Tuesday, July 28, 2009

Hurray! Finally!

I love my cat Joey. A massive gray and white tom, about 12 or 13 years old, he's an affectionate tub of guts. His days include power-napping, cuddling with me, playing with our young turk-cat, Reynaldo, and being slapped in the face by our household diva cat, Charlotte, who has hated Joey since they first met. (Joey, being both sweetest and perhaps the most forgetful of my cats, needs to be reminded every day that Charlotte hates him.) His days are full, from a feline point of view, and he always seems happy.

One thing his life has always lacked is cat treats.

He doesn't like the crunchy ones that are good for kitty teeth (Rey's favorites). Nor the soft ones, redolent of fish or chicken (preferred by Charlotte). When the other two get their snacks, Joey just sits in the kitchen doorway a moment, realizes none of this appeals to him, and lumbers away. It breaks my heart.

Voila! I have finally found something that he, and he alone, likes! Pet Greens! Safe and healthier than other cat treats, he happily gnaws and grazes. Now we're all happy at snack time.

The Queen's Meme #3

Completed by Royal Decree.

This week I'm attempting her Culinary Meme. I know nothing about cooking, so wish me luck as I try to navigate these unfamiliar waters.

1. If you could put thyme in a bottle, what is the first thing that you'd like to do? Put it on YouTube. There are people out there who would demand visual evidence of what I'd just done. I am, after all, the woman who uses her kitchen drawers to store mittens, scarves and earmuffs during the offseason.

2. Do eggs really crack or do they merely have a nervous breakdown? I believe they have nervous breakdowns. At least Egghead did. He is one of my all-time fave rave Batman villians. His crimes were egg-ceptional and his inevitable capture by the Caped Crusaders was always egg-scrutiating.

3. Why are you whipping the butter? What did it ever do to you? I flatly deny the charge. I'd never whip butter! In fact, I revere butter and all her cousins. You know that scene in the Wizard of Oz where the Wicked Witch's soldiers and monkeys are chanting? I hear them droning, "O-leo. Oh, oh. O-leo."

4. Do your spoons spoon in the drawer? Have you ever noticed? And more importantly, if wooden spoons spoon do they get splinters? What goes on in the drawer, stays in the drawer.

5. You hear: "Dumpling, my Dumpling, come hither." The candles are lit, the fondue is dipping, the Godiva is pouring, the scallions are steaming and the music is playing.....but wait, the windows are open. Why did you close them? Because, as father used to say, we don't want to air condition the outside, do we?

6. Do you need a recipe to cook or are you a bohemian chef? Show us your reckless and wild side in the kitchen. Don't have one? Here's a recipe I made just for you: You will need a spatula, a whisk, a gallon of Chardonnay, a banana and a rump roast. What is the name of your dish? Lee Remick. Because my friend Mindy's dad, Mr. Goldenberg, always used to say, "Now, Lee Remick, what a dish!"

7. After dinner, the dishes are so dirty that the dishwasher refuses to wash them. What did they say to get in hot water? Something vulgar and classless. My dishes are White Sox fans. They can't help it.

8. Is your pot black? Is the Pope Catholic? Do bears shit in the woods?

9. What is the sexiest spice or condiment in your cabinet? What makes it so? The ketchup. I'd say that I love what comes out after I shake it and give it a little squeeze, but that kind of crass gutter talk is White Sox-worthy.

10. How much crock is really in your crock pot? I don't have a crock pot because my crock cannot be controlled nor contained.

Thank you, Blogoshere!

My sister bloggers have been so supportive and compassionate during my recent medical trauma. I appreciate it enormously. I didn't share this experience with many people in my real life, so the encouragement I received here was so important.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

"Benign. No Follow Up Required."

I'm not going to bury the lead. That's what my test results say, and I'm thrilled by them.

Here's how I found out.

I called my doctor's office this morning and got Nurse A. She began by saying, "You know we haven't even received your test results yet."

"No," said I, "I don't know that because no one called me back yesterday."

I explained that I realized that, with my doctor on vacation, there was no one there right now to read me the results. But didn't my doctor have another physician covering for him.

"Yes, but Dr. Mahoney is seeing obstetric emergencies only."

I told her that while I may not be bruised, bleeding or pregnant, this is an emergency for me and I have no intention of waiting until Monday to find out the test results. So would she please send the test results, when they come in, to my internist? Nurse A said she that since my internist was not in their network, she wasn't sure she could do that.

I pointed out that I live around the corner and would be very happy to stop in and pick up the results myself and walk them over to my internist because, after all, my test results are legally mine.

This rattled Nurse A who said she would "consult with the practice manager" and get back to me.

Minutes later Maria, another nurse, called me back. Amazingly, they found my test results! I guess they'd been there all along! Maria kept emphasizing that even though she's not an MD, she would be happy to read me the results as a courtesy and then fax them to my internist.

"Benign. Consistent in both views. No follow up required."

I told her sending the test results to my other doctor was unnecessary. She said my doctor would be calling me on Monday to confirm the good news. I like that.

Now I am happy. Now I am relaxed. For I am healthy, my circumstances got the respect they deserved, and Nurse A had what President Obama would call "a teaching experience," so she'll handle the next woman's mammogram results with a bit more compassion.

OK, so it's my fat black belt ...

But I'm comfortably wearing it on the last hole! (Or do I mean the first hole?) At any rate, it's as small as it gets, and I don't feel like a sausage. Could this mean that soon I'll be able to forsake my fat jeans, too?