...and I'm just now blogging again. Figures, right? Hey, at least I'm still sneaking in at the once a month pace!
I have no idea what to blog about. Steve says to write about the Easter egg hunt we did last week, or Hunter's announcement that he is definitely allergic to direct sunlight, or Sarah's bizarre costume she wore to a cosplay convention in Nashville, or some idiocy my cats have gotten up to, or the new flowers that finally got put into the flower bed, or my latest race to the death with a stitching deadline I'm pretending doesn't exist.
All decent ideas. Nothing coming to mind about how to word any of that to be even remotely entertaining to anyone else.
Zippy is sitting in my lap demanding attention. It'd be cute as all get out if I didn't think she was secretly plotting how to sink her teeth into my jugular in retaliation for yet another vet visit. She's been having urination issues the last month or so. The issue being that she's urinating on our bed which is waaaay out of character for one of the most well-behaved cats I've ever known.
Took her to the vet to get her checked for what I was sure was a UTI, but they couldn't get a sample out of her no matter what they tried. They were completely in love with her about twenty seconds after taking her out of my arms though. See, Zippy hugs. Tightly. Especially when she's frightened. So the doctor thought it was just adorable that he peeled her off of my neck only to have her flip around, wrap both front legs around his neck, and press her head up under his chin.
Then she started squeezing.
And pushing her head harder.
And squeezing some more.
And nuzzling.
And the doc's eyes got wide.
And his face got red.
And his mouth opened slightly.
And his face got purple.
And the tech and I had to remove the growth from him.
Zippy is the sweetest, cutest, furriest boa constrictor you'll ever meet.
But after they were forced to resort to using a needle to get a urine sample directly out of her bladder and then cram the first of many pills down her throat to combat the massive bacterial infection she has, I'm a little concerned about my wellbeing for the next couple of days. Well, that and I keep checking to see if she's piddled on my pillow in revenge yet.
"Wow, Kiri! Your shampoo has a ... unique ... scent to it. What brand are you using?"
"I believe it's called Salon de Take-me-to-the-vet-again-and-I'll-eat-your-eyes-while-you-sleep."
*sigh*
Sleep is totally overrated anyhow, right?
Friday, April 25, 2014
Wednesday, March 19, 2014
I should write a book?
This was pointed out to me by someone last night while I was babbling about something or other. She was immediately agreed with by at least two other people.
I shut up. Obviously, I'd been running my mouth far too much again.
Books are written by creative people who are capable of keeping their thoughts on the same train and sometimes even in the same passenger car. My thoughts are the ones running alongside the train banging on the windows and begging the driver not to leave them behind.
Oh, I come up with some awesome ideas for stories! Generally based on a story written by someone else that was so good I went straight back to the first page and started over trying to imagine it being told from the point of view of a different character. I'm sure I'd be an amazingly famous published writer living in the lap of luxury off of the royalties I was raking in... if it wasn't for all this malarky about plagiarism or some nonsense about stealing someone else's ideas. Pfffft.
I mean. errrmmm....
*cough*
"But you write a blog, don't you?"
Yeah. Once in a blue moon. Unreliably. Badly.
And it's about my kids and my cats.
Riveting stuff.
Books are supposed to be written by people who can draw on their own life experiences for inspiration.
I just don't have that exciting a life. Oh there's drama alright. I have a teenage daughter. Drama moved in and took over several years ago. And isn't paying its fair share of the bills, either.
But even the drama isn't really MY drama. I grew up being surrounded by other people's drama. Somehow I always seemed to be a spectator to the most unbelievable situations. A few times I played a minor role while trying to get away from whatever was going on. But almost every unbelievable event I can recall swirled around somebody else I just happened to be standing near.
There was the time I was walking home from school with a couple of classmates when I was maybe 11 years old. We came around a patch of trees and could see the huge field we'd be crossing to get to the apartment complex I lived in. I ran ahead of my two friends and slowed down when I saw my mother and little sister coming across that field to meet us. Then I saw my sister cover her face, my mother's face turn ghost white and she tried to run (Mom had ankle issues that made running a physical impossibility for her) toward me, and I heard my friends behind me screaming my name frantically. There was this really strong breeze that blew past me suddenly and when I turned to see what all the ruckus was about, a wannabe yacht of an ugly yellow old car was entering the gas station parking lot across the street from us... via the curb and sidewalk.
According to everyone else, the driver had turned his car so he was aiming directly at me and then at the last second swerved away which is what caused that gust of air I remember. I don't remember hearing any squealing tires at all, but there must have been something because people were pouring out of the stores and running toward us to make sure I was alright.
Honestly, I was just wondering what the fuss was all about.
Which has been a pretty consistent theme throughout my life.
The details I remember out of these events are strange too.
~I remember the color of that car perfectly and can recreate it fairly easily with a dirty yellow crayola marker and a splash of weak coffee.
~I remember how, when I was about 12, an apartment complex pool went from sounding like a library while a neighbor's 3 year old was drowning in front of everyone to sounding like a bomb had gone off when I tapped her mother on the leg and pointed to the little girl.
~I remember thinking, at the supposedly mature age of 33, how I was "never going to get that smell out of my carpet" when my neighbor's 2 year old daughter's body relaxed and emptied on my dining room floor after she'd left the child alone in a bathtub for what she said was "only thirty minutes".
~I remember being angry at Steve for a few moments when it happened because he'd just deployed two days earlier and this stuff NEVER happens when he's around.
~I remember the sound of happy birds nearby, the color and smell of the hair, and the Easter pink business jacket and skirt of the woman who tried to take my then 5 month old son out of my car at a fast food drive-thru.
~I remember the click of a traffic signal changing colors followed by the sounds of car doors in every direction flying open when a driver fell asleep at the wheel, careened headlong into a large generator box at a major intersection, and I joined a dozen or more other people racing toward his car to see if he was okay.
~I remember the sound of metal collapsing in on itself and the rough, angry tremble in Steve's voice coming across his cellphone when his little hatchback was unlucky enough to be in the path of a large buck... for the second time in a month.
~I remember hearing a car radio struggling to play music that sounded like it was underwater when a woman called into the center after being in an accident and nearly five minutes of hysterical sobbing later was finally able to make us understand she was trapped in her seat, under the windshield, with the corpse of the full grown deer she'd collided with laying on top of her.
~~~~~~~~
See... this is the stuff I remember. This is the sort of thing I can catch myself babbling about incessantly if I'm not careful. Not the sort of thing people typically want to read about. And I want to laugh anyway. I need to find humor in everything, perhaps because of the above situations.
So I focus my attention and my blog on the fairly regular, but small, bits of lunacy my cats and children can produce. That's never enough to write a full book about, though.
Which is good.
Somehow having a full length catalog of all the ways I can blackmail my children when they start dating doesn't seem the best way to win Mother of the Year.
And it doesn't help that my cats seem hellbent on proving they are all completely insane and gonna take me down with them.
I think they may succeed.
Something just crashed downstairs.
Zippy looks like she has a bottle brush stuck to her butt.
Lea looks irritated and bored at the same time.
Flicker looks sleepy.
Jack looks innocent.
Bullpuckey.
I shut up. Obviously, I'd been running my mouth far too much again.
Books are written by creative people who are capable of keeping their thoughts on the same train and sometimes even in the same passenger car. My thoughts are the ones running alongside the train banging on the windows and begging the driver not to leave them behind.
Oh, I come up with some awesome ideas for stories! Generally based on a story written by someone else that was so good I went straight back to the first page and started over trying to imagine it being told from the point of view of a different character. I'm sure I'd be an amazingly famous published writer living in the lap of luxury off of the royalties I was raking in... if it wasn't for all this malarky about plagiarism or some nonsense about stealing someone else's ideas. Pfffft.
I mean. errrmmm....
*cough*
"But you write a blog, don't you?"
Yeah. Once in a blue moon. Unreliably. Badly.
And it's about my kids and my cats.
Riveting stuff.
Books are supposed to be written by people who can draw on their own life experiences for inspiration.
