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It’s Thursday, and both husband and cat are still alive.

It turns out that Yin’s unwillingness to chew anything for more than a decade makes hiding pills in his food pretty easy. And he doesn’t seem to mind the sub-Q treatment as long as somebody is handing him snacks. So for now, he’s a willing patient who seems to be getting back to his old self. We’ll see how next week goes.

As for the husband, I haven’t had to hide any pills in his food yet. Again, we’ll see how next week goes.

Calgon? Miller? Anybody?

14-year-old cat requires four medications per day, plus subcutaneous fluids. Husband has a dermatological bandage to be watched and changed. The refrigerator is making a noise reminiscent of angry bees.

I have never felt more grownup, married or inept.

So my husband says that if I write about this, I’ll feel better, but I’m not entirely sure that’s true because I don’t know what to write.

One of my cats is dying. Hell, ALL cats are dying, this one’s just on a downhill path: chronic renal failure, the kidney malfunction associated with bad luck and old cats everywhere.

Yin is 14 years old. That’s apparently the equivalent of a 70-something-year-old person, so it’s not entirely unexpected that he should have issues. Frankly, however, his brother has always been our “issues” cat, so I didn’t see this coming.

I’m sort of OK with the idea that he won’t be around much longer, more OK than random outbursts of tears and total lack of appetite would indicate. What I’m not OK with is that I just don’t know what to do. We were sent home today with antibiotics, blood pressure medicine and CRV cat food, among other gels and pills.

The most confusing bag, however, contains a big bag of subcutaneous fluids and a box of 100 needles.

Sure, I watched the vet give a demonstration of administering the “sub-Q,” and I’m pretty sure I can do it, but I’m not sure if I SHOULD do it. I don’t want to turn my cat into a patient, waking up each day only to await a needle and a bunch of pills. It seems … undignified. Especially if he’s not going to be himself, and he HASN’T been himself in a couple of weeks. He used to make every step I made, spend at least half the night sleeping beside me and bound upstairs every morning at 5:15 to wake me up. Now, he lives in the kitchen. Preferably on top of the refrigerator. I might add that he jumps on top of the refrigerator himself, so it’s not a mobility issue, just a lunatic issue. He’s always been a bit of a mad hatter.

I never thought I would miss my 5:15 wake-up meow, but I find myself wide awake at 5:20 every morning, wishing he would scamper up by my pillow and voice his discontent right next to my ear (he totally knows what ears are for). I’ve realized that I’m even going to miss the scratches on my arms, just because I’ve gotten so very used to them (Stockholm syndrome + bad cats go hand in hand).

OK, maybe I do feel slightly better. But I still don’t know what to do. Other than text message my mom because I didn’t tell her about the cat this weekend because I didn’t want to send us both on an apocalyptic crying fit that would pretty much screw up both days for everybody.

Being a grownup sucks. Being a control freak faced with an array of decisions with uncertain outcomes sucks even more.

What manner of beastie is this? A lemur, perhaps? I remember being quite fond of him when I was a child. Specifically, I remember chewing his long, rubbery tail (you can see it’s a bit stubby at the end).

My mom was kind enough to ferry him home from my grandmother’s house. She was also kind enough to keep the old plastic dolls that would have been entirely too creepy to have in my house.

The lemur, however, abides.


A former co-worker told me about Huntsville’s Trade-Fair Marketplace months ago, and I finally wandered in today. The non-profit store, run by volunteers, offers an eclectic array of handcrafted jewelry, baskets, rugs, pottery and toys, along with an assortment of coffee and chocolate. The goal of the store, and other fair-trade organizations, is to ensure that the artisans and farmers producing the goods earn between 15 and 20 percent of the retail price.

It’s certainly the place to go if you’re looking for gifts and accessories you won’t find anywhere else. I found this resin ring for only $5 — all their prices seem very reasonable.

Trade-Fair Marketplace is located at 817 Regal Drive in the shopping center next to Parkway Place Mall.

