08.17.04

We're in plumbing hell today.

Mater stormed into my room last night. She told me that the kitchen sink was backed up and that I shouldn't use it. Perhaps she shouldn't have dumped that entire jar of pickled cabbage, the tomatoes, the cucumbers, the greens and the onions down the disposal all at once and let it congeal.

Then she sat in the family room and worried at StepPater and me. StepPater went to bed. So did I. Call it a judicious retreat. There's no reasoning when she gets like this.

It's no wonder that she's got belly problems. She cultivates them, like my godmother's cat used to cultivate abcesses. I've seen her colonoscopy pictures--whoopee for me--and everything's as pink and healthy as can be. She refuses to believe it and continues to make appointments with urologists and doctors. She's not gonna be happy until she finds something horribly wrong.

What freaks me out is how much of myself I see. The drama queen, milking every little pain or ailment for all its worth. As if being ill somehow creates a desireable level of attention. GAH! I hate that in me, and I've been trying to squelch it. Yah, I've been making progress. My progress makes me impatient with her refusal to consider that it's not physical.

This morning, HellKitty and I are holed up in my room while Mr. Rooter does his thing. She's yowled, cried, bitched and hissed. She's shredded my knitting, my door, my arm, and my temper. I'm eyeing a dog sweater pattern, and wondering how difficult it'd be to knit her a teensy straitjacket. Hmmm. I've got circular knitting needles and some cheap acrylic yarn. If I put hooks on the back, I could hang her on the wall.

Okay, time to get back to fending off HellKitty and working on the background for my story.

Oy vey.

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