HappyPlatypus's Journal

Sigh. After disappearing for a couple weeks, I was all about returning to journal writing with some triumphant lead, some witty, inspirational, captivating initial paragraph that would have everybody alternately weeping and laughing and ultimately collapsing at their keyboards in emotional release.

But alas, like so many things these days, it wasn't too be.

I sat down, logged on and started to type, and Dazzle cat, my beautiful tortie, left me a present beneath my feet. Would that it were something merely disgusting, like a dead mouse or a disemboweled snake.

Sadly, nope. I should be so lucky.

Hey, what are you trying to say?

Actually, I'm pretty strict about keeping my kitties indoor only, which prevents me from receiving gifts of dead mice and such. Maybe I'm overprotective, but I just don't want to let my furry babies outside. Too many crazy folk out there who hate cats. And too many cars and diseases and pests and other kitties with sharp claws and teeth and, well, you know. Hormones. The average outdoor cat lives to be 3. The average indoor/outdoor cat lives to be 7. The average indoor cat lives to be 12 or more.

Mine, of course, will live forever. Because I refuse to ever lose them. Unless, of course, they keep leaving me presents. Like Razzle Dazzle's round-and-orange brother Kiwi just did, smirking up at me before sauntering off away from the stench.

Yeah. There's a litter box under my desk. It's out of the way, out of sight. I thought it was a good idea at the time. But sitting here, trying to pour out my deepest thoughts and feelings -- and boy, do I have some sharing to do this time around -- I'm realizing that the placement of the litter box isn't doing much for my creativity. Much less my sinuses.

My gosh, my cats can really stink up a room worse than Kramer from Seinfeld!

To quote that great song from Phoebe on Friends, "Smelly Cat, Smelly Cat, what are they feeding you? Smelly Cat, Smelly Cat, It's not your fault!"

But how I'd like to blame someone!

Still, the way I'm feeling now, the presents Kiwi and Dazzle just left me seem rather metaphorical.

It's not me. It's definitely YOU

I got dumped this weekend.

Broken up with. Ditched. Given the heave ho.

And it came in the form of a letter. One I had to go to the Post Office to sign for. At the risk of sounding like Chandler from Friends, could it BE any more cliche? I mean, I'm not asking for a biplane and skywriting. I'm humiliated enough as it is. But a Dear John letter? One I had to make a special trip to the Post Office to sign for?

A trip I made in a rush at 8 a.m. Saturday because my phone had inexplicably stopped working about a week earlier, and AT&T had graciously agreed to come fix their lines "sometime between 8 a.m. Saturday and 2012."

And to add insult to injury, once I arrived at the Post Office to get what turned out to be a break up letter, it came postage due.

I got a receipt. Just in case, the clerk said. What do you think, should I ask the dumper to pay for it? I swear, the protocols in breaking up are just so fuzzy nowadays!

Could you be more specific?

And I've been broken up with by some real doozies in my time. There an amazing Japanese steak house where I live that I'll never visit again because I've been dumped there by three different girls. I'm convinced that place is bad luck. And I've been dissed on national TV. A former fiance said some things once on Jenny Jones that just couldn't be taken back.

As humiliations go, that ranked even higher than skywriting.

You know, I'm so good at getting dumped that if they turned it into an Olympic sport, I'd be the gold medal winner for sure. I could have my face on the Wheaties box. Bruce Jenner: Olympic Running Champion. Uncle Todd: Olympic Chump.

But as painful as my myriad breakups have been, this one made no sense. 

It came from my doctor.

That's right. My DOCTOR.

No reason given. No excuses. No, we've grown apart. No, we've got to talk. No, it's not you, it's me. Just, I can't treat you anymore after Sept. 5. Please find another physician.

Anger, denial, bargaining ...

Like every other time I've been dumped, I stayed home all day Saturday, waiting by the phone for a call that never came. Of course, this time I had an excuse. The helpful souls at AT&T told me to. And the phone had an excuse for not ringing. The line into my house didn't work.

But I don't think my doctor tried calling, one way or another.

Either way, AT&T didn't show up until Sunday morning about 10:30. That was a little after the 8 a.m. to 8 p.m. Saturday window they had given me, but it was closer to the 8 a.m. side than the 2012 side, so I counted my blessings.

My first true love, the first girl I ever kissed back in junior high, is now a doctor. We dated off and on when I was just out of college and she was in medical school, and she eventually dumped me because I wouldn't cut my pony tail and move in with her. That's as close as I've ever come to being dumped by a doctor before.

Can they DO that? Is this something they can do? This is the doctor I'm seeing for my diabetes, which means I pretty much need to find a successor ASAP b/c I need my scripts. But I just dunno if I'm ready to get back into the whole doctor shopping scene. I was comfortable where I was. I trusted him.

I'm sure it wasn't him so much as it was his medical group, which stopped taking my insurance this year and which is with me over some bills that got run up because both my wife and I had major health issues this year. We're paying things off. Slowly. Apparently too slowly. But surely.

But I'm befuddled at the tactics. Does the corporation that wants the money for bills we've run up think they're more likely to get the money sooner if they refuse to let us see our doctors anymore? That's just mean and evil.

And shortsighted.

After all. I have 10 smelly cats. I'm starting to have an idea where to mail the presents they leave me.

:)