Fred's band? Well, one of the definitions of "air" is "an expressive succession of musical sounds." Okay? He's not been playing much himself -- not the guitar, not the piano, nor the plucky uke -- due to increasing arthritic pain in his hands. He has described, with those same arthritic hands, in the air, where "air" means "the invisible gaseous substance surrounding the earth, a mixture mainly of oxygen and nitrogen," a device he desires to make, but must first more intricately invent, that will provide the needed support for his gesticulating hands. I nod but do not understand.
I miss the music. I am sorry his hands pain him so, to the point that music is not an option. But I smell a rat, too. Fred spends hours at a time doing detailed work on electronic parts that mine eyes can barely see and that must be awesomely difficult to manipulate.
We'll figure it out. Or I will.
In other news, I get more pain relief from a pill containing 7.5 milligrams of pain killer than I do from a pill containing 10 milligrams of the same pain killer. When I made this news public to the medical establishment, sirens went off, red lights flashed, and the Department of Homeland Security rappelled down the sides of the two-story building in which my doctor and I were hiding out.
Good thing I didn't finish my confession -- that Fentanyl 100 mcg patches hit the height of effectiveness on the fourth day. I am not supposed to know that, since the directions from above dictate that I change the patch every 48 hours (say some rarefied know-it-alls) or 72 hours (according to the remaining know-it-alls). So kill me, I experiment. As I've stated in other engrossing posts, the day will come when I plaster every reachable inch of this bodacious bod with pain patches, so serious research is necessary, yes?
Anyway, it appears that my body is on a "less is more" kick. Of course, there's also been some switcheroos from one generic brand to another, so maybe the old or the new generics are a bit "off."
The cats, how are the cats, you ask? Well, Marmy Fluffy Butt is scheduled to be surgically removed from my chest early next week. I tried everything in my considerable arsenal to get her to let go today -- wheelchair vacuuming, a double cat threat, since the chair itself is scary enough when I'm doing donuts on the Haddock Family ancient oriental rugs, and since the vacuum is extraordinarily loud and unwieldy, a threat not only to felines, but to moi-même. It's been a while since I've entertained you with my prowess in the vacuuming department, but I am not above dragging out this old, embarrassing video to make my point. As you watch this masterpiece of a short documentary, imagine the addition of an 8-pound puff of insolent feline, richly clawed, frightened by both wheelchair and the Devil's own suction contraption but desperately in love with... me. [I have to say, despite my babbling and cursing, this video cracks me up... it's so accurate... the weird things I go through in my attempts at being a worthy worker in Marlinspike Hall... an adventure arises midst the mundane, without fail...]
Anyway, I'm soon going to be driven to vacuuming my sinuses, if the surgical separation of Marmy from moi fails. Her love stems from having been taken to the vet and examined without a thousand pardons, then forced to take pills twice a day for ten days. Fred is Evil. I am All That Is Good.
This profound change in Marmy has the usual ripple effect through the Feline Triumvirate. The two boys are completely confounded. "Who is in charge? Since Marmy has claimed Retired Educator's chest and lap area, do we have dibs on shoulders and feet?"
Dobby has taken to spending hours in the myriad closets available to him, demanding only his usual coffee time grooming. Buddy the Outrageously Large Maine Coon resorts to violence, stalking Dobby, and stalking Marmy when the litter box calls or she gets hungry enough to chow down. Then, after dispersing terror all around, he comes and sits by me as the whirlwind of confusion plays itself out, and gives me his best heartrending face. "Why, O why, have you foresaken me?"
It's a tragedy that only La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore can rival for effect. But the judge has issued a gag order on her latest doings, praise the judicial system. I'll fill you in when they rip the duct tape from my mouth, but don't fret -- she's fine, no one died, and if she's granted a visa to travel with the newly mounted Gounod's Faust, the Milanese Nightingale will make restitution in... about five years.
Sven is standing by her, of course. Sven's son, Cabana Boy, hangs back in the shadows, and that... well, that is a saga. Again, though, don't worry. What could happen?
Okay, I'm going to scrounge up some dinner. I'm afraid to cook over an open flame. Kitty flambé isn't on the menu...
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