Pot pourri (
rotten pot). Fitting that the name for a beautifully arranged bowl yielding questionable scents derives from the Spanish designation for olla podrida -- pork&beans. True, the Spanish being Spanish, said pork&beans stew is subject to the rarefying whims of the creative cook, a clay pot, and a long cooking time, and becomes a satisfying culinary hodgepodge.
I learned from reading the entry for
potpourri in Wikipedia that, "(w)hen mixed, you need to enclose the mixture in a bottle or jar, and let it sit for a few weeks. Towards the middle of the weeks, the soon to be potpourri may smell rotten. If you wait a little while longer, it will start to smell better, so don't get discouraged or disappointed." (I particularly relish, and appreciate, the encouragement to fend off the ravages of clinical depression.)
And so it goes that necrotic pots and gentrified stinkiness head up this blog entry -- the result of my search for an excuse that might unify my disjointed thoughts.
There is this notion in linguistics and lit crit -- about the process of voiding words, terms, implications, insinuations. It is recuperative, the voiding of terms, the emptying of cloying traditional meanings. (This is how, according to the insightful inhabitants of the Ivory Tower, the signifier
nigger is being... reclaimed and rehabilitated. Isn't all this pseudo-intellectual crap grand?)
I am going to take a break -- now that I have obliterated the notion of tastefully deployed, pretty and soothing
potpourri, this message square becomes clean space for the odds-and-ends of my poor brain and its pitiful, pitiable expressions (of life).
Ar! Harrumph!
If you knew me? You'd be laughing, too. As it is, you probably have shivers and goosebumps. Anyway... I am going to wash up, change my antibiotic i.v. bottle, and maybe try to sleep some. After, I will be potpourri-ing all over the damned place.
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I'm b-a-a-a-c-k. In the interim quarter of an inch, the HVAC repairman has come and gone, as has, amazingly, most of the crankiness in the house. Three days of unconditioned air almost robbed us of civility. La Belle Bianca Castafiore took off, in fact, after the first stuffy night, checking into the Hilton nearest Marlinspike Hall in the Tête de Hergé.
If I had to put a dollar value on the time between then, and now... I might say $637.
About a week ago, I dropped my laptop on my decrepit right foot. It was already reddish blue and tremendously swollen due to CRPS. There was so much bleeding under the skin that the foot fairly throbbed due to the pressure. Finally, last night, it... well. It burst. Now sealed off again by its own internal pressures, the pain is hard to take. Initially, the schtuff was clear but quickly became yellow with spots of blood. Simply Sera? Sounds like the flavor-of-the-day for some knock-off lipstick. I've cleaned it several times but, beyond that, am clueless as to what to do. I see the ID Physician's Assistant tomorrow and maybe she'll entertain a few questions about this wounded hoof.
She's extremely nice, knowledgeable, and -- best of all -- approachable. She reviews my labs every week, and keeps me in the loop without alarming me overly much. Right now, we are both anxious about my still elevated white count -- how can that be, given twice daily infusions of vancomycin and cefepine? She said last week that she'd recheck the cultures for TB and fungi. Oh, yeah, low grade fevers are back, too. As for areas of increased pain, this foot is now vying for attention with my left shoulder.
** *************** **
Sam-I-Am would be cruising for a bruising were I the type of pet owner that swats her animals. You know the theory that "children" can best be manipulated into good behavior by the creative use of each child's particular type of currency? For instance, the tween who values the availability of video games can be successfully led to complete his English essay on the symbolism of the whale in Moby Dick by their judicious allowance or disallowance. That's a crappy example, but it's all that comes to mind. Hmmm. Well, using myself as a tweeny example, restricting my access to tennis courts might have been pretty darned influential in molding my behavior...
Ah, but back to Sammy. HE has ME backed into a corner, à la B. F. Skinner. When he decides that it is time for food to be offered, and when I am in the least resistant to his playful kitty pantomimes, this feline shyster turns to what amounts to nuclear warfare: first, he threatens to pee; second, he pees; third (after I cave in and feed him), he throws up. The first and second instances occur, of course, in an inappropriate spot -- the third, almost invariably on my bedding, or, on a creative night, carefully divided between my favorite quilt and the off-white carpet.
Tonight? He treated me to the trifecta. He decided he wanted to eat an hour early. I decided to ignore him. I rolled into the living room to talk to Fred about something, Sammy tailing me. While we were talking, I became uncannily aware of the Grey Ghost, perched on the sofa, assuming the well-known Pee Position, and fixing me in a cold, cold glare.
"No, Sammy! No, Poopy Head!" I yelled. (Poopy Head is a rarely used term of endearment.) Normally, I would swing away, arms flailing -- but lacking one shoulder, and the other being locked in a severe pain mode, all that happened was some ugly upper body jerking. Whatever, it was enough to shock him into momentary anuria. He beat a quick retreat back to the master bedroom, where I was working.
I explained, in loving but firm terms, that he had an hour to wait. He nodded. I went back to work.
