Just another Manic Monday

So, I realize I have been neglecting this blog. It's largely because I suddenly have other things to occupy my time. And by things, I mean a man. A good man. But more on that later. :)

I know I've talked a little bit about challenges of living on this island, but I think I have really understated how difficult it is to work in an office setting where there is absolutely zero guarantee that the tools you need to do your job will be there on any given day.

Case in point - I arrived today and discovered I was without the ability to print or access the Microsoft Exchange server. Makes it a little difficult to do your job when you spend 7 hours of your 8 hour work day at a desk. But then again, it's Monday, so I've just come to expect that sort of thing.

Flashback to a few weeks ago. I walked in Monday morning to find that my phone was dead. Only my phone. All the other phones in my trailer/office are functioning normally, but mine is not. Now, this is approximately one week after we have FINALLY gotten voicemail at work. Yes, that's right - I worked 7 months at a job where nobody had the ability to leave me a voicemail. If you've never worked in a place without voicemail, it may sound great initially - no annoying messages, no blinking light when you return to your office from lunch, etc. In reality though, it means that almost every time you get someone on the phone, the first thing they say to you is "I've been trying to reach you all day!" Usually this sentiment is hurled at you in a fairly accusatory tone, as if you've been purposely dodging their phone calls for a laugh. It gets old pretty quickly, let me tell you.

So now that my joy in my new voicemail system has been cut short, I set off in search of our Maintenance department. You have to search for them, because our property is 35 acres, they don't answer their cell phones, and I don't have a radio. It's like hunting for your dropped car keys on the beach. I finally track someone down, and he informs me that it's an IT issue. So I go on a search for our IT guy, who when I find him informs me it's a Maintenance problem. At this point, I've lost half my morning, and am feeling a wee bit irritated. I throw my hands up in the air, tell them to get their acts together (or something to that effect...) and head back to my phone-less office. I work the second half of my day, clock out at 4:30, and head home.

Tuesday morning, I walk back into my office to find that I still have no phone. This is really getting frustrating. I repeat yesterday morning's exercise, and finally get someone to come over to my office to look at it. He takes a look around, and then suddenly disappears. Now, I realize that this happens in a lot of places, but it seems to be the standard MO down here. A guy (not to enforce stereotypes, but it's almost always a guy) is working on something for you, and then suddenly he's not there. You have no way of telling if he went to get a tool, or went home for the day. Evidently this time he went to find the IT guy, because about an hour later they came back together, and by 1:30pm I have a working phone.

Hazah!! Only a day and a half without a working phone. Not too bad you say. Or at least, I said, given that this is a tiny backward island in the Caribbean. I heave a huge sigh of relief and go on with my day. I clock out at 4:30, and head home.

Next morning, I am sitting in my office at about 11am when the phone rings. I am in the process of answering a question for a co-worker when the phone line goes dead. I look up at my computer to see a notification that network connection has been lost. My internet radio station goes silent.

Huh.

You have got to be fucking kidding me!!

I step into my boss's office next door. "Jefe - do you have connectivity? Any connectivity at all?" No. No he doesn't. The whole trailer is without internet, network, and phone.

I don't know if you've ever worked in an office, but even if you haven't, you can probably imagine that those things are pretty fucking essential to getting anything done at all. Without those things, I am literally dead in the water. Useless. Waste of space.

I look out my window and notice the heavy machinery. My trailer/office sits in the middle of our employee parking lot, which floods every time it rains. Especially when we had what would eventually become Tropical Storm Bonnie come through, we had massive flooding that washed out a walkway and just generally made a mess. So, since that time, we've had people digging some drainage ditches to make sure that doesn't happen again.

And instantly, I KNEW! Those idiots had cut the fiber optics that carry our lifeblood to the trailer/office. Shit. This is bad. This is really, really bad. It takes forever to get minor things fixed down here, let alone MAJOR things like this. Crap.

