Month: September 2005

The Survivor section; spoilers within; skip to the next section if you haven’t seen last night’s episode or aren’t interested. Why did they even bother to give the tribes names this time around? You KNOW everyone’s going to refer to them as “Bobby Jon’s tribe” and “Stephenie’s tribe.” How lucky is Bobby Jon’s tribe to have a frickin’ nurse practitioner on their team? If they have half a brain, they’ll keep that woman around, ’cause she’s already made more of a contribution in the first three days than some of the tribe members will make during their entire stay. Is it just me, or do the Survivors get younger every season? They’re so young, and so much eye candy that they just kind of blend in to one another; it’s hard to tell them apart. I’ll say at this point that I really like Margaret (the nurse practitioner); I don’t know if her strategy is to make herself indispensible to her tribe, but she seems to be doing that. I also like Judd because he seems like a likeable kind of guy; he reminds me a lot of Colin Quinn. So far I don’t hate anyone. Fred was annoyed for a while with Gary (who bears a striking resemblance to Ted Danson, if you ask me), but it’s far too early in the game to know who you like and don’t like. I wasn’t surprised to see Jim go. Once his bicep snapped (GOD, the idea just makes me CRINGE) and he was obviously in pain and injured, it seemed an easy vote for his tribe. I sure did miss Survivor and I am SO glad it’s back.

* * * So, earlier this week we noticed that Spot was gagging a lot. He wasn’t eating and then gagging, he would just be standing there, and would suddenly gag. He was still eating okay, but the gagging escalated, and started to bother us. After a few days of it, Fred took Spot to the vet on Tuesday. The vet checked Spot over, couldn’t figure out what was wrong with him, but said that he was dehydrated, had a fever, and the back of his throat was a bit red and sore looking. They ended up giving him subcutaneous fluids, an antibiotic shot, anti-emetic shot, and prescribed antibiotics for a week. The shot seemed to do wonders; once he got the shot, he clearly felt better, and there was no more gagging. Fast-forward to Thursday, and after spending part of the morning outside, Miz Poo came inside and barfed up a single blade of grass. And then, every ten minutes or so, she’d sit up, swallow a few times, and then gag. I thought she had a piece of grass stuck in her throat that she couldn’t throw up, but after a few hours the lightbulb went on over my head – I’m a little slow sometimes – and I realized she was doing exactly what Spot had been doing. I called Fred to discuss it with him, and he told me to give her a dose of Spot’s medicine. I did, and the gagging seemed to slow down a little bit, but it was still happening. When Fred got home, she gagged a few more times and he decided to take her to the vet to see if they could give her a shot of antibiotic and perhaps an anti-emetic as well. When he got there, they took her temperature and found that she was running a fever. The vet looked her over and they ended up giving her the same as Spot – subcutaneous fluids (it cracks us up when they get the subcutaneous fluids, because they end up with a hump that jiggles like Jello until the fluids are absorbed), and an antibiotic/ anti-emetic shot. In the half hour that Fred spent at the vet, GUESS FUCKING WHAT? Mister Boogers came into the computer room, barfed up a watery puddle of cat food-colored barf, and commenced to gag. And gag. And gag some more. I called Fred (thankyewjeezus for cell phones) and told him he might ask the vet if he could get an anti-emetic for Mister Boogers. They gave him a syringe of antibiotic/ anti-emetic, and antibiotics for both Miz Poo and Mister Boogers. The only cat who hasn’t shown signs of having this weird throat infection – Fred theorizes that it’s similar to strep throat. Did you know that cats have six tonsils? – is Spanky. I’m keeping an eye on him, but he’s our one cat who is always healthy, so maybe he won’t come down with it. I mean, I’m not holding my breath, but a girl can dream. I emailed the shelter manager to let her know that the volunteers might want to keep an eye on Rambo and Jodie. They were fine yesterday morning, so hopefully they haven’t gotten it. And then this morning, I got an email from the shelter manager. She’s looking for temporary homes for three sets of kittens – one set of five, two sets of four – who are currently in a foster home. The foster mother is going out of town for the week and they need someone to keep the fosters either for a week or until they’re ready to go up for adoption. They’re currently being treated for giardia, so they can’t be out and about too much (they can’t share a litter box with our cats), but I imagine once the course of treatment for giardia is done, they’ll be okay to socialize with our cats. Anyway, I’m going to pick up one of the litters of four on Sunday. And we’ll keep ’em ’til they’re ready for adoption – which won’t be too long, I think, since two of the litters are three months old, and one litter is eight weeks old, and I’m not sure which we’ll get. But anyway – kittens! In the house again! Whee! * * * I got my car back yesterday, good as new. It looks good, it smells good (like paint!), and not only did they fix the dent, they washed and vacuumed the car! If you’re in the Madison area and need a place to have body work done on your car, let me know. This place is awesome. * * * It’s almost noon, and the spud is still asleep. There’s no school today – it’s apparently “Parenting Day”, and I’m doing my “Parenting” by sitting on my ass in front of the computer while she sleeps the day away – and on non-school days she sleeps very, very late. She’s going to be hurting on Monday when she has to get up at 6:30, I imagine. It doesn’t bother me that she sleeps in so late, although I don’t think I could ever do that (not anymore, anyway. I know I did plenty of sleeping ’til noon when I was her age). If I sleep past 9 on the weekends I feel like I’ve wasted the day away, and I feel guilty, even though it’s not like I have a tight schedule or anything. Fred, on the other hand, feels like he’s a lazy-ass if he sleeps past 6:00. I guess you’d call him more a morning person than the spud and I are. He’s the morning person, the spud’s the night owl, and I’m somewhere in between. Just call us the three bears. * * * Fred actually admitted last night that he misses having Jodie and Rambo around. I almost fell off the bed in shock, because he’s been telling me for weeks now that he didn’t want to get too attached to them so he wouldn’t feel too bad when they were gone. Hopefully they’ll get their cute little butts adopted tonight or tomorrow. Y’all keep your fingers crossed! The last of the Jodie and Rambo pictures: I have no clue what this look is about, but it makes me laugh. Oh, she’s so pretty. I MISS her! So sweet, those babies. Snuggly babies. For the record, when we got them, Rambo weighed 1 pound, 4 ounces. When I took them to the vet for their rabies shot the day I took them to the pet store, he weighed 3 pounds, 7 ounces. * * * Previously 2004: small things that will remind me of my grandmother. 2003: Man, this whole running-a-business thing is strictly FOR THE FUCKING BIRDS. 2002: Fred (as if narrating a book): “She was a bitter-butted woman….” 2001: No entry. 2000: No entry.]]>

* * * I’m dancing! I’m dancing! See me dancing! I’m dancing! Survivor! I’m dancing! Survivor tonight! I’m dancing! I’m dancing! I’m doing the Cabbage Patch! I’m dancing! I’m dancing! Amazing Race! I’m dancing! I’m dancing! Amazing Race on the 27th! I’m dancing! I’m dancing! At least two months of both Survivor and Amazing Race! I’m dancing! I’m dancing! I’m passing out! I’m passing out! Fat women shouldn’t! Dance too! Vigorously! For too long! I’m panting! But excited! Survivor! Survivor! I’m dancing! Slowly! I’m dancing! Very slowly! Please god let there be! Someone I can hate! On Survivor! Love to hate them! Those Survivors! No fun! If there’s! No one to hate! I’m dancing! I’m dancing! I need a nap.

