whom the Red Sox were playing that night.

We even got a drive-by visit from friends aboard The Lady Grace as it sailed toward the city.

We watched planes coming north, into Logan, start as blinking lights all perfectly spaced out and become bigger and bigger until finally taking on the shape of a jet gliding in front of the skyline. I had hoped for a good view of Boston; it was ideal.

I was up early with the planes on day two. It was low tide, and I took a walk around most of the island. There are no true sandy beaches. The word dune is used on the island websites, but it's not what you're hoping for. It's not Plum Island. It's rocky with packed sand mostly. And giant rocks line much of the island. Flip flops are not a good shoe option, and barefoot, well, I salute you if you're that hearty.

The dropped boulder on the far beach is a bit submerged
during high tide, blocking the path.

The beach is littered with oddities.

Sure. Just a random femur in the sand.

*pinch pinch*

Ugh, these prickish cormorants were all full of the machismo.
We've all had run-ins like this--ladies, am I right?

This thing was enormous. Its brother lived on the opposite beach.

Mid-morning, Noelle texted me while I was napping on the beach (yeah, texted, so what?), "Moving camp. Want to help?" We went from staring at a bush to staring at this:

And this:

Not bad.

Oh, and this:

In the distance is the Deer Island sewage treatment plant.
A rather shitty view. Nyuk nyuk.

We lazily watched boats: The New England Aquarium, the Provincetown ferry, the T ferry, UMASS boats, sailboats, fishing trawlers, kayaks, motor boats . . . We realized quickly that there isn't much else to do on an island. We became like old men, peering out at the water, saying things like, "That one is going fast." "Bet that's a whale watch." "Not many people going out today, eh?" I think we bored ourselves.

Thankfully, our friend Gienna came to visit! We were both impressed and grateful that she tackled the water taxi sitch and made the journey. We lounged, waded well into the ocean, walked the inner island paths, checked out forts, picked blackberries, and then pretty much sat around in our underwear while our clothes dried. Oh, and ate lots of cheese. But that's sort of a given.

The ferry system apparently runs on a special nautical time to which we landlubbers are not keen. We were 15 minutes early for the ferry, and it was already trying to make a break for it. In fact, it had to turn around and come back for someone else who had missed it. Attention boat people: When you look at a clock, 6:30 is when hands are in opposing vertical directions. That is all.

So the rules on the island are no dogs, no alcohol, no fires. Neither of us has a dog, so we didn't break all of the rules. And I enjoyed when the geeky ranger (let me just say ALL the other islands had McDreamy rangers; we were stuck with ranger-lites) paid a visit to remind us there should be no fires. He saw a handful of twigs collected in our fire pit and said, "Whatever you do, don't burn THAT!" as if we had sawed up a spruce. Whatever, lil ranger-lite dude.

Food was a curious proposition. We needed to keep gear to a minimum, and a cooler wasn't an option. Emails throughout the week went something like this:

Me: Peanut m&ms are a perfect food.
Noelle: What about bologna? It's full of chemicals. It'll keep a couple days, right?
Me: I'm having pregger-ish cravings. What about fake cheese, crackers, and gherkins?

This kind of talk gets you a grocery bag that looks like this:

The apple was from Gienna.

Mmmm...fluorescent yellow centers...

Bagel with Alouette and salami that has been out in the sun for two days.
And I'm still alive!

Day three we woke up to find we had about a cup of water between us and six hours before we could hit a CVS or its kin. So, Gienna, we humbly thank you for pushing the apple on us. We shared it and delighted in its succulent juices.

Old lady carts rule.

Bye bye

As we pulled in at Georges Island, our hearing faltered.

What we heard:

Me: Last call for Crazy.
Noelle: All aboard the Flying Clown

Reality:

"Last call for Quincy"
"All aboard the Flying Cloud."

Shit, that was just creepy.

The trip was fun. I would go again if I knew I could get one of the good sites. Otherwise, I'd camp elsewhere. It's small enough to be a good two-hour visit before hopping off to another island. Really, being on the water and seeing all the islands was an experience in appreciating Boston even more. A lot of history, a beautiful view, and a mash of nature and industry

I leave you now with pics of forts and fauna . . .

