I think I've told you that for six months, I'm part of a headache study. I'm studying to get better at my headaches.
Last month, I schlepped over to Chapel Hill to walk up a mountain to go to church, and BAH, again, apparently on fire today. The point is, they asked me a bunch of questions, and told me I had to keep a headache diary online.
Then every time I try to just GO ABOUT MY LIFE, I get a reminder text. "Gentle Reminder: Be sure to fill out your diary for Wednesday!"
Oh, shut up. Remind this.
Anyway, I've done it pretty well--you can see a whole chart of your diary entries, and I've missed two days since August 1, so suck it. I'm amazing. Maybe I'm amazed at the way I love me all the time.
Oh, and of course, I've had this ridiculous dearth of migraines. Wait. Is a dearth a lot or none? I've had almost no migraines. I mean, if you were a normal person, you'd say, Wow, I had a few really terrible headaches since August 1, but for me, usually I go through 9 migraine pills a month, and since June 4, when I last filled my prescription, I have gone through 8 pills. That has never happened, ever. Naturally.
But I have had at least four or five charming migraines, to make my diary more spicy, and what happens next is I go there to the church on the mountain and get five months' worth of food. The study is seeing if diet affects my migraines.
With my luck, it'll cause me to have more.
The diet is healthy, but I'm on one of three plans and it's a blind study, so I have to shut my eyes for five months. But I'm told there will be a lot of fish, so I will be up there with my coworker Griff on the all fish all the time idea.
Further reports as developments warrant.
Anyway, part of the study is they call you at random to ask about your nutrition before you get on the study, a thing I had forgotten, and you want to talk about humiliating.
"Hello, June, this is Hilda Granthembottom, and I'm part of the June Sucks study we're doing here at Temple Mound."
Do you know anyone else who can take a benign name like Chapel Hill and turn it into something ludicrous? 'Tis why I'm here.
So, this woman wanted to know everything I ate on Tuesday, and mother of god.
"So, June, to recap, you had two brown-sugar-cinnamon Pop Tarts, 36 ounces of black coffee, a cheeseburger from Hardees and a small Coke because you're watching your figure, and for dinner, a small bag of Baked Lays and three glasses of chardonnay."
"Had I known you were gonna CALL, I'd have cleaned up my act a little," I fibbed.
"That's why we don't schedule calls," she said.
Madre de Dios.
Plus, I lied. I also had fries at Hardees, but I was too ashamed.
So, fish. Ima be a mermaid soon.
Speaking of mermaids, we need to discuss mermen.
Yesterday, I took Hazel to the vet for her does-she-have-worms, does-she-have-feline-leukemia kinds of tests. The vet pronounced her clear of everything, and I had no idea how much I was worried about all that till she told me. A street cat can have everything.
She said she thinks Hazel is two and a half months old, giving her a birth date of July 11, which is Ned's mom's birthday, and also my old boyfriend Steve's. Three cancers in this house now: Edsel, Hazel, me. Very water sign-y here. (Iris is a Libra--she'll be 5 on September 23. Lily is a Taurus, I think. I can never remember her birthday. Hulk just shot himself clean in the liver.)
The vet also told me she's a boy. Not the vet. The cat. She told me Hazel is a boy.
I mean, I kind of wanted him to be a boy, because Edsel needs another man around the house. Let me rephrase. Edsel needs a man around the house, and besides, I've always been a boy-cat person. They're friendlier. I mean, I got lucky with Iris and Lily. Not literally, so don't call the police. I just mean they're awfully nice cats.
Anyway, on the way back to work, I was inspired to name Hazel Steely Dan, and you're welcome. I texted, I text, the gay boys who'd found her to tell them they were right.
They'd never heard of Steely Dan.
Sigh. Hey, 19.
I took Steely Dan to my boss's boss's office, and she said, "Just leave him here for awhile. I'll shut the door." So I went off to do work things while Steely Dan--and I have no idea if Ima call him by his whole name, or if he'll become Steely or Dan or what--played with C and accepted visitors as word got around that there was a kitten at work.
"Steely Dan just peed on C's floor," my tenant, former, came over to tell me.
Good climbing the corporate ladder.
But listen to this! He jumped in her recycle bin! He knew he should go in a litterbox of sorts, and not just on the floor! What a good kitty!
The papers for my demotion will be complete later today.
Eventually, ennui set in from the shots he got, and maybe ennui isn't the word I need, here, but I kind of wanted to say "ennui." He spent the whole night in his now-way-too-girly bed, and I was worried sick even though the vet told me he'd be lethargic. The cat, not the vet.
Poor little Steely Dan, who weighs 2.5 pounds by the way, got up today and walked around a little, but he's resting again, and my poor gray baby kitten head. It's weird to see him alight. I am not kidding when I say I've never really seen him sleep before. He'll get on my lap and purr and be...relaxed, but sleep? I didn't think he was into that.
It's jarring. I want his assy self back.
I gotta go. It's morning, and Pop Tarts are calling.