pukings and happies
Monday was not the day of shiny fun. Gabe was in the worst throes of the virus that is still giving him considerably more hell than he is willing to admit. Sometime before I awoke in the morning, Sita had been very ill herself. I won't be terribly indelicate here but I will say that normal puppy vomit and diarrheac accidents don't phase me terribly much, and that this was...special. Really quite exceptional.
I had class, so (after an attempt to retrieve my cell phone from the Room in Question that ended with me literally falling to the floor and gagging for a few seconds) I had to bound out the door and leave the guy who couldn't hold down food to take care of the puppy and clean up the mess while adding as little of his own vomit to it as possible. Sita seems to be fine now, and, well, a vet check was coming up anyway.
So...lighter news....
If Nancy had been my adviser to start with I'd be flipping out now and graduating in May. Friggin Mark. Friggin utter bungling of mine in attempting to navigate the system. Meh.
A new musical is taking over my brain. If unchecked, it could become nearly as all-consuming an obsession as Les Miserables was last year. Except not quite, as Parade lacks some of the moments of droolable magnificence, and above all, that towering spectacle of wonder that is Javert. But it's damn fucking bloody good. If you don't know it (and it's quite obscure) don't go anywhere near the apartment for the next month or so if you don't want to be force fed. (For those likely to escape an in-person discussion, it's about the Leo Frank case, otherwise known as the one-time-in-southern-history-a-black-man- who-almost-certainly-did-kill-a-little-white-girl-got-away-with-it-since- the-other-choice-to-nab-was-a-well-off-Brooklyn-Jew. And it's great. And I'll shut up now.
So now, a few hours of Yiddish and off to help Gabe give a little girl a lesson on my horse. A little girl can take lessons on my horse now. And Gypsy trots around the field and longes and crap. Because the Truffle Contingent and the Apocalypse Mares kick serious ass, that's why.
I had class, so (after an attempt to retrieve my cell phone from the Room in Question that ended with me literally falling to the floor and gagging for a few seconds) I had to bound out the door and leave the guy who couldn't hold down food to take care of the puppy and clean up the mess while adding as little of his own vomit to it as possible. Sita seems to be fine now, and, well, a vet check was coming up anyway.
So...lighter news....
If Nancy had been my adviser to start with I'd be flipping out now and graduating in May. Friggin Mark. Friggin utter bungling of mine in attempting to navigate the system. Meh.
A new musical is taking over my brain. If unchecked, it could become nearly as all-consuming an obsession as Les Miserables was last year. Except not quite, as Parade lacks some of the moments of droolable magnificence, and above all, that towering spectacle of wonder that is Javert. But it's damn fucking bloody good. If you don't know it (and it's quite obscure) don't go anywhere near the apartment for the next month or so if you don't want to be force fed. (For those likely to escape an in-person discussion, it's about the Leo Frank case, otherwise known as the one-time-in-southern-history-a-black-man- who-almost-certainly-did-kill-a-little-white-girl-got-away-with-it-since- the-other-choice-to-nab-was-a-well-off-Brooklyn-Jew. And it's great. And I'll shut up now.
So now, a few hours of Yiddish and off to help Gabe give a little girl a lesson on my horse. A little girl can take lessons on my horse now. And Gypsy trots around the field and longes and crap. Because the Truffle Contingent and the Apocalypse Mares kick serious ass, that's why.