* * * Currently reading: Monkey Business, by Sarah Mlynowski. (I’ll have you know I spelled her last name correctly on the first try without even checking. GO ME.) Finished recently: The Earth, My Butt, and Other Big Round Things. This was a REALLY good book. I didn’t realize when I put it on my wish list that it was a young adult book, but I’d recommend it for teens (it’s intended for grades 7 – 10, I believe) AND adults. I really, really liked it, and I recommend it. * * * All of 2002 is now in WordPress; I finished January through March the other night, and Fred converted the entries to WordPress yesterday. You know what this means? This means that I ONLY have 26 months of entries to go through! Ugh. I’m a wordy motherfucker. * * * So, I took the kittens to the pet store yesterday. Since my car’s in the shop, I dropped Fred off at his second-favorite mountain (hill) to go hiking, then stopped by the vet’s to get rabies shots for the kittens, and then set up their cage, put plenty of toys in there for them, and filled out the cards that go on their cage. Rambo was okay – he’s always been more independent than Jodie – but Jodie was very scared. After I’d gotten their card filled out and hung on their cage, I opened the cage door to pet and comfort her, and she climbed up onto me, making sad little whining noises. I stayed as long as I could, but I had to get going, since Fred finished his hike before I was even out of the pet store, and I had to actually pull poor Jodie off me and put her back in the cage. Break my heart, why don’tcha? It was a little easier leaving them than it was when I left the previous batch, because I knew I was covering for the Thursday morning volunteer and that I’d see them this morning. I went in this morning and Jodie was sitting in the litter box, looking scared. BREAK MY HEART. I opened the cage and talked to both of them. Jodie came over and made sad little whining noises at me, looking just as scared as she could be. I put Rambo down on the floor to look around, but Jodie didn’t want to leave the cage, so I left her in there, and went back frequently to talk to her and pet her. Eventually she was willing to come out of the cage, and I let Giles out of his cage. Giles wanted to play, but Jodie was having none of that, just hissed and smacked at him. Giles is such a sweetheart that he backed right off to the other end of the room and just watched her, occasionally coming close to see if she wanted to play, but backing off when she hissed. By the time I left the petstore after an hour and a half, Jodie and Rambo were both ignoring me and playing with the toys I’d left in their cage. I think they’re going to be okay. Once they get accustomed to being in the cage, they’ll relax enough to be their cute little charming selves. I bet they’ll be adopted by Monday. Jodie’s not sure she cares for this. Jodie insists on cleanliness in everyone around her. This is possibly my favorite Rambo yawn picture. Snuggles. It sure is quiet around here today. * * * Miz Poo does not miss those kittens one teeny tiny bit. * * * Previously 2004: Waiting for Ivan. 2003: No more Benifer. How sad. 2002: No entry. 2001: No entry. 2000: Speaking of N Sync – that Lance Bass is a cutie, but I get the distinct feeling that although the lights are on, no one’s home. ]]>

* * * I was reality TV’s bitch yesterday afternoon. Not only did I watch Kill Reality, I also watched My Fair Brady. And I’ve taped Breaking Bonaduce. I tried Hogan Knows Best last week, but couldn’t really get into it. I think Adrianne Curry just needs to get her ass outta town, ’cause I’ve been planning my wedding to Peter Brady since I was, oh, 10 or so. At some point when she was yelling at him, I laughed out loud, because he did the patented Peter Brady blank look and it was hilarious. In all seriousness, I found myself liking her more than I expected, but the constant belching has got. to. go. Okay, that’s enough reality talk for this entry. I’m thinking of having Fred install WordPress so that I can have my veryown TV blog like I have in the past. What with Survivor starting this week and The Amazing Race starting in a few more weeks, I’d rather keep the TV talk contained to a separate blog so I don’t keep going on and on about it in this journal. I realize not everyone watches the same shows I watch and the TV talk has to be boring as hell.