By 3pm that afternoon I have been set up in a satellite office, halfway across the property from my trailer/office. In this office are myself, my boss (the Director of Human Resources) and the Security Manager. All sharing one office, and one phone. We each have our own computers, and one communal printer. While this is certainly better than nothing, it makes it hard to get certain things done, as everything else I need to do my job is a 5 minute walk away. It also causes some sticky situations, when we have to do something like fire somebody. Oh well. Do what you can with what you have, I guess. I start taking bets as to how long we'll be in our satellite office. I say 2 weeks, the IT guy says 3 days (HA!) and the Security Manager, who's lived on the island for 5 years, says a month.

As usual, I'm right. Two weeks later we move back into our office. It's so nice to be settled and have all my tools right at my finger tips. Ahhhh.

I should know better by now than to get too comfortable.

I had been back in my office one week, when mid-morning, I hear a clunk in the A/C. Suddenly the hum that's always in the background sounds different, and the air seems a bit still. Weird. I ignore it, and head to lunch at my usual time. I return to my office to find that it's 82 degrees. Now, I love the heat, but that's a bit toasty for my taste. And my office usually goes through about a ten degree temperature change over the course of the day (have I mentioned that my office is a trailer? Trailers aren't terribly well-insulated...), but it's now gone up ten degrees in four hours.

This is bad. Very, very bad. I repeat my exercise of hunting for people (I leave the IT guy alone this time though), and finally find someone to come look at my office. He takes a look around, and then disappears. Standard MO. I wait an hour, and then go find someone else. Shower, rinse, repeat. I go through 4 guys with no answer. By now it's 4:30pm, and 95 degrees in my office. I clock out so I can drag my sweaty self home and through the shower.

The next day, my boss intercedes, but it's more of the same. Different guys come to look at the problem, and then leave. By 2pm, it's 89 degrees in my office, and my boss takes pity on me and buys me a fan. But we have no internet again that day (it's really a pretty regular occurrence), so all I can do is file - which is difficult to do when you've got a fan blowing papers around. 4:30pm rolls around, it's 98 degrees this time, and I head home.

Finally, ONE WEEK after I first reported that my A/C was broken, it got fixed. HALLELUJAH! What a miserable week that was. But now it's fixed, and I can relax.

Right.

So today, after my morning of no MS Outlook and no ability to print, I started to notice it felt a little warm in my office. I came back from lunch to a thermometer that read 81 degrees. By an hour and a half later, it read 87. I kicked on the fan, but had lost the will to persevere. At 2pm I walked into my boss's office and said "Jefe, I'm out. I can't hack it anymore. I have to go." And he looked at me and said "Gill, you do what you gotta do."

It feels like an exercise from theater school. OK, you're at a base camp on Mt. Everest. You have been selected by a soft drink company to climb Everest with their sponsorship as a publicity stunt. You've been dropped off by helicopter with everything you'll need in the bag right next to you. Open it up and see what's there.

Inside the bag I find a bikini and a toothpick.

And - go!

Crash into me.

More dog stories.

Shortly after the fowl incidents detailed in my last blog entry, I was asked by another friend to watch her rottweiler/lab mix, Gadget. No problem. One dog is really not that much more difficult than two (as long as she's not homicidal towards chickens), so I said sure. Evie usually spends the day outside in my fenced-in yard while I'm at work, so I invited my friend to leave Gadget with her in the yard.

I get home around 4:45, and both Gadget and Evie are at the gate to meet me. I squeeze through the gate and shut it behind me, leaving my car running in the road. I manage to herd both dogs into my screened-in porch and shut the doors. I roll open the gate, pull the car in, park it, am out of the car and literally 2 feet from having the gate completely closed, when the dogs throw their collective weights against the doors of the porch, break them open, escape from the gate, and take off.

Fuck.

I start walking down the road towards the dogs, not wanting to chase them lest they start to think it's a game (as dogs are wont to do). They run, stop, sniff, run again, and are getting closer and closer to the intersection of the main road near my house. Not good. Not good at all. I continue to chase/not chase them to that very intersection, where they take to gallivanting around the road. Awesome. My own dog I am hysterically concerned about, but I am even more concerned about the dog whose safety has been entrusted to me for the night. I call to her, "Gadget! Please don't get hit by a car!"

