My Domain Name
Although I have titled my blog, "Chasing Butterflies" this particular domain name already blogs to someone else in the blog spot world. In an attempt to find a name that would be somewhat memorable I went through all sorts of variations of my blog title. But alas, they were all taken.
I was starting to become, as my Father-in-Law puts it, "Temperamental."
Then I remembered my dubious family nickname. The Whack a Mole.
I decided to go for, "Whack The Mole" and as I typed the letters in I waited for the dreaded announcement of "domain not available." But to my surprise, joy, ecstatic ravings, one foot hopping elation filled surprise, it was AVAILABLE! So I clicked and clacked and clicked again and voila, here we reside.
Now if you have a whit of common sense, and you must if you are reading my blog, you will wonder why I have earned the name "Whack a Mole." You may want to shield your sensibilities dear reader for it is not a pretty story...
Actually, it is not in an ugly story either. Pathetic perhaps, but we will get to that. I must admit to you all that I have been re-reading Jane Eyre for the (what feels like) zillionth time and there is a decidedly Brontesque feeling to my writing today. Please indulge my fanciful whim.
I am a medical travesty. At this point in my life (I am 38) I have been through the proverbial medical "wringer." And yes, I have even skirted the edge of the hand of death, a place I wish never to return. As this blog progresses we will no doubt journey together through many of my medical maladies.
Yet, like the great mythical bird called the Phoenix, I rise again and again from the ashes, to once more "tread the mortal coil." Enter the playful old time fair game: Whack a Mole.
This game is mostly known to all. It is a simple premise. There are usually five holes. In each hole hides a mole. You use a large sledge hammer type item as your weapon (usually made out of a cushiony material as to not injure yourself or those playing next to you). When the bell buzzes you commence to "whack" any mole that dares to peep its face out of its hole as fast as you can, thus sending it scurrying back into darkness. Whoever "whacks" the most moles in the time given wins the game.
My medical issues follow the premise of this game. No sooner do I recover from one issue, poke my head out, and cautiously look around, that the hammer of medical doom slams me back down with a new problem. I am a member of the "whack a mole" club. Over the years I have met other unfortunate members of this society. Thankfully we are a small number.
It may sound cruel to some of you that my family bestowed such a name upon me. I, however, am eternally grateful. It always gives the delivery of bad news a slight light-hearted spin. Any negative medical news is prefaced with, "The Whack a Mole has struck again!"
Happy and lucky are we this evening as I have the honor of telling you all that "Whack a Mole" just slammed me down a few moments ago. I just learned that an infection that I have been treated for three times, with three different oral antibiotics, has yet again returned. This time only three days after I ended the last course of medication. (Are you noticing a three theme here??). Sigh. Tomorrow I will call the doctor. He said IV medication would be the next step. Double sigh.
I need to go finish Jane Eyre. She has just returned to Thornfield to witness it being a fiery ruin. Soon she will reunite with Rochester. The words that were earlier running off my fingers at lightening speed have now slowed. My writing well has dried to dust for the evening.
Yes. "WhackTheMole" is the perfect domain for this insane blog. I'm gonna go dig some tunnels!
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
The Cat Ate My Tuna
The Cat Ate My Tuna Fish
One would assume that in a home where one of the two "head's" is often incapacitated when it comes to things involving the use of repetitive motion we would own an automatic can opener. But we do not.
Therefore we have two manual openers. One opens the traditional way, leaving that nice sharp jagged edge where you can slice your thumb open thereby allowing oodles of microbes to invade your body, the other that gently slips the top of the can off the body by breaking through the seal thus creating a smooth circlet. But if you can't use either one, then who the hell cares?
Thus we welcome the other "head" (my husband) to be in command of all things can related. Once a week he is in charge of opening and draining my three cans of tuna fish, placing the tuna in a container, placing the lid on the container, and consigning said tuna into the fridge where I can later turn it into my tuna salad.
Last night he industrially opened all three cans. I watched this project with a bit of a laugh as it was a bit like watching a shark movie. We have three cats. When cats smell tuna, chaos ensues. All three were meowing and howling, weaving their way around my husbands legs and generally making it known that they wanted tuna too!
