The Joys of Parenthood

For the first time in recent memory, I made concrete plans in advance for the weekend. The first weekend in May is always a big deal in my hometown: There's a festival, complete with parades, fireworks, carnival, midway, and hordes of screaming children and drunken teens and adults. I try to make it home for these festivities when I can, not because I love a parade (the novelty of that wore off about 15 years ago), but because everyone and their Aunt Jemima is in town, and it's one of the few chances I get to catch up with my usually widely dispersed family and friends. Given the fact that I haven't seen my immediate family since Christmas (and I haven't seen my brother since my sister's wedding in September), I was excited by the prospect of spending some quality time with them this weekend.

No such luck.

I had it all worked out: A friend and I were going to drive out to Virginia after work on Friday and spend a fun and relaxing weekend at my dad's place. Then on Tuesday night, I noticed a nasty bleeding sore on my elder cat's hindquarters. Bleeding butt sores are generally not good, and Louie appeared to be in some pain, so I made a vet appointment right away. Wednesday afternoon, Louie and I trekked out to Friendship Hospital for Animals (because my usual vet's office, City Paws, is closed on Wednesdays) via Zipcar to see the lovely Dr. Calder (incidentally, I was very impressed with her: She and the rest of the Friendship staff took great care of my baby).

After a brief examination, it was determined that Louie had ruptured an anal gland (gross). So he was fitted with a stylish cone collar (pictures coming soon!) and prescribed a 3-week course of antibiotics. I also get the distinct pleasure of cleansing the wound with a mild antibacterial solution once a day (grab an angry cat and try to wash its ass, then you will understand my plight). Needless to say, Louie is not a happy camper, and I wouldn't feel right leaving him in someone else's care while I gallivant around Virginia for the weekend. And so I shall remain in DC.

It took nearly 10 minutes to give Louie his pill this morning. First, he decided that he does not care for the chicken-flavored "pill-pockets" (for which I shelled out a good $7), so voluntary ingestion of the medication was out of the question. I then proceeded to pry his jaws open and drop the pill into his toothy maw. He swallowed it... and then promptly regurgitated it (and half of his breakfast) on the kitchen floor. Great. So I grabbed a new pill and started over. This time, he just spit it out on the floor. (At least it wasn't accompanied by partially digested kibble.) I picked up the now-moist pill and wrangled Louie for one final try. At last, success! Once I released my vise-like grip, he retreated to the corner of the living room and glared at me spitefully through his sad little cone until I left for work (for which I was now running incredibly late). I'm sure he will have forgiven and forgotten by dinner time, when we'll repeat The Dance of the Cat Pill. It's going to be a fun 3 weeks.

Only In Dreams

After having been on Lexapro (an SSRI) for nearly 5 years,* I recently had to switch to a new antidepressant/antianxiety medication (which is a long story involving overpriced name-brand pharmaceuticals and a certain insurance provider that shall hereafter be referred to as the Evil Empire). It took a few months and some trial and error (not to mention an array of harrowing side effects), but my psychiatrist (who is absolutely amazing--thank god for Whitman-Walker Clinic) and I finally found a drug that seems to work for me (Effexor, an SSNRI).

When I first started taking the Effexor, I was prepared to experience some side effects--you know, the usual suspects: nausea, diarrhea, sleep disturbances, etc.--that would subside after a few weeks. What I did not expect was a series of increasingly vivid sex dreams. I used to have such dreams on occasion, but they were few and far between, and my memory of them was usually pretty vague. In comparison, these most recent reveries have been like high-def pornos. I'm not exactly complaining (it's not like I'm getting any action in my waking hours), but it is a little weird. For one, quite a few of the folks who have landed starring roles in my subconscious's pornographic productions have been friends or acquaintances with whom I'd never really considered the prospect of sex. Needless to say, having a very graphic sex dream about someone can make interacting with them on a regular basis fairly awkward... visions of compromising positions dance uncontrollably in my head.

A second interesting twist in this already twisted tale is that a sizable number of my dream couplings have been with men. It's no secret that I favor the ladies. In fact, outside of my overly active subconscious, I've never actually slept with a guy. So it's been quite suprising to me that I've been getting it on so enthusiastically with these dream dudes. What gives? Is my subconscious trying to tell me something? Have my hormones gone wild and induced these dreams of breeding? Or, gender aside, do I really just need to get laid?



