Chaos. Someone bring me a shovel.

 I went to see my parents for a few days and life happened. I ended up in hospital, then hung around parents' because they were basically panicking that I'm oh-so-sick. All I needed were three days of sleep. Meantime, plague struck and said parents got paranoiac about me catching it. Of all people. Not my dad who has chronic bronchitis, smokes three packs a day and is a social.

It took me some time and cunning to implant the idea in their brains that I'll be fine at home so on Thursday, dad drove me there. Mom insisted that I take the whole fridge and half of the larder so that I don't starve, I had a few things that I had moved to parents' from Thomas' which belong to my place so I appreciated the lift.

But, remember, I have three cats. A friend graciously came to feed them and to water the plants but the place... well. And I had been pretty unwell for several weeks before I left so the usual storage method was first available surface. In other words, the place was a godawful mess.

I sighed and vacuumed a path through cat hair, dust and grains of litter and an occasional dried-on puddle of cat puke to open the windows.

It's Sunday. After about 16 rounds of vacuuming, there are no fluffs of cat hair floating from nowhere. I mopped the hallway - the stain cleaner rocks, it makes the puke peel off in one piece - and adjacent stains, took out the recyclables, did a bit of laundry and dusting and now, my place is not an exhibit of small carnivores but... let's be frank, my place is to neat what People of Walmart is to high fashion but at least it's livable. Three inquisitive pairs of eyes were watching me why I'm disturbing their circles and not unfrequently, one of the felines got in the way. Obviously.

Now, something got done, I'm making a bit of lunch, three puddles of cat fur landed in quiet places to have the 17th nap of the day and I can get back to work.

Lunch, meet book.

The box was supposed to be waterproof but it stealthily leaked to a bag which held, among others, library books.

I did not need those so I noticed an issue only after I wanted to return them. I decided to play it cool and pretend nothing had ever happened, hoping that the librarian will miss the faint stain and that giveaway waviness of the volume. The third volume, which developed a characteristic odour and some fungal growth, was exposed to some sunshine in expectation that lycopene would be bleached and the book would stop stinking.

Nope.

I was fined for light stain on the dictionary of law and the slightly moist volume was passed to the head librarian to evaluate.

Obviously, it was a study on swamp forests or forest swamps which was published as a part of some grant and it was not meant for sale.

The head librarian mailed me on Monday announcing that the library historians need to evaluate the book so that they could charge me for the loss.

Meantime, I made a few phone calls to the university, the publishing office informed me that these books are kept by the author, I mailed the author and in the subsequent exchange, he told me to drop by at the beginning of the winter semester and I promised him my history textbook; he wanted to be an archaeologist, he said.

The moldy book was published by my uni so I went to the bookstore. The shop assistant advised me to lend it from the library - it's been sold out for years. 

Well, internetz to the rescue, at Google page 23, I found an advert.

The head librarian knows me by name, I'm a notorious offender, not in damaged books but in late returns, I study elsewhere, and she thinks I'm cool. Gotta bring her a box of chocolates.

News on the cat front

The other day, Alvar had a bit sore eyes so I checked, flushed his eyes with artificial tears, yes, the cat let me use eye drops, and noticed that his breath smells of July dumpster. I checked his gums, yes, the cat let me stick fingers in his mouth, although he was not particularly happy, and the gums and teeth did not look exactly stellar. Swelling, some calculi... so I called the vet. After all, no idea whether he is chipped or vaccinated or anything.

Poor creature, half of his teeth is rotten. He got antibiotics, antibiotic ointment and on Saturday, the bad teeth are going to be removed. I bought soft food, too, because it somehow did not occur to me that he was not eating because of achy teeth. And I was angry at the shelter, I got him five days ago with a clear bill of health, or, to be exact, No visible traces of health issues. Apparently, nobody bothered to open his mouth. Or sniff around.

Alvar must've been hungry, he inhaled almost a whole can and trotted around, visibly happier. Later on, I found out that he neatly threw it all up, almost untouched, on the bathroom mat. Well, I needed to do the laundry anyway. Alas, he doesn't consider the medication a treat so I need to feed it to him, which includes holding his mouth open and it apparently hurts, today morning, he screamed to high heaven. Eye ointment is fine.

Zoe wanders around and when she sees me, she runs away. Half of the time, I have no idea that she's there so if she sat still and pretended to be a stone, I wouldn't notice at all.