* * * Oh, I do feel the need to mention that The Scorned (the movie they’ve been filming on Kill Reality) is going to be on E! Saturday night, September 24th. I had no idea it was a for-TV movie. For some reason, I thought it was a “real” movie. I guess they knew better than that, huh? No doubt that would have been a straight-to-video deal. * * * I have this recurring dream that I’m doing something – walking around the house, doing work in the yard, driving to or from somewhere – and suddenly I can’t see. It’s not that I’m blind, it’s that I just can’t open my eyes any more than a tiny bit. It drives me frickin’ nuts, because I don’t know I’m dreaming, and it’s mighty hard to do things around the house or in the yard or, you know, while rocketing down the road, if I can’t open my eyes the entire way. I always wake up all stressed out. I’ve always wondered what the dream means, and concluded at one point in the past that there’s something going on in my life that I don’t want to “see”, which would be why I tend to have the same dream several nights in a row, but I’m never able to figure out what’s going on that I don’t want to “see.” I once had a dream that I could fly, and I was wearing my prom dress in the dream, despite the fact that I was in my late 20s at the time and hadn’t worn a prom dress in many years. I was in my prom dress, flying, and having a hell of a time with the flying. I was more an out-of-control Greatest American Hero kind of flyer than an in-control save-the-universe Superman type. Despite the fact that I couldn’t fly worth a damn, that dream remains my favorite dream, to this day. Far better than the one I had about being naked in the halls of high school and trying to hide in a locker, for sure. * * * I spent some time last night going through my January, February, and March 2002 entries to take the table html out of each entry and fix the links to images (thank you to those of you who reminded me of the “find and replace” option in various programs. I couldn’t get Dreamweaver to do it for me, but I opened the multi-image entries in Notepad, and it worked just fine for me.) and for a while I was making sure that every link in every entry was still in existence (and deleting it if it wasn’t), but then I decided that life is just too damn short to deal with that, so I stopped doing it. I’m continuing to fix links that I know the correct url for (for instance, the cats’ pages are no longer located on Bitchypoo, but have been moved to their own subdomain on robynanderson.com; also, Fred’s page at onephatman.com is no longer around, so I’m changing all links to him to his vituperation.com address), but otherwise, if someone clicks on an old entry and runs across a link that no longer exists, I have a feeling they’ll be understanding. After all, the internet changes so much every day that it would be silly to expect links to still be around three years later. Though I’ve been surprised at how many of the links are still valid ones. Anyway, as I go through the entries, I mostly just strip out the table html and glance for links to see if I need to change them (my GOD, I put my email address in an awful fucking lot of entries. An email address, I should add, that no longer exists.), but every once in a while I stop and read the entry. I swear to you, I don’t even remember writing this one. I guess after almost 6 years of journalling, you can’t remember all of them. * * * I got an email from the lady who runs the cat shelter. There’s room at the pet store for Jodie and Rambo. Except they haven’t had their rabies shots yet (they were supposed at 12 weeks, and I think they’re actually a week past that), so they’ve got to get that done. I don’t have my car today, though (it’s in the shop), so I can’t take them to get their shots until Fred gets home. I’m waiting to hear from her, but I won’t lie – I’m hoping she’ll let me keep ’em ’til Friday so I can get a few more days of love from them. So if they don’t go to the pet store tonight, they’ll be going in the next few days. I can’t tell you how thrilled I am about that. I can’t tell you, ’cause it would be a LIE. Ohhhhhh, this is going to suck. It’s for the best, though. It’s for the best, it’s for the best, it’s for the best. I sure hope they get adopted together. Apparently Rambo had never noticed that there’s a ceiling fan up there, so when Fred turned it on, it gave him quite a fright. When discussing Mister Boogers with Rambo, we’ve been referring to him (Mister Boogers) as “Your daddy.” I mean, look at them. Don’t they look like they could be father and son? “You want to give me food….” Rambo walked over by Fred’s legs, and Fred moved his foot, which startled Rambo, who sailed several feet backwards and upwards. This picture makes me laugh until I wheeze. “Leave my tail alone, woman!” Jodie checks out the toy basket. Just got another email from the cat shelter manager. They’ll be going tonight. Wahhh! At least I’ll see them again tomorrow morning (assuming they’re not adopted), since I’m covering for the Thursday morning volunteer. * * * Previously 2004: I’m going to start signing my emails “as ever”. 2003: No entry. 2002: No entry. 2001: No entry. 2000: No entry.]]>

* * * For dinner last night, we had pizza pork hoagies. EXCEPT! We didn’t actually have PIZZA pork hoagies, we had BBQ pork hoagies. Basically, I followed the pizza pork hoagies recipe for the most part, cutting the pork into strips and marinating it in italian dressing. But then, after cooking the pork, when it was time to assemble everything, instead of using pizza sauce on the hoagie roll, I used BBQ sauce. I didn’t use any mozzarella, heated up the pork-laden hoagie rolls, and after I took them out of the oven, topped them with vinegar coleslaw. It was Fred‘s idea, and I’ve gotta give the man his due – it was really pretty damn good. I think we’re going to have them again next week.

* * * Currently reading: The Earth, My Butt, and Other Big Round Things, by Carolyn Mackler. With a name like that, it’s gotta be good – and so far, 60 pages in, it is. Recently finished: Shakespeare’s Christmas, Girls in Pants, and Just a Geek. Not a bad one in the bunch. I’m continuing to really enjoy the Lily Bard series. * * * I need some advice, people. My kitchen sink smells like I’ve been using the garbage disposal to grind up nasty long-dead rotten things. Nothing I do seems to help – I tried baking soda and vinegar, I tried running a bunch of ice cubes through the garbage disposal, I tried cutting up lemons and running THOSE through the garbage disposal. Everything works short-time, but nothing seems to work for longer than a few hours. The smell coming from my sink is just horrible and I hate it. I know someone out there has the answer, so please help me and my stinky sink, won’t you? * * * If you’ve ever wondered what it’s like being married to a man who seems to be a 12 year-old boy stuck in an old man’s body, this might give you some idea. * * * It seems like all of a sudden the kittens – Rambo, especially – have gone from little and round to long and lanky. I guess they’re not babies anymore. They’re adolescents! They also want to be let the hell out of their room as soon as they hear anyone moving around. Some mornings they hear Fred coming upstairs after working out, and they start howling. Other mornings, as soon as they hear me walk by their door or start laundry, they start howling. What’s funny is that not only do they want out of their room, but the other cats want them out of there, too. Mister Boogers mostly wants a playmate, and the other cats just want to get in there and eat some Science Diet Kitten food. They both – but especially Rambo – see Mister Boogers go outside (I’ll let him out if he makes it clear that he wants out by batting at the blinds on the back door and being a general pain in the ass) and want to go out, too. Usually if I open the door for Mister Boogers to go out, I have to catch Rambo so he doesn’t go outside as well. They also get really excited when I open the cat door for Mister Boogers to come inside. I open the cat door, let Mister Boogers in, then close it again, and they run over to sniff at the cat door, like they’re thinking “I KNOW there’s a way out of here…” Our cats, at least, tend to run away when someone rings the doorbell, but Rambo and Jodie prefer to make a break for it. So far we’ve been lucky. I hope our luck holds up! I put the cat bed on the floor, because I just couldn’t stand the sound of Rambo sucking on it. I’m not trying to make him stop, I just don’t want him doing it right in my ear, you know? He’s a loud sucker. Anyway, he “discovered” the bed and immediately climbed in and started sucking. Jodie climbed in after him, and actually tried to make him stop with the sucking – see her paw, under his face? – but to no avail. Judging by the size of her paws, I think Jodie’s going to be a big cat. Mister Boogers and Miz Poo face off. What is it with kitties loving to chew on wet hair? Rambo in the play cube. Rambo does yoga. * * * Previously 2004: All I know is that my grandmother’s ashes are NOT going to end up buried in the back yard next to Tubby – that I can guarantee you. 2003: No entry. 2002: “Plus,” he said with great seriousness, “I’m really hungry.” 2001: So, this is how they suck you in. 2000: WHEN WILL THE SUFFERING END???]]>

