Month: December 2004

asshole with too much time on his hands. I mean, I didn’t really think it was a bomb, but you never know with these things, and when I turned the key in the ignition, my ass puckered until it became clear that I wasn’t going to be blown into tiny bits, at least not this time around. I told Fred about it (he’s responsible for dealing with car shit because I have no desire to) and he came out and looked at it and said – this is a direct quote – “Huh.” “What do you think it might be?” I asked. I grew up with a father who did 99.98% of our car repairs himself, so I always assume men know more about what might be going on with my car than I do. I’ve actually considered taking an adult education class so that I can be more educated when car issues come up, but usually before I can complete the thought “I should take that adult education class about doing small repairs to your car”, I’m face-down in a puddle of drool. Let’s just say the idea doesn’t much interest me. So Fred said “I don’t know. Why don’t you take it to Firestone tomorrow and see if they can figure it out?” “Pffft,” I said. “I don’t do that. YOU take it to Firestone tomorrow.” And he gave me the “My god in heaven, I am married to the most annoying woman on the face of this planet” look and snapped “Yeah, whatever” or something similar and went back inside. A few days passed and then one day after I left the grocery store and was driving home, I thought to myself “Self, this Jeep is not driving the way it should be. Why am I feeling that… drag?” But it was a false alarm, because I was accidentally driving around in second gear, and when I put the gearshift in Drive, all was back to normal. (I never claimed not to be a dumbass) Then a few more days passed and the spud and I were going shopping, and I started the car and the “coolant low” light came on, and I went into the garage to see if we had any coolant. We did, and I went inside to ask Fred where I was supposed to put the coolant and he all but drew me a diagram, telling me that the place to put it was in the front, center. I went back out, coolant in hand (in bottle in hand, even) and looked carefully at the front, center part of the engine and couldn’t find anything that indicated I should pour coolant in it, so I looked in places other than front, center and finally located a cap saying “engine coolant” in the left back corner of the engine. I debated whether this could possibly be the wrong place to pour the engine coolant, and decided there was no way, and I dumped all that was in the bottle into the “engine coolant” tank and when I started the car, there was no more indication that the coolant level was low. Three days later, the coolant level was low again. And I know nothing about cars, but I thought that possibly it wasn’t a good idea to drive around with a low level of coolant, and since I had to go to the grocery store anyway, I made a mental note to look for coolant. Only there was no bottle of just plain coolant at the grocery store. Instead, there was a bottle of coolant/ antifreeze, and I stood over said bottle for a good five minutes having an inner debate with myself. “I don’t want antifreeze,” I told myself. “I want COOLANT.” “This IS coolant,” I responded. “Coolant AND antifreeze.” “But… can I pour it in the “engine coolant” tank if it has antifreeze in it?” I said. That was such an idiotic question that I did not deign to answer myself. So I bought the antifreeze/ coolant and took it home, and then to be sure I could put it in the “engine coolant” tank (shaddup) I called Fred, who said (surprisingly enough) that I could. So I waited a few hours for the engine to cool down and when I was leaving the house to do some errands, I dumped about half the bottle into the coolant tank, and all was fine. Saturday morning, early, Fred took the Jeep over to the nearby oil change place where he knows the manager and feels somewhat certain he won’t get too fucked over. The guy took a look at the car and said “It’s the radiator.” Fred said, “Y’all replaced the radiator a year ago. Is it still under warranty?” And the guy said “I don’t know. Let me go look it up.” Well, long story short (way, WAY too late for that, I know), during the accident Fred was in two years ago, wherein an old lady slammed into him, the something got shoved back against the something and something somewhere cracked, and no one ever noticed it until now, and that’s why the engine is leaking coolant. Also, I way overfilled the engine coolant tank, and all the oil change guys stood around and laughed at Fred until he said “Yeah, my wife did that”, and then they all laughed at me, who was sound asleep in bed at the time. Bastards. So we’re leaving the cracked what-the-fuck-ever the way it is for now, because it would cost an arm and a leg to repair. This fucking Jeep has never given us anything but trouble. Even better, this morning on my way to the pet store, I discovered that the roof of the Jeep, near the inside rearview mirror, is leaking. One of these days I’m going to be driving along and the engine is just going to drop right the fuck out of the Jeep and the roof will fly off, and I’ll have to cut a hole in the floor and run along like Fred Flintstone.

