The Final Countdown

19 Jun

The hours are winding down to the final time in June that I get on a plane to come home, and it can’t come too soon. My suitcase is (sloppily) packed,

except for my toiletries, for two reasons: I need them tomorrow, and I hate to disturb the lovely way in which the cleaning staff laid them out for me.

My hair is freshly washed,

and I watched a cross-dresser confess to murder in H-D on “CSI.”

I also took a shot at taking a couple more pictures: one of the funky lamp, and one of the cobalt blue bottle of “Le Bleu Premium Ultra Pure Water.”

I’m now going to comb out my hair and shut this party down. Night night!

The Shape of Things to Come

6 Jun

I have a feeling that when I have children, I’m going to turn into one of those mothers. You know, the ones who panic at every sneeze, cough or other symptom that a paranoid mom can perceive as the beginning of the end of her child.

When I adopted my cat, Ginger, she came to me with a cold. For the first four days she lived with me, I had to give her oral antibiotics twice a day (which actually was a great crash course for me, because it’s not a fun thing to do). She finished the antibiotics and was declared healthy (if a little pudgy) at her vet appointment.

Late last week I noticed her sneezing, so of course I panic and think she has a cold again. I make an appointment with the vet, then am told by several people who own cats that I am overreacting, particularly because sneezing is the only symptom she has.

So I cancelled the appointment with the vet for this past Tuesday and rescheduled to Friday, to give Ginger a little more time to display additional symptoms. (During this time I’ve called my friend Roy and peppered him with questions like, “Are her paws supposed to be cold?”, and “Is her nose supposed to be wet and cold?” I told you, I’m crazy!)

Essentially, I think she’s only sneezed once this week since I cancelled the first appointment (the vet also suggested it might be allergies or dust, which there are plenty of each in abundance in my house at times), I called today to cancel the second appointment. I’m sure the vet’s office thinks I’m crazy and will be calling the Humane Society (probably the pet equivalent of Social Services for human children) and have her removed from my home.

I fear for the child I hope to have one day, because I am sure I will mortify her at every turn the same way my often-overprotective parents smothered me.

My name is Lisa, and I’m a paranoid Mama.