Tiny Coconut

I have things.

Tuesday, February 13, 2007


Considering how much tsuris this stab wound's put me through, you'd think it could at least LOOK like a stab wound, instead of like a minor paper cut. People are starting to roll their eyes at me when I complain about the pain--oh! the pain! (OK, not so much pain any more, but still...) I think maybe people are thinking I'm a hypochondriac. I know! Can you believe it? I'm not a hypochondriac! I *have* things--like a stab wound!

Considering how much time I spend at my temple these days, you'd think I could figure out how to spell tsuris.

Considering the fact that N's already dealt with the loss/replacement of his kindergarten teacher, doesn't it seem unfair that he is now dealing with the loss/replacement of his Hebrew school teacher? (She's out on maternity leave and will, eventually, be back, but he's not taking it well.)

Considering the fact that Em is only 9, I think she's dealing extremely well with the latest turn of events, in which her beloved guinea pig, Buddy, has suddenly stopped eating and drinking. $100+ dropped at the vet's later, we have no explanation other than that he may be old (we don't know how old he was when we got him) or he may have diabetes, or kidney disease, or liver failure, or godonlyknowswhat. We could find out more of course, the vet proclaimed...if we do a $150 blood test, and $75 worth of x-rays! And then pay for the insulin shots, guinea dialysis, or piggy liver transplant!

Considering that the vet said all of this IN FRONT OF EM, forcing me to shoot daggers at him with my eyes while I explained that I wasn't going to spend that much money on a probably-4-year-old-or-so animal whose life expectancy, mind you, is five years, I think I handled the ensuing tears about how she only wishes we could find out what's wrong with him so maybe we could fix it with relative aplomb. I.e., I didn't drive back to the vet's office and kill him. (Our regular vet, a friend who lives on our block, doesn't have expertise with 'exotics.' That'll teach me to pick a vet out of the phone book.)

Considering that I've now spent my past three evenings syringe-feeding said dying guinea pig a mixture of mushed-up pellets, water and squirts of orange juice from the oranges on our tree, I'd say that I've paid part of my karmic debt for completely ignoring the last few years of the life of my own guinea pig, Streak, who I had from the age of 10 or so until he died of pneumonia when I was 15. Streak, of course, may feel differently.

Considering how far I've strained myself now to make this ill-conceived "considering" conceit work (or, rather, not work) in this entry, I should probably just stop writing and move on.

Consider it done.

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