* * * My god that was a fascinating story, wasn’t it? * * * Update on the chickpea situation (and here is the recipe for the roasted chickpeas, if you’re interested): after an email from Cheryl suggesting I try hot Indian seasonings such as curry powder and hot pepper, I asked Fred what he wanted me to put on the chickpeas and he said (drumroll) curry, cumin, and cayenne. I went him one better and added red pepper flakes to the mix, and the verdict? The perfect seasoning, but not quite cooked enough (I like them a little soft in the middle – he prefers them really crunchy). I tried a small batch with cinnamon and splenda, but I must not have put enough of either on them, because they were just bland. Chickpeas seem to call for spicy-hot seasoning rather than sweet, anyway. I tried a couple from the curry/ cumin/ cayenne batch and they were too spicy for me. I mean, please. I’m so delicate that an outdoor temperature of 61� has me huddled inside in front of not one, but two space heaters, bundled up in the blanket, wearing my slippers. You think I can handle spicy seasonings on my chickpeas? I think not. I’ll make a batch of wimpy garlic salt chickpeas for myself, and we’ll all be happy. * * * ]]>

* * * The spam seems to have mostly stopped, but I’ll give it a few more days before I stop moderating the comments, just in case. Spam just pisses me off, and comment spam pisses me off even more. I mean, who in the holy hell sees a comment spam and says “My goodness, I hadn’t realized before now that I want to do some online gambling, but I think I’ll check this link out and give it a try!”? I guess if even one person tries it out the spammers have done their job though, eh? Fucking spammers. I think they should all be strung up by their tender parts until such a day that all the spamming stops.

* * * I made a huge batch of roasted chick peas for Fred yesterday. Because he likes his food spicy, I dumped a ton of chili powder and tabasco on them, along with spicy creole seasoning, and some garlic salt. At one point I thought to myself “Boy, I hope this isn’t going to be too hot for him…” When the chick peas were done, he tried some and then every time he passed through the kitchen he grabbed a handful. “So what do you think?” I asked. “Are the spices good?” “Yeah,” he said. “They’re not hot enough, though.” If that’s not a challenge, I don’t know what is. It’s now my goal to make him CRY when he tries the next batch of chick peas. Bastard. * * * The spud went to a party Saturday. It started at 2 in the afternoon and went until 10:30. It was more than a little weird to see her get into the car with a friend (and his mother – he doesn’t have his license yet) and drive away, since pretty much anywhere she’s gone in the last eight years, we’ve taken her. She was supposed to call when she was ready for us to come pick her up, but she called sometime after 6 to ask if it was okay for her to get a ride home with the same friend who brought her. We said yes, and then I spent the evening worrying. “What if they’re doing drugs? What if they’re drinking? What if they’re sneaking off into rooms to have sex?” “She’s with a bunch of church kids,” Fred said. “(This one) goes to church, (that one) is home-schooled so he probably goes to church*, (the other one) is a church-goer. She’s fine, I’m sure they’re behaving, no one’s going to get pregnant!” “Oh, right. YOU were a church-goer when you were a kid. Are you trying to tell me you didn’t do things you weren’t supposed to?” I said. “Not with my church friends,” Fred said. Oh, yeah. THAT made me feel better. She got home a few minutes before 11, and Fred and I were waiting at the top of the stairs to interrogate her. She had a good time, there were lots of kids there, there were parents present (yes, I’m a dumbass for not asking that particular question BEFORE she went), and there was no wild drugging or drinking. She went to the party, had a good time, and came back in one piece. MAH BABY IS GROWING UP! * No, we realize that not all home-schooled kids’ parents are religious types. But we’re in the south, and chances are good that they are. NOT THAT THERE’S ANYTHING WRONG WITH THAT. * * * Ugh. It’s a crappy, rainy, wintry day (hush up, Jane! 61 degrees IS TOO cold!), but I have the space heaters (one at each end of the room) going, so I’m not suffering too much. I think I’m going to go take my shower, do some laundry, and curl up under a quilt in the chair in the corner of the master bedroom while I try to finish reading the book I’ve been reading for, like, five days now. (I’ve been catching up on my magazine reading, which cuts into my book reading time considerably) See y’all tomorrow! * * * “How YOU doin’?” * * *]]>

