I realized yesterday that I never told y’all any of Joe Bob’s back story. I’ll do that now, and then copy it to his page when I get around to it (which will probably be in three years or so, knowing me).
Joe Bob was born in a litter to a feral mother somewhere in South Huntsville. Luckily for the mother and the kittens, a couple of women who volunteer for the same shelter I volunteer for either discovered the mother and kittens soon after, or had been feeding the mother for a while, I’m not sure which. When the kittens were a little older they trapped them all and had them spayed and neutered (though it’s entirely possible they trapped the mother before she had her babies. Clearly I didn’t get as many details as I thought I did!). The mother cat was truly feral, so they released her and one of her kittens (from that litter or a previous one, I don’t know. What the hell DO I know? Not much, I guess!) and to this day they still feed the two cats.
One of the women fostered the litter of kittens until they were socialized and ready to go to the pet store. They went to the pet store and got adopted; Joe Bob and his sister (who was named MoonDance, but we called Myrtle) were returned a few years later due to a death in the family. They sat at the pet store for a couple of months until a year ago, when the shelter manager asked if we’d mind bringing them home to give them a break from being caged.
It was at our house that I noticed that Joe Bob and Myrtle weren’t all that attached to each other. I thought they’d be perfectly fine, adopted separately, and I actually thought Joe Bob might have a better chance at adoption if his crazy (“cranky”, his original foster mom termed her. Heh.) prone-to-shrieking sister wasn’t part of the package.
Myrtle went to the pet store and Joe Bob stayed with us for a few more weeks, then went to the pet store too. They both sat there in cages for what seemed like forever, and then Joe Bob was adopted and Myrtle went back to the shelter. Joe Bob was returned after a short amount of time and went directly back to the shelter.
At some point, Myrtle got herself adopted and Joe Bob languished in the shelter. It drove Fred crazy – he’d periodically check the shelter’s PetFinder page and see that Joe Bob was still there, and we’d talk about what a tragedy it was, that no one could appreciate what a great cat Joe Bob was (is).
When I dropped Punki and Felicia off at the pet store on Saturday, the adoption counselor asked after Joe Bob, and said how happy she was that we’d adopted him, since our house is cat heaven.
Joe Bob reminds me a lot of Spot. He’s not as neurotic as Spot was, but he’s very quiet, and he likes to follow me around. He acts nervous about being outside (like he thinks he’s not supposed to be out there) and he’s a great big pig when it comes to Snackin’ Time.
He’s really a sweet boy with a good heart and maybe it’s a good thing no one else was able to appreciate what a good boy he was (is). The more time goes by, the better he fits in with our other cats, and I dare say that I saw he and Mister Boogers rub against each other last night. I mean, it WAS Snackin’ Time and they both get quite excited and forget themselves when there’s Snackin’ on the way, but still. Give it another few months, I might even be able to say that they’ve become friends.
(flickr)
I have never seen a single episode of Paula Deen’s show, I’ve never seen her on Oprah or ran across her on any show whatsoever, I’ve never been to her restaurant, never flipped through her cookbook, I’ve never heard her voice, I don’t even read her blog (if she has one). All I know is that she cooks Southern food, and she uses a lot of butter, and I only know that much because other people have mentioned it in passing. Also, she apparently says “Honey” a lot, because I’ve been subjected to imitations of her performed by both my mother and my friend Liz, and they both began their imitations with “Honey” and used a very thick southern accent.
All that said, I can tell you that, somehow, Paula Deen annoys the fucking shit out of me.
I don’t know how that can be, it just is. I’m not a great fan of any cooking show, really, but if I’m flipping channels and come across Rachael Ray or Emeril Lagasse or. Um. I can’t think of another cooking show, so insert your favorite cook here, anyway, if I flip across a cooking show, I say “Oh look, it’s Rachael Ray (or Emeril Lagasse or whoever)” and keep on flipping the channels. None of them annoy me as much as the very idea of Paula Deen for some reason.
Oh my god. I just typed the words “I’ll be there with bells on!” in an email to a 19 year-old. Do 19 year-olds even know that phrase, or am I just going to sound like some strange old lady to her? Because I’m thinking that phrase was old when I was born (like “cat’s pajamas”, another phrase of which I am fond).
I should not be allowed to just type up emails and send them, willy-nilly. There should be a delay and Gmail should say to me “Did you really mean to say “Bells on” to a 19 year-old? Choose yes or kill me now to complete your emailing experience.”
Right now somewhere in Alabama a 19 year-old girl is thinking “Why does she think she needs to wear bells to cover my shift at the pet store?” with a big cartoon question mark over her head.
(flickr) Sugarbutt watches the birds outside. It’s too friggin’ cold outside – it was actually spitting snow earlier – to let the cats out, and they’re most displeased with me.
Previously
2007: Just call me Betty Homemaker.
2006: I swear to god, I have NO CONTROL over what comes out of my mouth sometimes.
2005: No entry.
2004: Dude, what the fuck? I don’t talk for 20 to 30 minutes on the phone to people I know and LIKE, let alone some strange man from the CDC!
2003: A Day in the Life of Mr. Fancypants.
2002: No entry.
2001: But I kinda like the irritability.
2000: My heart stopped, my jaw dropped, and I whispered “Oh, shiiiiiiiiiiit!”