Check this out, though: Apparently, the reason dad has been feeling so rotten lately is because his doctors fucked up his medications. He has a general practitioner who doesn’t see patients in the hospital. The general practitioner saw him when he first had trouble with the blood clots and high blood pressure. He referred him to an internist at the hospital who treated Dad for the blood clots, then told him to follow up with his regular doctor. The regular doctor prescribed some sort of high blood pressure medication in addition to the coumadin (Cumadin. Coomuhdin. Somefuckingthingadin.) and all the other crap the internist prescribed. When dad went back to the hospital for surgery several months later, he brought along all the medications he’s been taking, so the internist was aware of everything he was on. When they discovered the liver disease, the internist prescribed a whole bunch of new medications, including a different type of blood pressure medication. What he neglected to tell Dad was that the new blood pressure medication would replace the old one. I don’t know if he assumed my Dad would just figure that out on his own, or if he wasn’t paying attention to the drugs Dad was already taking. After the last hospital visit, Dad saw his regular doctor for a follow up and showed the doctor all the new medications he was on, but the regular doctor didn’t notice that he was on two different blood pressure medications either. When Dad started to feel really awful, the regular doctor said that it was because of the liver disease. He had referred him to a gastroenterologist, but the soonest Dad could see the specialist was mid-August. Dad kept telling his regular doctor that he was feeling worse and worse every day, but the regular doctor kept telling him to wait until he saw the specialist and the specialist would start treatment that would help. Finally, last week, Dad couldn’t take it anymore, and told the specialist that he had to see him right away. When the specialist saw what terrible shape Dad was in, he sent him to the ER right away. Dad once again gave the hospital people the complete list of medications he was on, and then someone FINALLY noticed that he’d been doubling up on blood pressure medication, which is apparently a very bad thing. Had Dad not insisted on seeing the specialist right away, had he listened to his regular doctor and just waited another few weeks, he could have died. Needless to say, Dad is looking for new doctors.

*****

Since I wasn't going out of town, I thought I could use the time to do some work around the house. Cleaning, painting, repairing this and that, laundry, etc. None of that happened, of course. Instead I just napped a lot and watched cartoons. Sloth, thy name is Idiot-Milk.

I did manage to give my cat the world's worst haircut, though, so that's something. It's like the cat equivalent of a bowl cut, only worse. Seriously, he looks ridiculous. I should feel bad and guilty, especially since I'm pretty sure the other cats mock him ceaselessly about it. I don't, though. It's just so goddamn funny. Every time I see him, it makes me giggle.

See, he's a long-haired cat, and he rolls around on his back all the time. As a result, he's forever getting mats. He looks like a damn Rastafarian. I've tried brushing, but he hates it. HATES it. As soon as he sees the brush, he starts wailing like the undead. My normally docile and sweet kitty turns into a raging ball of teeth and claws. Whenever I start to think that maybe this time he'll let me brush him, I have only to glance at the scars I bear from previous attempts and I am dissuaded.

I can't let him go around with disgusting dreadlocks, though, so I usually just trim the mats. He's not a big fan of the mat trimming process, but he doesn't hate it as much as he hates brushing. If I wait until he's napping before I try it, I can usually sneak up and trim the worst of them before he's even aware of what's going on. As long as I do it regularly, it's not a big deal. He has so much fur, you can't even tell where I've trimmed.

Lately, however, I just haven't had the time. Or if I did have the time, he was too lively to attempt it. I knew the mats were getting bad, but I'd lose the will to trim them whenever I looked at him. Sort of like what happens when I sit down to post something in the diary. There are so many mats, dear God where do I start, I am so tired just thinking about it, eh, fuck it. This weekend, however, I could no longer ignore the issue. At one point, I was petting him and noticed that he was actually lumpy all over from the mats. As a rule, lumpiness isn't a quality one looks for in a pet. I knew that something had to be done.

On Saturday, I waited for him to fall into his usual mid-day coma. When he did, I pounced with my super sharp scissors. I trimmed and trimmed and trimmed. The more mats I cut out, the more I found. Fur flew in all directions. Snip, snip, snipsnipsnipsnip. I was in the mat-trimming zone, people. It wasn't until I heard "DUDE! What have done to your cat?!" from one of the roommates that I realized exactly how much I had trimmed. I looked down at him as he continued to snooze peacefully and started laughing hysterically. The poor little monster looked like he had mange. Huge chunks of fur were missing from various spots all over his body. With the pile of fur next to him, I could have made a whole other cat. As I stood over him laughing my ass off, he looked up at me and blinked sleepily. He got up and stretched and then started cleaning his fur. When he came across one of the bald patches he stopped to look at it, then looked at me, then looked back at all his bald spots as if to say, "What the--what the fuck?! What did you do?!" He then ran behind a chair and hid for a really long time. Again, I should probably have felt bad, but I was laughing too hard. For the rest of the day, I tried to catch him to trim the fur he had left so at least the bald spots wouldn't be so obvious, but he wouldn't let me anywhere near him. He just kept staring at me balefully from under the coffee table, betrayal in his little kitty eyes.

I really don't think I should be allowed to have pets.

*****

The only other thing I did this weekend was attend a party on Saturday. I hung out with some of my favorite people, including the delightful Mr. and Ms. Oldmaid. I had a number of excellent conversations about everything from the logistics of DVDA to the awesomeness of hotdogs. I was in an old-school, freshman dorm kind of place that evening, so my beverage of choice was Boone's Farm. Oddly enough, despite consuming several bottles, I never achieved the drunken stupor I sought. I got a little spooly, sure, but that's about it. It's especially odd when you consider my nearly non-existent tolerance for alcohol these days. Weird. At any rate, I had a lovely time, so yeah.

*****

What an incredibly dull entry. Is anyone even reading at this point? I feel as if I should reward people for seeing this entry through to the end, maybe post some pictures of naked boobies or send you all some cookies or something. I probably won't, but I'm at least cognizant of the fact that I should.

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