Several years ago, a good friend offered me an old pie safe that belonged to his sister, who had recently died. Honored by his offer, and in dire need of a little extra cabinet space in my humble kitchen, I accepted. This unique piece did kitchen duty for several years until I moved to Huntsville, where I found a home with plenty of cabinet space. The pie safe accepted its new assignment as eccentric bookshelf/knickknack area.

One thing that always bothered me about the pie safe was the drawer on the bottom. It didn’t belong there. It wasn’t made out of the same aged wood, and it was much more stylized than any other part of the cabinetry. It seemed like it was added as an afterthought, perhaps as a replacement for another drawer that had fallen apart.

I bought new drawer pulls for it at Anthropologie a few months ago, but all they did was emphasize its non-belongingness. Another plan was in order.

Yesterday, I finally fixed it. I toured the garage until I found a piece of suitably aged wood (my garage is, indeed, full of surprises) that only needed one cut to fit the drawer opening. After worming my way underneath the pie safe, I secured the board from the back with three beige deck screws (you can’t see them).

Voila! It’s as if the mismatched drawer never existed.

My love of Anthropologie’s cabinet hardware collection was satisfied, as I installed two bright, bubbly pulls on the pie safe doors.

It’s always been a fun piece, but I think I’ve managed to update it without changing its overall character.

One of my favorite local farmers, the guy who sells tomatoes and whatnot out of the back of his truck in front of Hartlex Antiques in Madison, Ala., warned me last week that the watermelons weren’t all that this summer, but I had a jones and could not easily be talked out of buying one.

I’ve had worse watermelons, but this one was nothing to brag about. Its texture was good, but it just wasn’t very sweet. I’m pretty much the only person in the house who scarfs down watermelons, save for one misguided cat, so I had a lot of mediocre melon to account for.

Luckily, my mom and I had recently discussed sorbet. Mission acquired.

I ended up using a recipe from a blog called Mmm … That’s Good! because it was one of the few that didn’t require lime zest. It did call for the use of my ice cream freezer, which I’m trying to break out more often this summer.

My watermelon sorbet did not fare well. It emerged from the ice cream freezer a sweet, soupy mess, resembling a half-melted ICEE more than sorbet.

Delicious? Yes. Scoopable? No.

Now it’s granita, waiting in the freezer for me to scrape it into fine, pink crystals with a fork and scoop it into my grandmother’s awesome green sherbet glasses. And I have no more excuses to avoid buying mediocre watermelons.

No, Pier 1 Cat, it is NOT fair for something that is so reminiscent of fall to arrive in the CSA box during the hot, hot first week of August. We should be double-checking the marshmallow stocks and finding new ways to dodge trick-or-treaters with this gem on the fireplace mantel.

Everything anyone needs to know about me as a little girl is reflected in my favorite childhood tea set, recently rescued from the highest shelves of my grandmother’s hall closet by my mom.

Made of unbreakable, dishwasher-safe Tupperware, it’s decidedly non-delicate, perfect for non-delicate little girls. It showcased an array of gaudy colors, as did I. It included only four teacups, because how many stuffed animals do you expect one little girl to serve tea to at once when there are so many books to be read?

Tomato Envy

I’m finally getting tomatoes in my CSA box–they seem exceptionally late this year. Another farmer occasionally sets up shop out of the back of his pickup truck in the same parking lot where I pick up my goods every week, and I’m more likely than not to add some extras to my produce selection from his offerings. This week, he had a truck bed filled with $3 baskets of ripe, juicy tomatoes.

It’s been positively extravagant having so many homegrown, delicious tomatoes at the ready. I’ve had a sandwich. I’ve made a tomato-filled salad. I’ve served sliced tomatoes with dinner, garnished only with a sprinkling of salt and pepper.

Tomatoes aren’t a rarity, but good ones definitely are. I rarely buy grocery-store tomatoes any time of the year–they have no taste compared to the homegrown delicacies I grew up with at my grandparents’ farm.

I figure I only have three or four weeks of tomato season left, if that much. It’s fleeting, but it’s worth waiting for.