Amber & Medical Miracle

Look how much better my fashingles are!

I mean, my head still hurts, and it stings and throbs like it was on fire and somebody was punching me in the nose simultaneously, but it did not cross the line and is clearly getting drier (eww) and smaller.

Thank you, antiviral drugs.

Amber & My New Nemesis

Illness, I have had it with you.  Although some people have suggested I try not to have new nemeses this year, I am making an exception.  First, you continually pick on some of my dear friends.  Then, you gave me an ailment that no one had ever heard of with the world's silliest name ever.  Then, while I was recuperating from that, you made me get crawly head sensation from nerve problems related to my jaw disorder that persist even after the miracle of the jaw adjustment.

Then, today, you chose the most baby and vulnerable of all targets: Pickles.

Giving my poor pink-nosed, curly little guy another UTI?  I mean, come on.  Although we managed to get to and from the vet without getting clawed or having accidental carrier poops, this is just not fair.  Pickles is already the nervous nelliest of all the cats.  In fact, stress from recent thunder storms and fire crackers (it is still Independence Day in my neighborhood) and contagious me stress (see above referenced other illness infractions) could be the very reason the boy is sickie.

Illness, be warned.  I will not abide.

Your days are numbered.  I am Attacking.  Starting now.

Amber & Lessons Learned

Before Thanksgiving, I had to take a course in anti-harassment training.  In it, a bearded supervisor with really developed shoulder muscles feels bad for "Dawn," who is a dead-ringer for Gwyneth Paltrow.

He just tries to make her feel better.

Is that so wrong?

YES.  YES, IT IS.

Amber & Drama

So, my week has had its bumps and challenges.

It seems I have injured a muscle in my left flank.

To celebrate, I invited Nick to spend 12 hours in the ER with me.  Let me tell you, it is nothing like on House or Grey's Anatomy.  First of all, it's much messier.  My stretcher (because it was too crowded for every patient to get an actual bed) was parked in the hallway in front of the supply shelves.  And let me tell you there were some intubation tubes misfiled with the standard masks and a copy of Real Simple stuck in next to the one liter displacement jars.  And, most people there seemed to be complaining of the flu--except the one woman who was there because her eyes were itchy.  Interesting time to be there during the health care debate, I tell you.

I told Carlos, our really sweet nurse, that it seemed like there were just too many sick people.  He replied the problem was that there were just too many people who weren't really sick.  He swore he didn't mean me.

Another thing you don't see on the medical shows on the television is that, in the real ER, there are more sandwiches.  Mysteriously, a pleasant employee went around offering near-about everyone but me sandwiches.  Nick ate his and his Snackwells in front of me.  Oh, and no one told me anything about their personal life.

Anyway, I am home and nearly fine--except for the pain in my left side.  My final diagnosis was "flank pain" according to my discharge slip.  Which was basically what I told them when I was admitted.  Anti-inflammatories, rest, and saying "ouch" alot seem to be the only course of action.

I'm good at the saying "ouch" part.

Amber & More Famous Celebrities

This is Ginger and me doing our impression of Michael Richards squished up against me on the uptown C train after work. He got off at 81st Street. At that point, a man on the train said, to no one in particular, "Kramer.". And we all felt acknowledged. I also felt stupid for having thought a C on the express track would go express.

Amber & Been There, Done That

Why, oh why, would someone, supposedly a BFF,  send me this photo?

Why would you torment me like that?  Why bring back all those cold, cold memories?  My arm begins to involuntarily make an "opening the door" motion just looking at it and I swear my shoulder starts to ache.

I think the person who sent this to me should say they are sorry. 

 They are so, so very sorry.  They completely understand my frustration and wish there was something they could do.  But they are just so, so sorry.  And maybe I can go see Gingerbread Adventures while I wait for my timeslot.

Amber & Hallucicopters & Vulnerable Vultures

I have had a terrible, terrible TMJ-triggered headache since I sat down on the D train uptown after work on Friday evening. By the time I got to 125th Street to change to the A, I was seeing floaters and experiencing phonophobia. And then, when I got off the train in the 175th Street Station and took a breath of that fresh east side exit stairwell, the nausea began. Friday night and Saturday were pretty much a blur of trying to nap, alternating cold and hot compresses, jaw clenching remedy, lion pose and chest stretches. But then, last night at 2 am, I was awoken by the sound of helicopters right outside my window and a searchlight flooding in my window.


Now, it's completely true that, over the course of the weekend, my system was treated to a cocktail of 1 part anti-spasm Cyclobenzaprine, several parts muscle-relaxant, anti-spasticity aid Zanaflex, one part anti-inflammatory Diclofenac, and a dash of just about every over-the-counter pain pill that didn't contraindicate the blend and a spritz of peppermint oil for a wholistic flavor. And, its absolutely true that Wikipedia claims that...