I just don't have that exciting a life. Oh there's drama alright. I have a teenage daughter. Drama moved in and took over several years ago. And isn't paying its fair share of the bills, either.
But even the drama isn't really MY drama. I grew up being surrounded by other people's drama. Somehow I always seemed to be a spectator to the most unbelievable situations. A few times I played a minor role while trying to get away from whatever was going on. But almost every unbelievable event I can recall swirled around somebody else I just happened to be standing near.
There was the time I was walking home from school with a couple of classmates when I was maybe 11 years old. We came around a patch of trees and could see the huge field we'd be crossing to get to the apartment complex I lived in. I ran ahead of my two friends and slowed down when I saw my mother and little sister coming across that field to meet us. Then I saw my sister cover her face, my mother's face turn ghost white and she tried to run (Mom had ankle issues that made running a physical impossibility for her) toward me, and I heard my friends behind me screaming my name frantically. There was this really strong breeze that blew past me suddenly and when I turned to see what all the ruckus was about, a wannabe yacht of an ugly yellow old car was entering the gas station parking lot across the street from us... via the curb and sidewalk.
According to everyone else, the driver had turned his car so he was aiming directly at me and then at the last second swerved away which is what caused that gust of air I remember. I don't remember hearing any squealing tires at all, but there must have been something because people were pouring out of the stores and running toward us to make sure I was alright.
Honestly, I was just wondering what the fuss was all about.
Which has been a pretty consistent theme throughout my life.
The details I remember out of these events are strange too.
~I remember the color of that car perfectly and can recreate it fairly easily with a dirty yellow crayola marker and a splash of weak coffee.
~I remember how, when I was about 12, an apartment complex pool went from sounding like a library while a neighbor's 3 year old was drowning in front of everyone to sounding like a bomb had gone off when I tapped her mother on the leg and pointed to the little girl.
~I remember thinking, at the supposedly mature age of 33, how I was "never going to get that smell out of my carpet" when my neighbor's 2 year old daughter's body relaxed and emptied on my dining room floor after she'd left the child alone in a bathtub for what she said was "only thirty minutes".
~I remember being angry at Steve for a few moments when it happened because he'd just deployed two days earlier and this stuff NEVER happens when he's around.
~I remember the sound of happy birds nearby, the color and smell of the hair, and the Easter pink business jacket and skirt of the woman who tried to take my then 5 month old son out of my car at a fast food drive-thru.
~I remember the click of a traffic signal changing colors followed by the sounds of car doors in every direction flying open when a driver fell asleep at the wheel, careened headlong into a large generator box at a major intersection, and I joined a dozen or more other people racing toward his car to see if he was okay.
~I remember the sound of metal collapsing in on itself and the rough, angry tremble in Steve's voice coming across his cellphone when his little hatchback was unlucky enough to be in the path of a large buck... for the second time in a month.
~I remember hearing a car radio struggling to play music that sounded like it was underwater when a woman called into the center after being in an accident and nearly five minutes of hysterical sobbing later was finally able to make us understand she was trapped in her seat, under the windshield, with the corpse of the full grown deer she'd collided with laying on top of her.
~~~~~~~~
See... this is the stuff I remember. This is the sort of thing I can catch myself babbling about incessantly if I'm not careful. Not the sort of thing people typically want to read about. And I want to laugh anyway. I need to find humor in everything, perhaps because of the above situations.
So I focus my attention and my blog on the fairly regular, but small, bits of lunacy my cats and children can produce. That's never enough to write a full book about, though.
Which is good.
Somehow having a full length catalog of all the ways I can blackmail my children when they start dating doesn't seem the best way to win Mother of the Year.
And it doesn't help that my cats seem hellbent on proving they are all completely insane and gonna take me down with them.
I think they may succeed.
Something just crashed downstairs.
Zippy looks like she has a bottle brush stuck to her butt.
Lea looks irritated and bored at the same time.
Flicker looks sleepy.
Jack looks innocent.
Bullpuckey.
Thursday, February 20, 2014
Bingo Blitz is going to get someone killed.
Yep. I said "bingo". As in sitting at a table with half a dozen people in a room crammed with 13 or 14 more tables crowded with dozens of other people who have also given up on finding anything even remotely dignified to do with their evening. At least the whole "blue hair" thing is optional.
You can usually tell which tables are the "happening" tables by the people who appear to be suffering from a bad case of abnormally large, rainbow hued measles after failing to dodge repeated "daub & run" attacks perpetrated by their companions.
I'll admit it. I could probably fit into this crowd fairly easily even at my age. (First person who asks me what it was like to ride a T-rex is gonna get fed to him.) But since I'm not one for gambling real money, bingo tends to get monotonous in a hurry. The total reliance on sheer luck drives me batty as well.
Short drive. Yeah, I know. I've had that particular personality trait pointed out to me on many occasions.
Well, it turns out that someone got the idea to "spice up" the game of bingo and introduced the Facebook world to Bingo Blitz. The classic game has been all gussied up with pretty graphics, computer generated callers sporting hideous accents, and even a way to strategize and improve your chances of getting bingos using these doohickies called Power Ups.
If you get bored with the bingo side of things, you can also go muck around with their slots rooms. Nothing different about the slots stuff; standard, run of the mill, no concentration needed, spin yourself into a computer coma, slots.
To keep things from getting dull and stagnant, you play the bingo and slots in an effort to win collection items in each of the rooms. These items can come from treasure chest squares or from what are universally referred to as "shadow cards" because they have a silhouette of one of the collection items. If you bingo on that card, Voila!, you just won the item.
I'm borderline OCD. Oh yeah. I must have every item. Now. Sleep and food are inconsequential. Smaller versions of myself can learn to fend for themselves. Let the dust bunnies clean the house. I'm busy!
And I'm not the only one!
The desire to get these collection items has to led to some fairly basic strategies that usually require dragging the individual rounds out as long as possible for more opportunity to daub treasure squares or to get a bingo on the shadow card.
You have to "buy" your game cards with the virtual currency of the game known as credits which are earned by winning bingos and through the daily "Yay! You checked back in today! You love us and still have no life!" allowances. Obviously you want to bingo 1st, 2nd, or 3rd for the larger credit prizes. If not in the top three, you still want to bingo at some point so you get at least some sort of credit prize to recoup what you spent on the round.
Now there is a small element of cooperation between players when it comes to the collection items, because trading most of the items is allowed. This is a lovely aspect of the Bingo Blitz world intended to bring us together and foster harmony and love.
As with anything even remotely competitive in the universe, you have people who want to play one way, and other people who want to play in a different style.
And as with anything in the universe even remotely involving humans, you have drama.
Now that the basic set up has been laid out, lemme pull you in a smidge farther. You know that first group I described? The ones focused on getting collections completed? That camp is generally called the "Holders". They hold their bingos as long as they possibly can before clicking that "BINGO!" button just before the last bingo is called. Some holders don't call their bingos at all if they think they're helping other players and these folks can get downright homicidal if you call a bingo while they're holding for a specific person.
Then you have the group that just want to play bingo and aren't necessarily concerned with strategy or completing the collections. They want to win and they want to get back some of the credits they paid to get into the game. This group of players really doesn't have a collective name at this time, but they can also get downright homicidal if anyone challenges their right to claim their hard earned currency.
These two groups of players generally despise each other. In a Skittles vs M&Ms sort of way. In a dog lover vs cat lover sort of way. In a Star Trek vs Star Wars sort of way.
I tend to think the "holder" term gets used a little too much. But then, I like to believe that logic and I have a pretty decent relationship.
For example, in every online bingo game out there the bingos trickle in slowly at the start and then begin to speed up as more people get their bingos, usually ending in a chaotic crashing wave effect of players trying to claim a win before either time runs out or the allotted number of wins allowed is used up. (Bingo Blitz uses the allotted wins based on the number of cards purchased method.)
The chaos at the end of the game is often immediately followed by "Ugh! Holders!!"
Now, there's a very good possibility that this is due to the holders watching the number of bingos remaining and gauging how much longer they can try to accumulate treasure chests or coins before grabbing their spot on the winners list.