At that moment a car appears over the hill. I run into the road with my hands up, the universal signal to slow down. They pass, without incident. I breathe a sigh of relief. I turn to look for Evie, who is over in a ditch investigating. I turn around in time to see another car coming. Gadget is over on the side of the road. Again, I'm in the middle of the road with my hands up. The car slows. Suddenly, Gadget turns and sprints across the road.

Thud.

The sight of her getting hit by that car, and especially the sound, is forever imprinted on my mind. The car doesn't roll over her, but Gadget starts howling, and limping towards the side of the road. She is refusing to use one of her paws, and from the way it was hanging, I'm convinced that it's broken. She's in pain, and lays down in the middle of the road.

I run over to her, concerned with getting her out of the road. I try to lift her - not an insubstantial feet - and she rolls on her back and bites at my arm. I am near tears, but the adrenaline makes me act. I'm concerned that she has broken ribs, and I'm hurting her as I'm trying to lift her. I stand in the road, indecisive, for a few seconds, until I hear another car in the distance.

"CAN SOMEBODY HELP ME?!" I shriek. The four men sitting on the corner drinking Medalla (our local beer) peer at me with mild interest. Finally, a woman jumps out of the car that hit Gadget and comes to my aid. "CATCH MY DOG!" I scream - Evie is still running around the road, and now I can see the other car coming. Jesus Christ, I have one injured dog, I don't know how I can handle two. She manages to capture Evie, and I get Gadget to the side of the road. The stranger sits with Evie on her lap, and I ask her to hold Gadget's collar. "I'll be right back!" I call. "I'm going to get my car!"

Down the road I sprint - over four speed bumps in 2" wedges. The distance is shorter than a short block in NYC, so I'm at my trailer almost instantly. I wrench the gate open, slam the key in the ignition, gun the engine, and squeal my way back to the intersection. The stranger from the car gets Evie in the back seat, and I coax Gadget in. I drive immediately to the Humane Society, the only veterinary clinic on the island. There's actually only a vet on island Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, but this is one of those days so I pray help will be there.

I arrive at the humane society, leave both dogs in the car, run in absolutely disheveled, and shriek, "I have a dog that was hit by a car!" Bring her in, they say. I go out to the car to get her - and now Gadget has decided she is not coming out. She has shit in my backseat (though luckily on a raincoat, which I can hose off when I get home), and is in no mood to be handled by anybody. She is walking back and forth between the front passenger seat and the backseat - but at least she's walking! She's using all four paws. I almost collapse with relief.

I get the ladies from the Humane Society to help me, and with the use of a muzzle and a blanket we get Gadget out of the car. They take her inside, and poke and prod. The vet has gone home for the day, but they're not terribly concerned - it doesn't seem like anything is broken, and she's not bleeding anywhere. I, however, am - the shelter manager points to a deep gash on my wrist that has left blood trickling down my arm. It must have happened when I was trying to get Gadget out of the road. The adrenaline was so strong, I didn't even feel it. They give the dog a shot for the pain, and two pain pills for later, and send me on my way.

Now I have to call the owner.

I cannot think of a more difficult phone call that I've had to make. "Hi, friend. Remember the dog, your baby, your child, who you entrusted to me for care? Well, she got out of my yard, and was hit by a car." I have never felt so guilty or incapable in my life. What a stroke of luck that my friend had decided not to spend the night in Puerto Rico - by the time I get ahold of her, she is already back on island. When my friend gets to my house, Gadget is obviously in distress, but also obviously going to be fine. At that point I completely break down, sobbing my heart out on the shoulder of the friend who I betrayed. Although she keeps assuring me it wasn't my fault, and she was glad it happened with me and no one else, I can't shake the feeling of guilt. I have watched Evie break out of my porch before, so I knew it was a possibility. I was lazy, and incautious. If I had taken the extra step and put them in the house, it would not have happened. It's my fault, and no one else's.

