We picked up the last of our typewriters (portable Smith-Corona with black pebbled finish) from the repair shop today. It has a smooth and lovely action. I typed a letter to celebrate. I think that, once we are in New York, I want to write a couple of short stories on our typewriters.

I was thinking about doing some sort of contest and giving the winner an original typewritten story. You know, you’d get the actual original manuscript–after I made a copy, of course. It just seems like, if I’m going to type it that the manuscript itself should be part of the package.

So the question is: What nifty contest can I host?

Today we spent more time clearing the basement. I baked some more bread–the raisin bread lasted all of fifteen minutes–for sandwiches. I realized that I’m into baking right now because it’s easily controllable and, since I’m following a recipe, I don’t have to make any choices to create something.

Rob pulled some wooden wine crates out of the basement and lo! they are perfect for packing china. So, I sat down on the kitchen floor and wrapped newspaper around china until my hands were black with ink. As I finished each crate, Rob would nail the lids shut. Honestly, you’d think we were getting ready to hop into a covered wagon rather than a moving van.

Somehow, packing the china made it sink in that yes, we are actually going. We are moving. I will not be hosting any more dinner parties in Portland. It is strange and finally real.

Anyone want some cookies? I feel like baking something.

Thanks to Google Maps new street view feature, you can see the front door of the apartment we are moving to. As a friend of mine said, “It’s like living in the future.”

On the one hand, keen! On the other hand, it’s a little creepy. I mean, is that a neighbor walking past the building? Will I meet that woman while I’m there?

And then I swing back over to the keen! side. Can you imagine how much work this must have been? Holy cow. Rob just showed me his old apartment and his favorite restaurant is still across the street.

Edited to Add: Mr. Radley, in comments, pointed out another very shiny service.

Where google maps is fuzzy, try using http://www.flashearth.com/ (requires Flash) which lets you switch between several different satellite map services, one of which may provide a clearer view.

Today was one of those odd days where I did a lot, but felt like my wheels were just spinning. I did novel revisions, had lunch with Ken Scholes, ran errands, went to the coffee shop and actually wrote, and cleaned the basement. Yet somehow, I feel like I got nothing accomplished. Why is that?

I used to bake bread fairly regularly. I like the action of kneading dough, but I’d forgotten how good the house smells while the bread is in the oven. Oh heavens.

I just pulled out the Scottish Oatmeal bread, with cinnamon and raisins. It is making everything else in life seem wonderful by mere association.

So, we continue to be worried about Maggie because her appetite is still poor and she is moving very cautiously, like an old cat. Now granted, she is old, (17 years) but she usually spry and kittenish. It’s strange to see her act like she’s stiff or tip over like she’s lost her balance. So, today I looked up metronidazole For veterinary use, which is the medication she was on.

• Dogs and cats: Symptoms of overdose of metronidazole include the gastrointestinal signs (anorexia, vomiting) and neurologic signs including depression, ataxia, disorientation, head-tilt, tremors, bradycardia, rigidity, stiffness, and seizures. Neurologic signs may occur due to acute overdose although they are more commonly seen in animals that are on long-term moderate or high doses (oral doses greater than 66 mg/kg/day). Signs of chronic toxicity often begin 7-12 days following the start of treatment. After the drug is discontinued, it may be several days to two weeks before these neurologic signs begin to diminish.

Sigh…

If you are curious about the route that we are taking to get to NYC, I’ve plotted it out. It meanders like that because we are stopping to visit friends and family on the way to NY. The only night we have to pay for lodging is the night we stop to visit Mt. Rushmore. I’ve performed in both of the Dakotas, but never seen Mt. Rushmore, so I figured we’d take the opportunity.

If you live along this route, let me know. Maybe we can time one of our rest stops with a quick visit.

So…now my printer and my scanner won’t talk to my computer. I am annoyed. I have it narrowed down to something (probably) wrong with the BIOS but, lordy, I have no idea how to fix it except a system restore.

That would be fine, except that the program that I use to layout Shimmer is in one of the boxes coming from Iceland to NYC. You know, the ones we left behind because we thought we were going back? So, if I do a system restore, I can’t reload that program. Oh, I could download a trial version, but it’s only good for fifteen days. I could switch programs, but that means rebuilding all my templates. The timing on this is, shall we say, crappy.

We stopped pilling her today. Maggie’d gotten seven days of the pills, which the vet said was the minimum that she’d like to see. And, since she was getting double-doses… oy. Anyway, we decided to stop, because she’d stopped eating.

I spent the morning hanging out with Christina and in the evening, Rob and I went to the store to pick up some wet cat food to tempt Maggie. Lo! She ate. Thank heavens. Marlowe is, of course, wondering why he doesn’t get the same treats she does. Silly kitty. I offered to wrap him in a towel and shove butter down his throat, but he doesn’t seem interested.