* * * I’m just putting off going out into the garage to exercise. I always come downstairs ready to hop on the elliptical, but get sidetracked checking my email, talking to Fred, playing with the kitties. It’s so cold in the garage right now that it hurts a little to walk out there with bare legs and arms, but if I wear sweatpants and a sweatshirt, I get too warm while I’m working out. I know the perfect idea is to layer, but I’d much rather be a martyr, don’tchaknow. The movie I’m currently watching while I do the elliptical is Dying Young. Vincent D’Onofrio looks like he’s about 12 years old in that movie and Campbell Scott, dying of leukemia (or whatever cancer he was supposed to have) or not, is one good-looking man. I was going to say I wonder what he’s doing these days, but a quick check at IMDB shows that he still works pretty regularly, just not in anything I’ve watched. Okay, enough putting it off. I’m going to go exercise. I’ll be back.

* * * Yep, fuck that. The elliptical is squeaking so loudly that I can no longer hear what the fuck is going on on the TV no matter how often it is greased or the bolts are tightened, so I’m on strike. This is what we get for buying the rock-bottom cheapest elliptical we could find, I suppose. * * * Have I mentioned that the kitties lurve the space heater? ]]>

The good thing is that Fred showed me how to turn on the gas fireplace so that if I get really cold during the day I can turn it on and bake in front of the fire instead of just suffering.

* * * Oh hey, remember the cat in the fruit hat I got from a reader a few months back, and everyone was wanting to know where the hell they could get one, too? Well, I was flipping through a catalog the other day, and check it out! Now, you have to buy all four cats if you want the fruit-hat cat, but I just thought I’d let y’all know. They also have magnets. You’re welcome. * * * Fred loves to push Meester Boogers’ lower lip forward so that he looks like an old man. Or something. Meester Boogers usually puts up with it. ]]>

mad internet skillz, he could really be dangerous!