This looks more like a Roman bath than a fort structure.

Moseying

Stuck?

At the bottom of the pic are two kildeer, spectacular little scurrying birds. It's nice to
see them in their natural habitat, rather than flat on the work parking lot.

Why it's really about the little (useless) things

2011-08-28T17:02:00.000-04:00

Lit-up signs sit on both ends of town this weekend, blinking, "TAKE CAUTION/PREPARE FOR HURRICANE!!!" or some such alarmist nonsense. Even an idiot without TV (like me!) knows there was a hurricane a'comin. So thanks for that memo.

And now that I'm pretty sure Irene has taken her bitch ass further north to Maine and Canada, I'm left looking at some scattered branches and leaves and feeling pretty sure that my office building is still standing, so there will be work tomorrow. For that reason, I figure this hurricane was pretty useless.

And while many are without power, I'm guessing there are still a lot of people scratching their heads and wondering what the hell to do with the batteries they bought yesterday, and perhaps also wondering how to get the 20 minutes back that they spent in line at the gas station filling up.

Useless.

I know I'm a cranky broad. But I find it's the little things that really make my brow wrinkle. And because misery loves company, I'd like to share this month's findings with you...

Recently, I spent an evening at Barnes & Noble, reading magazines I'm too cheap to buy. Because I'm an old maid, I read things like knitting magazines. And I came across this little nugget:

Dear Debbie, you are useless. This is a stupid question, and I truly hope Knit Simple made this up because they needed to fill space. Years ago, I joined Weight Watchers. Many of the women were just as useless as Debbie here. Our leader handed out a simple recipe that called for kidney beans. Hands shot up around the conference room table--"I don't like kidney beans; can I use black beans?" "What about navy beans?" "Do you think cannellini beans would be okay?" Ladies, are you fucking kidding? Open a can of fucking beans and toss them in. No one cares what you do with this sad, unfulfilling recipe. It's your g-d kitchen. Throw in a log of kielbasa--it'll be our little secret. Damn, these women made me want to eat more. So, Debbie, when you ask a stupid question like this you make me hate my sex. Debbie, you are hereby sentenced to scarves only--and no fancy cable bullshit--for LIFE.

Leaving for work the other day, I found this rolled up and shoved between the doorknob and the jamb. It was part of my lease (apparently they are four months behind down at the office). This apartment complex consists of approximately 15 buildings, containing six apartments each. I'm estimating that they take in $90,000 each month. So why would some poor slob use a Public Service of New Hampshire (i.e., the electric company) return envelope for lease papers? Useless! No worries, landlord. I am going to slip a nickel into a Chase return envelope, along with the lease papers, so you can buy a proper envelope for our future correspondence.

Speaking of Chase...

I am terribly sorry, Chase, for carrying such an extreme balance. I completely understand why you would need to charge me $35 dollars if I run late on this, and push my APR out the window. Thank Christ I have a job and can probably pay this bill. PS, I'm going to play mean editor and inform you that there's no apostrophe in "APRs."

Speaking of Christ...

At least God buys his own envelopes. Unfortunately, he wasted postage on the wrong gal.

Meet my new neighbor (burgandy SUV, top center). He is useless. As is the company he keeps. So twice last week, I came home to see different friends of his parked in my assigned spot. And check out this asshat's parking skills. No, please, take two spots. We insist.

As if I needed a reason to dislike Connecticut more...

Now only I would bitch that a check made out to me is useless. But shit, it won't even cover my Chase bill this month. Where the hell am I going to come up with the balance?

