Dear Dear Diary
All I can think about this torture compromise is FUCK.
We've just handed the keys of the castle to the President who is now set as dictator for life. All he has to do is declare the members of the Supreme Court as enemies of the state (and god knows he's been thinking of them and treating them that way), and the judicial branch of government is Gone.
Without the judicial branch, there is check to any law he wants to write, including abolishing things like the constitution, and fair elections. We can still have all the little elections our hearts desire, but with the machines so easily rigged, why bother. The results probably don't reflect what the people want anyway.
He can now do and is fully empowered to do more death and destruction than Stalin ever thought of. Bend over and kiss your ass good bye folks, because it's only going to get more painful from here. The rich will get richer. The poor and the middle class will get a hell of a lot poorer. And the average citizen won't even notice, and certainly isn't trained to care.
I'm scared shitless.
I have read a lot of stories from WWI and WWII, and particularly WWI there is a lot of talk of rationing coupons and the deprivations necessitated by the War. How you could not buy cream or butter and even eggs and sugar were very hard to come by. I remember my Gram talking about Oleo like it was manna from heaven. (Oleo being a former brand of margerine as famous as Parkay). And I think about the expenses of our Wars right now, and I have to use a plural because we have more than one front, but all of the deprivation I can feel right now is the pinch in the wallet. There is no rationing- there is only more and more expensive things. I can buy all the gas I want, instead of being limited to a gallon a week (which would be my due if we had rationing now like we did then because my sweetie and I can both work from home). I just can't afford much at $3/gallon. It adds up fast. Befor 9/11, we were paying about $1.69/gallon in gas. I filled up this morning at the cheapest I have seen it in months at $2.69. That $1 doubles and multiplies for the cost of goods, because our country is a driving country and most goods are hauled over the road. Filling up my gas tank once a week is now an extra $20 that I have to figure out where to squeeze from my already tight budget- that's more than $1000 a year. I'm not going to break $12,000 on my pay this year. And of course no one can apply for bankruptcy any more because they changed the law to make it even harder. In three hours this morning, I spent more than $220 on gas, cigarettes, booze, and groceries. For a week. That's not really the fault of bad habits- that's the fault of the economy. Five years ago, I could have bought all of that in under $150. And our income has gone down, not up. We really are getting poorer. And as a whole, America isn't noticing yet. Our economic divide is growing. I haven't seen a divide like this since the Robber Barons were still around. I think they're back, and this time, we elected them.
The Crying Game.
If you have ever played darts, you probably know deliberately hitting the Double ring (the outer ring) is difficult. This is a common thing for Dart League competition to need to hit a double to get "in" and another double to get "out."
So I suggested a way to practice doubles. I suggested going around in numerical order, hitting the doubles only. This should be difficult enough, but no. You have seen all of the numbers are interspersed on the board with high numbers near lower numbers. It was also suggested that if they hit one of these lower numbers while on a higher number, they must revert back to that lower number. The 20 is next to the 1. If you miss the 20 and hit the 1, you start over. That's why I called it the Crying Game.
My sweetie and his dart buddies decided finally to try this game. It got later and later, and then someone said that this wasn't hard enough
. So he stuck his finger over half of the square inch or so of target. I did not find out until I heard the siren call of, "Honey, where do we keep the bandaids?"
I was rather angry.
I remember fondly
sitting on the bank in the summer sun
My pale self apologizing
my people had done to hers
and likely may still yet do.
It was all she could do.
"Don't be so silly,"
she said smiling wide,
"You didn't do it.
And it wasn't to me
the damage was done."
Years later I wonder if her answer
would still be the same.
If she even remembers.
No matter how long it is, if you leave the house without any people in it, move the trash into the mud room.
We were gone maybe half an hour. Rascal dug into the trash, pulled out a chicken carcass (in an airtight sealed containter that pops together like Tupperware), carried it out to the couch in the living room, figured out how to open it there, and devoured almost everything.
