Short and Sick

OK, so I’m not sure how long this will be, since my boss has already told me she’ll let me out a little early if work stays slow. Which it so totally will.

I was going to do this whole big thing on the Oscars, but now I’m not. I’m simply not. Everyone else is recapping the Oscars, all the “news” stations—even the freaking weather channel was talking about Reese Witherspoon this morning (no joke). So I will say that I love Jon Stewart, it was the most enjoyable ceremony I have ever semi-unwillingly sat through, and move on. If you weren’t watching, just know that you missed the same celebrities in the same dresses giving the same speeches, and all you actually missed were the jokes, which were much funnier than usual.

Everyone I know is sick. Well, not everyone, but somebody from every separate hive of my life is either sick, getting over something, or has contracted an illness. My grandmother is in the hospital with a liver problem; as of this morning she was feeling better, in much less pain, and upset they wouldn’t give her more food—pretty much acting like herself, so I am no longer frantic with worry. She’ll probably need medication or surgery to correct the problem, but it’s probably a symptom of eating too much of the wrong foods without a gallbladder. I wish I lived closer to my Grama so I could watch follow her around like paparazzi and make sure she ate nothing but health food; I know she’s just going to eat whatever in hell she pleases, and it breaks my heart.

My sister’s cat is diabetic, losing weight, and received an insulin shot early this morning. There was the “should I be doing all this, or just let the cat be until such time…” discussion, so of course my sister is wigged for the rest of the day. He’s a good cat, and he is old—I think thirteen—but hasn’t really become lethargic yet. He still makes the leap from the table to the top of the fridge without any trouble. It’s this kind of thing that makes me happy that my cat is overweight; it’s not really until pets start losing weight that you really need to worry about their health. A skinny cat is usually a sick cat, because all they have in their lives is food. They can’t read, they don’t speak English, they might be able to watch TV but can’t work the clicker, don’t have jobs, and chasing one another around the house loses its appeal after a while. Indoor cats don’t even get the thrill of an occasional trip outside for a little ill-fated tree climbing and bird-chasing. I can’t fault my cat for overeating—it’s really the only cat-appropriate hobby; I’m surprised she doesn’t weigh more.

And, of course, Jackie is sick. Still. Cursed with the evil that liveth in her lungs. It sounds like she’s got the consumption. She says she’s got an appointment later, and I’m considering following her to make sure they give her antibiotics, lozenges, steroids, opium—something—so that she can stop coughing like an emphysema patient. It’s like the last ten minutes of Moulin Rouge back here. Not that I don’t love her, because I so do, and would miss her if she died on the floor for lack of a few simple OTC medications. Which is why CD and I are breaking out the Tussin Bong if she’s not completely cured tomorrow morning. Drink some tea, Hackie, and get yourself some (good, restful, Nyquillated) sleep tonight.

I’m gonna split in the interest of getting last-minute crap done, for self-serving work-ditching convenience. I know I keep promising this Charlie Brown football of funny entries, but they are coming, I swear.


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