But I really wonder if anyone ever takes into consideration that there are often times more than 100 cards in play in any given bingo room. Now, last time I checked there are only 75 numbers in the bingo pool. Call the first number, and now there are 74. Call another number, only 73 left. You get the idea. If each of the people in the room is paying attention and daubing off their numbers as they're called, doesn't it stand to reason that the remaining numbers on their cards
~might
~match
~the remaining numbers
~on someone else's
~cards?
And as more numbers are called and the pool of numbers that hasn't been called is shrinking, wouldn't it also stand to reason that more and more players
~might
~possibly
~need
~the same number
~to win
~at the same time?
Yeah, I know. That's deep stuff. I'll wait while folks get their muck boots on.
Like I said, the rivalry between the above camps is there but for the most part, up to now, they have simply been more irritating to each other than malicious.
A few months ago BB changed the collections just slightly. Before, everything was able to be traded to whomever you wanted to trade with. Now, there are items that are "not giftable" and thus have to be won by you if you wish to complete the set. Since some collection items are only available out of the treasure chests, you can see why it's getting more and more popular to join what used to be a fairly small holder camp and try to collect as many chests as possible before claiming that bingo you have sitting and waiting on your card.
The reason this irritates people who don't hold is easy to illustrate. You're sitting there waiting for the caller to call another number with the remaining bingo tally sitting at 15 or 20. If no one is holding, in order for another bingo to be won another number must be called, right? Well, holders are viewed kind of like used car salesmen ready to pounce on the first victim to cross into the line of vision. All it takes is one person clicking bingo in the lull between numbers and setting off the sound effect indicating that the bingos are almost all claimed, and then all the holders click at once.
POOF!
The bingos are gone.
To add insult to injury, the poor confused computer generated caller with his or her hideous accent, often still tosses out one last number that does no good whatsoever for the people who needed it to win.
If the poor callers were real people, there'd be a witness protection program for them.
So you'd think the battle lines would be pretty clear, right? Easy to see who is on which side?
Trust BB to throw a monkey wrench into things.
There are seasonal collections! Rooms that open for maybe a month at a time and are usually unbelievably expensive to play. And of course, they include items that cannot be traded. BB has also gotten almost obsessively fond of tiered rooms requiring players to complete what boils down to 3 individual collections for each room.
Limited time to play: holding seems the best strategy in order to maximize chances of getting the bloody collection items before the room closes.
Unbelievably expensive: not holding seems the best strategy in order to win back some of your credits so you can afford to keep attempting to get the bloody collection items before the room closes.
Tiered rooms: up the stress level because you can't collect anything from higher tiers if you can't complete the tier you're on, making it that much more important that your chosen strategy not be completely derailed by someone in the other camp!
Oh it gets UGLY when someone is one number away from getting that coveted hard to get shadow and the call to "HOLD YOUR BINGOS!!!" goes out, then that poor soul who has just enough credits to play one more game IF he wins this round claims said bingo and opens the gate releasing all the holders at once before another number can be called.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Picture this:
Team Hold on one side of the room, brutal weapons of choice in hand. Frothing at the mouth and daring ANYONE to click a bingo before all the prizes on every one of the cards have been claimed.
Team Don't Hold on other side of the room, brutal weapons of choice in hand. Eyes glazing and nostrils flaring preparing to defend the right to not throw away credits that could be collected and used toward more rounds.
Forget negotiations. Forget forgiveness. This is it. The ultimate rivalry. Neither group could hate anyone else more than the other team. Step between them and get trampled without even being seen.
Is there anything in the cosmos that could ever make these two factions agree to not kill each other?
"Hey guys! I just started this room a minute ago and I don't have anything. I need someone to give me stuff!"
(If you enjoyed this post, please consider popping over to my other BB post Bingo Blitz: Better than Reality TV.)
You can usually tell which tables are the "happening" tables by the people who appear to be suffering from a bad case of abnormally large, rainbow hued measles after failing to dodge repeated "daub & run" attacks perpetrated by their companions.
I'll admit it. I could probably fit into this crowd fairly easily even at my age. (First person who asks me what it was like to ride a T-rex is gonna get fed to him.) But since I'm not one for gambling real money, bingo tends to get monotonous in a hurry. The total reliance on sheer luck drives me batty as well.
Short drive. Yeah, I know. I've had that particular personality trait pointed out to me on many occasions.
Well, it turns out that someone got the idea to "spice up" the game of bingo and introduced the Facebook world to Bingo Blitz. The classic game has been all gussied up with pretty graphics, computer generated callers sporting hideous accents, and even a way to strategize and improve your chances of getting bingos using these doohickies called Power Ups.
If you get bored with the bingo side of things, you can also go muck around with their slots rooms. Nothing different about the slots stuff; standard, run of the mill, no concentration needed, spin yourself into a computer coma, slots.
To keep things from getting dull and stagnant, you play the bingo and slots in an effort to win collection items in each of the rooms. These items can come from treasure chest squares or from what are universally referred to as "shadow cards" because they have a silhouette of one of the collection items. If you bingo on that card, Voila!, you just won the item.
I'm borderline OCD. Oh yeah. I must have every item. Now. Sleep and food are inconsequential. Smaller versions of myself can learn to fend for themselves. Let the dust bunnies clean the house. I'm busy!
And I'm not the only one!
The desire to get these collection items has to led to some fairly basic strategies that usually require dragging the individual rounds out as long as possible for more opportunity to daub treasure squares or to get a bingo on the shadow card.
You have to "buy" your game cards with the virtual currency of the game known as credits which are earned by winning bingos and through the daily "Yay! You checked back in today! You love us and still have no life!" allowances. Obviously you want to bingo 1st, 2nd, or 3rd for the larger credit prizes. If not in the top three, you still want to bingo at some point so you get at least some sort of credit prize to recoup what you spent on the round.
Now there is a small element of cooperation between players when it comes to the collection items, because trading most of the items is allowed. This is a lovely aspect of the Bingo Blitz world intended to bring us together and foster harmony and love.
As with anything even remotely competitive in the universe, you have people who want to play one way, and other people who want to play in a different style.
And as with anything in the universe even remotely involving humans, you have drama.
Now that the basic set up has been laid out, lemme pull you in a smidge farther. You know that first group I described? The ones focused on getting collections completed? That camp is generally called the "Holders". They hold their bingos as long as they possibly can before clicking that "BINGO!" button just before the last bingo is called. Some holders don't call their bingos at all if they think they're helping other players and these folks can get downright homicidal if you call a bingo while they're holding for a specific person.
Then you have the group that just want to play bingo and aren't necessarily concerned with strategy or completing the collections. They want to win and they want to get back some of the credits they paid to get into the game. This group of players really doesn't have a collective name at this time, but they can also get downright homicidal if anyone challenges their right to claim their hard earned currency.
These two groups of players generally despise each other. In a Skittles vs M&Ms sort of way. In a dog lover vs cat lover sort of way. In a Star Trek vs Star Wars sort of way.
I tend to think the "holder" term gets used a little too much. But then, I like to believe that logic and I have a pretty decent relationship.
For example, in every online bingo game out there the bingos trickle in slowly at the start and then begin to speed up as more people get their bingos, usually ending in a chaotic crashing wave effect of players trying to claim a win before either time runs out or the allotted number of wins allowed is used up. (Bingo Blitz uses the allotted wins based on the number of cards purchased method.)
The chaos at the end of the game is often immediately followed by "Ugh! Holders!!"
Now, there's a very good possibility that this is due to the holders watching the number of bingos remaining and gauging how much longer they can try to accumulate treasure chests or coins before grabbing their spot on the winners list.
But I really wonder if anyone ever takes into consideration that there are often times more than 100 cards in play in any given bingo room. Now, last time I checked there are only 75 numbers in the bingo pool. Call the first number, and now there are 74. Call another number, only 73 left. You get the idea. If each of the people in the room is paying attention and daubing off their numbers as they're called, doesn't it stand to reason that the remaining numbers on their cards
~might
~match
~the remaining numbers
~on someone else's
~cards?
