29

Hey, last post was my 100th! Awesome.

Yesterday the Dude and I celebrated his birthday a few days early. He's been working so much, that we figured a Sunday was the only day safe to make firm reservations. I like his birthdays. They're always so relaxed. He's not big on parties for himself.

So we slept in and he opened his presents. I gave him some Adobe Photoshop manuals he wanted, which made him happy. We lazed around all day, then went out to dinner at the Keg Mansion. It serves his favourite steak, so it's an easy standby. It's not really much of a causal dining experience. Every time you go they ask you if it's a special occasion. They brought the Dude an ice cream cake with a sparkler.

And so now he's 29. Well, he will be on Wednesday, but who's counting? He says he won't care when he turns 30, but who doesn't care at least a little? I know I'll care. Hell, I named my blog after it. It's a milestone birthday. Your body changes in your 30s. Your priorities often change. It strikes me as one of those ages where you've got to be more serious about your life. The 20s are about making mistakes, figuring out who you are and what you want. You're allowed to be an idiot.

If you're still an idiot in your 30s, you're not just young anymore. You are actually an idiot.

Thinking on my parents, my dad was a married father of two by 29 (though the married part would not last long into his 30s). And at 29, my mother was childless and unmarried. I know how she spent her 30s. She got started on a family. But her 20s were spent working, some travel, moving around, living in the city and having relationships. Had I been more curious about her when she was alive, I'd know more.

But as a kid I only wanted to know about her childhood. And as a teen, I only wanted to know about myself and my friends. Her 20s have a lot of question marks for me. My aunt, her closest sister and friend, tries to fill in the blanks. But trying to tell someone else's life story is a challenge. No matter how close you were or are, you still don't know all the details and chronology can get confused and you remember things differently, and it's from your perspective so certain events or people may have seemed more or less important to you than they may actually have been to the main character of that life story.

I was thinking about this at dinner, though less organized. The Dude wanted to know what I was thinking about. I kept these thoughts to myself at the time. It wasn't really Keg Mansion conversation.

I've been thinking about the daughter I hope to have one day. The more a woman knows about her mother's past, the better off she'll be. Even if it's sad or terrible or boring. I wish my mother had kept a diary. Or written some letters. There's something that seems wrong about her dying, beyond how untimely it was. I should have known more about her.

Hearts and Rainbows

And the hair, she is le done!

Loving the books behind me.
Makes a vain photo look all intellectual-like.

Bit of a dark photo, eh? I'm going to wrangle the Dude into taking a better shot with a real camera when he gets home. But I loves the hair, hearts and rainbows! Plus I got two compliments on my dress:


Yes, I specifically dressed up to get my hair done. Why? Because I'm not going anywhere tonight and it was my one crack to look as awesome as possible in front of a few people. Oh, I'm aware it's silly. I did it anyway.

Revamp

So Smokey is okay. Still a diabetic, but he needs less insulin, or so the vet is thinking. So that's all well and good. However, like predicted, he's going to need special care in about two weeks. I'm going to do at at-home glucose curve. Oh yes. See, I have to test his blood sugar once an hour for a day. Yeah, so drawing blood from my cat hourly should be a good time. Good way to spend a Sunday. But it's Smokey and I loves him, so I'm obviously going to do it. I never knew being diabetic was so expensive. Those test strips are about a buck each. I'm glad I don't have it. Jebus.

In more superficial and girly news, I finally get my hair done today. I haven't had it cut and coloured since... Late October. It's February. I just kept putting it off and now it looks like ass: roots, split ends, no shape, blah-blah-blah.

So here be the before picture:

Note the grease, as the roots are less obvious in this light.

I'm still trying to grow it out. I'm several inches away from a goal length that is vague and mysterious. I'll just know when I have enough hair. I started growing it out around the same time I quit wearing pants a couple years ago. Yeah, I avoid pants at all costs, unless a dress or skirt is just far too impractical.