* * * Years ago when I was working for Fred’s company – I think it was after we’d gotten married, but before (obviously) I quit – I walked into my office after spending the morning running company errands, and picked up my phone to see if I had any voicemail. I did, in fact, have voicemail, and after I listened to it, I went to see which owners were present in the office so they could listen to it as well. (Note: There are three owners of Fred’s company: Fred, Tex (who longtime readers will remember; I had a lot of good stuff up in my journal about Tex, but took it down when Tex “discovered” Fred’s OneF/Phatman journal, because we figured it was only a matter of time before he found mine as well, and let’s just say I am not fond of Tex and wasn’t shy about expressing that opinion at length), and Taz.) Tex was out of the office, so Taz and Fred came to my office and I put my phone on speakerphone and replayed the message for them. “Hi,” said a very familiar voice. “This is Newt Gingrich, and I have a very important message for you. If you’d please give me a call back at (number), I’d like to discuss it with you. This is of the utmost importance.” Instantly, Taz and Fred got very, very excited (I’d like to say I was cool and calm, but I was about bouncing off the walls, too). Like I’ve said in the past, Fred’s company does contract work for a government agency and they are very good at what they do. I could almost see the dollar signs in Taz’s eyes, and he suggested that Newt Gingrich had heard about what a good job the company had been doing, and wanted to offer them a job doing the same kind of work for the entire country. Maybe the world! He was pretty much giddy from the thrill of it all. Taz put the phone on speakerphone and carefully dialed the number I’d written down. He sat back in my chair, trying to remain calm, and we listened to the phone ring. Suddenly, it was picked up, and we heard “Hi, this is Newt Gingrich -” and Taz ceased to even make an attempt at being cool. He shot forward until his face was an inch from the phone, and he said in a low, come-hither voice, “Hellooooooooo Mr. Gingrich!” Newt, however, kept on going. “Your call is very important to us, and the next available operator will be with you shortly.” Nonplussed, we stood around and waited for the next available operator. When someone picked up and said “Hi, you’ve reached Newt Gingrich’s office…”, Taz picked up the phone and spent the next few minutes arguing with the operator, saying that he wanted to speak directly to Newt, that Newt had left a personal message. Turns out it was a recording. Imagine that, huh? It was a recording, and the very important matter Newt wanted to discuss was the company making a donation to something or other. You’ve never seen three more disappointed people in your entire life. We must have moped around the office for the rest of the day, all pissed off that we’d gotten excited over what ended up being a frickin’ telemarketing call. I tell you this story so that now I can tell you that “Hellooooooooo Mr. Gingrich!” has become one of the phrases that Fred and I will say out of the blue, for no apparent reason. I’ll be sitting in front of my computer and he’ll be sitting in front of his, and I’ll sigh and say “Okay, you stupid thing…” and all of a sudden Fred will pipe up and say “Helloooooooo Mr. Gingrich!” Or we’ll be laying in bed talking and Fred will be telling me a story about hiking, and I’ll say “Hellooooooo Mr. Gingrich!” It’s probably sad to admit this, but it makes me laugh every single time.

* * * Thanks to Jackie, there’s now a link to the RSS feed over there in the sidebar. I had forgotten to put that up, sorry ’bout that. As far as the Livejournal syndication goes, I can’t for the life of me remember who set that up, and so I can’t nicely ask them to change the feed so it’s hitting the right page, and I tried to set up syndication through my own LiveJournal account, but apparently you can’t do that without a paid account – if I’m wrong about that, someone let me know, ‘k? – and I’ll be damned if I’ll pay $20 a year for an account I never use, you know? Sorry, Livejournallers. * * * Oh my god, oh my GOD, he is STARVING, how can you be in the kitchen and NOT giving him ALL the food in the house, he’s STARVING! “Is someone in the kitchen? OH MY GOD! SOMEONE’S IN THE KITCHEN!” Just for the record, there’s an entire cat bed on the other side of the desk. And it’s empty. Jodie snuggles up to Fred’s butt. Isn’t it nice of him to leave just enough room at the back of his chair for a snuggly little kitten? He sleeps like a rock, that one. * * * Previously 2004: No entry. 2003: What above the bumsen is up with that? 2002: I get no sexual spark from Ben Affleck. 2001: Just a day like any other, right? 2000: one nitwit asks a hundred idiotic questions, one right after the other.]]>

Extremely well said. Fred linked to this this morning, and I don’t know how many of you read his blog, but I’m linking it as well, because it’s very much worth the read: Here’s What Gets Me. Two paramedics stranded in New Orleans in the wake of hurricane Katrina give their account of self-organisation and abandonment in the disaster zone.