And as more numbers are called and the pool of numbers that hasn't been called is shrinking, wouldn't it also stand to reason that more and more players
~might
~possibly
~need
~the same number
~to win
~at the same time?
Yeah, I know. That's deep stuff. I'll wait while folks get their muck boots on.
Like I said, the rivalry between the above camps is there but for the most part, up to now, they have simply been more irritating to each other than malicious.
A few months ago BB changed the collections just slightly. Before, everything was able to be traded to whomever you wanted to trade with. Now, there are items that are "not giftable" and thus have to be won by you if you wish to complete the set. Since some collection items are only available out of the treasure chests, you can see why it's getting more and more popular to join what used to be a fairly small holder camp and try to collect as many chests as possible before claiming that bingo you have sitting and waiting on your card.
The reason this irritates people who don't hold is easy to illustrate. You're sitting there waiting for the caller to call another number with the remaining bingo tally sitting at 15 or 20. If no one is holding, in order for another bingo to be won another number must be called, right? Well, holders are viewed kind of like used car salesmen ready to pounce on the first victim to cross into the line of vision. All it takes is one person clicking bingo in the lull between numbers and setting off the sound effect indicating that the bingos are almost all claimed, and then all the holders click at once.
POOF!
The bingos are gone.
To add insult to injury, the poor confused computer generated caller with his or her hideous accent, often still tosses out one last number that does no good whatsoever for the people who needed it to win.
If the poor callers were real people, there'd be a witness protection program for them.
So you'd think the battle lines would be pretty clear, right? Easy to see who is on which side?
Trust BB to throw a monkey wrench into things.
There are seasonal collections! Rooms that open for maybe a month at a time and are usually unbelievably expensive to play. And of course, they include items that cannot be traded. BB has also gotten almost obsessively fond of tiered rooms requiring players to complete what boils down to 3 individual collections for each room.
Limited time to play: holding seems the best strategy in order to maximize chances of getting the bloody collection items before the room closes.
Unbelievably expensive: not holding seems the best strategy in order to win back some of your credits so you can afford to keep attempting to get the bloody collection items before the room closes.
Tiered rooms: up the stress level because you can't collect anything from higher tiers if you can't complete the tier you're on, making it that much more important that your chosen strategy not be completely derailed by someone in the other camp!
Oh it gets UGLY when someone is one number away from getting that coveted hard to get shadow and the call to "HOLD YOUR BINGOS!!!" goes out, then that poor soul who has just enough credits to play one more game IF he wins this round claims said bingo and opens the gate releasing all the holders at once before another number can be called.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Picture this:
Team Hold on one side of the room, brutal weapons of choice in hand. Frothing at the mouth and daring ANYONE to click a bingo before all the prizes on every one of the cards have been claimed.
Team Don't Hold on other side of the room, brutal weapons of choice in hand. Eyes glazing and nostrils flaring preparing to defend the right to not throw away credits that could be collected and used toward more rounds.
Forget negotiations. Forget forgiveness. This is it. The ultimate rivalry. Neither group could hate anyone else more than the other team. Step between them and get trampled without even being seen.
Is there anything in the cosmos that could ever make these two factions agree to not kill each other?
"Hey guys! I just started this room a minute ago and I don't have anything. I need someone to give me stuff!"
(If you enjoyed this post, please consider popping over to my other BB post Bingo Blitz: Better than Reality TV.)
Wednesday, February 12, 2014
It's bedtime. Things are supposed to be calm now.
Yeah. Right.
*sigh* Only my children... only my children.
We got home from church just about an hour ago. Bedtime for the littles and quiet time for us. Woohoo!
Assuming we can actually get them into bed.
Steve: "Hunter, get your shoes off like you were told."
Me: "Heather, I told you to get changed into pajamas."
Me: "No, Hunter, you may NOT have any cake."
Me: "Not a princess dress; your PAJAMAS, Heather!"
Steve: "Sarah, is your homework done yet??"
Me: "Someone feed the cats. They're convinced they're on the brink of starvation again."
Me: "Why don't I hear anyone brushing their teeth?"
Hunter: "Can't we play some more? We're not tired!"
Heather: "Mom! Jack's stealing Snow White again!!"
Steve: "Whose coat is this flung into my recliner??"
Hunter: "I don't want to wear a shirt!"
Sarah: "Mom! What was the public reaction when Truman fired MacArthur?"
Me: *flustered and not really listening* "Who's Truman and what's a MacArthur?"
Sarah: "MacArthur's that guy that went rogue and dropped an A-bomb on Korea."
Steve: "Say that again? What history book are they teaching you out of??"
Heather: "I don't want to take my medicine!"
Hunter: "I'll take it!"
Eventually we got them into bed. Finally, peace and quiet.
Or not.
I heard the ~CRACK~ from the other end of the house.
In the 5 seconds or so it took me to get to them, Hunter had blood running down his face and through his fingers from a wound I couldn't see through the dark spot pooling and matting the hair at his hairline. Heather was sitting on her bed screaming at the top of her lungs that it was an accident, but wouldn't stop declaring her innocence long enough to explain just WHAT had happened.
I knew my panic-free thinking was about to run out and screamed bloody murder for Steve to come take over Hunter's care while I ran downstairs for wet towels, buckets of water, bandages, dry towels, peroxide, cotton balls, medical tape, surgical thread, needles, staple gun... you get the idea.
By the time I got back upstairs, Steve had gotten Hunter's head cleaned up enough to determine that he would not be needing reconstructive surgery despite my preparations. They were busy trying to clean the blood off of his face, arm, chest, and hands so I inspected the small hole that looked remarkably like someone had stabbed my son in the head with a ballpoint pen.
Heather had stopped yowling and I asked her what had happened. She informed us that she was trying to get Hunter's light up pillow pet back onto his bed and didn't mean to hit him with it.
Wait. Did she say a pillow pet?? One of those soft, huggable, plush toys that get folded up into pillows because they're so cuddly??
How in the blazes could she do that much damage with fluff??
Oh right; these pillow pets light up.
Battery compartment.
Which, upon further investigation, we discovered had been broken over our son's head. Literally.
We have to buy another pillow pet.
Now MY head hurts.
*sigh* Only my children... only my children.
We got home from church just about an hour ago. Bedtime for the littles and quiet time for us. Woohoo!
Assuming we can actually get them into bed.
Steve: "Hunter, get your shoes off like you were told."
Me: "Heather, I told you to get changed into pajamas."
Me: "No, Hunter, you may NOT have any cake."
Me: "Not a princess dress; your PAJAMAS, Heather!"
Steve: "Sarah, is your homework done yet??"
Me: "Someone feed the cats. They're convinced they're on the brink of starvation again."
Me: "Why don't I hear anyone brushing their teeth?"
Hunter: "Can't we play some more? We're not tired!"
Heather: "Mom! Jack's stealing Snow White again!!"
Steve: "Whose coat is this flung into my recliner??"
Hunter: "I don't want to wear a shirt!"
Sarah: "Mom! What was the public reaction when Truman fired MacArthur?"
Me: *flustered and not really listening* "Who's Truman and what's a MacArthur?"
Sarah: "MacArthur's that guy that went rogue and dropped an A-bomb on Korea."
Steve: "Say that again? What history book are they teaching you out of??"
Heather: "I don't want to take my medicine!"
Hunter: "I'll take it!"
Eventually we got them into bed. Finally, peace and quiet.
Or not.
I heard the ~CRACK~ from the other end of the house.
In the 5 seconds or so it took me to get to them, Hunter had blood running down his face and through his fingers from a wound I couldn't see through the dark spot pooling and matting the hair at his hairline. Heather was sitting on her bed screaming at the top of her lungs that it was an accident, but wouldn't stop declaring her innocence long enough to explain just WHAT had happened.
I knew my panic-free thinking was about to run out and screamed bloody murder for Steve to come take over Hunter's care while I ran downstairs for wet towels, buckets of water, bandages, dry towels, peroxide, cotton balls, medical tape, surgical thread, needles, staple gun... you get the idea.