I see my friend the next afternoon at work. She has taken Gadget to be seen by the vet, who couldn't believe she was hit by a car less than 24 hours earlier. Everything is going to be fine. Two weeks later, the wound on my wrist has healed, but I still have a scar. I almost hope the scar will stay, as a reminder of an instance where I knew better.

But if I can't swim after forty days, and my mind is crushed by the crashing waves...

So a few weeks ago we were hit with what would go on to become Tropical Storm Bonnie. That was rain like I have never experienced. I thought my poor little trailer was going to wash away in the river running down the road. I spent all night wide awake, cuddled up with my dog and two cats, as the bed shook underneath me every time the thunder crashed. Surreal, for sure.

The next day, I go into work, to discover we have no internet, no network, no phones, and one of our buildings has flooded with 18" of water overnight. Not only did everything in the ground floor of that building get destroyed, we had also been using the rooms as storage for some carpets that hadn't yet been deployed. Super. I spend all day filing - and really, digging my eyes out with forks would be less painful that sitting in a room by myself, with no music, filing for hours upon hours. Shortly before I leave work, I get a phone call from a friend asking me to watch their dog, Tato, overnight while they go to San Juan. I say sure, of course, and stop on my way home to pick Tato up and bring him to my house.

Tato and Evie are good friends, and even though it's still raining a little and my yard is one giant mud puddle, I let them out to run around for a bit when I get home. I step outside 45 minutes later to call them in to dinner - and they have a chicken. About the same size as the one my dog killed a week ago. Evie is joyously flinging it around by its neck, having a blast. I throw on some boots, grab a shovel, and race outside. I charge towards Evie with the shovel, she spooks, and I am able to scoop up the chicken.

I'm about to throw it in the trash, when I realize the poor thing is still breathing. It's not moving, and its eyes are closed, but it's breathing. I am absolutely distraught. I have no idea what to do. It's not like there's a vet here on the island that could help it, and even if there was, this thing is definitely on its way out. It looks like its neck is broken. I'm trying very hard not to cry - I mean, I am a vegetarian after all. So I decide to try to get it into my neighbor's yard, thinking that on the off chance it survives it'll be home, and if it doesn't, at least it can pass peacefully into the big chicken coop in the sky without being further tormented by my evil dogs.

I try to lean the shovel over the fence and deposit it on the ground, and realize that given the height of the fence and the length of the shovel handle, I can only get it about 2 feet off the ground, and then it'll drop. Well, that'll kill it. Also, the neighbor's yard has a good half inch of water in it, so if the fall doesn't kill it, it'll drown for sure. Then I start to think maybe that would be best. Put it out of it's misery. I can't quite bring myself to kill it though, so I go to a different part of the fence, and am able to deposit it the poor thing (still breathing) on a cinder block wall.

I'm now pretty wet, so I round up the dogs and bring them back inside. The dogs continue to wrestle and play, and they decide to try to get my rescue cat, Frankie, in on the act. Now, Frankie is completely not amused. Suddenly there's hissing and swiping. Tato is being slightly aggressive, and I'm afraid this is going to get bloody, so I try to reach over, extract Frankie, and deposit him on higher ground. Well, it sure did get bloody, but not the way I thought - his claw snagged my arm and left a four inch gash. Excellent. Cursing rather loudly, I head to the bathroom, wash it off, and then manage to get Frankie in the bedroom and shut the door, so he can have a little peace.

About an hour and a half later, I walk into my bedroom to check on my poor kitty, and smell a faint but distinct odor of ammonia. I walk around the bed, and Frankie is crouched on a pillow, peeing. As I watch, a river, no, a flood of cat pee expands over the pillow and out across the floor. He's not 6 feet from the litter box, but I guess he hasn't figured out how to use it yet. He usually spends a lot of time outside, but because of the rain and then the dogs, I had kept him in most of the day. Big mistake, Gillian. Big mistake. I try to pick him up and carry him to the litter box, but he just keeps peeing. At this point I realize I have nothing to do but wait it out. He obviously held it as long as he could, and there's no stopping him now. When he finishes, I remember I only have half a roll of paper towels in the house.

