I was awoken this morning at 6:00 a.m. by a tall glass of water being dumped all over me and my side of the bed from the night table, to which I responded by rolling over to the Palinode's side, shoving him out of the way, and moaning Do something about that! while I experienced the feeling of all my three-days-along post-hysterectomy guts experiencing the afterglow of having had cold shock just tear them a new one. Fucking stupid cat.
After propping myself up in this chair and taking stock of myself, I realized that I had both chest and sinus congestion, a nearly insufferable headache, and strong, repeated urges to sneeze. Then, I did sneeze, and my three-days-along post-hysterectomy guts re-experienced the new one which had just been torn for them by the cat's cold water treatment. Fucking infectious hospital.
A friend of ours brought over an air conditioner to mount in our window yesterday, because today's temperature is supposed to climb to at least 36°C (96.8°F) without the humidex, and he didn't want to see we of the crippled backs and hysterectomies succumbing to heat stroke. I turned it on a little while ago, and its sound and the feel of the air reminds me of some of the americanized hotels and restaurants in Costa Rica, which were all outfitted with cheap, wall-mounted air conditioners. Those were uninspired blights on the face of an otherwise beautiful country. I am not saying that this living room is any kind of uninspired blight, no, but it could do with a dry bed and one less cat.
I am presently eating prunes to counteract the constipating effects of stress and Dilaudid. This is the first time I have eaten prunes, which habit I have taken up because I have not pooped in six days. SIX. Compound that with the remnant gas that I was inflated with during the surgery, and I am comfy like a bug in a rug. The prunes are sugary and sour, mushy on the inside, and fatter at one end. I don't like them, so I hold one between the thumb and index finger of my left hand and take small bites. This makes my fingers sticky for typing, but I cannot imagine putting a whole one in my mouth. I would gag.
Wait a minute, I have eaten prune-like things before. When I was younger, my maternal grandmother made plume verenicke (my spelling is iffy, but it is pronounced "ploom-eh v-air-en-ick-ee"). They were made like perogies, only the dough was really thick, and they were boiled, never fried, and stuffed with stewed plums. There was a heavy, sweet cream sauce poured over them. To enforce politeness, I was made to try them every time they were served, and each time I fled to the bathroom gagging on those disgusting stewed plums covered in dough and thick cream. My parents never gave up, and it was only after I was fifteen and away at religious school that they stopped forcing that crap on me.
No wonder I am not a fan of these prunes.
I am a fan, though, of Germaine Greer's The Female Eunuch, which I don't consistently agree with and find a little dated, but it is nonetheless a powerful work that I recommend to anyone.
And I do have Fats Waterloo to comfort me in my distress:
At any rate, Fats has become a wonderful bedmate, and Onion has become quite taken with him. He likes to lie across Fats' body and wrap his paws around Fats' bum.