I was supposed to be traveling this weekend, but I ended up postponing my plans and boy, am I glad I did.
It gave me a chance to begin digging my way out of a pile of grading.
It also gave me a chance to recover from 5 weeks of cat-parenting. Freya was diagnosed with "Feline Idiopathic Cystitis" (FID) several weeks ago. It's a notoriously stubborn condition to treat, but I think we've finally--finally!!!--turned a corner.
In case you're wondering, "cystitis" is fancy for "bladder infection." "Idiopathic" is fancy for "no known cause." Put 'em together, and you have fancy for, "Your cat is using the litter box 50 times a day and never peeing, but we'll be damned if we know why... Your guess is as good as ours."
Hence, the difficulties involved in treating FID. As you may imagine, it's hard to cure something when you can't find anything that's actually causing it. In the cause-and-effect scenario, you've got lots of effects and no cause.
So basically, I've been spending the past two weeks doing all kinds of clean up. Because I'm here to tell you that if your kitty uses the litter box 50 times a day (no, I'm not exaggerating), she will get litter absolutely EVERYWHERE.
Everywhere. Ev. REE. Where. Sigh.
Plus, it's a little-known fact that cats who can't pee will often end up pooping instead. Think about it: you probably would too, if you keep "trying to go" all the time.
So, at one particularly low point last Sunday night at 3:00 a.m. (so it was technically Monday morning, I guess), I found myself carefully wandering from room to room with a litter scoop in one hand and a roll of paper towels in the other, on "Poop Patrol." (You can't sleep when something really stinks, it's as simple as that.)
I fell asleep about a half hour later, only to be awakened by a horrific howl and a mad scramble. I bolted awake thinking that Freya's bladder had probably ruptured and she had fallen off the windowsill next to my bed.
But no. It was Smokey. Some outside critter came a bit too close to the window, so he sounded the alarm. And nearly gave me a heart attack in the process.
But things are a bit better this weekend. The weather has turned perfectly lovely, and I've decided that if I'm not being tortured by cats and litter boxes, I'll need to torture myself by painting the ceilings.
They've needed to be painted for some time. I just really don't want to do it.
So I've decided that instead of doing my usual kamikaze style painting sessions in which I try to do absolutely everything all at once, I'm going to budget my time differently and distribute this task over the course of however long it takes.
Days? Weeks? T'sall good. (Actually, I really hope it doesn't take weeks.)
This way, maybe I won't end up with a major crick in my neck. That's the hope.
I've also been using the past week to finish up another tank top. Yes, I know, we're coming out of one of the coldest and snowiest winters in recent history and I spent it knitting tank tops. I really do think that makes sense, in some way.
I'm also on a renewed sock-knitting binge. Not that the binge ever really stopped, but I paused it just long enough to knit another tank top and start a small gift. I need to not get too immersed in the socks right now, though, because the small gift needs to be given in another week or two, which means it will need to be, you know, finished.
I've also been reading--rereading, actually. I reread Toni Morrison's Beloved for the first time in a long while, and I enjoyed it as much as I did back in the day.
Right now, I'm reading Amitav Ghosh's Sea of Poppies (2008). It's going relatively quickly, so I'm hoping that, sooner or later, I will actually have something new to blog about.
In the meantime, it's all about playing catch-up.