*I'm a major proponent of being open and unashamed about mental health issues. Far too many people see mood disorders and the like as personal shortcomings and/or believe that discussing them is socially taboo; I am not one of those people. Also, although I am disturbed by medical professionals' increasing tendency to pass out antidepressants like they're candy, I do firmly believe (and am living proof) that these drugs are beneficial, even necessary, for some people.

I Turn My Camera On

Upon returning from an impromptu jaunt to Dupont (via U Street and then Logan... twice, which is a long story that can be summed up as follows: "I have a terrible sense of direction") with the lovely Nick, I was greeted anxiously at the front door, as usual, by my two feline friends. When I shuffled toward the kitchen to retrieve their long-awaited dinner, I noticed that something was amiss. I had already kicked off my shoes (my feet were killing me from the untold number of miles I had just walked), and as I walked past the cats' water dish, I experienced the singularly unpleasant sensation of wet socks. One (or both) of my little angels had splashed out the entire contents of their self-refilling water dish (which, all told, was at least a liter of water), creating a sizable lake between my living room and kitchen. This in and of itself was not out of the ordinary: Both cats love to play with water (but god help you if you try to give them a bath) and delight in making a mess, if for no other reason than to watch the muscles above my left eye start to twitch involuntarily. No, the problem was that sitting in the middle of Lake Catdish, like a sad little castle surrounded by a cat-hair-laden moat, was my digital camera, presumably dragged there by its little wrist strap by Georgia and/or Louie.

I quickly extricated it from its watery grave, but the damage had been done: It won't even turn on. I'm not sure what delivered the death blow--the cats knocking the camera from its perch atop my bookshelf or their subsequent attempt to drown their prey--but if I still can't fire it up tonight, after it's had a chance to dry out, I'm afraid I'll have to officially pronounce it dead.


Rest in peace, Nikon Coolpix 3200. You had a good run.

***UPDATE*** The camera has miraculously recovered! It's still kind of slow and crappy, but it's no slower or crappier than it was before its underwater adventure. I'm just happy to avoid the expense of replacing it, especially in light of the $502 I just shelled out for custom orthotic insoles (damn you, Evil Empire!).

Does anyone else think the word "papal" sounds kind of dirty?

Anyone who lives within at least a 20-mile radius of DC (and who is not in some sort of catatonic state) knows that the Pope is visiting this week. News of His Kinda-Creepy-Looking Oldness's pending arrival has spewed forth from every major media outlet, taking precedence over actual important things (like this and this). Metro has warned us to expect delays (which--I shudder at the thought--will likely be even worse than those experienced on my commute yesterday morning, during which I stood idly by at Gallery Place while two inexplicably overcrowded Red Line trains came and went). DC's finest are out en force (I wish that more of them were on Segways, if for no other reason than to amuse me). And yesterday afternoon on the Metro, I sat next to a man who was holding an enormous statue of the Virgin Mary on his lap (I can only assume that he was taking it to get blessed or something).

I'm not one to mock the religious beliefs of others (okay, I have been known to mock occasionally, but I try to be respectful); I simply don't understand why everyone is creaming themselves over the Pope. He's just a man. Granted, he is a man with fabulous shoes; a funny-looking car; and control of one of the richest, whitest (in terms of its history and leadership, anyway), malest (again, in terms of leadership; and yes, "malest" is now a word) churches in the world; but he is, nevertheless, just a man.

As you can probably tell, I wasn't raised Catholic (although I have many close friends who are quite devout), so there's a lot about the religion that I just don't "get," no matter how eloquently (and repeatedly) it is explained to me. I have a meager intellectual grasp of such things, but a real sense of understanding is beyond me. Perhaps it is true that faith can be explained ad nauseum but can really only be understood when it is experienced personally.

In any case, I plan to spend the remaining days of the Pope's visit lying low in my liberal, queer, feminist, agnostic lair (a.k.a., "English basement") with my cats, swilling beer and avoiding public transit. Perhaps I should start my own religion...