On Amazon last month, I came across a book review that started with, "Do yourself a favor and read this book!" Then I saw that the author was doing a reading in Portsmouth, so I got right on it. Now the book is its own issue. I'm not quite through yet, but I'm going to tell you to do yourself a favor and maybe don't read this book. But I kinda dug the author--sort of gypsy hippie heavily inked open minded geeky smart. So I bought the book and waited in the short line for her to sign it. We chatted a little, she scribbled, handed me back the book, and I left the store. Under a lamp post, I opened the cover and saw this:

Thank you, V-a-n-e-s-s-a- V-e-s-e-l-k-a, for this excellent signature. This will bring in a fortune at Christie's some day because it looks so legit.

Looking forward to September's idiocy.

Because. she's. a. cat.

2011-08-09T21:38:00.000-04:00

When I found her at the SPCA, her name was Mama Tinker (take a moment and really appreciate that: Mama Tinker). She was underweight, missing half her teeth, scratching at ear mites, and dealing with the runs. She was in a corner by herself, curled up and facing the wall.

She was an older cat, and her owner had died. I was going through a funky sad period and had just put my old cat, Charlotte, down. Charlotte was the love of my life.

When she was brought to the getting-to-know-you room, Mama Tinker jumped onto my lap and immediately put her head under my chin. I swooned, got her into the car, and changed her name to Millie.

Millie is a love. She's crabby, chatty, and demanding. Because of all the missing teeth, sometimes the left side of her face droops, making her look like a 10-lb stroke victim. She has an old man cough, can't hear worth a damn--can't smell either. She likes to go to a corner of the apartment, face the wall, and scream bloody murder. It's a little fucked up, but normalcy is such a bore.

Erm, don't look at me. This was after my surgery and I look like hell. But Mill was right by my side.

When I first felt the odd-shaped growth on Millimeter's nipple, I made an appointment at the vet and we took a looksee. After a couple overdue shots and a $5 nail trim, the vet confirmed that the lump was a tumor and said we could set up an appointment to do blood work and remove the bugger. She also said that Millie's an old girl, and we'd want to be realistic about decisions going forward. I was happy. ($108)

Two days later, I received an email that the vet clinic had shut down.

So a month later, I went to vet clinic B and explained our status. Clinic B is fancy and features an adorable, young, idealistic vet. I give her an A for enthusiasm. Wheee! She touched Miss Millie in places I've never dared to go. She and the tech scolded me for not brushing Millinocket's teeth daily. Really? Because she's a cat. And she has a tooth. The vet took blood, nixed the charge for a second exam, offered a $21 dollar nail clipping (yeah, no), and sent us away. ($380)

Great news--the blood work says she's practically a kitten! It's Miller Time!

But we should really do some x-rays. X-rays will tell us what's going on inside and whether we're dealing with a body full of cancer or just one odd external growth. I dropped her off for the day. ($400)

So, doc? Wait--what? What do you mean the x-rays are inconclusive? No big reveal? What the fuck is going on inside this cat?

Vet: words words words This line is abnormal. words words words See how this lung is deflated? Could be cancer. But maybe not. words words words This is odd too. words words words Major arthritis. She's in a lot of pain. words words words But see, even from this angle, we can't see anything. words words words And where this is just a fuzzy spot, maybe her spleen is enlarged. Maybe it isn't. words words words The next step is an ultrasound, which will truly tell us what's going on in there. ($500)

Oh, and here are two prescriptions for the terrible pain she's in. The meds really need to be used together. ($80/month) Vet tech later, to the side: Just try the cheap one and see how she does. (-$75/month)

Me: So if we don't do the ultrasound, we already know that she's got a lot of issues going on. And if we do the ultrasound, we'll know more about those issues. Either way, she's got enough issues and is old enough that it may not make sense to do much. Because she's a cat.

Vet: [blank stare]

Awkward moment.

Vet [hopeful]: Um, well, you can sleep on it and then decide.

Grand total so far: $893ish before the ultrasound that isn't going to happen

When I went to the SPCA that day, I decided walking in that I wanted an older cat--a cat that had been loved and had lived in a stable home. I didn't want a stray, used to fending for itself; I wanted a cat that needed to live the rest of its life comfortably, sleeping on a king-size bed and eating too many cookies.