By the time I got back upstairs, Steve had gotten Hunter's head cleaned up enough to determine that he would not be needing reconstructive surgery despite my preparations. They were busy trying to clean the blood off of his face, arm, chest, and hands so I inspected the small hole that looked remarkably like someone had stabbed my son in the head with a ballpoint pen.
Heather had stopped yowling and I asked her what had happened. She informed us that she was trying to get Hunter's light up pillow pet back onto his bed and didn't mean to hit him with it.
Wait. Did she say a pillow pet?? One of those soft, huggable, plush toys that get folded up into pillows because they're so cuddly??
How in the blazes could she do that much damage with fluff??
Oh right; these pillow pets light up.
Battery compartment.
Which, upon further investigation, we discovered had been broken over our son's head. Literally.
We have to buy another pillow pet.
Now MY head hurts.
Saturday, February 8, 2014
D@%$#$^&@!!@#!T, Jack!!
*growl*
...
Just... *growl*
I love my cats. I really truly do. I will, however, likely be forced to kill one of them. And it will be a clear cut case of self defense.
Let me explain:
~Head down to my room last night to watch some DVRed Olympics and maybe stitch.
~Turn the corner at the edge of my bed.
~Trip over cat.
~Smack head into window and drop everything in a loud and somewhat musical crash.
"D@%$#$^&@!!@#!T, Jack!!"
Jack: *musical chirrup* (Translation: Notice me.)
~Get out of bed this morning to tend to needs of small humans with misguided belief that I'm responsible for their feeding and care.
~Open door and step out into hallway.
~Trip over cat.
~Slam shoulder into doorjam and forehead into wall.
"D@%$#$^&@!!@#!T, Jack!!"
Jack: *musical chirrup* (Translation: I'm hungry too.)
~Finish feeding children and cats.
~Make beeline for bathroom.
~Pull bathroom door closed behind me as I step inside.
~Step forward toward necessary accoutrements.
~Trip over cat.
~Slip sideways and land unceremoniously in a heap inside the bathtub.
"D@%$#$^&@!!@#!T, Jack!!"
Jack: *musical chirrup* (Translation: I want to play in the water.)
~Get dressed after showering and move toward livingroom in search of other family members.
~See cat coming and sidestep into kitchen feeling proud of myself for not acquiring yet another bruise.
~Retrieve water bottle from fridge and prepare to go upstairs.
~Turn corner into livingroom.
~Trip over cat.
~Stumble two or three steps before collapsing over arm of recliner that had to have been part of the ambush.
~Fail to catch my balance and roll off of the front of the recliner, successfully twisting wrist upon landing on floor while pointedly ignoring gales of laughter coming from one of the small humans who had been watching TV.
"D@%$#$^&@!!@#!T, Jack!!"
Jack: *musical chirrup* (Translation: Here's my stick toy. Play with me.)
~Wrap up morning routine of wasting hour or two on Facebook and YouTube.
~Stand up and turn away from computer desk.
~Trip over cat.
~Bounce in a most undignified manner off of guest bed while pointedly ignoring long-suffering sigh of spouse that screams "Two years of this and you still haven't learned?"
"D@%$#$^&@!!@#!T, Jack!!"
Jack: *musical chirrup* (Translation: My belly needs to be rubbed.)
~Notice cat water dish needs to be cleaned out.. again.
~Pick up heavy stonewear dish half full of water.
~Turn around.
~Trip over cat.
~Pour water down front of clothing in futile attempt to avoid recreating Clarksville's "Great Flood of 2010" in kitchen.
"D@%$#$^&@!!@#!T, Jack!!"
Jack: *musical chirrup* (Translation: That's my water.)
~Finish cleaning up not-so-natural disaster.
~Step out into hallway.
~Trip over cat.
"D@%$#$^&@!!@#!T, Ja -- oh. Lea, there's gotta be safer places to sleep."
Lea: "Mreowr". (Translation: Bite me.)
~Take step.
~Trip over cat.
"D@%$#$^&@!!@#!T, Jack!!"
...
Just... *growl*
I love my cats. I really truly do. I will, however, likely be forced to kill one of them. And it will be a clear cut case of self defense.
Let me explain:
~Head down to my room last night to watch some DVRed Olympics and maybe stitch.
~Turn the corner at the edge of my bed.
~Trip over cat.
~Smack head into window and drop everything in a loud and somewhat musical crash.
"D@%$#$^&@!!@#!T, Jack!!"
Jack: *musical chirrup* (Translation: Notice me.)
~Get out of bed this morning to tend to needs of small humans with misguided belief that I'm responsible for their feeding and care.
~Open door and step out into hallway.
~Trip over cat.
~Slam shoulder into doorjam and forehead into wall.
"D@%$#$^&@!!@#!T, Jack!!"
Jack: *musical chirrup* (Translation: I'm hungry too.)
~Finish feeding children and cats.
~Make beeline for bathroom.
~Pull bathroom door closed behind me as I step inside.
~Step forward toward necessary accoutrements.
~Trip over cat.
~Slip sideways and land unceremoniously in a heap inside the bathtub.
"D@%$#$^&@!!@#!T, Jack!!"
Jack: *musical chirrup* (Translation: I want to play in the water.)
~Get dressed after showering and move toward livingroom in search of other family members.
~See cat coming and sidestep into kitchen feeling proud of myself for not acquiring yet another bruise.
~Retrieve water bottle from fridge and prepare to go upstairs.
~Turn corner into livingroom.
~Trip over cat.
~Stumble two or three steps before collapsing over arm of recliner that had to have been part of the ambush.
~Fail to catch my balance and roll off of the front of the recliner, successfully twisting wrist upon landing on floor while pointedly ignoring gales of laughter coming from one of the small humans who had been watching TV.
"D@%$#$^&@!!@#!T, Jack!!"
Jack: *musical chirrup* (Translation: Here's my stick toy. Play with me.)
~Wrap up morning routine of wasting hour or two on Facebook and YouTube.
~Stand up and turn away from computer desk.
~Trip over cat.
~Bounce in a most undignified manner off of guest bed while pointedly ignoring long-suffering sigh of spouse that screams "Two years of this and you still haven't learned?"
"D@%$#$^&@!!@#!T, Jack!!"
Jack: *musical chirrup* (Translation: My belly needs to be rubbed.)
~Notice cat water dish needs to be cleaned out.. again.
~Pick up heavy stonewear dish half full of water.
~Turn around.
~Trip over cat.
~Pour water down front of clothing in futile attempt to avoid recreating Clarksville's "Great Flood of 2010" in kitchen.
"D@%$#$^&@!!@#!T, Jack!!"
Jack: *musical chirrup* (Translation: That's my water.)
~Finish cleaning up not-so-natural disaster.
~Step out into hallway.
~Trip over cat.
"D@%$#$^&@!!@#!T, Ja -- oh. Lea, there's gotta be safer places to sleep."
Lea: "Mreowr". (Translation: Bite me.)
~Take step.
~Trip over cat.
"D@%$#$^&@!!@#!T, Jack!!"
Friday, January 24, 2014
Global warming my frigid blue patookus!
Yeah. I said it. I even stuttered while I was at it, but I place the blame for that squarely on my chattering teeth.
I've made no secret of the fact that I'm a military brat/wife and have been a dependent since the day I was born. As such I've lived in a wide variety of climates.
~I've lived in Georgia's muggy weather where it's a good idea to bring a change of clothes to work simply because the walk from your car to the front door of your office requires wringing out the now sticky and nasty garments you're currently wearing.
~I've lived in upstate New York where the autumn trees look suspiciously like a kindergarten classroom was allowed to run amok through nature with a box of crayons.
~I've lived in Guam where the constant ocean breeze makes you forget that the average temperature never drops below 80°F the entire year.
~I've lived in England where it rains for years at a time and a beam of sunshine can send the populace into a panicked frenzy because either a comet is inbound or aliens are attacking.
~I've lived in Minnesota where summer isn't considered over until there's seven feet of snow on the ground and the common rule of thumb is if students can collectively shove the bus through the snowy streets school is in session.
