Friday, October 19, 2012

Two Anecdotes

Two anecdotes, drawn from a real, still life:

Anecdote Number One --
Having ripped off my Fentanyl pain patch in a fit of pissiness last night, and then, within the haze of all the other medications in play, forgetting to replace it, I found myself in inexplicable horrid pain this evening.  I desperately needed a shower, for example, but settled for an intense and thorough soap-and-water session in the half-bath.  Even that, however, left me weeping.

{Are you tearing up in sympathy/empathy/overwrought compassion?}

I barely made it to the bed without collapsing, but I managed to keep the wailing going at maximum volume levels.

After an unladylike collapse, a short, tiny-headed cat with enormous lung power began to pester me. He was relentless.  He pawed at my non-shoulder.  He nipped at my purple CRPS legs.  He yowled,.meowed, and came close to barking whilst pulling my grabber out of reach.

I knew for a fact that this Dobby, whom we named after Rowling's famous House Elf (such a dear, and powerful, too), had been recently fed, watered, "treated," and, most importantly to him, vigorously groomed.

"Self," I said, "This cat is trying to tell you something."

It is a rule in The Manor that if I begin crying, making big whoops out of normal whoops, and start making Pity Party plans, someone is to grab my short-acting pain medicine bottle, take out two 7.5/325s, grab my Hillary For President water bottle, and force those pills down my moaning throat.  It is not even necessary for the pill pusher to wash his or her hands beforehand.

"Dobby, you may have been misnamed," I chirped, about 20 minutes after his abuse enlightened me.  "You clearly are an angel cat."

And... scene!

Canterbury Tales

Anecdote Number Two --
My Longtime and Therefore Dearest Readers know that I spy on my Brother-Units, most recently having stolen photography from American Idyll, my brother TW's blog.

This evening, it was my other Brother-Unit's turn, the famous university prof Grader Boob -- a nickname chosen by him, not me, please remember.  I dropped by one of his class web sites, where he helps the 18-99 year olds keep track of reading assignments, paper due dates, and makes good-natured deposits of professorial wit.

Well, all I can figure is that he is fighting the flu, has been saddled with NINE college-level classes. (Four, at least, are online, although he informs me that does not mean less work.  He informed me rather... sternly). He has also been an attentive, loving support to our stepmother. (Our father recently died.)  Apparently, she's experienced some emotional lability, understandably, and has started several knock-down-drag-'em fights with our stepsister.  Her nickname is Brute. The stepsister, not the stepmother.  But that is another anecdote.

So, anyway, I cruise on over to Grader Boob's class site and see that my favorite genial educator has spruced things up with a Class Motto.  "Self," I say, "This is bound to be a keeper!" Thankfully, he has bolded it and changed the font color to a bright red, so I had no trouble seeing it with a good, close squint:

"The reason people think you're so stupid," the Sicilian said, 
"is because you are so stupid. It has nothing to do with your drooling."
--William Goldman The Princess Bride

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