Izzy the Cat has, according to the animal hospital receptionist, survived her spaying. I told Henry that she was having an operation to keep her from having babies, and from the look on his face, I might as well have told him that we were having her paws lopped off. "But… but she needs to have babies," he whimpered. What, kid, you think the only thing girls are good for is baby-making, IS THAT IT? Go fix Mommy a drink. Just pour it into a glass, it's already pre-mixed in that jug. The one with the blue label. Now scoot!
They say she's doing fine, but then, how do I know they're telling me the truth? As a friend of mine pointed out, they could stuff any old cat back into her carrier, and I might wonder for a little while how my cat changed into a tabby, but then I'd forget, as I always do. What was I talking about, again?
While I was calling, I got the idea that I should ask if I could talk to her. The receptionist put me on hold and then I was giggling through hours of hold music, imagining the look on her face. "I just want to hear her sweet voice," I would say. But then, they probably get this all the time, don't you think? I bet they have a recording of a cat meowing that they play, just for their crazier clients. I lost my nerve when she returned to give me the update. But I was snickering the whole time, so I'm sure she thinks I'm nuts anyway. My cat's okay, you say? That's hilarious! Did you put wheels on her, where her paws were?
In other news, I just made out with my antibiotics. It was a little awkward, but I felt it was the right thing to do. So yes, my ear is better. Thank you for your concern, and for not fleeing my site in disgust and horror.
I have an essay in the latest issue of Wellesley magazine, so if you're coming from there, welcome, fellow alumnae! Remember that time, on that hill, near the lake? I'm sorry about that. I didn't know those were your good pants. And that they'd be so flammable.
The presence of esteemed, successful, immaculately dressed alumnae makes my next news item a little…awkward for me, but I think we all know I've learned to embrace my awkward side, so here goes.
You might have noticed I have a donate button now. Right up there, in the left-hand-column, above the big honking ad. Huh!
I debated whether or not to add a donation button. On the one hand, I already have ads, but on the other hand, the ads do not pay as I had dreamed they would. I know there are people who are against ads and anti-blogging-for-any-reason-besides-love, but I come from the land where writers get paid for their writing, and I don't see a problem with that. But then, I don’t like to feel like I'm begging. But then, I am! I debated until I felt a little sick, but in the end, I decided to leave it up to you, the reader. If you wish to donate, I thank you from the bottom of my scrappy freelancer's heart. If you can't, you're probably struggling like me, and I raise my chipped mug of re-heated coffee to you in solidarity. May we all make more money doing what we love to do.
My final piece of news is probably insane, but here goes: I have enjoyed NaBloPoMo so much that I want to keep it up. Almost. I pledge to you, dear readers, that I will write an entry for every weekday, excepting holidays and extreme cases of illness, from now until my hands fall off. And I have to get wheels to match Izzy's.