As I am a sweet Mommy (please note sarcasm) to my little feline friends, I reluctantly got out three small plates and dished out three small portions of the rapture inducing food item. On the count of three my husband and I strategically placed the three plates around the kitchen in an attempt to make sure each cat had his own space.
Alas, as usual, our Lincoln cats' inability to be a speed eater allowed the other two to hone in on his territory. There was a hiss and a paw slap and then the sound of licking as all three of them finished off Lincoln's portion.
The tuna chore having been taken care of I wheeled myself out of the kitchen and into the living room to continue watching a movie. Meanwhile Dave was finishing up in the kitchen and soon joined me.
At the end of the movie I turned regular cable on and proceeded to channel surf. Dave got up and headed back into the kitchen. I immediately heard a loud curse and something that sounded a lot like "stupid cat." Rolling back into the kitchen I made it in time to see Jackson (our most sneaky cat) jumping from the counter. My eyes zeroed in on what else was on the counter.
MY TUNA FISH!
My blessed husband had not only neglected to put the tuna in the fridge, but he had never put the lid on the container. I promptly asked for the container and upon inspection found a dent in the tuna and smeary tongue marks up the side. Yes indeedy. The cat had eaten my tuna fish.
What is the moral of the story?
As soon as I can find someone to drive me I am going to go buy an electric can opener. This way I can open my own damn tuna, put it in the freakin' container with a lid and place it in the fridge all by my big girl self. Oh, and the cats are cut off. No matter how much they meow.
One would assume that in a home where one of the two "head's" is often incapacitated when it comes to things involving the use of repetitive motion we would own an automatic can opener. But we do not.
Therefore we have two manual openers. One opens the traditional way, leaving that nice sharp jagged edge where you can slice your thumb open thereby allowing oodles of microbes to invade your body, the other that gently slips the top of the can off the body by breaking through the seal thus creating a smooth circlet. But if you can't use either one, then who the hell cares?
Thus we welcome the other "head" (my husband) to be in command of all things can related. Once a week he is in charge of opening and draining my three cans of tuna fish, placing the tuna in a container, placing the lid on the container, and consigning said tuna into the fridge where I can later turn it into my tuna salad.
Last night he industrially opened all three cans. I watched this project with a bit of a laugh as it was a bit like watching a shark movie. We have three cats. When cats smell tuna, chaos ensues. All three were meowing and howling, weaving their way around my husbands legs and generally making it known that they wanted tuna too!
As I am a sweet Mommy (please note sarcasm) to my little feline friends, I reluctantly got out three small plates and dished out three small portions of the rapture inducing food item. On the count of three my husband and I strategically placed the three plates around the kitchen in an attempt to make sure each cat had his own space.
Alas, as usual, our Lincoln cats' inability to be a speed eater allowed the other two to hone in on his territory. There was a hiss and a paw slap and then the sound of licking as all three of them finished off Lincoln's portion.
The tuna chore having been taken care of I wheeled myself out of the kitchen and into the living room to continue watching a movie. Meanwhile Dave was finishing up in the kitchen and soon joined me.
At the end of the movie I turned regular cable on and proceeded to channel surf. Dave got up and headed back into the kitchen. I immediately heard a loud curse and something that sounded a lot like "stupid cat." Rolling back into the kitchen I made it in time to see Jackson (our most sneaky cat) jumping from the counter. My eyes zeroed in on what else was on the counter.
MY TUNA FISH!
My blessed husband had not only neglected to put the tuna in the fridge, but he had never put the lid on the container. I promptly asked for the container and upon inspection found a dent in the tuna and smeary tongue marks up the side. Yes indeedy. The cat had eaten my tuna fish.
What is the moral of the story?
As soon as I can find someone to drive me I am going to go buy an electric can opener. This way I can open my own damn tuna, put it in the freakin' container with a lid and place it in the fridge all by my big girl self. Oh, and the cats are cut off. No matter how much they meow.
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