We've been having a problem with feeding Chewbacca. We've been through four kinds of kibble, finally settling on the expensive one, which he does, kind of eat. But not enough to live. He also jumps up on the cat cabinet and eats their food, no good. Impressive that he can jump that high without making a sound, but still, no bueno. So we've tried putting things on his kibble. We've tried bacon fat, it works, but is too fatty to give him every day. Doc chops up chicken and adds it to the kibble. I've tried low-salt chicken broth, with varying success. Finally, last night, after he begged and then cleaned my bowl of cottage cheese, it occurred to me to add cottage cheese to his kibble. I looked it up, and found out that cottage cheese, in its low-fat form, is actually kind of good for dogs, as long as they aren't lactose intolerant, which Chewy is not. So I added a teaspoon of cottage cheese to his cup of kibble and mixed it all up so every piece was coated with milky goodness, and presented it to him. He ate his kibble in record time. I just did the same thing, and got the same results. So now we have a solution to his not eating. Finally. I hated switching up kibble on him, for the potential tummy upset. But now we're set.
Doc and I left things fairly civilly. I tried to explain to him that when he asks me simple questions about an action (are his pants hanging to dry, for example), it is easier for me to look and see than it is for me to form the words to answer his question. He says I have to change that. I can't change that. It's the way my brain is wired! I'm finally coming to understand which deficits I can change, and am working on changing them, and which ones can't, and I'm trying to get him to work with me on them. He refuses. He simply says my explanation isn't good enough and I need to learn to communicate like a normal human being. OUCH. So, I have a great big chip on my shoulder and I'm harboring a big-ass resentment. So, yeah, you could say my hands are full.
He says he won't read the packet for care givers on cognitive and negative symptoms and how they work together to sabotage speech and time and emotions. He says if he reads it, it will just give me an excuse to behave "badly". Firstly, how could that happen with his reading it? I haven't read it, so how could it affect my behavior? And I resent my symptoms being labeled "behaving badly" and told to act "normal".
Oh, really? Is that all? Why did I not think of that all these years? Just turn it all off and not be schizophrenic anymore. Just stop it. Okay. I'm healed. Everything is fine. I don't see those figures in the hallway and Joan of Arc is not sitting on my patio waiting for me to go out and smoke so she can talk to me more. Not there, I'm normal now. My brain should be in perfect working order, once the pronouncement of being cured sinks in overnight as I sleep. By then, I should be completely regular again. I should get up with figures dancing through my head, ready to put my Executive Chef positions on my linkedin profile and start the job search for a grueling 80 hour work week in the heat of a kitchen, re-paying my dues because I have been out of the profession for so long. I'll cancel my disability payments and shrink appointments. I'll take down all this foolish internet stuff and focus on my chef career and do that until I burn out. Then go back to office work for my Golden Years. Pretend this art and writing thing never happened. Just be a regular person who gets spam and doesn't check her email often and is rarely online. I will be the perfect suburban childless housewife. You know, except for the missing teeth and heavily scarred part.
That's what he wants. Does he even know that's what I want, too? How fulfilling it was to be promoted to Head Pantry Chef for one of the most prestigious catering companies in south eastern PA and South Jersey. I organized and helped create salads, garnishes and hors d'ouvres for events ranging from 50 to 500 people. Then I went on-site to the largest events to oversee the dissemination of my food at the right time, to the right people. It was an all-consuming job. Sometimes I worked 24-36 hour shifts, with a great deal of driving during to get on-site and then back home again. I miss that.
I miss the cafe I was Executive Chef at. I created and implemented a new menu. I went in before dawn every day to make the muffins and the soups. Always home made soups. Then I'd cook the food all day while doing prep for the next day. I was the only kitchen staff unless I could rope one of my friends into washing dishes in return for a hot meal and all the espresso they could drink. That was a great job. It was me, alone, running the back of the house. Training the wait staff how to describe the food, training the owner to stay the fuck out of my kitchen and, for the love of god, not to touch the slicer. He cut the tip of his finger off one day and walked into the kitchen to ask me for help, and managed to spray blood all over my work surfaces, and the contents of the bain marie. After I got him situated and far from food, I had to shut down the kitchen in the middle of lunch and replace everything in the bain marie, and sanitize everything. I was so pissed at him for that. He also bled all over a 5lb. turkey breast, which was a complete loss and the only one we had in stock. I never did get paid a cent for the 7 odd months I worked there, but I loved that job.
Wow, I didn't mean to write over 1,000 words. I am all too aware of the "Tl;dr" (Too long;didn't read) and fear writing too much because of it. Bloggers, commenters, and such, are getting hit with the Tl;dr in their comments, and I dread the day I see that in my comments.
I believe I've ranted enough, and look, I've given you new insight into what I was before I became one with the internet.