I am Unremarkable

There doesn't seem to be anything seriously wrong with me. It seems one of my nasal passages is slightly obstructed by an enlarged bulla, but nothing impressive. Interestingly, I make thicker mucus on my left side than my right. I had never stopped to contemplate any deviation from complete mucus homogeneity, but now that is something else I know about myself. So my options are to keep taking the nasal inhaler the doctor gave me for awhile and see if it helps or consult an ENT about tuning my allergy medications more. I think I'll wait a little bit and see if I get better. If things are still the same after the holidays, I will call the ENT. Thankfully, I have awesome grown up insurance.

Check out the results (click to enlarge). I especially love the highlighted part.

Restaurant Chicken

On Saturday Dean announced that we were going to Whistle Junction for dinner. Whistle Junction is a buffet-style restaurant just a couple miles from our home. Dean had been making noise about trying it, more for the redneck ambiance than the actual quality of food. With me graduating within six months (hopefully) we are on a quest to experience All Things Florida, which means the good, the bad and the ugly. But while we love "good" food (gourmet, authentic ethnic, etc) here's the dirty little secret: we also love bad food (White Castle, Waffle House, greasy pub food). So I wasn't completely opposed to a comfort food buffet, likely reminiscent of Old Country Buffet.

What I didn't realize after agreeing was that Dean didn't really want to go. He wanted to appear to want to go and try Whistle Junction, but he was scared to put his money where his mouth was, and was counting on me to veto the decision. What he didn't realize was that the adventurer in me was willing to try it, and was sick of vetoing suggestions just to hear about how mean and unfair I am. So what actually ensued was a game of restaurant chicken that played out to the grisly end.

We pulled into the parking lot of Whistle Junction to find it largely empty save for a handful of minivans taking up all the handicapped spaces and those closest to the entrance. I am not one to make fun of the truly disabled, but it became apparent that most of the patrons' "disabilities" were obesity induced, likely exacerbated by frequent trips to buffets like Whistle Junction.

"Well, here we are!" I said enthusiastically.

"Yep, he we are," said Dean with a hint of terror in his voice.

The inside of the restaurant smelled a lot like I remember our junior high cafeteria smelling. A distressing combination of canned vegetables simmering to the point of disintegration and grease. We bought our "tickets" at the "station" and tried to dig in.

Now I am tolerant to all sorts of questionable food from hospital cafeterias to airplane food, when they actually used to serve it, but this was too gross even for me. I found very little edible at the salad bar - the lettuce was brown, the cherry tomatoes were pockmarked, the cucumbers dried out (*shiver*). The main course tables consisted of unidentifiable meat, potatoes of various sorts and vegetables that were little more than bits floating in cloudy water. There was an intriguing "ethnic" table which consisted of pizza, fried rice, petrified stir fry and tacos. But, like so many of our experiences together, we took it in stride with a healthy sense of humor. I settled on some fried chicken (difficult to mess up too badly), and some mashed potatoes.

What amazed us were that handful of people there were eating this stuff up like it was their last meal. There was a birthday party in progress, another gathering of what appeared to be a large extended family and a few couples on "dates" like Dean and I. There were lots of cowboy hats and belt buckles. The guy sitting behind us was a particular gem, he complained about being able to play baseball with the biscuits. When the waitress apologized and suggested the rolls instead, he replied "I'm a hillbilly, we eat biscuits, not rolls." Priceless.

What I think amazed me most about the whole experience was that as awful as the food was, it wasn't cheap. It was $10.50 per person, not counting drinks and a small tip. Didn't these people know that you could get a much better meal almost anywhere for less money? It had to have been the lure of a buffet. But still, a place like Denny's has a large menu, is inexpensive and if it's quantity of food you're looking for, I believe they have several "grand slam" type meals for still way under $10.

It was while I was pondering how a place like Whistle Junction got away with charging an arm and a leg that I witnessed something that helped to explain the combination of clientèle and buffet asking price. The unpleasant gentlemen that had previously complained about the biscuits called the waitress over once again and threw an absolute hissy about the fact that he had seen a small child take a cookie from the dessert table with her bare hands rather than using the cookie tongs. I realize that the buffet is an unspoken honor system in which patrons silently agree to use tongs whenever possible and any breach can be a little unappetizing. However, the skeptic in me sensed an ulterior motive and I was right when the man got his full money back over the incident. Recall, this was a incident witnessed over the dessert table, so he had already had his half dozen plates full of food.

So you may be wondering what, if any, is the redeeming part of this experience? When, technically Deano got what he asked for, we were entertained by the absurdity of the whole experience, and I get to choose next week's restaurant!

Beware of the Walk-In Clinic

I think I mentioned how last Monday I spent much of my morning in the walk-in clinic by my house. Let me first admit defeat and say: Mom and Deano, you were right. I should not have done that. They both told me to go see a general physician, which I ended up doing anyway. The reason I went to the clinic was because I knew I had a sinus infection. I didn't need a diagnosis as much as I just needed a qualified person to write me a prescription for an antibiotic. I understood Dean's concerns in light of his bad experiences with health care, but the two situations seemed like complete opposites to me. So anyway, I decided to just go to the walk-in clinic and it initially appeared to have been the right decision. I got a seven day supply of antibiotics, which lasted until Sunday evening. Of course I had felt better and more like my old self almost immediately after starting the course and so thought little of it when I took the final pill Sunday.

