Let me take you back a bit, give you a little background before I start the story for the day. When my sister and I were just wee girls (around 4 and 5 years old, I suppose), living in Cincinnati, Ohio, one of the things we loved to do most was play with the lazy susan spice rack in my mother's kitchen. The spice rack was floor-level, so curious little hands had easy access to the spinning sensation of spices as they whizzed by. My two favorite containers to pick up were the Clabber Girl Baking Powder and Morton Salt. Clabber Girl Baking Powder had the old-fashioned picture of a girl holding a platter of biscuits or something while her seemingly poor family (note the cute little kitten in there) played on old wooden cartons and boxes in the background. Sad and happy all at the same time. Morton salt had a less interesting picture--just a girl with huge umbrella, walking in the rain while her container of salt spills out from underneath her--but it had a really catchy line next to it: "When it rains, it pours". That was just my favorite. I remember asking my mother what that meant, because of course rain pours, but she knew I was too young to understand the true meaning behind the statement. One of those things one can only fully grasp the significance of upon adulthood; by then you wish you were a naive kid again. This week has called to mind that little phrase, and just the other day I caught sight of a Morton salt shaker, so I had to include the Morton girl in this blog entry.
Sunday, when Adam was driving me to the airport, I realized that I didn't know which airline I was flying home with. I hadn't bothered to print out my flight itenerary because I knew I was leaving on Sunday at 2:30 from Dulles with a carrier that started with a "U". So that left it to either United or US Airways. Once we got to the airport, I nearly broke down in tears at the thought of saying good-bye; since we were more than an hour early, Adam suggested we drive around a bit to have some final moments together before I had to leave. We found a nearby Subway and ordered a quick lunch for me to take on the flight and then hurried back to the airport upon realizing that I now had less than an hour before my flight departed. We hurriedly kissed and bid each other adieu before I walked into the terminal, right up to the US Airways counter. Before I even reached it, a guy decked in a leather bomber jacket, leaning casually up against the counter asked me where I was headed. He seemed to work for the airline, so I told him Chicago. He immediately said, "I can't get ya there, sweetie. Better head over to United." I smiled as I hoofed it the 3 minutes down to the United counter, grateful that it was nearby. I went to the self check-in kiosk and entered my information, only to be told that I was too late to check my luggage (I had a container of Tummy Butter [a pregnant gal's best friend] a friend had gotten me for Xmas that was 3.5 onces--over the 3.2 oz limit by 0.3 oz--and I was not about to throw it away). I had less than 45 minutes to make it to my flight, which meant that the airline had already closed down checked luggage services. Starting to rain... When I inquired, they told me I could either throw away my tummy butter or book a new flight. Well, of course the answer was obvious--stay on my flight, and carry my bag on board with the Tummy Butter. If I've learned anything from Adam over the last ten years, it's not to assume you have to follow the rules until someone tells you to. So I grabbed my boarding pass and walked as fast as I could to security. Since no one asked me if I had any liquids or gels to declare, but I didn't want to be detained by them searching my bag once it passed through the scanner, I decided to quietly ask a TSA agent how to proceed. He asked to see the offending Tummy Butter; he took a quick glance at the 3.5 oz and *almost* rolled his eyes before telling me to just pass it through the bin. I waited with baited breath for the agent behind the scanner to call me on it. I noticed him look up at me while my bag was passing through and I shot him a slightly flirtatious, winning smile. My items came through the scanner without incident. I hurriedly shovelled my feet back into my shoes and got everything together before attempting to hot-foot it to my gate. Well, that meant a 30 minute walk (walk, not run, keeping in mind I had to lug a carry-on, a sandwich, and a belly that I'm not quite accustomed to yet) through the several concourses of the terminal. Raindrops pitter-pattering.... Once I was prety sure I'd gotten to my concourse, I found that instead, I had to board a bus that took me to yet another terminal! The bus was stalled, waiting for the last vestiges of passengers to board, while I got more and more antsy. Once it finally started moving, it came to a stop on the tarmac to make way for an arriving place. Drop, drop, drop... After an eon (30 seconds), the plane moved and the bus made its way to the terminal. I literally pushed some guy out of the way to make sure I could be amongst the first to fly out of the door. Luckily, my gate was the first one on the left coming off the bus, but I was sure they would have already closed the gate but luckily, it was still open. With about 12 minutes to spare, I rushed to the ticket agent and joyfully had her my boarding pass to scan. I was panic stricken and sweaty, but I had made it to my flight, and my Tummy Butter had made it with me. Once I'd sat down and relaxed a bit, I started to feel a bit smug. In fact, I even called Adam to gloat a bit. Light misting...
Had a layover in Chicago. Of course my 2 1/2 hour layover was stretched to 3 1/2 hours because of a flight delay. Is that thunder in the distance?? Jet fumes infiltrated the waiting area near the gate to the point that I, along with several other passengers, had to press my collar to my nose to breathe easily. Boarded, flew, landed safely. Got to airport and called Mrs. G. for a ride home. She came and picked me up and we talked happily on the ride home. I gave her a hug of thanks before heading into my house. I could only wonder the state of Gregory House, as our other next-door neighbor (Lazy Snow Shovelling Man) had offered to take care of him while I was gone. Greg greeted me at the door, howling with self-pity and forlonness. "Why-y-y-y werrrrre you go-o-o-one???" he meowed. I picked him up and hugged him, only to find stickyness all over my hands. I turned on the kitchen light and examined him. My poor, poor kitty who has suffered from skin allergies as long as I've had him, had literally eaten half-dollar sized holes into his skin, ripping out fur and tissue to expose swollen pink underskin. He had dried blood stain all over. Rain I wailed in shock and fright, as he has never looked this bad. I immediately through down my bags, put him in the sink and gave him a bath. There was no way he could walk around like this without risk of infection. He barely struggled as I cleansed his wounds; while he doesn't like water, I like to believe that he knew this was for his own good. I wrapped him in a towel and held him to me as he dried, unbelieving that my little guy could have wreaked such havoc on his little body. Once he'd dried a bit, I decided to go downstairs and check his litterbox, which I had expressly asked the neighbor to scoop at least once while I was gone. Lightning strike...ka-BOOM! The neighbor had not scooped the litter box in the four days that I'd been gone, and Greg House had taken to peeing and pooping outside of the box. Hey, I wouldn't want to "go" on a dirty toilet, either. Since I'm really not supposed to clean the litterbox while pregnant, but have no choice, I've been wearing protection--gloves and a dust mask--while doing the deed. But I was truly appalled by the cleanup I had in front of me. Why couldn't that dude just scoop once when he came over?? We had even supplied a plastic bag for him to put it in! Thing is, he has a cat of his own, so I know he knows how to scoop a litter box. So I donned the gloves and mask and set to work. Greg was so happy I'd finally cleaned out his filty latrine that he happily arched over it to pee and poo once I'd finished. He really is a good cat.
The next evening I came home from work to find that Greg House had done significantly more damage. His wounds were actually oozing congealed blood, all over my throw pillows and smearing onto my futon. I was heartbroken. I rushed to call the vet, but they were already closed so I left a tearful message asking them to fit me in as soon as possible. Something had to be done. The vet tech must have still been there because she called me back immediately to say that I could come in the following evening. The next day, I left work early to pick up Greg House and then head to the vet. He must have known where he was going (he's been enough times in the 6 months we've had him) because he yowled the entire ride there. They immediately took us in to an examining room. The vet, who I like personally, but am a little suspect of professionally, came in. After examining Greg House, he prescribed the same course of action that he's done the last two times--a cortizone shot to immediately stop the itching and then cortizone pills after that. I'd had it at that point. I drop at least $75 everytime I have to take the cat there to get checked out; I didn't want the symptoms treated for the third time, I wanted to know what the underlying illness was. So after several polite suggestions at an allergy test, I finally demanded one. For whatever reason the vet was pussyfooting around administering the test--did he like taking me for my money every month??? After he finally agreed to perform the test--the results would take 2-3 weeks to come back--I got the bill for it: $231. POUR! But what could I do? This cat is my kid, and I've accepted responsibility for him, so I have to try to help him get better. I swallowed and signed to accept the cost of the test. Final bill? $292 (you didn't forget about the price of the visit, did you?).
Well, the cortizone shot hasn't worked much, as he has still been trying to bite his wounds. So, I've had to restrain his head with a styrofoam plate to keep him from licking and biting his body. He hates it but he gets by. I, on the other hand, am just hoping that this storm will pass. A girl can only have so much strength to muster at any given time, ya know. But, and I hope I don't jinx myself, the rain seems to be letting up a bit. Pitter, patter, pitter, patter.
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