My late 20s seem to be calling to me to be more feminine. I was actually never really that girly in my teens. I had short punky hair. I never wore the kilt for my uniform after grade 10, opting for pants, and I wore skater sneakers instead of dress shoes. I had a bob in college, dressed like a hobo, and wore makeup about twice a year.

After college I settled into moderation and looked more like a normal woman. I acquired a couple girly things to wear, grew my hair to my shoulders and started wearing makeup half the time I went out.

But this, this is something else entirely. I feel sad when I have to wear pants. I really enjoy putting together a nice look and making my face look more attractive. I love the process of making myself pretty.

I remember before my mom died, I went to see her in the hospital. I was 16 and she saw me in an outfit she liked (rare) and she said that it looked like I finally found "my style." And of course it was just wishful thinking on her part because she would never see how I'd turn out and she knew it. But I was wearing a skirt that day. And so that little memory makes me smile.

Smokey's Day Out

So weird there being no cats in the house. I really don't like it. It doesn't feel like home without Smokey here. Little guy's at the vet till 6:00 tonight. He's getting a glucose curve done. There's a chance he may not even be diabetic anymore. Wouldn't that be awesome!

With my luck, though, probably he needs some sort of pricey treatment and extra care. He is 16 and a half. I can't hope too hard for miracles.

The cat feeder went off at lunch time for Smokey's afternoon snack. I heard no pitter patter of his little paws running to eat. It was a lonely feeling. I miss him, and it's only been a few hours.

The vet technician observed I must be very attached to him, being a childhood pet. I am. I really don't think it's possible for me to feel more love than this for a cat. He's been my friend almost all my life. He's peed on me, ruined things, caused me inconvenience and worry. He's often needy and keeps me up at night. He meows all the time. And I wouldn't change him.

It's surprising to me all the same that one day without him at home feels so bad. I'm happiest at home when the Dude and Smokey are here and we're hanging out together. Where they are, my home is.

Rescue Smokey

I had a rough night last night. Shortly after writing my last post, things started going a little nuts.

It all started when I caught Smokey taking a dump in the kitchen. It didn't seem like it was a conscious choice on his part, though. Something about it seemed kind of involuntary. What came out was hard (Actually when I picked him up to take him to the litter, a hard chunk flew out. Just when you think you've seen all your cat will do to you), and so I thought perhaps his old age was giving him some minor constipation. No big deal.

Then later after my post, Smokey started caterwauling like a pitiful beast. He's been meowing for Jerry all month, but this was different. Then I heard more tiny thuds of what I thought must be more poop, which made me nervous. One time is negligible. But twice?

So, I cleaned it up again and while doing so gave Smokey a little push to the side to get off the boots. He fell over and could not for the life of him seem to get himself upright. He warbled and howled like a drunk and in startling fashion appeared to drag himself down the stairs to cry.

So I got his glucometer, worrying this had something to do with his diabetes. Also I was hoping it did, because knowing the problem means there's a chance I can fix it. I drew some blood from his ear. Normal readings should show a number between 4 and 8. Smokey's? 0.8. Yeah. Holy. Shit.

So I had to act fast. I ran to the kitchen and grabbed some honey and rubbed it into his gums and tongue. Then I got some of Jerry's leftover recovery food, thinking that it must be super calorie rich and fatty and all those other good things which might boost his blood sugar. Then after he ate it, he ate a huge serving of his dry stuff, then treats, then more recovery food.

I watched him till 4:00 a.m. His blood was reading 1.1, which was still too low, but we were past the peak of his insulin effects and his blood sugar going up was a good sign. I fell asleep exhausted, but not without worrying myself stupid.

Sometimes owning a pet gives you an idea of what having a child would be like: late sleepless nights, worry, fast thinking, making appointments and shelling out money for their wellbeing without a second thought. I'm waiting on a call from the vet to get some advice about where to go from here, and to make an appointment to make sure everything is okay.

I love my Smokey, I really do. He's curled up with me now. I wonder if he realizes how close he came to death last night.

To lighten things up a bit before I go, check this out. Best signs ever. Also, I got my dress in the mail. Hey-oh!

