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I nearly wept with relief when I opened the door tonight and Micah came around the hallway corner with a audible and indignant, if much subdued, mrrrrrrow. I spent the day worrying myself sick that I'd come home and he'd be as bad off as he was yesterday and this morning. By the time I drove home, I'd worked myself into a terror that I'd get back and he'd have passed away during the day. He's definitely still weak and obviously not well, but he's sitting at perhaps at 85% health rather than the <50% he was previously. I hugged him carefully and placed him on the couch next to me... he climbed immediately into my lap and has been camped there for some time now, grooming himself and occasionally nuzzling my face. I'm almost relieved enough to start being jokingly irritated about soon needing to stuff antibiotics down his throat. Almost.



Poor, poor Micahbucket. He was nowhere to be found last night, and finally limped home right around the time I came back from my dentist appointment midmorning. I could tell immediately that something was wrong... he was moving in slow motion, and not meowing at all. For a normally very active, very vocal cat, these signs were enough to have me call the vet. Got him in in the late afternoon and all we can tell is that he's running a crazy temperature. Reigning theories are that he has a bite somewhere we couldn't find or that he fell off of something and has some sort of internal wackiness. No obvious bones broken, at least. On antibiotics twice a day for seven days and if he doesn't improve within a day or two, straight back to the vet. Poor kid has slept straight through all afternoon and evening, moving as little as possible and obviously feeling like crap... you know things are bad with your cat when he chooses to crawl inside one of the cat carriers to rest up (admittedly a comfy space, and left open in the office for just such occasions). Color me a worried cat mom.



Today I feel like a completely ridiculous stereotype... a stereotype of exactly what, I'm not quite sure, but still. I stayed at work past 11pm, came home to my cats, reheated some food, and have been sitting watching Project Runway and drinking a beer for the last hour or so. As I said: ridiculous!



Best talk with S that I've had in months... totally made my evening.

If I had my druthers, I'd spend a little while writing some lovely things about my dear, dear cat children. Perhaps I'd mention how much it makes me melt inside when the boys cuddle in my lap, but how much more sweet it was for Aggie to grace me with her unusual presence this evening. Or talk about how completely adorable it is the way the boys continue, after over a year, to sleep curled up together, to insistently share the only-sized-for-one-cat top bin of the cat tree, to dual lap cuddle whenever possible. Maybe I'd talk about how happy it makes me when Jasper stands up to hug my leg when I'm in the kitchen, ever careful to not extend his claws into my pants any more than he needs to to stay steady, or how going to sleep with Micah draped over my shoulder, purring into my cheek, is one of the best parts of my day, or how proud I am of watching Aggie grow smarter and smarter each passing month.

But then I remember how hard I try to avoid being the crazy cat lady. It's just kind of hard when I'm typing this pinned down by a pair of brothers grooming each other while their sister purrs against my knee. AWWWWWWWWW.



Three days in a row of not leaving work before 8 or 9 pm. But. But! For the first time in months, I'm feeling genuinely kind of stoked about this crazy-ass operating system that I'm helping to ship in dozens of languages. I installed the latest and greatest localized builds, and I'll be damned if Vista isn't getting just a wee bit cool.



They've graduated to actually leaving the bird in here. Yay? This time there was less blood, more bird poop. Awesome. I've been pulling 12 hour days at work. I'm exhausted. Only a couple more weeks of hell, though, we think.



One of the monster trio, I suspect Aggie, apparently brought a bird in here this afternoon and killed it. Or at least that's what the feathers and blood on the hallway floor would suggest, as there was no actual corpse that I could discover. Call me awful, but I have absolutely no problem with my cats graduating from bugs and spiders to actual animals... I just wish that they'd do it outside and bring me a present on my doorstep rather than me ending up scrubbing bird blood up off my floor.

Apropos of nothing: the single coolest moment I've had since I moved back down into Seattle was making it from turning my car on at work to parking and getting out at home in exactly 15 minutes the other night. That time would have been unthinkable when I lived in Bothell. Admittedly, the fact that it was 2:08 am when I left work didn't hurt, but I actually didn't speed. That much.



Did I actually lapse for three days? I'm getting awful. I suppose after 7 years it becomes easier to just go to sleep rather than come up with something to say... but on the other hand, I had things to say the last couple days, so that's really not an excuse. The being at work until 2 am on Thursday night was definitely a bit of a blocker, though.