* * * New pet store kitty pics from Monday are up here. * * * I took my first beta blocker last night and was a little lightheaded and loopy for a little while. I also slept like a rock last night, though I can’t necessarily attribute that to the pill. Fred and I spent about half an hour moving beds around last night. See, we decided to switch his bedroom and the guest bedroom around, because the spud has talked about having friends over to spend the night, and we figured that if we switched the rooms around, her friends could spend the night in the guest bed instead of on the floor and Fred wouldn’t be kept awake by the shrieking and giggling of teenage girls all night long, since he’d be on the other side of the house. Besides, I think that room is more suited to be a guest bedroom anyway, because not only is it closer to the bathroom, but it also has a closet (the other room doesn’t) and a dresser. It’s way smaller than the other room, but it’s not like we get a lot of guests anyway, and even when people come to visit, it’s not like they spend all their time in the bedroom, either. Moving Fred’s king-size mattress was a huge pain in the butt. I thought yesterday that my arms and shoulders would be hurting this morning, but in actuality my abs are screaming. I always forget how much you use your abs when you’re lifting stuff. The entire time we were moving the beds, Meester Boogers ran around like a big dork, all freaked out, with big, dark eyes. He’s never seen us move furniture before, and so he had no clue what was going on. We got Fred’s bed moved into the other room and set up and made, and then Fred shut the door, and Meester Boogers howled forlornly. “Whyyyy? Why is the door closed? I like to hang out in there and lay on the bed and harass Spot! Where will I lay now???” We got the guest bed set up in the guest bedroom and then I shut the door because I had a headache and had no desire to mess around with making the bed at that moment in time. Meester Boogers howled even more forlornly. A few hours later, after I’d eaten dinner and my headache was beginning to abate, I went back upstairs and made the bed. I left the door open, and then went into Fred’s room and carried a table from his room to what is now the guest bedroom, and put it in front of the table. Meester Boogers sniffed around nosily, interested. When I opened the shades, he got very excited. He jumped up onto the table and sat there, looking out into the neigborhood (which is exactly why I’d put the table there – so the cats could lay on it if they so desired). The rest of the evening we didn’t see much of any of the cats. I think they were taking turns sniffing around the new guest bedroom and wondering why they couldn’t go into Fred’s bedroom. When we went upstairs to go to bed, Spot was laying on the guest bedroom bed. This morning, Meester Boogers and Miz Poo were laying in the sun that was coming through the guest bedroom windows. Because, in our house, it’s not possible to do too much to make the kitties comfortable, I located a couple of cat beds in another part of the house and brought them to the guest bedroom. I think Meester Boogers has adjusted to the change. Also, the room’s not as small as it looks – there’s plenty of room to walk between the end of the bed and the dresser, though it doesn’t look like it in this picture. * * * A few weeks ago I set the TiVo to tape Maury! every day, not because I’m all that crazy about Maury and his ten thousand “Are you my baby daddy?” shows, but because MB is going to be on his show, only I’m not sure when and I don’t want to miss it, so thus the every day taping of the show. When I have a few minutes on my hand and want to clear the TiVo queue, I go through the list and look for the episodes of Maury!, then start them playing to see what they’re about – to make sure it’s not the episode MB is on – before I erase it. Last week there was an episode that looked like it might be interesting – I don’t remember what the show was called, but the beginning part of the show looked like something I might want to watch. So I started watching it, and this woman came on who had set up a camera before she left for work because she had a suspicion that her boyfriend, who was babysitting her two little boys, wasn’t doing the job he should. People, it was possibly the most horrifying thing I’ve ever seen. This grown man was throwing a little boy down on the bed and PUNCHING him as hard as he could, many times. It still disturbs me just to think about it. This week Maury did a follow-up and they showed the tape again and I showed it to Fred, and even HE was disturbed by it. And we’re talking about a man who isn’t disturbed by much. For the record, as soon as she got home and saw the tape, the mother called the police and they arrested the boyfriend’s ass. He was in court recently, trying to plead to a lesser charge and the judge wouldn’t allow it. When we heard that, we cheered out loud. Fucker. * * * * * *]]>

premature ventricular contractions. Everyone gets them from time to time, my doctor said. Only, the Holter Monitor showed that I had something like 996 over the 24 hours I was wearing the monitor. So I’m going on a very low dose of Toprol XL, which is a beta blocker designed to slow down my heartbeat and stop (or perhaps lessen) the extra beats. The more I see my primary care doc, the more I like her. She’s easy to talk to, she doesn’t talk down to me, and she carefully explains everything she tells me (even though it goes in one ear and out the other with me, since I usually figure I can go home and Google whatever she’s talking about anyway). I trust her completely and I know she’s suggesting the best course of treatment for me. In case you were wondering. Now. There’s someone out there who sent me a very informative email about this very topic (PVCs) back when mah heart was a-flutterin’. Could the person who sent me that email send it again, or a close approximation? I lost a lot of email last week (or the week before) and I think that was one of the ones lost. Thank you in advance.