* * * I went to the dentist yesterday, I don’t think I mentioned that, for my three-month checkup. Because, you’ll remember, I have the mouth of a meth addict and a crack whore combined (how come no one ever calls anyone a meth whore, what with the epidemic meth problems?) and my gums are rotting away from my teeth. Or I have a touch of periodontal disease just slightly worse than gingivitis. Whatever. My god, my god, MY GOD, how I hate going to the dentist. Because I always go in there thinking, “Oh, this won’t be bad. A little poking, a little cleaning, I’ll be out in less than half an hour”, and then I get in the chair and she starts with the fucking scraping fucking shit out from my teeth and DIGGING at my gums FOREVER, and at one point she was taking “measurements” of my “gums”, which consisted of taking an extremely sharp dental instrument and jabbing it into the gums along EVERY GODDAMN SINGLE ONE OF MY TEETH. Now. I don’t know about you, but when someone is jabbing their extremely sharp dental instrument into my gums, my immediate response is anger. Red-hot anger. Grab that fucking instrument and jab it through your eye into your brain, laughing maniacally as I do so anger. But, of course, you can’t kill the dental hygienist because it would be far too obvious who had done it (“She called her 10:30 appointment back, and we never saw her again… Hmmm. I wonder who could have possibly killed her. You think it was a serial killer?”) and I have no intention of spending any more of my life behind bars. (I shot a man in Texas, just to watch him die.) So I grabbed the armrests on either side of the chair, and every time she jabbed me with the fucking thing – and the worst part of my mouth is the back of the middle bottom row of my teeth, because there’s a slight overlap there, and apparently crap hides there, and she spends 63 hours scraping the fuck out of the back of those very sensitive teeth and by hour 5 I want her DEAD – I just grabbed the armrests as hard as I could, and when the pain was especially bad, I wiggled my feet and it made me think of the way Mister Boogers wiggles his tail when he’s feeling nervous, and for a brief moment I was amused at myself. Which the hygienist must have seen, because that was right about the time she started jabbing at the most painful, puffy, sensitive gums I have, which are located by the very back teeth on the bottom of my mouth. I hate her. I really, really hate her. Is it wrong that I wish her a painful death? * * * I talked to my brother for a while yesterday morning (before the painful dentist trip. Oh. Did I mention I had a trip to the dentist and that I HATE THAT FUCKING HYGIENIST WITH MY ENTIRE HEART?) and at one point he said the word “noodledoc”, and it made me laugh like the goon I am. A funny man, that brother o’ mine. * * * I know. I know, I know. I know y’all want us to keep Rambo and Jodie, and my god, the little fuckers have got me wrapped around their little paws, and I’m sorry to disappoint, but we cannot keep them. Which is not to say that I’m going to give them up one moment before I absolutely have to, but they really are going to be put up for adoption, and let me tell you why. Right now, in our situation, we can totally afford the vet bills. But the thing is that at some point in the future, Fred’s job may possibly disappear – he does contract work for a government agency, and that’s a somewhat iffy position to be in – and at that point, we’ll have at least two cats who are on the elderly side, and we just flat-out won’t be able to afford to pay the thousands we currently pay most years when they need emergency surgery or trips to the emergency vet or whatever pops up. However, I’ll continue playing the lottery in hopes that we strike it rich and at that point, with millions of dollars in our pockets? The sky is the limit, baby! We’ll not only adopt two hundred cute little squeaking kittens, we’ll also hire someone to clean up after them. Whoo! * * * Someone – or multiple someones – did multiple site searches on “Giveaway page” over the last few days. It’s here, and you can always find it in the sidebar, under the “other” heading. As an FYI regarding the Giveaway page, I changed the notify list… last week? The week before? I sent out an email to the old notify list letting everyone know and where to join the new list(s), but from the email I’m getting, not everyone got that email. So if you’re interested, you can join the Google Groups notify here, or the Yahoogroups notify here. * * * Email sent at 10:30 last night: From: Me To: Fred (at work) Subject: YES! YES! YES! I almost had an orgasm when I saw this: http://www.arantius.com/article/arantius/gmail+delete+button/ MY DREAMS HAVE COME TRUE! (Censored dirty talk) And you think YOUR life is exciting. I can’t help it, I think the fact that someone wrote code to put a “delete” button in Gmail, when I’ve been bitching about wanting one for as long as I’ve had a Gmail account is just SO FUCKING COOL. I feel faint from the thrill. And I’m almost not kidding. (Thanks to Wil Wheaton for the link in his blog. I never would have stumbled across it on my own.) * * * I got tagged by Jolene for this meme. I’ve never been tagged before, so I guess I’m honor-bound to do it, huh? I’m doing it here instead of at my LiveJournal, ’cause I don’t use my LiveJournal at all. id·i·o·syn·cra·sy 1. A structural or behavioral characteristic peculiar to an individual or group. 2. A physiological or temperamental peculiarity. 3. An unusual individual reaction to food or a drug. List five of your own idiosyncrasies and then tag five friends to do the same. 1. My feet are the temperature gauge for the rest of my body. As long as my feet are warm, I’m okay. If my feet are cold, the rest of me is cold. If my feet are hot, the rest of me is hot. At night, if I’m under the covers and hot, I stick a foot out into the cool room, and the rest of me cools down with my foot. If I’m cold, I put my feet under Mister Boogers, and when my feet warm up the rest of me warms up. The first time we went to Gatlinburg and stayed in a hotel room suite, Fred and I slept in the bedroom, which had a balcony overlooking the river. It was (I think) Fall, and the night-time temperature was around 40ºF. We liked to sleep with the door open so we could hear the rushing water I always sleep completely naked, and every night I slept with all of me uncovered except my feet, and I was just fine. 2. I’m a zit-popper. I spend a couple of minutes every morning before I step in the shower, checking my body for zits. If I find one, I pop it. If I don’t, I’m disappointed. I suspect this has something to do with the fact that I didn’t have a zit problem in high school and thus didn’t get my quota of popping done during my youth. 3. I am a copious list-maker, and I never ever cross anything off. A list of who I think should fall off the face of the earth? Yeah, I’ve got that list. A list of what needs to be done, WordPress-wise, to my journal? Yeah, right here. Somewhere. I think I’ve still got a list of sites I want to link to on my “recommended” page around here somewhere. A list I made at least six months ago, and which will continue to float around until such a day comes that I need to clean off my desk and I decide it’s just cluttering up the joint. Need a list made? I’m your gal. Need a list of stuff accomplished? You’d be better off looking elsewhere. 4. If given the chance, I’d communicate with everyone via email and never talk on the phone. Okay, that’s kind of a lie. I have no problem talking on the phone to people I’m related to – I’ve really enjoyed talking to my brother over the past few weeks, and I always enjoy talking to my sister and don’t usually have any problems talking to my parents – but for the most part, I always feel goofy and awkward talking to people I don’t know. I’m getting better, though. Why, yesterday I picked up the phone without even checking Caller ID first! ::gasp!:: 5. When I sit and read, I wiggle my feet and move my bottom lip from side to side. That is, I move my feet in unison, pointing them one way and then the other and then the other and back again. At the same time I move my bottom lip to one side and then to the other. Usually in unison with my feet. I imagine that it’s quite strange-looking, but it’s not a conscious thing, and I only ever realize I’m doing it when someone points it out, or a cat attacks my feet. Let’s see. Who shall I tag to do this? Let me think… Bonnie, Jules, Say, Rachelle, and Yvonne. Coming up with people to tag was the hardest part of this whole thing, damnit. * * * Nothing new going on with the kittens, though I haven’t let them out of their room yet this morning because I wanted to eat breakfast first without a little kittenhead popping up in the way and scarfing down my scrambled eggs. You know what Rambo ate the other day? A popcorn kernel. He spotted it and scarfed it up before I could stop him. I was worried it might mess up his digestive system, but I can report that I saw it in the litter box. Ugh. It’s rough work being a kitten, but someone’s gotta do it. Mister Boogers’ reaction to giving Rambo a bath. Jodie, in a high state of dudgeon. “Brian Harper isn’t quite the highbrow literature I’m accustomed to. Got anything by Sneaky Pie Brown and that woman who’s riding his coattails?” I love this picture. Jodie keeps a wary eye on her brudder. * * * Previously 2004: No entry. 2003: So basically I paid twice as much for a keyboard as I would have on my own for no good reason, all thanks to that Staples employee, may he rot in hell. 2002: I hope that leaf doesn’t give me a damn yeast infection. 2001: No entry. 2000: I’m not sure what happened next. I believe I blacked out. ]]>