Tizanidine use has been associated with hallucinations. Visual hallucinations and delusions have been reported in 5 of 170 patients (3%) in two North American controlled clinical studies.

But that's totally lacking citation. And, I confirmed the reality of the helicopter, which made rounds from 2 am until about 8, with tweets from both GoGetter122 and 5starr_Chick (you really have to scroll down; 5starr_Chick in particular is a tweety little bird). And there was this unanswered question on Yahoo! Answers, providing no explanation but assuring me that I wasn't imagining a helicopter in some drastic self-punishing hallucination. After all, what is worse for a migraine than a loud helicopter and a search light?

Really, the side effects I most worry about from the fistfulls of pills I have been popping (which are just now seeming like maybe they are starting to work a little bit, maybe? knock wood very quietly? please?) are vulture extinction, rabies, disruption to Zoroastrian Parsi cultural practices, and the ruin of Wisconsin brunch. No, really I swear I'm only a little doped right now and the persistent pain is pretty grounding. Wikipedia, my frenemy, tells me...

Use of diclofenac in animals has been reported to have led to a sharp decline in the vulture population in the Indian subcontinent, 95% decline in 2004, 99.9% decline as of 2008. The mechanism is probably renal failure, a known side-effect of diclofenac. Vultures eat the carcasses of livestock that have been administered veterinary diclofenac, and are poisoned by the accumulated chemical. At a meeting of the National Wildlife Board in March 2005, the Government of India announced that it intended to phase out the veterinary use of diclofenac.... "The loss of tens of millions of vultures over the last decade has had major ecological consequences across the Indian subcontinent that pose a potential threat to human health. In many places, populations of feral dogs... have increased sharply from the disappearance of Gyps vultures as the main scavenger of wild and domestic ungulate carcasses. Associated with the rise in dog numbers is an increased risk of rabies" and casualties of almost 50,000 people.

The loss of vultures has had a social impact on the Indian Zoroastrian Parsi community, who traditionally use vultures to dispose of human corpses in Towers of Silence, but are now compelled to seek alternate methods of disposal.

Diclofenac was shown also to cause harm to freshwater fish species such as rainbow trout.

See how horrible my headache is?

I'm sorry, Mr. Vulture. I feel really bad about putting my head pain first.

Amber & My Thing

Anyone will tell you that I know how to rub a cat. I know the secret magic touch places and the right amount of pressure to apply.

And I never even watched this video.

Amber & What's Mine is Yours, Except Sandwiches

Anyone who has read more than two posts on this blog knows that I love my cats. A lot, a lot, a lot. In fact, I let them take all kind of liberties that maybe I shouldn't. Some of which might land me with a visit from a stern British woman in a jumpsuit who would tell me that my cats really want me to be more in control of them and take back command of our home.

One example of something I recognize needs to change is Ginger's need to milk tread and push his cold, wet, purring nose on my face at 3 am every night. Luckily, he's stopped doing it since I made him a sleep spot at the foot of the bed with a towel because how could I tell this cutie little face that I didn't want him to show me he loved me?


And, not only do I let Woody have his own pillow in the bed, but the cats are allowed to use my dresser drawers as nap environments... which explains the coating of fur all over my clothes.


But look how happy he is!

But, today, we defined the limits of what I am willing to share with my animals. The border lies between sandwich crumbs and the actual sandwich. Licking the plate after I am done is fine, but attacking and eating the sandwich while I am on a professional business call is Not Okay.

Moreover, it is even Less Okay if you steal a giant bite of my sandwich and then start to make mournful noises because you are going to puke it back out onto the couch during my professional business call. And, even Fewer Okaynesses apply to then, while I am busy cleaning up your puke discretely while talking to my boss about print order projections, go over and take some giant licks out of my Cafix.

Cats, be aware: I love you more than fur-free clothing, more than having space in my own bed, more than a solid night's sleep... but not more than my lunch.

Amber & Scale

Look! I am squishing Kevin's head. I squish you!

(I really am so busy today that I needed quick content. I promise to be more compelling tomorrow.)

Amber & Fickle Pickles

Pickles is known as what is known in the James-parlance as a Moosh Cat. That is, you can pick him up and he instantly gets drowsy. He loves to cuddle, and there's a certain heft to his back-half that makes him perfect for baby holding.


But, this morning, we had a Poop Foot incident. In his zeal for burying his poop, he stepped right in it. Before he could leave the bathroom-- because that would have been a disgusting disaster--I swooped him up and brought him to the sink to wash his baby poopy paw.

But he resisted! My normally Moosh cat became a crazed beast and scratched rips in my shirt and right into my back!


Of course, as soon as he was washed and I released him, he returned to his normal state of Moosh. But, I think I learned a lesson about the changeable nature of cats, when paw washing is involved.

Amber & Slow Lorises

The clever folks over at Cuteoverload brought this video to my attenshuns. I watched it at work on Monday and nearly died from, well, cute overload.