I wipe up the pee with two hand towels that needed washing anyway, which I then put in a plastic bag on top of the washer outside to try to keep the odor contained. I carry the pillow out too, thinking maybe I can rinse it off. I put it in the sink and start running water, then go back in, grab the paper towels and some floor cleaner, and clean up the rest of the mess. I do this lying on my stomach on my bed and reaching over, because I'm not sure exactly where all the cat pee is and I really don't care to step in it. I've had animals my whole life, and I've stepped in my share of cat and dog pee. It's not really an experience I ever want to repeat. I head back outside to deal with the pillow, and give up. There's no saving this. I carry it over to drop in my trash can over my fence. It goes halfway in, because my garbage hasn't been picked up in at least a week. Spectacular.

In the meantime, I've let the dogs out again. It suddenly strikes me that they are very quiet. Without turning around, I say to them, "I don't care what you're getting into, as long as it's not another chicken."

The words are no sooner out of my mouth than Evie comes racing around the corner of the trailer with a chick dangling by its feet. FUCK! Back inside I go, get the shovel, chase the dogs inside, lock them up, and then I'm off to find the dead chicken. It's now dark, and I am terrified I am going to find it by hearing the crunch as I step on it. I luck out though, and find it, scoop it up in the shovel - and this one's really dead. So I walk outside my fence, lift the cat-pee-soaked pillow out of the trash, and deposit the chicken underneath.

Back inside I go. It's definitely bedtime. Except that Tato WILL NOT settle! I put up with it for about two hours, and then I cave. I reach for the children's allergy medicine that I bought when Evie got stung by something and her whole chin swelled up. I give Tato a dose, which seems to knock him out. I go back to sleep.

Two hours later - Tato is pulling on my sheets. He is wide awake. I finally am forced to shut him and Evie out of the bedroom, and they continue to wrestle (and bark) all night.

They wake me up for good at 5am. I am now two nights sleep deprived, between the thunder and the crazy dogs. I swing my legs over the bed, plant my feet on the floor, and realize they're wet. My trailer isn't totally level, so any liquid from the main area runs downhill into my bedroom. One of the dogs (and I have my suspicions about which one) peed during the night. I am now completely out of paper towels. I use another towel that has to get washed, throw it with the two from the previous evening, and let the dogs out again.

I lie back down on my bed for about half an hour, but am so strung out I can't sleep. I finally get up, and start to hear a disturbance outside. Bawk. Bawk bawk bawk BAWK BAWK!

This is not happening. This is not happening. I look outside just in time to see Tato grab a THIRD CHICKEN by its neck. I scream at the top of my lungs (sorry neighbors - but your roosters crow ALL NIGHT, so I don't actually feel that bad...), and he drops it. Evie, being a dog of opportunity, snatches it and is off racing around the yard. I throw on clothes, grab the shovel again, and out I go.

I manage to get the dogs back inside. I find the chicken - this one's also definitely dead. I scoop it up, lift the cat-pee-soaked pillow out of the trash, and deposit this dead chicken next to the other. I really hope my trash gets picked up today.

I've now determined Tato is not going outside again until I drop him off at his house on my way to work. Evie is going to spend the day in her crate because it's supposed to keep raining. I let her out while I finish getting ready, then orchestrate a fast switch, getting Tato out onto the porch and Evie inside into her crate before either of them realizes I'm separating them. I grab my purse, head out to the car, coax a muddy Tato into the back seat, where he really does not want to go, open the gate, put my key in the ignition, turn and... nothing. Nothing fucking happens! My car is dead.

This is where I lose it. I am two nights sleep deprived. I have dealt with three dead chickens, a river of dog pee and a flood of cat pee. I just want to get Tato home and go to work. I have a phone number for a mechanic, but it's a land line, and all the phone lines are still down on the island. I finally do what I always do when I'm in trouble - I call Nancy and Chipper.

Nancy and Chipper are my surrogate parents down here on the island, but also very very close friends. And they have bailed me out of trouble more times than I can remember. I really don't know how I would survive down here without them.