Now, I love the little bitch. But at some point, it doesn't do justice to either of us to go down this road of experimentation. She's old. She can't hear or smell or jump. Her insides apparently are seven kinds of fucked up. But she's eager. She's loving and follows me like a puppy. Her job includes putting me to bed at a reasonable hour and waking me at an ungodly hour. Even on a hot day, she puts her chin on my leg and purrs while I play on the computer or read in bed.

Another bad postop pic. But this is a pretty typical evening before bed.

I'm not going to opt for the ultrasound. I'm not continuing down this path. The buck stops here. I refuse to let the sweet but idealistic vet make me feel bad for not doing everything possible to give her a couple more years. She's not a child. She's not a $40k thoroughbred race horse. She's an old, banged-up kitty. And I love her. I promise to make her as comfortable as possible for the time she has remaining. But I'm not going much further than that. Because she's a cat.

Go west, young lady, part III

2011-07-27T22:11:00.000-04:00

Okay, last entry about this trip, I swear.

I spent my birthday in Northampton, MA. And tell me how can you not love a city that welcomes you at the parking garage with this sign:

I decided to do some writing at Smith College. I thought I'd check out its library and try to evoke Sylvia Plath's ghost/vibe/what have you. No dice. I didn't mill around too long, 'cause damn, not as pretty as Mount Holyoke... If you are better acquainted with the Smith library and want to share tips, please let me know for next time.

While on campus, I went to Smith's "famed" botanical gardens. Meh. Part of the problem is probably that it was almost cooler inside the tropical greenhouses. I wandered around, sweated a bit, and then went back out into the swampy, sunny air.

"In memory of a beautiful life"

Time to do a little shopping. I lazily walked through Thorne's Marketplace, three floors of eccentric shops, all pretty high end. I spent a lot of time as a poor college student drooling over pretty much everything in places like The Cedar Chest, which features a lot of body products and home/kitchen stuff.

As my tummy started to grumble, it became clear I would have to go out into the heat and find lunch. I got my ass whipped by a spicy thai burrito at Bueno y Sano. Yummmmm

This guy pissed me off because he was sorta heckling the passersby. 'Nough said.

Let's talk books again, shall we? Raven Used Books, or The Raven, is a marvel. And this picture totally sums up what I was getting at in my last entry about the Bookmill. When you are taking in books from students at five area colleges (Amherst, UMass, Hampshire, Smith, Mt Holyoke), you are going to get some seriously weird and fabulous books.

The Facts of Life: The Creation of Sexual Knowledge in Britain 1650-1950? I'm in!

Suicide in the Middle Ages right next to Taking Life Seriously? The irony is killing me! I'll take both!

Visions of Filth? Um, yeah, I need to read that too.

After such ludicrous spazzing over books, I decided to celebrate my birthday at Herrell's (damn, they have a Wikipedia page!). This just happens to be a small sundae with cake batter ice cream, hot fudge, toasted coconut, and chocolate whipped cream. Um, yeah. It kinda rocked.

But I still had a few hours to kill before going to see a friend, so I tried to think of any other free, air-conditioned spots... oh yeah, the town library. Unfortunately, everyone else had the same idea. I don't think half the people in there could read, and we pretty much had to all be escorted to the door at closing time.

I'm glad to see the librarians have a sense of humor, but what the fuck is this Tron bullshit on the second floor? Can you see that glass walkway and the books allll the way down to the first floor? It might as well be a rope bridge in the Amazon. Fuck that!

***

The rest of my time in Western Mass was spent in a luxurious, air-conditioned home. I woke every morning cold and under all the covers *dreamy grin* and got to hang with a cute dog named Fifi and some good friends. We even went shoe shopping. And damn, I would have bought these, but they were just a smidge too long.

Actually, I tried on some extremely high heels and may have hurt my knee. But I've decided I'll do anything for the sake of this blog and your entertainment. My only question now is, should I wear my new Chucks with the attached leg warmers up or down?

(At this point, the poor salesgirl came around the corner and stared at me. "You know this is funny," I said to her. And she agreed.)

xo