~I've lived in Washington where the temperature stays between 40°F and 70°F pretty much all year round, there is ALWAYS moisture in the air, and mold gets its own page in the population census.
~I've lived in Texas where I had to scrape ice off my windshield one morning to go to work and came home that afternoon wearing shorts and a tank top.
So I've seen my fair share of climates and came to the conclusion that I like warmth and sunshine; which ixnays 90% of the places I've lived so far. Steve and I settled on Tennessee for a variety of reasons, but for me, it was mostly the weather. We have four distinct seasons: Rain and tornadoes, August, autumn, and "man, I gotta wear a sweater today". The most common gripe from women here is that they can't seem to keep their hair from having its own AfroParty! at random moments. (Usually on Picture Day at school, or an important meeting/presentation, or formal dress party.)
Around here, we get antsy if the temperature threatens to drop below 50°F because we can't remember where we put our heavy coats. Ask someone what a snow blower is and they'll likely point to a leaf blower saying "ain't that the same thing??"
That's why the folks around here chose here to settle. Comfortable climate, trees to pretty the place up, rain in plenty when it's crop time, sun in plenty when it's summertime, winter temperatures that make anyone north of Kentucky scoff at us. We like it this way. We're strange like that.
....
*glares out the window*
I just got back home from an appointment. My car thermometer says it's 17°F out there. SEVENTEEN!!
I put water outside for the feral cats and watched it start to freeze before I could let go of the bowl!
I scraped the ice off of ONE window on my car and my fingers threatened to fall off in protest.
There's so much static electricity in the air that the cats zap each other just by getting within a few inches. Of course, seeing two cats casually walking down the hall ignoring each other, hearing a loud KRAZAKLE,
and those same two cats landing several feet away looking like cheerleading pompoms is actually highly entertaining.
Now I'm no expert at science. I'm probably not even scientifically literate. And I really don't care what all the climate experts say or what all their charts and evidence says or that it's all probably completely true.
You're going to have a very hard time convincing me that we're suffering from global warming when I passed a herd of snowmen migrating south because they were giving whole new meaning to the term "blue balls".
I've made no secret of the fact that I'm a military brat/wife and have been a dependent since the day I was born. As such I've lived in a wide variety of climates.
~I've lived in Georgia's muggy weather where it's a good idea to bring a change of clothes to work simply because the walk from your car to the front door of your office requires wringing out the now sticky and nasty garments you're currently wearing.
~I've lived in upstate New York where the autumn trees look suspiciously like a kindergarten classroom was allowed to run amok through nature with a box of crayons.
~I've lived in Guam where the constant ocean breeze makes you forget that the average temperature never drops below 80°F the entire year.
~I've lived in England where it rains for years at a time and a beam of sunshine can send the populace into a panicked frenzy because either a comet is inbound or aliens are attacking.
~I've lived in Minnesota where summer isn't considered over until there's seven feet of snow on the ground and the common rule of thumb is if students can collectively shove the bus through the snowy streets school is in session.
~I've lived in Washington where the temperature stays between 40°F and 70°F pretty much all year round, there is ALWAYS moisture in the air, and mold gets its own page in the population census.
~I've lived in Texas where I had to scrape ice off my windshield one morning to go to work and came home that afternoon wearing shorts and a tank top.
So I've seen my fair share of climates and came to the conclusion that I like warmth and sunshine; which ixnays 90% of the places I've lived so far. Steve and I settled on Tennessee for a variety of reasons, but for me, it was mostly the weather. We have four distinct seasons: Rain and tornadoes, August, autumn, and "man, I gotta wear a sweater today". The most common gripe from women here is that they can't seem to keep their hair from having its own AfroParty! at random moments. (Usually on Picture Day at school, or an important meeting/presentation, or formal dress party.)
Around here, we get antsy if the temperature threatens to drop below 50°F because we can't remember where we put our heavy coats. Ask someone what a snow blower is and they'll likely point to a leaf blower saying "ain't that the same thing??"
That's why the folks around here chose here to settle. Comfortable climate, trees to pretty the place up, rain in plenty when it's crop time, sun in plenty when it's summertime, winter temperatures that make anyone north of Kentucky scoff at us. We like it this way. We're strange like that.
....
*glares out the window*
I just got back home from an appointment. My car thermometer says it's 17°F out there. SEVENTEEN!!
I put water outside for the feral cats and watched it start to freeze before I could let go of the bowl!
I scraped the ice off of ONE window on my car and my fingers threatened to fall off in protest.
There's so much static electricity in the air that the cats zap each other just by getting within a few inches. Of course, seeing two cats casually walking down the hall ignoring each other, hearing a loud KRAZAKLE,
and those same two cats landing several feet away looking like cheerleading pompoms is actually highly entertaining.
Now I'm no expert at science. I'm probably not even scientifically literate. And I really don't care what all the climate experts say or what all their charts and evidence says or that it's all probably completely true.
You're going to have a very hard time convincing me that we're suffering from global warming when I passed a herd of snowmen migrating south because they were giving whole new meaning to the term "blue balls".
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
Little Flicker's Story...
I know. I'm late again. But we had some travelling to do this past weekend and it was a BLAST!! Even Flicker didn't seem to mind the three hour drive each way, or having an entire hotel bed, blankets, and nest of pillows all to herself each day. The hotel clerk at the front desk fell in love with her and wouldn't let us pay the extra pet fee when we discovered I'd planned poorly and we needed to extend our stay.
So.... Flicker's story. Y'all do realize how long winded I can get when it's about cats, right?? Alrighty then. Hope you have your popcorn and caffeine pills handy.
I was able to catch Flicker on July 22nd of 2013. Obviously, she was frightened of absolutely everything and spent the next few days huddled up on a pile of towels shivering in the cat carrier we'd used to trap her. We decided she needed to be kept isolated from the other animals at least until she'd seen a vet, and we honestly didn't have any plans to keep her long term anyway. (It turned out to be considerably harder to find a home for an animal that is blind than I had thought it would be.) It was going to be a few days to a week longer before I'd have the funds to take yet another cat to the vet, so she got moved into a larger cage in our bedroom and I was the only person who had any real contact with her. She was always cold, so I kept her bundled up in blankets and held her as often as I could manage.
Three weeks passed before we were able to get Flicker to the vet and by this time I was extremely concerned about her. She didn't seem to have grown the tiniest bit, and I was beginning to wonder if she'd been separated from her actual mother and we'd just mistaken her as being one of Stain's kittens. After all, she looked like she was maybe 6 weeks old, while the other kittens outside were obviously 5 to 7 months old.
Finally, we got Flicker an appointment to see the vet. She did the typical exam, made a couple of comments about how cold Flicker's body felt, discovered that she could shine a light as bright as a supernova into Flicker's eyes without the kitten trying to escape, spent nearly 5 minutes "ooh"ing and "aahh"ing about being able to study the inside of a cat's eye so easily, and eventually determined that there was nothing physically wrong with her eyes and therefore there shouldn't be anything wrong with her sight. Her theory was that there was some kind of a disconnect between the eyes and the brain, and that it was possible, albeit unlikely, that Flicker could get her vision back as she gets older.
Then she checked Flicker's teeth.
Vet: "How did she lose this tooth?"
Me: "We were wrestling a little bit and it just came out. She didn't even seem to notice it."
Vet: "Uh huh. And how big did you say the other kittens you thought were litter mates are?"
Me: "Six or seven months? They're all about this big." *makes hand motions indicating animals roughly three times the size of Flicker*
Vet: "Yeah. That's sounds about right."
Me: *looks confused* (which, admittedly, is a pretty standard look for me)
Vet: "Flicker's probably 6 months old. She's losing baby teeth and adult teeth are trying to grow in."
I looked at that tiny little kitten and tried to reconcile what Dr. Wicks was telling me. She did some more exam-type things; poking this, pulling that, mumbling about this, that, and the other. She called in some other vets who poked this, pulled that, mumbled about this, that, and the other. They all huddled up around Flicker and debated quietly while continuing to run their hands over what had to be every millimeter of her body. Then they started to get excited.