Kevin pointed out that maybe slow lorises are really endangered beasts and maybe these people shouldn't have one in their bed. This is, apparently, a real issue. I sure hope folks won't see this slow loris getting tickled on Amber & and try to get one for themselves.

Also, I learned from Wikipedia that they are actually venomous animals who mark their territory with pee all the time. That's a pretty compelling argument for leaving their cuteness in the wild if you ask me.

Amber & Monkey Panky

I admit it. Sometimes I succumb to peer pressure. I received this plea this morning by e-mail.

The Republic of Jimmistania officially requests that the Amber & blog address the issue in the crazy Chimpy Lady story of what the Post refers to as her dabbling with her pet in "Monkey Panky." Furthermore there is a resolution that the blog entry should be entitled "Amber & Monkey Panky." Hereforthwith rightfully resolved upon this date in the year of our Post-Soviet Anarchy, February 20, 2009 under the dutiful supervision of President Jimmi.

I will, in the interest of truth, point out that a chimp is an ape, which is not a monkey. When I made this note to Jimmi [his spelling], he suggested an alternate title of "Chimpy Connubulation." I can't wait to see what Google searches lead people to my blog now.

I have no comment on this story other than the fact that chimps are not house pets, and I think it's criminal to pretend they are. Or lovers.

Amber & Nuggets of Goodness

Nick sent me to this page where you can hear our Commander-In-Chief say naughty words, and I found, on the site, a link to this page where you can hear a man make romance with a food, slow-jam-style. The page is worth visiting for the comments alone.

Here's a little taste.....

Amber & Drug-Induced Esophagitis

Sometimes, the ridiculousness of my health astounds me. On Saturday, I hurt my hip while doing my Anada yoga. Energy and joy flooded my body cells, and joy sure as heck descended to me. I woke up yesterday and could barely walk for the shocking pain, but over the course of the day it got much better thanks to All Day Strong Aleve.

Then, last night, I had an Old Devil Moon tribute meal with Kevin and Diana (chicken-fried tofu, collards and sweet potatoes), and then a night cap with K&D and Art-o at the Ironically-Named Bar.

When I got home, I was a little sore again in the hip and decided to take another Aleve since the first dose had been so successful. I got a glass of water, took my usual host of nightime drugs, drinking most of the water to wash it down, and then popped the Aleve and finished off the water. I then immediately went to bed.

I woke up at 3 am in excruciating pain. Apparently, there hadn't been enough water left to wash down the Aleve and they had dissolved in my esophagus, causing a large ulceration in the lining of my "food tube." Owwwwwwwwwwwwch. There is apparently nothing to be done for this except eating orange vegetables, avoiding dairy, alcohol and cold or acidic foods.

I wonder what Anada affirmation stimulates healing of your stupid bone?

Amber & Criminal Intent

Dude. (I say that in the collective noun usage.)

Someone tried to mug me on the D train this morning.

I was sitting there, on the D, with my messenger bag in my lap, my crochet project out, and my iPod in my hand, selecting a new song. (I didn't think Nine Inch Nails's "Closer" was the song to start my morning today.) We were at the 161st Station, and the doors had just opened.

Suddenly, one of the four other people in my train car, jumped up and was instantly upon me. He grabbed at my iPod with one hand and grabbed the strap on my open messenger bag with the other. Without any thought whatsoever, I grabbed the front of my bag and clutched down on my iPod. The contents of the bag started to spill out on the floor, and my ganglia (because there was no conscious thought or strategy) screamed, "No!"

The doors started to close and he let go and ran off the train. One of the other three people on the train came to ask me if I was okay. I was. I am.

I don't know if I would hold onto the bag if I thought it out. I don't know what I should do in that situation. But, I do remember this NY Times article about how we forget that the city is dangerous. And I do think about those people who have their laptops out on the train, typing away. And I am grateful that my attempted-mugger was not a professional.

He kind of looked like this guy.

True story. Except that last part about him being the Hamburglar.

Amber & Bad Touch

Hello! My name is CRD, and Amber has made me the boss of Amber & for the next few days. Normally I'm all about the internalsplural, but it sure is nice to be here in the land of ampersands. Amber gave me a few approved topics on which I may write, and one of those was "fun times."

The Bad Touch Game might not count as "fun times," but it's not that far off the mark. It's a game we usually play on her couch, and involves stealthily approaching your chum & then applying a gentle touch. Unlike when the Bicycle Man visited Diff'rent Strokes, this bad touch is generally confined to the upper arm area, and it is the touch itself, not the location thereof, that could be called "Bad."

Recently when Amber was here to call the Iranians and wish them a Merry Christmas, we visited Carl's House of Cheesesteaks downtown. James was stealthy enough himself to catch this little-documented game in action:


One can see here how the use of the Glove enhanced the Bad Touch Experience.

Until tomorrow, gentle reader!