Nancy answers the phone, and somehow through my unintelligible irrational sobbing, manages to figure out what's going on. She wakes up Chipper, sends him down, and he is able to get my car running. I drop Tato off at his house, head into work, and drink lots of coffee.

The whole day is rough. I'm exhausted and stressed, and having some trouble coping. It suddenly dawns on me - I am so not ready to have kids.

Ay ay ay, throw your hands up high - you never know how long you're gonna live till you die.

So last Thursday was an interesting day. I was dog-sitting for a 13-year-old jack russell terrier (Charlotte), and a 10-month-old sato (Oliver), staying at a lovely home high in the hills, with a beautiful view of the Caribbean. My Evie was there with me, of course. She loves any opportunity to play with another dog. I let the dogs out in the morning, as per usual, and started to get ready for work. After a few moments, I hear a disturbance. "Bawk bawk bawk bawk BAWK! BAWK BAWK BAWK!!!" I step outside, and see a mother hen with her adolescent chicks trucking through the yard at good speed. They're almost out, so I figure everything is fine. I go back to my routine.

About 20 minutes later, I step outside and call the dogs in to breakfast. Nothing. Usually they come running. Curious. I step further out, and see Oliver with one of the adolescent chicks draped across his front paws, looking quite pleased with himself. "Oliver! Leave it!" Oliver, being an obedient dog, does as he is told and comes into the house. My dog, not being an obedient dog, starts sneaking toward the chicken. I look over, and see the poor wee thing flutter its wing. Hope! I might be able to save it! "Evie! Come!" With a gleeful look over her shoulder, she says to me 'Ha ha! I'm faster than you!" She runs, snatches the chicken by its neck, and takes off down the hill. Fuck. I'm now running down the hill after her, shrieking, wearing only a robe. Why do these things always seem to happen when I'm not fully clothed? I chase her for 20 minutes, and finally give up. At this point I'm standing out on the balcony, looking down at my adorable dog chewing on this chicken (now dead) and hearing the bones snap. I almost lose my breakfast.

I continue getting ready for my day, and just before I have to leave, decide to give separating my dog from the chicken one more try. I sneak up on her, and manage to corner her. When my dog is cornered, her response is to flop over on her back so I can rub her belly. I step over the dead chicken, scoop up the dog, and carry her inside. At this point, I'm about to be late for work, so I shut and lock the door, jump in my car, and take off - leaving the chicken to bake in the tropical sun all day.

During the day I e-mail the owners of the house. The e-mail goes something like this:

John and Chris -

I hope you are enjoying your vacation!

Sorry to bug you, but our dogs killed a chicken.

Do you have a shovel?

At about 5pm, I head home from work, locate the shovel, and set off down the hill to recover the chicken. The chicken is now in full rigor mortis, stripped of feathers, with one foot missing. Foul. And fowl. Ugh. I pick it up with the shovel, carry it across the street, and fling it into the vacant lot there. I pause for a moment to honor the life of this little being untimely cut short. And to realize that I just disposed of a dead chicken on my own. A year ago, I couldn't have done that. Now - time to go unwind with friends in their pool and drink some wine!

At about 9pm I return home, let the dogs out, and then jump in the shower to rinse off the chlorine. I feel something on my ankle, and assume it must be the shower curtain brushing up against me. I look down. It's a fucking palmetto bug. You have GOT to be kidding me. What a day. I shriek, shake it off my leg, and start splashing it with water, thinking I can drown it. Wishful thinking, Gillian. It hurtles toward me across the floor of the shower (on foot, not flying, thank god). I jump over it and continue splashing. The fucking bug turns in mid-stride and comes back toward me. I jump over it again. And again, it whips around and heads toward me. The fucking palmetto bug is chasing me! This happens four or five times, my screams getting louder each time. I finally jump out of the shower and run dripping wet into the kitchen.

At this point, the palmetto bug is thoroughly soaked and unable to fly. I think I can grab the 34 paper towels, drop them on top, punch it, and end this ordeal. I walk back into the bathroom, execute my plan - and the bug runs out from underneath the paper towels, straight at me again!

