pWdumaNjA-6CEEBhRoD5euxNETs When All This Actual Life Played Out: Get out of my house

27 December 2016

Get out of my house

Around the neighborhood
10 December 2016

Everyone was tweeting The Oatmeal yesterday, wherein 2016 was being told "Please get the fuck out of my house."

I couldn't agree more.

The year started with my kitchen sink backing up New Year's morning. It has never looked back, and boy, backed up plumbing. What a metaphor for the year.


Sometimes, I hate being right. Honestly, it's not often that I like to be right and I tend not to be someone who uses "I told you so." But Milton's latest round of tumors are indeed a recurrence of the original cancer. When the vet called last night to check on him, he told me the pathology was back, faster than either of us expected. And I could tell by his tone the news was bad. We are both at a loss as to how to proceed. Milton recovered so well from the first surgery, but we can't allow him to be cut open every 2-1/2 months. Chemo isn't effective against this cancer and I wouldn't do that to a cat anyway. Radiation can be effective, but anesthetizing an old cat 4 times a week is just as likely to kill him. And I suspect that it would be cost prohibitive. So I'm leaning toward enjoying the time we have left.

The last two nights, Milton has crawled under the bedcovers to sleep with me, something Doodle always did, but Milton has never done. The first he snuggled into my chest, with his head under my chin, front paws on my upper arm, and he purred until we both fell asleep. It was almost the same position he took up when I first held him as a 5-month-old kitten and decided to take him home with me.


I was a newly minted teenager when Star Wars (the actual, original film) came out. And of course, at 13, I thought Harrison Ford was about the most awesome thing on the silver screen, so forget what turned out to be the awkwardness of that whole Luke/Leia thing. I wanted to see Han and Leia end up together. Tonight, reading appreciations and obits for the late Carrie Fisher (gods, it kills me to write that), everyone is going on about how she was such a tough princess, and what a surprise that was, blah, blah, blah.

To whom was this a surprise? Not me.

At 13, I watched a tiny, beautiful woman with a crazy hairstyle and a seriously scary polyester dress lay waste to bad guys, spar with the good guys and generally take care of herself. I didn't look at her and see possibility; I looked at her and saw "of course."

So, thank you, Carrie Fisher, for being reinforcement of my own prevailing notion as a girl that women do what they need to do to get through the day, whether with a blaster or with a smack on the lips for luck. You were gorgeous, talented and thoroughly no nonsense.

Of course.


And really, 2016 needs to go. Now.

Tech stuff: Taken with my iPhone6.
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