* * * I started getting all kinds of comment spam this morning – not as bad as some I’ve heard, but since I have my comments emailed to me as they’re posted, it was getting somewhat annoying. I got about twenty in the space of an hour, and since my Movable Type was somewhat hosed at some point in the past, even if I went to attempt to close comments on an entry (for some reason this entry attracts the most spam; before I deleted them this morning I had 40 pieces of spam)it didn’t work. That is, I un-checked the “allow comments” box, saved, rebuilt, and comments were still allowed on that entry. So I threw myself on the mercy of the man I married because he’s a big geeky man who knows how to do the technical shit that is beyond me and begged him to update my Movable Type and since he wasn’t doing anything more interesting, he did so. I was talking about him also installing the Blacklist plug-in, when he took a gander at the Movable Type features included in the newest version, and pointed out that I can set it so that comments are moderated. So for now, until the spam slows down, comments will be moderated. What does this mean for you? Not much – you go to the comments field, leave a comment as usual, only instead of your comment immediately showing up, it has to be approved by me. Once the spam slows down I’ll stop moderating, but for now expect moderation to be in effect for at least a week or so. The newest version of MT has some raaaather interesting features, including searching comments by ip address. Lakewood, NJ has posted five times in the past, three times anonymously, once as “catnip” and once as “Sean.” Would it surprise you that Lakewood, NJ/ catnip/ Sean apparently is very concerned with the weight issues of others? Once s/he commented on the fact that Caroline Rhea is “hefty”, once regarding the 550 pound woman who was on Oprah (kindly doing the math for me – “If she weighed 550, and lost 300 pounds, that would mean she is about 250 now.” and also “She looked great for 250, since she didn’t look that tall. You would think she would look heavier at that weight.”, and the third – well, you already know what I think about that third comment. Also, Lakewood, NJ is a watcher of The Apprentice. In case you were wondering. Kind of interesting what virtual footprints you leave behind, isn’t it? * * * I just deleted six spams in about two seconds. This new version of MT is absolutely the shit. * * * I spent about an hour in front of the computer yesterday, and in the course of that hour got about 3/4 of my Christmas shopping done. The internet just ROCKS, doesn’t it? I still have to go out and do some shopping, but to be honest I doubt that it’s going to take me even two hours of actual shopping to pick up what I need (and that only because I’m not sure yet what I want to get for a couple of people). I should be getting tons of packages in the mail in the next few days, and then it’ll be time for wrapping. Hopefully nothing will get delayed or lost in the mail, but I expect at least one thing will, because that’s just the way it goes. Now I need to get those Christmas decorations out and start putting them up. We’re not going to put the big tree up this year, because then the spud won’t be able to get to her computer, and we can’t have that! We’ll just have a little tree in the living room. I’m not crazy about the little tree I have right now, because you have to fill the base with sand (or, as I have done in the past, clean kitty litter) and it’s not pre-lit and I loathe putting lights on trees, no matter how small they are. When the spud and I were at the mall Sunday, we saw a small pre-lit tree at McRae’s that I really liked, but I wasn’t sure if it would fit on the cabinet where we usually put the small tree. I took another look at the cabinet today, and I think the tree will fit just fine. I can’t decide if I want to go out and spend the money on another small tree when we already have a perfectly good one. Probably not, but I’m still thinking about it. Oh! Speaking of McRae’s, if you have need for luggage, they’re having an awesome sale. You can get two suitcases and a duffel bag for less than $40. I think the suitcases are 25″ and 20″, but I can’t swear to it. Quite a bargain, though, that’s for sure! * * * Spot’s favorite place to sleep during the day – on my side of the bed, by the pillows, so that when I lay down to talk to Fred, I get covered with cat hair. Bastard. Good thing for him he’s so damn cute. ]]>

logo by the wonderful Michelle at When Cats Attack. Very “me”, dontchathink? Thanks, Michelle. You rock!