Ok, you piece of shit. Fine. You wanna play that way? I'll play. I run back to the kitchen and rummage under the sink. No TAT to be found, but I do come up with a spray can of air freshener. That'll do.

Back into the bathroom, I unleash the spray onto this thing as it rockets around the shower. Instead of screaming obscenities at it (my usual MO), I start to sing. I obviously can't re-create the tune here, but the lyrics go something like this:

Right now would be

a good time to die

For about two minutes, I sing to it, repeating the phrase, unloading half the spray can. Finally it seizures, flips over, and dies. Back in the kitchen, I grab 34 more paper towels, drop them on top, punch (just to be sure it's really dead), and pick it up. I run to the kitchen, drop the dead insect in the trash can, tie up the bag, and go finish my shower.

I am the grim reaper for palmetto bugs. Enjoy your life now, you fuckers - because I am on a mission to take out the entire species, one by one.

Because I'm easy - easy like Sunday morning.

So after my epic adventure with the palmetto bug (see earlier post), I started telling everyone the story. I happen to think it's hilarious, plus I think I tell it pretty well, if I do say so myself! I was sharing the story one Sunday with a friend of mine who has lived on the island for a few years. After she unfolded herself from the position where she had bent double laughing, she fixed her stern gaze up at me (she's about 5 feet tall) and said "But Gillian, don't you have any TAT?"

TAT? What the hell is TAT?

Evidently, it is a super-strong, super-hazardous, super-AMAZING bug spray that will lay waste to any roaches or ants in its path.

I stopped on my way home and got some.

Last night, I saw ANOTHER palmetto bug in my trailer, in roughly the same location as the one that got away a few weeks ago. I happened to be wearing clothes at the time (bonus!) so I ran into the kitchen, grabbed the TAT, and took aim. I sprayed this thing for probably thirty seconds, following it across the wall, into the window sill, in the corner of my bedroom and... it died. It fell on the floor. Completely dead. Thirty seconds.

WOOOOOOHOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! VICTORY IS MINE!

Of course, it died on the floor behind my dresser, where I can't reach it. But I keep hoping some overzealous gecko will take care of it for me.

I have to say though, I'm a little dubious about the health effects of this miracle TAT. Info on the Web is as follows:

"Inhalation: The systemic toxicity of this product has not been determined. However, it should be practically non-toxic to internal organs if inhaled."

Practically non-toxic. Oh, good. That makes me feel better. But you know what? I think a "twilight of life" free of palmetto bug nightmares is worth giving up a few years on the tail end. I'm OK with that.

Do you have to, do you have to, do you have to let it linger?

So, about two months ago, I got a UTI. Not really that unexpected, what with living in the tropics and all. Ladies, say it with me - UTI's are THE WORST. Ugh. Especially in this heat and humidity, with no A/C in my house, I was absolutely miserable. I tried to treat it naturally, which has worked before, but cranberry pills are difficult to come by on the island, and the only cranberry juice has tons of sugar. After 3 weeks of the stupid UTI coming and going, I gave up. One of the women I work with is the daughter of a doctor at our "hospital" here on the island, so I got his cell phone number and gave him a call. Yes. Those "quotes" are intentional.

I showed up at the "hospital" at 9am. After half an hour of walking around and trying to communicate with the receptionist in the emergency room, who only speaks Spanish, I tracked down the doctor and got seen. After explaining to him why I "thought I had" a UTI (Ladies, again - there's no thinking, right? It's unmistakable), he informed me he was going to run some tests, then put me on the fast track to feeling better. And that I should expect to be there for a few hours. Uh. Ok.

So first, I had to pee in a cup. But not any cup. A paper cone. You know the kind you pull out of the dispensers for the water cooler at work? That kind. Then I had to pour it into a little test tube. Kind of difficult to manage while wearing a dress and holding a purse in a bathroom with a quarter inch of water on the floor, but I did. I tracked down the nurse, handed it over, and she showed me to a bed in the emergency room.