A few minutes later, something began to nibble at the edge of my consciousness. I slowly kicked my submerged awareness up to the surface... and heard the unmistakable sound of cat claws furiously scratching against plastic. That, in itself, was fine -- even wonderful, for it might mean that Sam-I-Am was relieving himself in his grand (brand new) litter box, and then performing his after-pee syncopated percussion routine. But something about the sound was off.
So again I zipped off... pressing this power wheelchair to its speedy limits, taking doorways at high velocity, making the tight turns with impressive control of G-forces. Remember, as says Wikipedia, so says this blog, its unofficial mouthpiece. Ergo and forthwith, ipso and facto-dactyl!
The human body is considerably better at surviving g-forces that are perpendicular to the spine. In general when the acceleration is forwards, so that the g-force pushes the body backwards (colloquially known as "eyeballs in"[3]) a much higher tolerance is shown than when the acceleration is backwards, and the g-force is pushing the body forwards ("eyeballs out") since blood vessels in the retina appear more sensitive in the latter direction.
Early experiments showed that untrained humans were able to tolerate 17 g eyeballs-in (compared to 12 g eyeballs-out) for several minutes without loss of consciousness or apparent long-term harm.[4]
Got it? I took those turns, eyeballs well in, retina rejoicing, certainly pushing the envelope of that lame 17 g experimental record.
What? Oh, right. Back to Sammy.
It turned out that the funkitude of the sound was due to the fact that my cat was *outside* his huge brand new litter box, peeing against it, and scratching the side of it as casually as if this were normal toileting and not guerrilla warfare.
Okie-dokie, then! 2-0, Sammy. Ah, but has he succeeded? Has he won? The battles, maybe, but not the damn war!
We cleaned up after him (how sad that I feel it so important to inform the blogosphere that we are hygienic folk) but we did it with quiet, heroic resolve (cue music). I told him, once again, that he had to wait. He nodded. All the principals returned to their original positions.
But we have three cats here at the Manor, and why should the innocent suffer for the sins of Sammy?
So -- after waiting what seemed a decent time, much as a widow might take up dating after the proper interval between death and renewed lust, I fed the cats.
That, in itself, is quite a chore. Dobby and Marmy, son and mother, eat a different diet than the Samster, who has to stay away from all dry food. So we all gather in the kitchen, and they are as sharks swirling around my chair. I serve up the kibble for Dobby and Mom, spritz it with the the eliminate-the-smell-from-the-poo magic spray, and set it down for them to eat.
This is where the fun begins. Dobby, still officially a kitten, is very smart, and very fast. He is perpetually hungry and -- thanks to having been raised knowing nothing but loving approbation -- does not understand exclusion. So this is our dance with every meal: as soon as the dry food touches the kitchen floor, Dobby moves in for a few mouthfuls, then stands back to allow his mother her share. More importantly, he gears up for the grand rush to The Other End Of The House.
As fast as I can, I put Sam-I-Am's food in my lap and take off. If I am lucky, and I never am, I might make the door dividing the bedrooms from the rest of the domicile before Super Kitten. (Unfortunately, due to HIPAA -- or HIPPA, if you're WhiteCoat -- I am having to lie about the floor plan of The Manor. I wouldn't want to overwhelm my audience with accurate descriptions of its grandeur. Indeed, if you did not know any better, you might mistake our opulent digs for a normal suburban domicile.) Marmy gets the best of all deals, being left in peace with a supply of food, all the idiots having rushed off en masse.
I put Sammy's canned food, supplemented with the same magic no-poo-smell spray plus some water, on the floor. Dobby rushes forward, Sammy hangs back, making terrified eyes at me.
Oh, the drama of feline competition. I gently push Dobby back, and make encouraging noises at the elder, and completely mental, animal. Once Sammy begins eating his own food, in earnest, I show Dobby back to the kitchen by employing basic deceit and an abundance of love. He has learned that if he will follow me, I will give him a taste of the good stuff, a portion that I reserve from Sam's wet food. Every meal it is the same -- because Dobby is really and truly conflicted each time we do this. As soon as his energetic little body clears the area, I whirl around and shut the connecting door.
Sometimes, after Dobby and Marmy return to their feeding, I insert myself back into the Sammy Zone. It's a good time for us, a chance for him to get the individual attention he craves so much, and for me to benefit from his unwavering love. Usually.
Tonight, he was hitting on all cylinders.
Fred insists on buying him cans of tuna flakes mixed with egg. Sam loves it. This evening, after all the drama, he fairly scarfs it down, then jumps up on the bed to settle down on my lap...
...where he throws up.
Olla podrida, indeed. Pot pourri, you bet!
There is so much on my mind, so many things beyond animal anecdotes and tales of woe. I will have to attempt another Potpourri entry tomorrow. Consider yourself forewarned.
Excuse me, while I go check on the laundry.
I only have access, at the moment, to the abstract of this article, published in the October 16, 2008 issue of Rheumatology. The reference popped up as the latest item on my MedWorm "CRPS" news feed.