* * * Someone whose ip address resolves to Lakewood, NJ left me a comment yesterday regarding my entry from Sunday, saying, in effect, “Quit your damn whining! God! All you do is sit on your ass in front of the computer, the TV, or sit and read! Maybe if you exercised once in a while, you might not be so fat! Your poor mother! She deserves a better daughter than you!” This person is clearly under the impression that I sit around all day crying into my Diet Coke and Ben and Jerry’s, sobbing “Whyyyyyyy am I so faaaaat? I don’t GET it! Britney eats Cheetos and Red Bull and she’s skinny! It’s not fair, DAMN MY MOTHER, it’s all her fault. I’m going to go sit on my ass in front of the computer and cry about it some more while I shove huge spoonfuls of crap directly into my big fat mouth!” Y’know, all I was doing was wondering who I’d be and what I’d look like now if a struggle with food and the urge to overeat was not part of my makeup. Come closer, now, because I’m going to tell you a secret. Are you listening? You might want to sit down for this. Okay, here it is: I eat too much of the wrong kind of food and am lazy. I know! I know, it’s shocking, isn’t it? It shocked ME, that’s for sure, but I saw the light when the weight loss guru from Lakewood, NJ informed me exactly why I’m fat. God. I mean, who the hell knew? I sure didn’t. All I could think as I sat here on my ass watching it grow bigger and bigger was “Whyyyy is this happening to me? It must be ALL my mother’s fault!” But the answer was right there in Lakewood, NJ the whole time. I eat too much and don’t exercise enough. Let us address this two-part solution in, well, two parts, shall we? 1. “You are lazy. Get a trainer and hit the treadmill.” To which I say “Well, person who clearly knows me more than I know myself, I exercise five times a week, 30 – 45 minutes each time. Some weeks I exercise less, such as this week, when I had a hair appointment and half the day was wasted, so I will only be working out four days this week. I won’t hire a trainer, because I know how to exercise, thanks. I won’t hit the treadmill, because treadmills are too loud and I can’t hear the TV over the sound of the treadmill. But here’s a solution – perhaps I should hit the elliptical trainer that lives in my garage? Is that a good idea? Maybe I should start doing that! OH, wait. I already do. The aforementioned five days a week, 30 – 45 minutes a day.” 2. “You eat too much.” No shit, really? Well, I didn’t know that. I’ll get right on that. Hey, Lakewood, NJ, who clearly hasn’t been reading me for all that long, guess what? From my highest weight, I lost 125 pounds. I’ve gained back an ungodly amount of that, but over the course of about 9 months, I dropped 125 pounds. So here’s a secret for you – I know how to lose the goddamn weight, you sanctimonious twit. But I didn’t deal with the underlying issues of why I had 125+++ pounds to lose in the first place and guess what? Some of it came back to roost. You might know that if you actually paid attention to what you were reading instead of reading a few paragraphs and deciding you know exactly who I am, what my issues are, and what I should do about them. For the record, my husband wrote an entire book about the amazing concept of eating right and moving more. I had to read the book many times during the writing and editing process. I’m sure you’re under the impression that you’re the only one who knows the Real True Way, Lakewood, NJ, but it’s actually come across my radar in the past, believe it or not. I have been overweight since I was 10. I dealt with “tough love” for more than twenty years from my parents, from my ex-husband, from co-workers, from kids at school, from strangers on the street . I’ve heard the comments, the suggestions and the snickers. I’ve seen the looks. If what my parents – the people who, y’know, actually KNOW me – said to me wasn’t enough to motivate me to lose all the weight I had to lose and keep it off, what on god’s green earth makes you think that a few lines from someone I don’t know is going to “motivate” me? But don’t worry – when you said I will put it bluntly, and I am not saying this to hurt you, but to motivate you. you completely missed the mark. You neither hurt me nor motivated me. You only annoyed the fucking shit out of me. You have, I think, an inflated sense of your own importance and perhaps also an inflated sense of just how stupid this poor whiny fat chick is. I’ve had this journal online for more than five years and I have had a weight-related journal for more than four. In that time, I’ve gotten an amazing amount of email, and every now and then I’ve gotten the “Um, duh. Your supposed 2 eat less and exercise more, stoopit. U R not doin that and that is Y your so fat!” email. Every brilliant “All you need to do is eat less and exercise more!” genius is under the impression that the thought has simply never once crossed my mind. If the diet exists, I’ve heard about it. If the book exists, I’ve read it. If the exercise tape isn’t too annoying, I’ve done it. I’ve exercised to so many Leslie Sansone tapes that I could probably pick out her ultra-perky voice in three syllables from two rooms away. If I could get college credit for my studies of all things diet – diet books, web pages, exercise tapes and Dr. Phil/ Oprah “Look at this fat woman!” specials, among others – I’d probably qualify for a doctorate. So Lakewood, NJ, the next time you’re tempted to offer up the obvious solution, don’t. You cannot possibly tell me one single thing about how to eat or how to exercise that I don’t already know. The condescending words of a stranger cannot motivate me. Kindly take your tough love and find a better place for it than the comment section of a stranger. Such as your ass. Thanks. * * * I had actually planned to write my “What if?” entry about “What if I’d grown up a pretty, pretty princess and all the world adored me?”, but instead decided to write a more difficult entry. I suspect I would have gotten a “You did not grow up a pretty, pretty princess, so stop whining about it and accept the life you have!” comment. * * * “O Lord, how much longer must I suffer the woman with the flashy light?”]]>