Bathing beauty

The mad insomniac strikes again. Well, it's only 1:30 a.m. as I'm writing this. Really, it's not an issue till 3:00. That's how I roll.

I love Lost. I <3 Lost. I watched it tonight, all glorious two hours of it, plus the hour-long recap, which was much needed. Usually when I love a show, I hate for it to end, but I'm digging this last season bit. I respect a story arch that reaches an appropriate and timely end. And I want closure.

I don't remember TV being this awesome when I was younger. I really don't. I mean, the late greats are always sited as M*A*S*H*, Cheers, All In The Family, Dallas, I Love Lucy. And in my youth there was the much too short My So-Called Life, plus Seinfeld, Friends, and the big hit 90210. And the Simpsons are still going strong, though they kind of jumped the shark back when Homer probably actually jumped a shark out of lack of better ideas five years ago.

But let's be serious. Cut to the now and the not so distant past. The Tudors. Dexter. Sex and the City. Arrested Development. Lost. Glee (fuck yes). The Office. Six Feet Under. Curb Your Enthusiasm. Mad Men. True Blood.

HBO has improved TV. They're not behind every good show, but they set the bar high. And despite the fact I loathe raunch, relaxed censors make for better almost everything. And I do so enjoy good storytelling, which can only be done properly when you don't have to work around too many off-limit words and subjects.

But enough rhapsodizing about TV.

Allow me instead to wax poetic about this bathing suit:

I can hear an angel's choir at the thought of possessing
and wearing this hot little number.

I've wanted it for about a year now. Frankly, with such indecision, it's a wonder it's still available. The only thing that is holding me back is my unfortunate short waist. My torso and a dwarf's torso have a lot in common. I've come to embrace empire waists. For the most part I'm A-OK with this. However... One-piece bathing suits have always been a great desire and the bane of my bathing suit shopping existence because there's always an extra 2-3 inches of fabric that has nowhere to go.

And how returnable are bathing suits anyway? My guess is not at all returnable. I don't care to purchase a bathing suit from any company that would allow returns anyway. Once a bathing suit has known some strange woman, I don't want it knowing me.

Those happy little straps are adjustable, which is good. But that torso do look a wee bit long, dontcha know. Le sigh. But maybe I should risk it. Maybe there'd be a way to alter it in some fashion. I don't care if there's weird zig-zaggy cuts so long as I can wear the damn thing.

I am no fan of the bikini. It's all well and good when you're standing up in good light, but the second you sit down, even if you weren't sucking in before, you're screwed now. I've shed tears in dressing rooms trying on bikinis, and I don't even hate my body. I've posed nude for artists. I've belly danced in public with an exposed stomach. There's just something about a bikini that brings out the worst in my shape, or in my feelings about my shape.

So fuck it. I'll just go ahead and get it.

My stomach is aging

I'm back in the big smoke, after a visit in my hometown to see my friend. I'm reminded yet again of the fact I'm not 22, as my stomach is still unsettled from drinking too much, and it's 1:00 a.m. Two nights of too much wine. Dude.

Good company, though, and good times. Always the good times. We ate crap, listened to music, shared internet favourites. And everyone should have someone in their life who they know stupidly well and who they can paint with drunk at 2:00 in the morning. It was never on my to do list, but it should have been.

I told her I was going gray. I was unprepared for the enthusiasm of, "Aw! I want to go gray too!" Which made us laugh because it's not like waiting to get your first period. Sadly when I went to the bathroom to root out some proof, I found four white hairs without even trying. Sigh. I have booked my hair appointment for this Friday.

And it's back to the grind tomorrow.

I took a Gravol to settle my aching tummy. Hopefully it'll double as a sleeping aid, 'cause I slept off my hangover till 1:00 p.m. today and that doesn't bode well for sleep tonight. The Dude is already snoozing away, and will be getting up at 6:00 in the morning tomorrow. Blech. At least I'm not him. 6:00 a.m. shouldn't exist.

I'll write something better when I feel less like utter ass.

But for now, here is something that my friend showed me on YouTube. And here is something I shared with her. What did people do before the internet?