Jeff, Seth, and I went to go see The Protector last night. I won't say it was terrible, but it really was just an excuse to see Tony Jaa do his incredibly awesome thing. If you haven't seen Tony Jaa being the sweetest martial artist of the last several years, go see Ong-Bak, now. If you've already seen Ong-Bak and simply have to see more Tony Jaa (and some pretty shots of elephants), you can go to see The Protector, but keep your expectations way, way low and prepare yourself to snort and giggle through everything, particularly the thing they seem to have thought was a "plot."

But may I say: dizamn. Tony Jaa's a bit of a funny looking guy, completely not my type even given that I'm already not a particular fan of Asian men... but when he's running around and whupping ass I'm pretty sure he's the finest man on the planet.



May steroid shot work miracles. Fingers crossed.



For my birthday, I offer my favorite passage about a birthday ever, from Julian May's The Surveillance:

    After I'd let borrow my senses, I asked: What are you doing?
    Baking CAKE allbymyself (OK Mom supervises) Papa goneout so he won't laugh took Victor they lookingfor birthdaypresentPapa outboardmotor tomorrow Papabirthday I make cake Mom&me privatejoke not tell Papa cake going to be magnificent.
    OmyGod forgot completely tomorrow August12. My birthday too 28yearsold just like yourPapa.
    ![Dismay.] BUT YOU HAVE NO CAKE.
    Laughter. Waitwait in backpack gooeycreamfilled Feuillete! Tomorrow put littletwigs in light sing HappyBirthdaytoMe.

Every year since I first read this book, when I was perhaps 12, on my birthday, I think of this passage and sing HappyBirthdaytoMe.

We had an absolutely lovely dinner out, the smoothest and most enjoyable birthday I've had in years. There was no sulking, no bickering, no outright picking of fights. Dad's gone on business. Coincidence? I think not! Bryce and Jenya won the presents, though. They snuck into my house while I was at work, yesterday, took pictures of the monster trio, and gave me the three best, all matted and framed together. I am so incredibly touched.



I have absolutely nothing useful or intelligent to say tonight. Watching Anchorman broke my smarts.



A better Saturday has not been had in quite some time. Everything came together: relaxation, productivity, the whole nine yards of what a weekend should be. Sunday may still shred it all, but the way I've been feeling lately, I need to place days like today on a display shelf. Not that Friday evening was half bad, either, as my father took me to Moonlight and Magnolias and dinner as a sort of birthday shot, and for once, managed to let the conversation not be entirely about him. Also to be put on a display shelf.



I'm so very tired lately. I can't wait for October's trip; I shall insist that Jeff do the lion's share of the driving and I will sleep, sleep, sleep the miles away. This last year, and particularly this summer, have moved well beyond draining into a whole new category of exhaustion.

I just realized that everywhere I've ever lived that I had control over it, I place my bed in the far corner from the door to the room. There were a few times before I got my furniture in here when it seemed that I might have to have my bed along the wall across from the door, headboard along the wall perpendicular to the entrance, and I became distraught at the wrongness of it. It's a funny thing, really; it's as if I feel if the bed isn't solidly anchored in the far corner I'm going to fall out and tumble through the doorway. Either that or it's to have a better position in regards to invading ninjas. Six of one, half dozen of the other.



A day where I get to hang out with Mike and watch Real Genius ain't half bad. Even the last few hours at work were, despite being in some respects completely awful, incredibly cool.



Called in sick and slept for fifteen hours... I suppose I was a bit tired.

The battle with my body continues unabated; my arms, almost back to normal last week, have raged back up from shoulder to wrist. My immune system has laid seige to me and it's just not fair. I'm terrified, that with as bad as it's gotten this year, that it's not going to fade with the coming of cool weather as it's always done before. I'm nearly covered with it now; in bad dreams I see it finishing its march up my neck and over my face. I have an appointment with a dermatologist on the 13th, but no faith, as my last try at a dermatologist had a busy woman sniff "eczema" at me and that was the end of it; I have no real hope that this time will be any better.




Acting on a suggestion from a friend, I tried taking a bath with some dissolved vitamin E capsules tonight. Not sure if it really helped anything, but it certainly was a nice way to spend thirty minutes or so. I always forget that I like taking baths until I take one... I wonder why that is?



My little brother had a party-type-thing tonight, at which not one, not two, but three people that I went to high school with showed up. It was completely surreal—it was almost more of high-school people than I'd seen in the last decade. All three were ones I would have called school-friends: the sort who I was happy to show up in my classes, the sort I'd sit next to, the sort I'd chat with in the hallway, but not the sort I'd hang out with outside of school (I had very, very, very few of those). Armin and I don't really have anything in common anymore, Joe was a good conversation partner, and Ben didn't recognize me for a good minute. It forecasted my 10 year reunion next year and has freaked me directly the fuck out.