I am stunned by an interview I conducted with New Orleans Detective Lawrence Dupree. He told me they were trying to rescue people with a helicopter and the people were so poor they were afraid it would cost too much to get a ride and they had no money for a “ticket.” Dupree was shaken telling us the story. He just couldn’t believe these people were afraid they’d be charged for a rescue. (source) And burst into tears. I’ve been crying an awful lot these last few days. The idea of people being afraid that it would cost too much to be rescued and they couldn’t afford it breaks my heart. Then I read this quote from Barbara Bush, who was touring hurricane relief centers in Houston: “And so many of the people in the arena here, you know, were underprivileged anyway so this (she chuckled)–this is working very well for them.”.. (source) Really, you know, SOME PEOPLE get all the frickin’ luck. Hit by a hurricane that decimates your house, slogging through waist-high (or higher) contaminated water to get to a building jam-packed with thousands of other people, waiting for days without food and water, forced to leave all your pets behind, in many cases being separated from your family, and ending up on a cot in a city far from your home. I am green with the fucking envy. Because that, honestly, that sounds like the kind of life most people dream of. Give me some of that, Barbara Bush, you ignoramus. Funny thing, I used to kind of like ol’ Babs. But now when I think of her all I can think of is her standing there with a superior smirk on her face and truly believing that people who have lost everything they’ve ever worked for in their entire lives and are sitting on cots inside a building stuffed with thousands of other people, are better off.

* * * I present this picture to y’all again, because I don’t think it got quite enough attention the first time around, and it makes me laugh my ass off. What makes me laugh the hardest is the fact that you can only see one tooth sticking out. I sure do love that little guy. * * * The phrase “bloviating motherfucker” has been floating around in my head for the past day or so. I had to look up “bloviate” to see what the hell it even meant. I have no idea where the phrase came from, or where I picked it up. Does that ever happen to anyone else, a phrase coming out of nowhere to bounce around in your head, or am I the only freak? * * * Nance emailed me last night. Apparently she was bored and looking through the house tour, and came across this picture and wanted to know how the guy in the picture by Miz Poo was: (It’s Edward Norton, by the way.) I hadn’t glanced through my house tour in ages, so I was completely surprised by just how much my desk area has changed in the four years since I did that house tour. This is what it looks like now: If you want to see a bigger picture, complete with notes on what exactly everything is, you can check it out here. Or, if you want to see the big-ass version of the picture (without notes), check it out here. * * * Currently reading: Just a Geek, by Wil Wheaton. Finished last night: Shakespeare’s Champion, by Charlaine Harris. I’m loving this series. * * * Last night’s sunset, from our back yard. * * * Back when we first started letting the kittens out all the time, I made a little movie of Mister Boogers watching them play. You can’t see them in the movie, but you might hear them, and you’ll definitely hear the disturbed-sounding meow he was using all the time at first, because he just didn’t know what to think of those damn kittens. You can see it here. As always, it’ll remain up until I get around to putting up another movie. * * * The kittens are doing well. No news to report, though I’ll tell you what: if Rambo climbs up my back one more time, he’s going to find himself locked in his room full-time. Ye GODS does that hurt, to have a kitten climbing up your back. That reminds me, actually. Yesterday morning, Rambo and Jodie were full of piss and vinegar and were running around like little hellions, and at one point they were both on my leg, fighting with each other, and I became aware that I was in great pain because each of them was hanging OFF my leg by claws that were dug into not only my pants, but the skin beneath my pants, and it REALLY FUCKING HURT. I got pissed off and yelled “STOP IT!”, and to emphasize my point, I picked up the can of compressed air and shot it in the air, and in half an instant, there was not a single cat in sight. And they stayed gone for a good fifteen minutes before they tentatively came back around, looking at me and acting like they thought I might beat them. Jodie, up close. Rambo loves to pick fights with Mister Boogers and then act all “Oh, help! I am but a wee kitten and I am being beaten up by this cruel, cruel kitty who is three times my size!” If you’d been licking Rambo’s butt, you’d look this disgusted too. Believe me. Shnoozin’. More shnoozin’. Jodie, hanging out on the back of Fred’s desk chair.]]>

* * * I taped yesterday’s episode of Oprah – well, to be honest, I tape every episode of Oprah, ’cause the DVR’s set up to catch them all, shaddup – and last night Fred and I started watching it. She was in New Orleans, and I swear to god, I started crying about two seconds into the show. We didn’t end up watching the whole thing – I kept getting up to talk on the phone – but I think I’m going to watch the rest later today. I feel so stupid, because I guess I didn’t realize the scope of the thing. It’s like, you think “Well, the national guard is there, they’re giving them food and water, and they should all be out of there in, oh, like a day. Right?” Apparently not. Apparently you don’t evacuate that many people instantly. I think I still don’t realize the scope of the thing. I wonder if I ever truly will. I’m not sure I could ever wrap my brain around it.

* * * Yesterday I watched Kill Reality. And may I just say, that with all the people who keep claiming that Jonny Fairplay is “one of my closest friends! I love him to death!”, there’s either some kind of hidden depths to the man they’re just not showing us, or all those people are fucked straight out of their minds. In fact, after having seen the most recent episode, I’ve gotta say that everyone in that house aside from Stephen Hill (is that his name?), Ethan, Reichen, Trish and MAYBE Rob are complete assholes. What the fuck is up with Jenna Lewis and Jenna Morasca acting like fucking grade-schooler shit-stirrers? I am NOT FOND of those two. I predict that the big horrible thing that Jonny Fuckhead does that gets his ass kicked out of the house is going to involve feces. I fully expected him to take a dump on Trish’s bed when they were hanging up the porn. Yeah. I’m working on getting that life, I promise! * * * I didn’t get any pictures of it, but last night the stank coming off Rambo’s hindquarters was so strong that we finally gave in to the inevitable and gave him a bath. By “we”, I mean Fred, because he’s actually given cats baths before. Rather than opting for the whole-body bath, he just washed him from the midsection down, with an emphasis on his (Rambo’s, not Fred’s) behind. Rambo actually didn’t fight it much, and when he was done he was fresh-smelling and looked like a half-drowned rat. This morning, however, I do believe the stank is coming back, slowly but surely. Maybe he’s just a stanky cat, I don’t know. Good thing for him he’s so damn cute. The monkeys team up on Mister Boogers. Rambo, asleep on my arm. Rambo, desperate to do some wool-sucking, didn’t particularly care that Mister Boogers was already in the bed. Mister Boogers was thrilled, as you can imagine. That boy just cracks me up, because he’s just SO HAPPY. Snugglin’ kittens. * * * Previously 2004: No entry. 2003: No entry. 2002: No entry. 2001: IT’S NONE OF YOUR FUCKING BUSINESS WHO IT IS. 2000: Am I not an ass-kicking WalkAerobics diva?]]>

reading: Shakespeare’s Champion, by Charlaine Harris. Finished last night: A Long Way Down, by Nick Hornby. Good book, but I feel like it dragged on and ON at the end. Thanks to reader Martha for lending it to me! Oh, and here’s a quote from the book that perfectly describes my point of view: How do people, like, not curse? How is it possible? There are all these gaps in speech where you just have to put a “fuck.” A-fuckin’-men to that!

