Warning! Or Aviso! as we say in Los Angeles (okay, to be honest I never took Spanish in school since I couldn't roll my "R"s, and assumed, from Charo's many appearances on the Merv Griffin Show, that such lingual dexterity was a prerequisite. But thanks to those little yellow plastic sandwich boards they put in the lobbies of office buildings, I know enough to stay off the piso when it's mojado). Anyway, parental discretion is advised...
This isn't a funny post, nor is it even my usual attempt to be funny. It's a plea, and there will be no hard feelings if you'd prefer to skip it and come back tomorrow. For you hardy souls who've elected to tough out the next paragraph of whining and importuning, I'll be as succinct as possible by letting Thomas Mitchell's "Uncle Billy" sum up the situation: "This is a pickle, George. This is a pickle!"
As you know, we've had some serious health problems around here. Mary suffers from chronic TMJ, which comes and goes, and has unfortunately come, in thunder and in earthquake, like a Jove. It causes her jaw to lock up periodically and makes it excruciatingly painful to speak (obviously a problem, since she's a teacher); and often lately it makes it impossible for her to eat (what she calls "the TMJ Diet"), which may be why she was so run down that last month she developed an infection which required a trip to Urgent Care and a course of Cipro (anthrax victims ask for it by name!).
Nevertheless, she was soldiering through the pain, until her principal ordered her to the District doctor, who refused to allow her back to work until she'd gone off and completed some quest to find a cure. So for the past two weeks, Mary has been leaping through hoops, seeing our doctor (who was great, and leapt through hoops herself like it was the damn Cirque du Soleil), and a dental surgeon in an effort to get a medical clearance to return to work. In the meantime, she burned up all her sick leave (against her will) and lost at least a week's pay. That's on top of all the out of pocket expenses for drugs, copays, and a trip to the ER. The result is that our immature cucumber has been thoroughly soaked in brine and vinegar. We're tapped out, to the point where -- absent a payment Time-Warner is rather impatient to receive -- our internet connection will be going bye-bye next Monday, and Wo'C will either be going on "hiatus" or "going to live on a farm upstate, where it'll have lots of room to run around," not quite sure which.
It's only been slightly over a year since our last fundraiser, and I was really hoping we wouldn't have to appeal for help again, at least not so soon, but events have conspired otherwise (granted, it's not the kind of conspiracy that stiffens Darrell Issa's nipples, but they can't all be sexy). So we're forced to come hat in hand, tongue in groove, and puss in boots. And that's the other thing...
Over the past few months, Riley has lost a startling amount of weight (as well as most of her hearing), and now, in the last couple weeks or so, she's beginning to lose her balance. We want to take her to the vet and see if there's anything that can be done -- Mary wonders if it might be a thyroid problem -- but the cost of an examination, let alone tests, is way beyond our reach at the moment.
If you're not in any position to help, please don't worry about it, we certainly understand. But if you can spare a little something, and figure this place doesn't completely suck, we'd be extremely grateful for any help you can provide. Please click on the button at the top left, or if that doesn't work, our PP payee address is scott.clevenger - at - gmail.com. However, if pay is not your pal -- email me (same address), and I'll send you our snail mail information.