I started to get nervous.
They started to get a little more excited.
I started to get this nagging urge to shove past them all and scoop up what suddenly looked like an extremely small and vulnerable bundle of fluff.
Their voices started getting louder.
I interrupted by obeying that urge. And apparently reminded the whole lot of them that I was still there.
Then it was explained to me that based on everything they could see and feel, it appeared that Flicker has what they called Pituitary Dwarfism. They told me that typical dwarfism in animals makes for misproportioned bodies; heads that are slightly too small, front legs that are shorter than back legs or vice versa, tails that don't grow as long as they should, etc etc. Flicker doesn't have this. Flicker is perfectly proportioned. She's just not growing.
Eternal kitten!
Then they let the other shoe drop. This is so rare that they can't tell me much about the condition except that there is a 99.9% chance she won't live anywhere near as long as the average healthy house cat. They can't even guess at a life expectancy. All they can tell me is that instead of the normal dwarfism where individual appendages or organs don't get enough growth hormone, Flicker's body is distributing the hormone evenly but not producing enough of it. They believe that eventually this may lead to organ failure but they can't tell me when to expect this, what symptoms to look for, or even if this will happen at all. What they CAN tell me is that her immune system is permanently weaker than it should be and she will always be at risk to catch anything another animal she is exposed to may have and not be able to fight it off.
That's a little scary but since all of her tests came back negative for illnesses I wasn't going to worry about it. Just means no more new animals allowed in the house. (Steve LOVES this new rule!) We took her home and let her have the run of the house. (She still doesn't like to leave our bedroom...) Everything was fun and games for just under a week.
Then she stopped playing.
And eating.
And drinking.
And got very cold to the touch.
And I got nervous.
We went back to the vet and when the staff saw me coming across the parking lot, I saw people start running off in different directions inside. Didn't think too much of it until I got inside and there were two technicians who had obviously just stuffed charts back into the pile in the back and Dr. Wicks waiting for us. Their "oh she's back! She's so cute!" expressions instantly vanished when they saw my face and we were ushered straight into a room and I had her taken from me. It was determined that she'd gone from 2.6 pounds to 2.2 in six days and her body temperature was at 95.1 and dropping. There was a flurry of activity in the room as everyone who worked there seemed to want to be doing something to help and it got a bit overwhelming for Flicker and me. Dr. Wicks had to shoo everyone out and gave me a crash course on feline body temperature and weight while trying to prepare me for what they were fairly certain was about to happen.
Of course the barrage of tests that no one can realistically afford began and I was just too numb to object or say anything. I'd had her less than a month and I felt like they were taking one of my arms away when they carried her into the back for overnight observation. After ruling out low blood sugar, they needed to run blood work but she wasn't stable enough for that, so they had to keep her. I found out later that half of the staff volunteered to stay with her, but Dr. Wicks is ultimately the one who wouldn't leave her side. I kept getting calls every two to three hours with updates; the first one saying she'd stabilized enough to allow for the needed tests and then more calls with result after result coming back as negative. Then her temperature started to tank again, and I was informed that the only test remaining was for a simple infection in hopes of ruling out FiP. If that test came back with the wrong result, I'd be able to come pick her up and take her home as there was nothing that could be done for her.
The next morning we learned that while they couldn't find a definitive infection, they did find some markers that might indicate there was one they just hadn't located. It was decided that since it was really their last shot anyway, that they'd go ahead and treat her for an infection and see if that helped at all. Later that afternoon, I was allowed to come visit her and she looked so frail, I was afraid I was going to break her.
This was supposed to be the point where I'd pick her up and bring her home to be comfortable as they had done just about everything they possibly could. Instead, Dr. Wicks said she had one last medicine up her sleeve that she wanted to try because Flicker was still obviously fighting to hang on and not just giving up. "If she isn't giving up, then we aren't giving up on her." It meant staying another night and most of the next day while they watched her, and they were careful to remind me that this was honestly a losing fight but a losing fight they were determined to stay in until the end.
The next evening we were informed that Flicker was responding to the antibiotics despite them still not being able to find any infection. She was still in danger and could take a turn for the worse at any moment, but they could find no reason that she couldn't come home with me as long as I kept giving her the medication and kept her on a heating pad to maintain her body temperature the best we could. Even though it was obvious she still felt like complete and utter crap, she was glad to be home and I didn't let her out of my sight for the next two days. I even took her to work with me!
Three days later, she was released from vet care and we were told she was one bottle of antibiotics away from an almost complete recovery.
I say "almost" because she still can't seem to keep her body temperature up where it should be. She has a heating pad under her bed that is kept on 24 hours a day unless she's curled up beside me on the bed while I stitch. She can't be left alone very long because someone needs to be able to turn the heating pad back on every couple of hours, but this is a minor thing and we have all easily adjusted to it.
Flicker has a few oddities that we believe are side effects of her condition. She doesn't make much noise. She really has to struggle to get a little squeak out if she wants attention, but I've learned to identify the little cricket sound as her and seem to now be able to hear her from another room if it's quiet in the house. She can purr like nobody's business though! That little rattle of hers is NOISY!!
The other strange thing is her fur. It takes forever to grow back! At first we were worried it wouldn't grow back at all, but finally, after almost five months, her belly has peach fuzz on it again after her spaying.
Her eyes are also an unknown for us. Some days she acts as though she can't see anything at all. Other days she seems able to see large objects moving if the area is particularly bright. We've discovered recently that she appears to be completely blind in her left eye and never reacts to anything on her left side unless she hears it. But if we move things on her right side, it's a 50/50 chance that she'll see it and react to it. This can be all sorts of entertaining when playing with a laser light. It doesn't hurt that we enjoy setting off her laser eyes for no apparent reason.
February 1st was the date assigned as her birthday by the veterinarians so, despite still being small enough to balance (sorta) in one hand, she'll be a year old in a couple of weeks.
She is the youngest of our fuzzies, but easily the feistiest as well. She tends to swat and hiss at the other cats when they get too close which leads to tense relations as you can imagine. Zippy has decided she flat out doesn't like Flicker and it's fairly common to have to break up arguments between the two. Lea still hasn't quite figured out how to handle this odd little creature that doesn't know SHE'S the one in charge. Jack tolerates the constant abuse he suffers at Flicker's paws and will occasionally curl up with her and bathe her. Usually they just try to avoid the inevitable swats and smacks that seem to come out of nowhere when she's in the vicinity.
This means that the target for 90% of her ire defaults to my arm.
But she still finds time to bully the big cats too.
You gotta admit. This little girl is living up to the nickname our friend Rona inadvertently gave her. She is definitely "Cuteness Overload".
So.... Flicker's story. Y'all do realize how long winded I can get when it's about cats, right?? Alrighty then. Hope you have your popcorn and caffeine pills handy.
I was able to catch Flicker on July 22nd of 2013. Obviously, she was frightened of absolutely everything and spent the next few days huddled up on a pile of towels shivering in the cat carrier we'd used to trap her. We decided she needed to be kept isolated from the other animals at least until she'd seen a vet, and we honestly didn't have any plans to keep her long term anyway. (It turned out to be considerably harder to find a home for an animal that is blind than I had thought it would be.) It was going to be a few days to a week longer before I'd have the funds to take yet another cat to the vet, so she got moved into a larger cage in our bedroom and I was the only person who had any real contact with her. She was always cold, so I kept her bundled up in blankets and held her as often as I could manage.
Three weeks passed before we were able to get Flicker to the vet and by this time I was extremely concerned about her. She didn't seem to have grown the tiniest bit, and I was beginning to wonder if she'd been separated from her actual mother and we'd just mistaken her as being one of Stain's kittens. After all, she looked like she was maybe 6 weeks old, while the other kittens outside were obviously 5 to 7 months old.