* * * So, we (by “we”, I mean “Fred”, of course) got robynanderson.com and onefatbitchypoo.com transferred over to the new server. Fred set up WordPress for the Petstore Kitties page, and for OneFatBitchypoo, and I spent a good part of the weekend fiddling with the templates and pointing out problems (with the templates) that Fred fixed. Fred is, you should be aware, The Shit. And The Man. And the King of Geeks. Check out the new petstore kitties page and the new OneFatBitchypoo page (which hasn’t been updated in three months! Ugh.). Yeah, they’re the same template in different colors. Can you tell I found a template I really like? My entries from Bitchypoo have been imported into WordPress, though let me tell you, there was much moaning and groaning and whining during the whole process, and it wasn’t coming from ME. See, back when I started my journal almost six years ago I named my entries one way, and then I changed how I named them, and it was basically a big fucking mess. Not to mention that the first three years’ worth of entries were done in Dreamweaver, in a table, so Fred had to write some program to strip out the tables. Do you realize I’ve written something like 1700 entries in the past almost-six years? Good lord; the mind boggles, doesn’t it? So, I need to tweak the template and go through all the old entries, fixing links and stuff. God only knows how long THAT’s going to take. * * * By the way, the current pet store kitties entry is here. * * * I fully expected to see the price of gas shoot up over $4 a gallon over the weekend and I’m sure that in some parts of the country it did, but at the gas station where I always get my gas, it remained at a steady $2.73 for the cheap stuff. If you’d told me a year ago I’d be thrilled to be paying $2.73 per gallon for gas, I would never have believed it. I suppose it makes me REALLY FRICKIN’ OLD that I fondly remember gas dipping down to way under a buck a gallon the summer I was 19, huh? Liz and I would be out cruising in Lewiston, and I’d catch sight of the gas prices and gasp, and she’d get all excited, thinking I’d seen a good-looking guy. Then she’d get mad at me for being excited at the price of gas. I suppose it IS a pretty dorky thing to get excited about when you’re 19. I suspect we’ll never see it under $2 a gallon again. * * * I don’t believe I’ve ever mentioned this before, but the window upstairs in the kittens’ room is starting to rot around the bottom. It’s a big window with a narrower window on either side (I’m sure there’s a name for that kind of window, but I’ll be damned if I have any clue what it is), and if you push on the bottom of either of the narrow windows, you can feel how mushy and rotten they are. Obviously we need to have it fixed or replaced, and we’ve got a guy coming out sometime this week or next to take a look at it. Anyway, there’s a small gap between the windows and the windowsill. This will be important in a moment. Friday night I went upstairs to give the kittens a scoop of food and get one last snuggle from each of them before closing the door and leaving them there for the night. I flipped on the light and walked in and I was MIGHTY FUCKING HORRIFIED to find that there was a trail of ants from the window, around the room, to the kittens’ food bowl, which was absolutely covered in ants. Ants just really fucking piss me off, you know? So I had Fred put the kittens in our bathroom, and I got out the vacuum cleaner and threw the kittens’ food bowl in the spud’s sink and ran hot water over it. I vacuumed up every ant I could find, and then I had Fred bring the bottle of cinnamon upstairs with him, and I was just about to sprinkle cinnamon along the windowsill – they were very clearly coming through the gap between the window and windowsill – when I realized I hadn’t turned off the water in the spud’s bathroom, and went to do so. Because I’m an idiot, when I’d turned the water on, I’d plugged the sink, and because it had been something like ten minutes, there was water EVERYWHERE. I got out towels and started mopping up the water, but then Fred pointed out that there was water in the other part of her bathroom. I went to get more towels, but he had a better idea: we have a steam cleaner for the rug, and one of the things the steam cleaner does? Sucks liquid up from the floor! Yay! So he did that, and I went back into the kittens’ room to check for ants. A bunch more had come in while I was dealing with the water, so I vacuumed them up and ran a line of cinnamon across the windowsill. Ants really, really don’t like cinnamon. I think one of you told me that they inhale the powder and it kills them, or something along those lines. I can verify that when faced with a line of cinnamon, ants will turn around and return from whence they came. So after all that, I gave the kittens a scoop of food, got a last cuddle from each of them, and went to bed. Saturday morning when I got up around 9, I called down to Fred to close the cat door, and I opened the door to let the kittens out. And there was a motherfucking line of ants from the TOP of the window, across the wall, to the bowl of cat food. GodDAMN do I HATE ants. Fred came upstairs and put the kittens in our bathroom, and I got out the vacuum cleaner again and started sucking up the ants. Fred opened the window and popped out the screen and tried to figure out how the fuckers were getting into the house. He decided that they were crawling up the track that the window runs on, and he went and got his caulking gun and closed up the gap and I suggested that he spray outside the window with ant & roach spray, and we could sprinkle cinnamon along the windowsill, and we did so. We haven’t seen an ant since. For good measure I went out and got some of those ant traps, the kind with bait inside that the ants carry back to their colony and eventually kills the whole damn colony, and we put them between the window and the screen. I don’t think I’ve mentioned that I REALLY FUCKING HATE ANTS, have I? Sunday night, we watched an episode of Dirty Jobs, and one of the dirty jobs Mike Rowe did, was to work with exterminators from a company called Vexcon. They dealt with rats and snakes for a while, and then they went to this trailer that was absolutely overrun with roaches. German roaches, I think they were. When they first went in, any cabinet doors they opened were just covered with swarms of roaches. It was SO nasty and totally gave me the ickies. When the show was over, I turned to Fred and said “Between the ants we’ve been dealing with, and seeing that show, I’d like to drag everything we own out into the yard, burn it, and scrub every surface of the house down with bleach.” He wouldn’t go for it, though. He sux the fun out of everything. * * * Look! Look what the wonderful Jeannine, guest designer at Trinket Trunk, sent me! Very “me”, don’t you think? I’ve been wearing it non-stop since I got it. Thanks, Jeannine! Y’all go check out Trinket Trunk and buy something, won’t you? * * * The Kitten Section. Jodie has, in the past few days, gotten incredibly friendly and loving. She’s always been friendly, but we had a problem with her being so overwhelmed with love that she’d bite us, and I cannot abide a bitey kitten. Whenever she’d bite, I’d say “NO”, and put her down. She’d come back up on my desk and rub on me and purr, and as long as she didn’t bite, she could rub and purr to her heart’s content. It took a little while, but she got the idea that biting wasn’t good, and she’s pretty much stopped it. But she is SO full of love she has to do SOMETHING, so she licks. And licks and licks and licks. You know, being licked by a kitten 10 times is cute. After 10,000 times, it really starts to kind of hurt. But she’s so damn full of love, I haven’t got the heart to stop her. At least not ’til she draws blood. Remember when I put a cat bed on either side of my desk, with the idea that the kittens could sleep in one and Miz Poo could have her usual bed? Yeah. Well, that’s not quite working out the way I’d planned. Squeaky to the left of me. Squinky to the right. Here I am, stuck in the middle with Poo. Fred has started referring to Rambo and Jodie as Squeaky and Squinky. I don’t know why, but I gotta say – it fits them pretty well. I tend to just call them The Monkeys, because they run around like little howler monkeys when they’re not dead asleep on my desk. When she’s had enough of the licking, Jodie will retreat to the cat bed, and sit there and knead really hard (look at the paw!) and shoot me looks o’ love. This picture cracks me UP. Snuggly kittens. * * * Previously 2004: No entry. 2003: No entry. 2002: I think that, much like dreams, the only person interested in hearing the myriad details of drug stories are the people involved. 2001: I don’t use the “c” word lightly, y’all. 2000: No entry.]]>