Now, this bed has no sheets. No pillows. They did provide me with a paper blanket to cover my legs, since I was wearing a dress and the A/C was blasting. Awesome! I got myself settled, presented my arm for the nurse to take blood, and then was promptly hooked up to an IV. This was my first IV experience, and I have to say I was a little nervous. I have itty bitty veins that roll, and have had to suffer through multiple needle stabs for every single attempt to access my blood. But this nurse was great, and I settled down into my pillow-less, sheet-less bed, to watch a bag of antibiotics drip into my hand.

After the bag finished its drip, they hooked me up to a bag of fluids, basically to keep the IV in while I wait for the results of my tests. About half way through this bag, I realize I have to pee. Like, now. RIGHT. NOW. Unfortunately, the fluids are hooked on a rack hanging over my bed, so I am trapped. I look around frantically for a nurse or a doctor - nobody. I push the call button on the bed and... nothing. It would appear the call button is just for show. A decorative red square. Lovely. After several minutes of feeling that my bladder is literally going to explode, I managed to flag down my nurse and communicate the situation. She gave me a knowing smile, and carried over an IV stand. Yes. Carried. Although it has wheels, they also are just for show. Sigh. She transfers my bag over, and I carry my IV stand over to the bathroom.

I won't even comment on the state of the bathroom. But when you gotta go, you gotta go - so I did. After I got re-settled in my pillow-less, sheet-less bed, the nurse came to check on me. "You make pee-pee OK? No hurt?" Uh, thank you for asking. Yes, yes I did. It seems the IV is doing it's job.

Flash forward to two hours and four trips to the bathroom later. I am still hooked up to an IV of fluids, and the doctor finally comes to me and says that he won't make me wait any longer, that he can call me on my cell phone with the results of my tests. He writes me a prescription, and promises to tell me when he calls if I need to fill it. The nurse removes the IV, offers me a wheelchair (which I decline), and I walk out to my car. It's 1:30pm.

The doctor calls an hour later. Sure enough - it's a UTI. Surprise, surprise. I head to the only pharmacy on the island to fill my prescription. Although I have health insurance, I had been warned that if you try to use it at the pharmacy, it will take twice as long. So I instead offered to pay cash, and after a short wait (45 minutes, which is short for here), I had my prescription. Two pills a day for ten days. Total - $11. I probably would've paid more with my co-pay for my health insurance. At this point, it's 3pm. A very interesting way to spend a day, I must say.

I'm not that easy, I am like a horse to water

I just want to start by saying that I love horses. My aunt has always had horses, I used to ride for several years when I was younger, and I've always felt an affinity for them. I really enjoy the fact that we have wild horses here on this island, and I have never complained about swerving to avoid them in the road or the mess they leave behind.

However.

Last night was late night for me. I haven't gone out much on weekends lately, but last night I met some friends for drinks and karaoke. A bunch of people from work showed up, we closed the bar, and there was an after-party involved... not perhaps the best decision, and believe me, I paid for it this morning. At one point when I was drunkenly/hung-overly stumbling between the bed and the door to open it for my dog, I noticed that one of the two gates to my yard was open. Completely unable to deal with it at that moment, and wrapped in a towel (remember - too hot for PJs), I haul my dog inside and went back to bed.

I wake up again at 12:30, wrap myself in a towel again, and am just about to let the dog out, when I remember about the gate. I go back inside to put on clothes, open my door and - horses. Five of them. In my yard. And every single one of them had shit. I chased them out of my yard, and turned to assess the damage.

The thing about my dog - really any dog I've ever known - is that given any opportunity to roll in something disgusting, she will seize it with wild abandon. And horse shit is WAY up there on her list of favorite things to smother herself in. So obviously, having it in my yard is a bad idea. I'm still hung over, it's a million degrees with a thousand percent humidity, and now I have to use the only shovel I have to pick up five enormous piles of horse shit. Awesome.

I did the best I could with the tool I had, but I missed some pieces. And now it's only a matter of time until my dog finds them and either rolls in them or enjoys them as a mid-afternoon snack... I love horses, I do, but man - they are on my shit list right now.