Today is my little brother’s birthday.

Although we had serious sibling rivalry growing up, he’s a swell guy. He just got accepted to Vanderbilt where he will finish his doctorate. I’m not looking forward to calling him Dr. Harrison, but I’m still proud of him. Oh– and he’s driving up to NYC to help us move in.

Mr. B– called today and said that we have the official-in-writing confirmation from the landlord. We move in on June 28th.

After I dropped my computer off, I stopped by the vet’s today. I wanted to pick up a syringe to shoot water down Maggie’s throat, hoping that it would help with everything. The vet came out to talk to me, because I was a little distressed about the pilling the cat ritual. I explained that Maggie seemed to have stopped eating; her bowl was completely full when I went down to feed them this morning. Since the cats only get fed once a day, it was fairly suspicious.

The vet nodded, “If she’s not eating; then you may need to bring her back in.”

“I don’t think she’s getting sicker; I think she’s depressed.”

Across the waiting room a black cat yowled as if someone were killing him right there. His owner tried to reassure him, but the cat didn’t speak English. Neither does Maggie, so I can’t tell her what the vet said–that if she doesn’t finish the antibiotics, she could develop a super-resistant strain of stomach bug.

“I know.” I nodded. Years ago, I’d wanted to be a vet; I hated being the neurotic pet owner now. “It’s just that I feel like I’m making things worse.”

“Well, if the half-tablets are too large, try cutting them into quarters and see if she’ll take it with some soft food.”

I blinked. “Half-tablets? We’ve been giving her whole tablets.”

Looking down at her chart, the vet said, “Half tablet every twelve hours. Fortunately it’s a very mild medicine, so it’s not dangerous.”

It still made me feel ill. I mean, misreading medication like that could have been fatal. “So, instead of having three more days, I have six more days?”

“Right. But if we can get at least seven days of antibiotics and if the symptoms have stopped, then it’s probably safe to stop the pills. It’s better to finish the round, but if it’s making her miserable you can stop after seven days.”

I thanked her and biked home with my handy syringe. Rob was waiting for me, so we could do her morning pilling. I told him what the vet said and then I grabbed the bottle of pills.

The label said, “One pill every twelve hours.”

One. Not half. I called the vet’s office, related my story and learned that the label was wrong. So, on the one hand, there’s a measure of relief, because I didn’t misread the instructions. On the other hand, I’m ticked. I mean, hello? It’s lucky that it was a “mild” medication because I could have hurt my cat.

The half-pill is, surprise, easier to get down Maggie’s throat. The routine goes like this. I butter the pill and then we stick it in the freezer (thanks, Christina), which helps keep the coating from melting. I grab Maggie and swaddle her in a towel, sitting on the kitchen floor. Holding her on her back, I brace her while Rob pries her mouth open and shoves the pill back as far as he can. She cries. He squirts water down her throat, which forces her to swallow. It does seem to help.

Both pilling sessions went well today. But–but we have to do it for twice as long as we thought we did. Or…or we quit after seven days. And poor Maggie has no idea why we decided to start torturing her.

Poor kitty.

Butter makes the medicine go down. After another horrific experience pilling Maggie, I called the vet to see how bad it would be to not finish the medication. Normally, I’m a big fan of following the doctor’s orders, but Maggie was hiding from us. Her fur was lank and matted from the dried froth–I’m not even exaggerating–and I felt like we were torturing her.

The vet suggested coating the pill in butter, because it would seal in the bitterness and also make it slippery. Willing to try anything, I buttered the pill. Lo! It worked! She was even licking her lips and climbed into my lap afterwards. Such relief for all of us.

Edited to add: Well, it worked this morning. At the moment Maggie has a handle-bar mustache of foam.

I’ve got my computer back. No, it’s not fixed. However, after a generous session of batting eyelashes I managed to convince them to let me bring it home overnight without losing my place in line. This is apparently totally against their rules.

I know this because when I called in, I was told that it wasn’t an option–this was a different person, who seemed to know how to use a telephone. I explained that I was on my way to pick it up even though it wasn’t ready because I needed it. When I got there, asked why I couldn’t take it home overnight? The twelve-year old on duty explained that they’d tried it and it hadn’t worked in the past. I batted my eyelashes and he changed his mind.

I have to drop it off there shortly after they open, but that gives me enough time to complete a job and turn it in on time. I don’t need it again until Tuesday, so hopefully they will actually get to the repair by then.

We got word today that they have decided to hire someone else as Asset Manager. So, Iceland is off the table, officially. We’re both relieved to have a definite answer to something and also disappointed. Rob has sent an email to Daddi telling him to sell the KTM.