Finally, we got Flicker an appointment to see the vet. She did the typical exam, made a couple of comments about how cold Flicker's body felt, discovered that she could shine a light as bright as a supernova into Flicker's eyes without the kitten trying to escape, spent nearly 5 minutes "ooh"ing and "aahh"ing about being able to study the inside of a cat's eye so easily, and eventually determined that there was nothing physically wrong with her eyes and therefore there shouldn't be anything wrong with her sight. Her theory was that there was some kind of a disconnect between the eyes and the brain, and that it was possible, albeit unlikely, that Flicker could get her vision back as she gets older.
Then she checked Flicker's teeth.
Vet: "How did she lose this tooth?"
Me: "We were wrestling a little bit and it just came out. She didn't even seem to notice it."
Vet: "Uh huh. And how big did you say the other kittens you thought were litter mates are?"
Me: "Six or seven months? They're all about this big." *makes hand motions indicating animals roughly three times the size of Flicker*
Vet: "Yeah. That's sounds about right."
Me: *looks confused* (which, admittedly, is a pretty standard look for me)
Vet: "Flicker's probably 6 months old. She's losing baby teeth and adult teeth are trying to grow in."
I looked at that tiny little kitten and tried to reconcile what Dr. Wicks was telling me. She did some more exam-type things; poking this, pulling that, mumbling about this, that, and the other. She called in some other vets who poked this, pulled that, mumbled about this, that, and the other. They all huddled up around Flicker and debated quietly while continuing to run their hands over what had to be every millimeter of her body. Then they started to get excited.
I started to get nervous.
They started to get a little more excited.
I started to get this nagging urge to shove past them all and scoop up what suddenly looked like an extremely small and vulnerable bundle of fluff.
Their voices started getting louder.
I interrupted by obeying that urge. And apparently reminded the whole lot of them that I was still there.
Then it was explained to me that based on everything they could see and feel, it appeared that Flicker has what they called Pituitary Dwarfism. They told me that typical dwarfism in animals makes for misproportioned bodies; heads that are slightly too small, front legs that are shorter than back legs or vice versa, tails that don't grow as long as they should, etc etc. Flicker doesn't have this. Flicker is perfectly proportioned. She's just not growing.
Eternal kitten!
Then they let the other shoe drop. This is so rare that they can't tell me much about the condition except that there is a 99.9% chance she won't live anywhere near as long as the average healthy house cat. They can't even guess at a life expectancy. All they can tell me is that instead of the normal dwarfism where individual appendages or organs don't get enough growth hormone, Flicker's body is distributing the hormone evenly but not producing enough of it. They believe that eventually this may lead to organ failure but they can't tell me when to expect this, what symptoms to look for, or even if this will happen at all. What they CAN tell me is that her immune system is permanently weaker than it should be and she will always be at risk to catch anything another animal she is exposed to may have and not be able to fight it off.
That's a little scary but since all of her tests came back negative for illnesses I wasn't going to worry about it. Just means no more new animals allowed in the house. (Steve LOVES this new rule!) We took her home and let her have the run of the house. (She still doesn't like to leave our bedroom...) Everything was fun and games for just under a week.
Then she stopped playing.
And eating.
And drinking.
And got very cold to the touch.
And I got nervous.
We went back to the vet and when the staff saw me coming across the parking lot, I saw people start running off in different directions inside. Didn't think too much of it until I got inside and there were two technicians who had obviously just stuffed charts back into the pile in the back and Dr. Wicks waiting for us. Their "oh she's back! She's so cute!" expressions instantly vanished when they saw my face and we were ushered straight into a room and I had her taken from me. It was determined that she'd gone from 2.6 pounds to 2.2 in six days and her body temperature was at 95.1 and dropping. There was a flurry of activity in the room as everyone who worked there seemed to want to be doing something to help and it got a bit overwhelming for Flicker and me. Dr. Wicks had to shoo everyone out and gave me a crash course on feline body temperature and weight while trying to prepare me for what they were fairly certain was about to happen.
Of course the barrage of tests that no one can realistically afford began and I was just too numb to object or say anything. I'd had her less than a month and I felt like they were taking one of my arms away when they carried her into the back for overnight observation. After ruling out low blood sugar, they needed to run blood work but she wasn't stable enough for that, so they had to keep her. I found out later that half of the staff volunteered to stay with her, but Dr. Wicks is ultimately the one who wouldn't leave her side. I kept getting calls every two to three hours with updates; the first one saying she'd stabilized enough to allow for the needed tests and then more calls with result after result coming back as negative. Then her temperature started to tank again, and I was informed that the only test remaining was for a simple infection in hopes of ruling out FiP. If that test came back with the wrong result, I'd be able to come pick her up and take her home as there was nothing that could be done for her.
The next morning we learned that while they couldn't find a definitive infection, they did find some markers that might indicate there was one they just hadn't located. It was decided that since it was really their last shot anyway, that they'd go ahead and treat her for an infection and see if that helped at all. Later that afternoon, I was allowed to come visit her and she looked so frail, I was afraid I was going to break her.
This was supposed to be the point where I'd pick her up and bring her home to be comfortable as they had done just about everything they possibly could. Instead, Dr. Wicks said she had one last medicine up her sleeve that she wanted to try because Flicker was still obviously fighting to hang on and not just giving up. "If she isn't giving up, then we aren't giving up on her." It meant staying another night and most of the next day while they watched her, and they were careful to remind me that this was honestly a losing fight but a losing fight they were determined to stay in until the end.
The next evening we were informed that Flicker was responding to the antibiotics despite them still not being able to find any infection. She was still in danger and could take a turn for the worse at any moment, but they could find no reason that she couldn't come home with me as long as I kept giving her the medication and kept her on a heating pad to maintain her body temperature the best we could. Even though it was obvious she still felt like complete and utter crap, she was glad to be home and I didn't let her out of my sight for the next two days. I even took her to work with me!
Three days later, she was released from vet care and we were told she was one bottle of antibiotics away from an almost complete recovery.
I say "almost" because she still can't seem to keep her body temperature up where it should be. She has a heating pad under her bed that is kept on 24 hours a day unless she's curled up beside me on the bed while I stitch. She can't be left alone very long because someone needs to be able to turn the heating pad back on every couple of hours, but this is a minor thing and we have all easily adjusted to it.
Flicker has a few oddities that we believe are side effects of her condition. She doesn't make much noise. She really has to struggle to get a little squeak out if she wants attention, but I've learned to identify the little cricket sound as her and seem to now be able to hear her from another room if it's quiet in the house. She can purr like nobody's business though! That little rattle of hers is NOISY!!
The other strange thing is her fur. It takes forever to grow back! At first we were worried it wouldn't grow back at all, but finally, after almost five months, her belly has peach fuzz on it again after her spaying.
Her eyes are also an unknown for us. Some days she acts as though she can't see anything at all. Other days she seems able to see large objects moving if the area is particularly bright. We've discovered recently that she appears to be completely blind in her left eye and never reacts to anything on her left side unless she hears it. But if we move things on her right side, it's a 50/50 chance that she'll see it and react to it. This can be all sorts of entertaining when playing with a laser light. It doesn't hurt that we enjoy setting off her laser eyes for no apparent reason.
February 1st was the date assigned as her birthday by the veterinarians so, despite still being small enough to balance (sorta) in one hand, she'll be a year old in a couple of weeks.
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| Her first exploration of the second level of the house. 12/28/13 |
She is the youngest of our fuzzies, but easily the feistiest as well. She tends to swat and hiss at the other cats when they get too close which leads to tense relations as you can imagine. Zippy has decided she flat out doesn't like Flicker and it's fairly common to have to break up arguments between the two. Lea still hasn't quite figured out how to handle this odd little creature that doesn't know SHE'S the one in charge. Jack tolerates the constant abuse he suffers at Flicker's paws and will occasionally curl up with her and bathe her. Usually they just try to avoid the inevitable swats and smacks that seem to come out of nowhere when she's in the vicinity.
This means that the target for 90% of her ire defaults to my arm.
But she still finds time to bully the big cats too.
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| She just thwacked Jack and he's wondering what to do now. |
You gotta admit. This little girl is living up to the nickname our friend Rona inadvertently gave her. She is definitely "Cuteness Overload".
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