Worries Great and Inane
The news of Michael Crichton's death is unexpected and sad. (Well, duh.) There was a time when I couldn't read enough by the man. (The Great Train Robbery is long overdue for another go.) But then, about ten years ago, that ended. (Hmm. Kind of like with Stephen King.) Nevertheless, the respect remains. Because of Crichton, I wiggle my toes and get another cup of cocoa when reading any sci-fi with hard science behind it. He taught me to look for that.

We had to rush Terry to the vet today. I admit I felt so grown up, actually using one of the many numbers I put into my new phone's Contacts. I think most of them are there just in case I'm hit by a bus. Can't have people looking in and seeing that most of my calls come from those stupid auto warranty spammers, right? Paramedics will be far more likely to take the fullest measures if some bystander looks into my phone and sees where I'm positioned to call both the Graffiti Hotline and the tire store as needed.

This reminds me of why I can't get myself going on Facebook (per Heather's last comment). I finally joined the summer before last, but I didn't want to ask some work acquaintances to add me as friends because I didn't have any other friends on there yet... I mean, ew, how could I let anyone see my profile if I don't already have friends there? When it's a social network? Embarrassing!

I guess I should've gone around saying, "HEY, I FINALLY JOINED FACEBOOK!" at the time, and then I'd have an excuse to be a lone wallflower because, hey, NEWBIE, but I felt like I'd already taken people down that road too many times. From SixDegrees and the Big Cloud to ThinkBlank's Secret Santa to Orkut, I couldn't stomach asking once again, "NOW COME BE MY FRIEND HERE!" (And if they are already on Facebook, shouldn't I wonder why they never urged me to sign up? Gulp!)

And now it's been over a year, so I just look even sadder. Not that I care. Wait, obviously I care, even if I'm just pretending to care-care for the sake of having something dramatic to babble. And that's terrible, caring even a tiny amount... how dare Facebook reveal these hidden insecurities! It's just trying to get me to confess to why I stuffed my bra for part of eighth grade. Look, the karma fairy already took care of that. (I still haven't found the nerve to get that back massage...)

Okay, and then there's also the "How can I participate on Facebook without sharing my website" problem. My official policy is that I don't mind if anyone from work reads this site, but at the same time, I don't want to put it in anyone's face. If I ever have an angry parent try to use something here against me, say a sudden spurt of "fuckity-fuck-fucks!", I want to be able to honestly say that I took reasonable means to keep my private life separate from what I do with my students. It's a litigious world, and it shouldn't be, because litigious is super-hard to spell. (I should make it a vocab word. No, then the lawyers have won.)

(I keep searching my contract for something like a moral turpitude clause - no luck. Is it because it's Vegas, baby? Oops, maybe I shouldn't have linked directly to the contract. Now they might notice me down here, hopping around like a preschooler with an urgent news update. Fuckity-fuck-fuck? Unlinked.)

But, if I don't link to Flickr or this site when on Facebook, then I feel like I am covering something up. After all, taking pictures and rambling are two of my favourite hobbies! What else do I do... kiss hamsters? (Raise your hand if you think I forgot about Terry. Remember Terry, back at the start of this story?) Sure, I could leave status updates... but that's what Twitter is for.

Argh! Just when you think all your Web-2-point-O'ing is finally connected! I feel like I have the DVD player hooked to the TV hooked to the surround sound hooked to the CD player hooked to the DVR... which comes with a DVD recorder that won't speak to the DVD player that I only need because the recorder can't play region-free DVDs. This is just a hypothetical scenario. Believe me, you'll know the day we have surround sound. It will be a 6,000 word post on my years of private suffering with turning the volume UP and DOWN and UP and DOWN and oh-for-fuckity-fuck-fuck's-sake, a curse on all movies with sweeping soundtracks and dialogue!

Then - yes, there's more, you should hear the clicky-clack of my mindless momentum - I also don't want to link my Facebook profile here. My official policy on this end is that I don't really care if you know my last name (it's incredibly easy to find out), but I do like being able to at least weed out those people who can't find it easily. I've already had one stranger leave me a letter at my apartment office. CREEPY. (Ah, memories of that fun day of me trying to figure out what the property management people are talking about, while they're trying to understand why someone I don't know would try to find out where I live then end up leaving a note with them. Creepy people, hark: don't visit people if you had to find their address through a special website.)

And I'm nobody. Why would anyone want to be a famous blogger? You get all of the weird attention but (unless you're one of a handful) none of the riches to buy bodyguards and fences that shoot laser poison. Maybe all the non-bloggers are right about us.

Okay, I know that doesn't even make sense. "Fences that shoot laser poison"? It should be "fences that shoot LASER poison." Better?

So, this concludes my overly introspective bit on how I've sucked all of the fun out of Facebook before even finding one friend there. Sorry! This is probably why I have no friends and am excited when I get to actually use the Contacts section on my phone, even if it's to call the vet.

It doesn't mean that I don't find this absolutely hilarious.

Terry. Well, it could be a respiratory infection. It could be heart cancer. I didn't even know there was heart cancer, I thought it was just an emo metaphor! Or it could be some other form of tumor. He has extreme lethargy and "crackles" are coming through the stethoscope. The poor guy just can't breathe.

So, he's on the beloved Baytril and the vet (who, I remind you, is part of the best veterinary practice in the universe, at least for exotics and other little companions but probably for everything, like even for Bigfoot if they ever find him, although I apologize if Bigfoot is people-doctor territory - this is something that remains unaddressed in all current etiquette guides) says we'll do a seven-day course and we'll see. Respiratory infections can down a little thing like a dwarf hamster like that (a small lip-bite while everyone is careful not to mention Raisins), so I worry that it's too late.

Or I would worry, if I allowed myself to think any negative thoughts. Which I'm not. I mean, I can type about my fears, but that's different, because I'm not really thinking. (Is it any shock that my brain isn't completely connected to my fingers? Ha!) So, definitely not thinking about that wheeze he had one night a couple of months ago. And absolutely not putting two-and-two together about how he prefers to sleep semi-upright. Oh Terry.

Not knowing how old Terry is (the vet can only confirm that he's not a young feller) makes it harder. Sure, he's been one happy little hopscotcher since the day we brought him and June home from the SPCA four months ago, and we should all be glad of that, but DANG. Or even "fuckity-fuck-fuck!" Four months is too short a rental. Come on.

Come on, Terry. Come on.

06 November 2008 |






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Carnival Splendor (2009)
Carnival Spirit (2010)
Carnival Spirit (2011)
Carnival Splendor (2011)
Norwegian Pearl to Alaska (2012)