Talk to the Hand

I'm having therapy. Not the kind you bare your soul over: this is all about the hand, man. Every Tuesday and Thursday since this month began, and for a couple more weeks, I visit a rehab center and spend an hour with Mike. I'm fine, really - just a numb ring finger and pinky on my left hand that isn't, as I first thought, CTS (Carpel Tunnel Syndrome). Nope. Mine is special. Luckily, it never interfered with this thing I'm doing now. (You know, writing.)

I have a whole series of exercises to do so my fingers will get with the program. Like throw a Kleenex up in the air and catch it between my thumb and my "problem fingers." (Don't try this at home - it's very important that you have a physical therapist observe you to make sure you're doing it right. And after you're done, if you have a cold, you don't have to return the Kleenex. Score! Free tissues!) Then there's the one where I have to stretch and mold putty in one hand without help from the other (it's harder than it sounds, and you don't get to take the putty home).

And there's more! There's a gripper thing - the Digiflex - with finger pads that feels like I'm an ice cream truck driver making change with it. And let's not forget the "arm bike," which is pretty much like a stationary bike, only ten times more boring, if that's possible. But my favorite, hands down (sorry about that), is the one where I get to shoot marbles. Yes, alleys and swirls and cat's eyes! Mike sets up a barrier with a towel and I fire those bad boys right down the center. I'm getting pretty good at it.

Today I noticed that the numbness is almost gone, but I didn't tell Mike yet, because I want another shot at those marbles next week.

© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

I'm a Bad Mom, and I Must Be Punished

It's very risky to put a picture of a feline up anywhere on social media, lest one inadvertently be labeled a Cat Lady. I'm not. I happen to have one, but as a previous post (Cat Fight) has attested, mine is anything but warm and fuzzy. I take that back - she IS fuzzy. But she will never win Miss Congeniality, even if she's the only contender.

I'm a good provider. My cat—Peaches—gets fed well and sleeps 23.5 hours a day without disruption, has a nice home and clean "loo-box," and when she will condescend to let me pet her (which is practically never), she gets some sweet attention. I thought I was a good influence in her life. Until today, when I took her in for a dental cleaning and got a call from my vet. Who proceeded to tell me in a reproachful voice that he had to extract three molars and a canine tooth and that she had an abscess in her gums, and she must have been in a lot of pain from these bad teeth. And he guesses I just didn't see them? And then waited as I stammered through an answer, me feeling horribly guilty that I didn't pry open her mouth to check for suspicious-looking teeth (three of them in the way-way back) and faulty gums. And run an X-ray so that I could have figured out she had cavities. (Please don't tell me you all check your pets' mouths on a regular basis. I might have to bite you.) 

Of course I'm ready to be especially nice to my cat, because the vet thinks I'm a Bad Mom. I picked her up, paid the vet bill that was the price of a two-day-advance plane ticket to California, and brought her home. I haven't seen her for hours, so—full disclosure—the cat pictured here, though a virtual twin, is not mine. Mine, I'm sure, is busy looking for pliers, so I'm about to lock myself in my bedroom and I'm going to try not to doze off tonight. Just in case. Paybacks are hell, you know.



© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie