Insurmountable Problem!

On Sunday evening, Lisa M. and I had our usual excellent weekly telephone conversation. We talk about doings in our own lives, politics, books, the current state of society. On Monday I had a mammogram, the most painful of my entire life, though I had to agree with the merrily chuckling technician that a good, clear image is the most important thing.

I spoke with my boss about my idea of being here for two weeks every couple of months and working twice a week during those two weeks and he said that is fine, though now I’m trying to figure out: If you live in two places, how does that work with your taxes? Which is your residence? What about health care? What about identification? What about voting? Does my employer in San Francisco care if my address is in Michigan?

As mentioned here not long ago, I was remembering myself telling Carol-Joy in the past year how much I hate San Francisco: How crowded it is, how you’re taking your life in your hands riding a bicycle along Valencia St., how horrible this weird bubble full of rich people is. Now, of course, it is the most supremely beautiful place there is. I went to P.O. Plus on Castro St. this afternoon to get a couple of small boxes to mail unread novels to Michigan in: something to look forward to there, as I sort of feel that I am being banished from the magic palace. 

Then I tried to decide whether to go home and have a healthy dinner or go again to Orphan Andy’s, which I really oughtn’t (I told myself), as I went to Plain Jane last Friday, Orphan Andy’s on Saturday, and to Henry’s Hunan on Church St. Monday evening for dinner with a friend. That’s a lot of eating out, but once I even ask myself a question like that, it’s already a lost cause, and all the more so now that this might be the last time I have a turkey melt at Orphan Andy’s, so I had that, with onion rings and a side of butter, but I compromised by not requesting an extra-large side of butter. (The cute server was not there.)

On Tuesday I went to see my wonderful chiropractor and reported on how ceasing to take calcium and magnesium erased my vestibular symptoms. I am now taking vitamin D, oregano oil, and BroccoMax, and the symptoms are back maybe five percent, but that is a reasonable trade-off. I asked if I should bother to do my vestibular exercises and at first he said no, but then he said if they have no effect on me, I don’t need to do them, but if they make me feel dizzy or nauseous—I forget which—then they are worth doing. I think they do, a little.

Also on Tuesday, the unpleasant smell that drifts from the bathroom window of my counterpart in the next building suddenly became much stronger; plus there seemed to be some fellow in her bathroom having a drug-induced episode of some sort. I called Tom to see if he smelled it and of course he said everything smelled fine to him, but then, most unusually for him, he reported that he had tried sticking his nose out of his bathroom window, above mine, and now he smelled it.

I am developing a theory that most people arrive in San Francisco with enough money to be here, a sufficient amount of mental health and, ideally, no drug problem, but if things don’t work out, or maybe it is just due to staying in one place long enough, here they are years later in poor mental health and / or with a drug problem and / or not enough money. There are so many people here who are so abundantly well resourced in every regard and so, so many who are not. 

I decided the time had come to complain about the horrendous stench and called the owner of the building next door. I did feel bad about doing it, as his problems are nearly endless, but this was starting to seem unreasonable. I ran into him on the street later and he said he had run into the tenant in question, who explained that she is vaping something whose name is three letters. As of yesterday evening, I concluded I am simply going to have to keep my bathroom window shut, but as of this afternoon, I concluded that I am simply going to have to put up with the foul emanation; it gets really stuffy in that sector of this little apartment without the breeze.

This morning, Marvin carefully ate the Pill Pocket in which his fluoxetine (Prozac) capsule was nestled and spit out the latter. I got out another pill and tried burying it under a mound of Nulo Lickable Treat; same result. I eventually lost my temper—he did not seem to take offense—and got the pill into him using a pill shooter. At least twice in the past when I have used a pill shooter, within a minute or so he has vomited thirteen-plus times, no doubt throwing up the medication, but since I can’t be one hundred percent positive of that, I just let it go for that day. Today I could see he was spitting out the whole capsule, and somehow got the pill far enough into the side of his face that he didn’t spit it out, but not so far in that it triggered his gag reflex.

But this is worrisome, because on the day he travels by air a couple of weeks from now, he will have to take his usual Prozac and also two 100-mg gabapentin pills, whether tablet (smaller but he might taste the medication) or capsule (can’t taste the medication, but it’s larger).

My first impulse was to email the cat transport person and also text my sister to announce an insurmountable problem, my favorite thing to announce, but I decided to try to think of some solutions first. Maybe 5 mg of Prozac instead of 7.5 would be enough, in which case he could take the tiny half-tablet Duckworth takes; I called their vet to ask. Then I looked around online for some alternatives to the Feline Greenies Pill Pockets and ordered three, paying for overnight delivery. For quite a while, Marvin loved the bacon-flavored Tomlyn Pill-Masker, until one day he suddenly hated it. (Oddly, that was the only edible item I’ve ever known Duckworth to refuse.)

I realized I had likely caused unnecessary problems by trying four or five times in a row to give Marvin his pill, not to mention by getting angry, so a bit later, using the same saucers I use for their medication, I called out to see if they would like a treat—they know the word—and gave them each a Pill Pocket on their usual saucer. They both ate it.

Last Wednesday, while I was still in Ypsilanti, on packing night, my other sister texted to say that she could see detailed tracking information for the box I’d sent her, but that the check for her share of the house proceeds, which I had sent via certified mail on Monday, had gone into a black hole that same day. That was a bit worrisome. We had an absolutely civil exchange that went on for a day or two, and the check did turn up. In the course of that, I signed up for text updates on the mailed check and also for Informed Delivery, which provides a photograph of each piece of mail that will soon be delivered (not magazines, it appears).

At first I didn’t like it. Opening the mailbox and seeing if there is mail inside can afford a small bit of pleasurable surprise. But then I got to thinking about being away from here for two months. What if something important actually turns up? My cat sitters have been bringing in the mail for nearly four and a half years. I am going to ask Tom if he can do this, and I planned to leave him some mailing envelopes in case anything urgent-looking arrived, but then I realized that, thanks to Informed Delivery, I will know! In that case, I can ask Tom to open the envelope and send me a photograph of the contents. Kind of cosmic that the thing I signed up for due to a seemingly random occurrence—my sister’s check going temporarily astray—soon proved to be precisely the thing I needed.