And we almost had his diarrhea under control.
Grumble. He lives up to his name. Like small children and kittens, his cuteness is his main defense.
Rascal lives up to his name.
I am not sleeping more than an hour straight, because he has diarrhea and wakes me to take him out. Every Hour.
He likes sleeping on the bed. When we fall asleep (or he thinks we have), he jumps up and cuddles. He's surprised when I kick him off.
He found a hole in the fence. He knows his way around the block to come to our front porch to be let in. I don't know whether to be pleased or frightened about that. We don't have a hole in the fence any more. For the moment anyway.
He loves knocking over the trash can.
But he's only chased a cat once, and Tom is learning to ignore him. I hope things continue to go well. After dealing with happy hyper dog, I assure you. This Is Going well.
Which is better? Doing good deeds yourself, or encouraging other people to do good deeds?
I think they are both good for the soul.
Rascal is less than perfect. I guess he really needs us.
We knew adopting an older dog would be difficult, particularly a rescue a dog. But I thought there were things in a rescue that would preclude one to assume a dog ready for adoption is going to have a certain level of health, or at least get a full disclosure of health issues. We did get a full behavior disclosure. As advertised, he is a counter-cruiser and marvellously talkative. He ignores our other dog unless there is food around. He barks at the cats but doesn't chase them. This is wonderful. This will fit into our household and I'm happy about that- once out of the adjustment period, we should be okay.
But his health... I have never seen a dog so full of flea dirt. His blood-shot eyes didn't bother me- I thought that was okay for Bassets. Not really. He has apparent uveitis and very low occular pressure. Apparently I'm not the ignorant person out there concerning basset eyes. The sutures from being neutered... as far as I know that happened in April... and the sutures were still on him. Um. Four months??? Followup after the surgery should take care of that. Should. And apparently he has something seriously wrong with his lip. This was judged as an infection by the vet they took him to, but I think this is a mis-diagnosis from the vet and not the blame of the folks who were trying to give him adequate care. I'm fuzzy on the details at the moment (getting our vet to write this up), but if things don't improve in a week, we may be considering extensive surgery to remove the tumors. Aspirate was only blood. Differential diagnosis from memory involves hematoma and he chews on his lip while eating or other and keeps injuring it, hemangioma or hemangioma sarcoma- the latter two will likely require serious resection of the lip. The original vet thought it was just a minor wound infection and put him on Clavamox for a little.
We'll be informing the rescue group. They deserve to know as a courtesy. I worry that this is "normal" but seriously hope not. I hope this is an issue of a bad communications twixt their vet, their foster mom, and their foster coordinator, and that we weren't deliberately lied to in the hope that we would take the dog. I really want to get on with the rescue group (for one thing, I'd like to be a foster dog parent with them, and believe they are working for a good cause for another). Bad communication can be fixed.
But it certainly makes us determined to make this work. We certainly don't want to send Rascal back to where he was.
We now have 2 dogs and 4 cats.
And a hell of a lot of fleas. Rascal allegedly had some sort of flea treatment, but he is so full of flea dirt, you can't pet him without getting it in your fingernails, and I can't feel clean giving him a good scritch. I must call the vet as soon as they open and arrange for him to be seen. I wonder if they do flea dips. I am going to have to buy flea treatment for all of the cats and the dogs, just to make sure we get them all. I am afraid I'll be covered in bites and I don't know how my system will cope with them. I don't heal quickly from such things, and one of my theories about the rashes that don't go away is they started as flea bites, but I don't know. We're going to find out.
He also has sutures still from his neutering surgery, which surprised the heck out of me, since it was over a month ago, I thought. I also can't find his dental cleaning records, though he's supposed to have had that done.
He has some good habits- no wee in the house yet. And some bad habits. He's knocked over two trash cans and rearranged several pet beds. He has been on the couch.