Marcia’s entry that I heard (read) about him laying into one of the senators from Louisiana. As always, I put Fred on the case, and within mere minutes he’d found a link to the video. The footage of the devastation was just incredible. I hadn’t seen much of it before last night, because I’d stuck to checking the news web pages, and seeing it in small pictures online is a world apart from seeing it on your big-ass high definition TV. That really brought it home for me in a way that the online coverage couldn’t. I can only imagine what it must be like to actually be there right now.

* * * Speaking of Fred (as I did up there somewhere), did you see his pretty new page? He’s all converted to WordPress, and his site is all moved over to our new server, so he’s said he’ll probably begin work on my sites this weekend. Like I’ve said before, things might be a little floopy for a few days. Just relax, things’ll go back to normal soon enough. We were laying in bed talking about all he has to do as far as moving my sites over (and for the record, moving bitchypoo.com is going to apparently be a huge pain in the ass, because not only will my Movable Type entries be going into WordPress, but he’s also going to convert my Dreamweaver-written entries (October 1999 through June 2002) into WordPress entries. Which makes no nevermind to you, but it makes things a little easier for ME.), and he sighed and said “Boy, bitchypoo.com is going to be a huge undertaking.” I have faith in him, though. He’s the King of the Geeks; no doubt he can write some little program to make the whole thing run smoothly. Because he rocks. * * * You know what I hate? I hate when you order something online, and the company you’re ordering from decides to put you on their mailing list whether you want to be on it or not. That just pisses me off. Last night I got a newsletter from Knology, provider of our cable, internet, and phone services. Whenever I get an unwanted mailing list email, I get all horrified and indignant. Like, WHO are these motherfuckers spamming my inbox, and WHY do they think I care about their news? In fact, last night when I saw the newsletter from Knology, I actually said out loud “Hel-LEW, what the fuck do YOU want?” At least Knology had information on how to unsubscribe from their mailing list. The emails that piss me off the most are the ones that provide no unsubscribe information at all. Motley Fool, I’m lookin’ at you. * * * I’ve started drinking Diet Dr. Pepper over this past week. It’s not that I’m tired of Diet Coke – at ALL – but when we were in Tuscaloosa for the funeral, my aunt had a bottle of Diet Dr. Pepper, and I thought that it looked good. So I had Fred buy a 12-pack of cans, and I’ve been drinking about one a day. For some reason, Diet Dr. Pepper makes me belch WAY more than Diet Coke does. Anyone else have that problem? Not only do I belch more often (I’m so sexy, you know you want me), but they tend to be really long, loud belches. Is there more carbonation in Diet Dr. Pepper, or what? * * * Last night’s sunset. * * * Yesterday after I finished eating lunch, I went into the kitchen to put my dishes in the sink, and realized that there were about 300 ants crawling around on the floor. Upon further investigation, I realized that SOMEONE (who is not me) who likes to feed Mister Boogers leftover turkey on the kitchen floor had given Mister Boogers more than he was interested in eating, and there was a piece of turkey left on the floor. Apparently an ant on a reconnaissance mission had discovered it, and sent out the word to his ant brethren, who came running on the double to partake of some scrumptiously moist turkey. So I pulled out the vacuum cleaner, vacuumed up all the ants I could find, and when that was done I pulled out the Hoover Floormate and cleaned the floor in the hallway and kitchen in an attempt to erase the trail of “come and get it!” the lead ant had left behind as a trail for his brother and sister ants to follow. When I was done, I put everything away and then thought “Huh. I wonder where the kittens are?” The kittens were huddled together in their room upstairs, hiding in the kitty condo from the loud, noisy monster machines. I guess it’s a good thing that they consider that room their safe place, huh? Speaking of the kittens, Wednesday evening I had to take them to get their leukemia vaccinations, and I intended to leave the house at 5:30, so at 5:25 I went up into the kittens’ room and grabbed the cat carrier, and carried it downstairs to the computer room. Immediately, Jodie said “Hey, what’s this?” and climbed inside to explore. Ten seconds later Rambo said “Hey! What’s this?!” and followed her inside. I guess they haven’t spent enough time in carriers to know that they’re supposed to be scared of them. Mister Boogers and the kittens partake of catnip. Rambo shows the toy basket who the boss is. Rambo fights with a toy. This is the face Mister Boogers makes when he’s about to sneeze. It cracks me UP. Meester Boogers in his bed. * * *]]>