Then on Tuesday I awoke to more sinus pressure, dizziness and a constant flow of mucus down the back of my throat. I lived Tuesday in miserable denial that my sinus infection was back and yesterday I realized that I couldn't attend (and present at!) a week long conference not being in top condition. So I broke down and called my general physician and luckily they were able to fit me in yesterday afternoon. After a short wait to see her, our conversation went something like this:

Me: I went to the clinic last Monday for a sinus infection and the antibiotics didn't work.

Her: You mean you've been taking them for over a week now and they haven't helped.

Me: No, they helped when I took them. Then two days after I ran out, the infection came back.

She briefly counts off the days.

Her: You mean they only gave you a seven day course of this particular antibiotic?

Me: Yes.

Her: It should be taken for at least two weeks.

Okay, let me just say that I already knew this after I called my mom and stepdad yesterday complaining of my ailments. Stepdad (a pharmacist) told me the exact same thing. Apparently everyone knows that the antibiotic given to me should have come with a 14-day (not a 7-day) prescription. Everyone except the doctor at the walk0in clinic.

So now I get to start all over with a new antibiotic taken for 14 days. The good news is I am already feeling better than yesterday and despite losing another afternoon to doctors, pharmacies, etc. I think I will be in good shape pretty soon.

Hug your Kitties

I had a sad weekend. One of the dumpster kitties died. She was hit by a car and I found her Saturday morning on my way to give them breakfast. It was especially difficult because she was one of the five I spayed and recovered just two weeks ago. She was very sweet and adorable, only about six months old.

I am not quite as sad as I was this weekend, but am still very angry that this happened. Once in a while cats will wander onto the busy streets and be hit. It is tragic but often unavoidable as the speed limits around here are 45 miles per hour, and people usually drive at least 50-55. What I am still trying to understand is how fast you have to be going in a residential parking lot to hit a cat. It makes me fear for the other ferals, not to mention the many kids who also live here. That driver was careless and stupid. God, I hate people sometimes.

Anytime I hear about, or worse experience, something like this it makes me want to go give our house kitties a tight squeeze and thank heavens they are healthy and under our care. You ought to do the same.

UPDATE: I learned when I got home from work that the kitty wasn't hit by a car after all. Turns out she was shot by some fucking psychopath that lives in my complex. Yep. Dean does the morning feedings and one of our acquaintances said her husband witnessed one of their neighbors shoot the cat and another one from his balcony. She was shaken up about it as well but she said her husband confronted the guy about it and threatened him with violence if he ever caught the guy doing that again. Dean came with me to feed the kitties after work and we saw the psycho shooting bottles in the parking lot. He looked very scary. I didn't confront him, thankfully my neighbor already did that for me. And my neighbor is a big guy who watches out for the kitties. I don't know if the psycho hit the other cat he shot at or if it's okay. I'm scared though.

Neuter Scooter

This past weekend was Spay Day. I was able to procure a reservation to bring in five ferals. However my normal transportation hook ups (the "Neuter Scooters") were either out of town or not able to help me. I have been desperate to do another Spay Day since a litter was born while I was in Minnesota and things can spiral out of control so fast. But I can literally only fit one cat in my Honda del Sol and it's hardly worth it to do a Spay Day for only one. So I took matters into my own hands and rented a makeshift Neuter Scooter.

Since Dean is an insurance adjuster, he gets a big discount on rental cars. The vehicle I chose to rent for shuttling stray cats all over Tampa* was a sport utility vehicle. A huge, gas guzzling, American-made monstrosity that screamed "Fuck you!" to the environment and everyone with which it shared the road**. Even though I decided against the optional "Support our Troops" magnetic ribbon and the Jesus fish, I felt dirty driving this thing home from the rental place.

However it was the next day, when I loaded up the trapped kitties and found that I had so much space, I could fit so many cats in here(!) that I began to see how soccer moms began their love affair with the SUV. The extra space was phenomenal, but more than that I could see beyond the back windshield of the car ahead of me! Not to mention the thing accelerated like a dream. I began to scan my brain for things I needed (more like wanted) to do that required 395 horsepower and 400 lb.-ft. of torque. Wasn't there a huge mess of chopped up wood somewhere I needed to haul? How about towing a smaller, inferior car? Unfortunately I couldn't think of a single thing.

But that afternoon after I picked up the kitties and drove back home, realizing that I had used up 1/3 of a tank of gas driving a total of 50 miles I was jolted back to reality. Someday I may want to cart around kids, and pets and sporting equipment and groceries and a bunch of chopped up wood. But not in today's world.

* I may or may not legally be allowed to do this. The contract I signed included a clause that said I wouldn't let pets ride in the car. But by definition, feral cats aren't pets.

**I don't hate all SUVs, just the overly obnoxious ones. My mom and step dad have a Honda Highlander that gets 27 miles to the gallon. And it's not overwhelmingly big. But still big enough so that they can haul a bunch of cats around.