He doesn't chase the cats. He Barks at them. He stands his ground when they stand their ground, and BARKS. Kenya is not a talkative dog. Rascal is a Very Talkative Dog with a Deep WOOF. He will also chatter for the joy of rumbling. This is his nature, and it's fine, but we're not used to it and the cats certainly aren't. We'll give it time.
Maybe today we get meet Rascal. Last week, we made plans, and then they were blown by the foster parent having strep in the house. This week, Jazz isn't feeling well. And my niece is here- she arrived late yesterday.
Not enough sleep this week and an argument with a cold, but on the whole, a better health week. I didn't go anywhere but here, pretty much, and that does a lot to help.
I have got to figure out brassiere construction. I say that, and I say that, and I don't do anything much about it. Hrm. I have found and read two books on the subject. Sadly both were written for underwires and aimed at confections for barely there. I need corsetry designed for huge tracts of land without dealing with underwires. Boning I'll tolerate but it doesn't make a "modern" line. Who knows, maybe the first book I ever finish will be about how to make bras at home for this style. I'd have to self-publish, to be sure.
I don't want to think about 9/11 too much. It's been 5 years and it's still too raw. I don't want it shoved in my face. I don't want to see retrospectives. I don't want ABC to air a docudrama so twisted by our current political climate to blame it on Clinton. I don't want to think about how I felt that day when those senators were interviewed. "Of course it's terrible," and they went back to their wheeling and dealing. I felt they knew about it before it happened, and were already figuring out how to profit from it. I still keep my tin hat nice and shiny about this, and it makes me so sick at heart. I just can't bear it.
I'm just going to spend most of today with my face in cat fur, and I'll feel better in the morning. I'm still an ostritch however, and I don't know how not to be one.
I want to shower you with money, adoration, and affection. I make do with what I can give around trying to work and my general brain fog. I remember what I wanted most in your place, and I offer the patience, love, and understanding I never felt I got then. I am rewarded by your smile. I have told you what I can for advice, but I can't do the hard part- the actual doing. I try not to pile on the fertilizer uncomfortably, but I mean every word. Even if it was in my power to say, here call this person and you will be instantly all that and a bag of Reeses, I could not do that. You have to earn it to appreciate it, and you already know the journey is worth the trip, not the destination. I have faith you'll be fine. I miss you already and you are barely gone. I will always shelter you in my arms and let you go.
Today's goals: Work 15 reports minimum. Show Yuki the embroidery machine and make a t-shirt that says, "Just because everyone is out to get me doesn't mean they think they are." Get another nap in. Nail down what we are doing this weekend. Fix another mess I refuse to discuss here. Then I can relax a little. Maybe.
Doc trip today- one for me, one for Dog. She needs another shaved spot on her side, because she has another one of her infected blackhead-type things. She gets these fairly often. :(
Me? It's followup from a previous visit, and I'm going to complain about my ears. This has been a very bad allergy week.
Niece is here- woohoo! But I have no idea how long she'll be here. We shall see how it goes. She has promised not to stay for months. :)
Fridrikr has been using a new sig with his posts that strikes a cord with me: "Non verba, acta." This is so much better than my last latin sigfile of "non ani sunt permittendi." "Don't speak- act" sounds so much more profound than "No butts allowed." Particularly since I likely have the Latin wrong. It's on the to do list. I'd like to learn Latin, Arabic, Farsi, Armenian, and Greek. I'll be surprised if I take the time to learn one of them. Latin would be the easiest- since I can already swear in it. "Stearcus! Cattus dirumptum est!" = "Oh shit, the cat's exploded."
When I first heard Steve Irwin died, I thought it some sort of sick joke. A stingray barb through the heart? Some murder mystery writers would give their eyeteeth for a bizarre plot twist like that. I feel badly for his family and friends. 4 and 6 is a bit young to lose a father, but then any age you lose your father is going to be tough.
It's been a horrifically busy weekend and my sleep patterns are still screwed up. A bright point is that my neice is coming today. Hooray!