Cat update

I was approved to adopt Zoe. The owner needs to surrender her because she's on a diet and when she eats normal cat food, she pees all over and when she's isolated from the other cats, she is angry and sad because she likes company... and I proved to be sane enough, or the owner just liked me.
The British Shorthair's name is Adam and I'm picking him on Thursday. I hope he and Zoe get on well.
I mailed that friend of mine and told her that, well, sorry for the delay but I needed to think about it, you know, the cats just heaped on me and such, but I'll take Agata, two or three, it doesn't matter. Oh fuck, she said, just today morning, a lady took her for a trial run. With said friend, I have an abysmally bad timing, apparently. She offered me Cake the Pirate Cat but only to go with her best friend Pig (a cat called Pig, to be exact) and while Cake is a dear, I don't want four, for goodness' sake.
Off to buy a cat tree. Pictures will certainly follow.

When it rains, it pours

The Central Registry of Cats aimed its eyes or radars or chemoreceptors at me.

I was intermittently whining to a friend how much I miss Max. On Monday, she said I have a cat for you and pointed me to an offer of a Russian Blue commenting that she's not exactly British but blue enough, and she's even on a diet. I was thinking about it, after all, life has been a bit messy and maybe adding a cat to it might not be the best idea but then I thought that damn it, a cat won't make it any worse and contacted the shelter lady who gave me more information, vouched for me with the owner... and the thing started getting rolling.
On Tuesday, the shelter lady from whom I got Max messaged me whether, just in case, I would not want another British Shorthair. Oh fuck, I thought to myself, I was sort of vouched to adopt the Russian, looked at the picture (squee! Plushy kitty! The widdle ears!), thought about it for about two seconds whether it is reasonable to get two cats and decided that bite it, asked vet friend whether a healthy cat can eat urinary protection diet - yes, sure, it's a good prevention of urinary problems - and said that, well, yeah, I'll adopt him. After all, the Russian likes company.
On Wednesday, I told about this to a friend and she responded Oh fuck, I just wanted to ask you whether you wouldn't adopt our Agata, the other cats bully her and don't let her pee and eat... I told her that, ahem... well, I'll think about it.

Lady horticulturist: cleanup and chill

My dear mother got finally persuaded that I could mess with the hedge trimmer as well. My ultimate and quite obvious argument was If you don't let me do it, I'll never learn it.

Also, she has vertigo on the first ladder step and I don't. 

And then, it's fun. It's destructive, not too finicky and things get done.

And then...

... even more destruction.

I also hear that smoke from fragrant herbs is a good protection against various noxious miasmata. Spruce is not a herb but it is fragrant enough and in times o plague...

Knitting in the times of cholera

I went to parents' for a few days and took some unfinished stuff in case there was a quarantine or something.

Five sweaters in various stages of progress and there are two more downstairs. 

The yarn in the upper right corner is Taiyo Sock in #4, discontinued for about five years. I got some but not enough for anything so when I randomly found some more, I got all they had. Same with pale blue Kumo. I have plans for them but first, I need to liberate some needles - meaning that I need to actually finish something. At least I found my dearly loved misplaced 40 cm/2 mm needle (and ordered a new one meantime).

And, yes, no bright blue nail paint on my toes. They're all in my place.

Anniversary

A year ago, I got my kidney removed. It was mostly tumour, anyway.

It was a story full of randomness. In winter, my depression worsened so the doc added new meds, I had some cold from hell, got a live vaccine and had a few other reasons to feel shitty. I had vertigo even when lying down, once, I had a syncope and when I became conscious again, I just was not able to get up from the floor, not sure if it was a lack of coordination or general weakness, this sort of stuff. I stopped taking the new psych meds and the vertigo started improving but I was quite a bit off and as I went to parents', I dropped by at my GP. She did the poking and prodding, decided that by all counts, I'm healthy, I don't look healthy at all, though, and I should get an ultrasound of my abdomen because I feel sickish and it could be the appendix. Well, I know where my stomach is but I didn't object. Some seven hours and five doctors' offices later, I ended up in the university hospital where a friendly urologist showed me a nice big potato on the ultrasound. I asked where my kidney is, then, and he explained that it was the thin line around that potato. Oopsie.

For my birthday, I got a CT which showed sliced potato. Kidney potato was hacked away with the rest of the kidney and the tubing and I ended up with a sexy scar.

And, I'm entitled to all the tasteless cancer jokes for the rest of my life.