Yesterday was a pretty uneventful day, but it went by really fast – I guess when you’re gone for three hours first thing in the morning, the rest of the day goes by quickly. I did my thing at the pet store, ran over to Target for groceries, ran back to the pet store (once they were open) for a new litter box, then stopped by the grocery store on the way home for the stuff I needed that Target hadn’t had (bran flakes, turnips. Not to be eaten together.).
When I got home, I ate breakfast, and then I had to catch up on the Scrabble and Text Twist and Scramble games I’d gotten behind on over at Facebook (I’m enjoying the Scrabble and the Text Twist; not so much on the Scramble, because I suck so badly at it. Well. I suck at the Text Twist too, but I kind of enjoy it. Most of the time.) and then I sat on my ass and got caught up on some of the TV shows I missed while I was in Pennsylvania.
I find that I’m not terribly interested in the Michael/ Walt storyline on Lost; it’s been too damn long since we saw either of them, and I find I don’t miss them.
There was this episode of Jon and Kate Plus 8 that I watched before I went to Pennsylvania, and during one of the interview segments, Kate is talking about the kids being sick, and she stops mid-sentence – almost mid-word – and turns to him and politely says “I’m sorry, could you stop breathing?” Apparently he was breathing a little loudly and it was distracting her. She goes on to imitate him, and I’ve watched that one little segment about fifteen times now, and it makes me guffaw every damn time.
And after I watched a (different) episode of Jon and Kate, I thought to myself “Self, if Kate Gosselin can get through a day with eight small children, you can get off your dead ass and take the recycling back and clean the kitchen and switch out the litter boxes!”
So I did.
I’m kind of dreading Friday because I have an appointment with the plastic surgeon and if there’s nothing on earth I hate more than going to the doctor, it’s going to a doctor who will purposely touch my flabby sections.
Heh. “My flabby sections” would be an excellent band name.
As do all overweight and formerly overweight and really ALL women, I loathe having my flabby bits touched, let alone touched at length and eyeballed and discussed. Can’t you just trust me that there are flabby bits there and wait until I’m under anesthesia to touch and eyeball them doc, huh?
I’m still scarred from the time my gastroenterologist (ie, DrLiver) GRABBED THE ROLL OF FLABBY SKIN AND FAT AROUND MY MIDSECTION AND SQUEEZED IT. Yeah, he asked first, but I didn’t know he was going to TOUCH IT, I just thought he was going to look. I restrained myself, though, and didn’t scream “DON’T YOU KNOW YOU NEVER TOUCH A WOMAN’S FLAB?!” at him.
What was I saying? Oh, right, I have an appointment on Friday with the plastic surgeon. Not looking forward to it.
“Robyn,” you are saying, “Correct me if I’m wrong, I know you will, but didn’t you originally have an appointment with the plastic surgeon at the end of last month?”
Indeed I did, my appointment was originally for the last day of February, only two days before my appointment I decided I was feeling too fat to be seen partially nude by a stranger so I rescheduled. I told Fred that if I tried to cancel it again, he needed to hold me down and threaten to spit in my mouth, because I could easily cancel and reschedule appointments for the next two years if no one stopped me from doing it.
I want to have had plastic surgery, I just don’t want to have to go through the process of seeing the plastic surgeon, pouting until Fred lets me have all the plastic surgery I want done (don’t even be thinking “fake boobs”, because the day I have surgery to make my boobs bigger is the day I throw myself off the nearest cliff; I only want them lifted), going through surgery, healing from surgery, whining about the pain from surgery, screaming at the cats for tromping all over my cut-and-stitched bits, sobbing about how I’ll never feel normal again, etc etc etc.
Can’t I just snap my fingers and have it over with? Must I really go THROUGH the entire process? Because no fair. I object!
WhineWhineWhine.
Every night, when I’m not paying attention, Fred LOVES to turn the heat in the downstairs part of the house down a few degrees. So I’m sitting on the couch thinking “Why is my nose cold?”, and it turns out that it’s because he’s turned the goddamn heat down.
Now, WHY does he have to turn the heat down in the downstairs part of the house when HE DOESN’T SLEEP DOWN HERE, I ask you? He can hang out downstairs ’til bedtime, then go upstairs to his 45-degree upstairs, and sleep like a baby. Why does he always gotta fuck with my heat?
Last night I was bitching at him about how cold it was, and he was all “I only turned it down ONE DEGREE!”, but apparently that’s the one degree that makes all the difference. I have to have the heat on 71 during the day or I’ll be cold (well, I’m cold anyway, but it’s bearable), and if it’s set on 70 instead, I freeze to death.
Clearly he just wants me to freeze to death. Bastard.
Tommy and Sugarbutt like to sleep in the beds on my desk. Well, most of the cats like to sleep in the beds on my desk (Spanky’s sleeping in one right now, and the other is empty, which is unusual), but Tommy and Sugarbutt spend most of their time on my desk. Sometimes Sugarbutt will feel the sudden need for love from his brudder, so he gets up, walks across the desk to Tommy’s bed, and plops himself down on top of Tommy.
They’re fully-grown cats, and not small ones, either. Seeing the two of them trying to share one bed is pretty funny.
Tommy’s such a sweet boy that when Sugarbutt makes himself at home, Tommy does as requested, and begins grooming Sugarbutt. Every time it happens, I want to pick them up and squeeze them to death.
Sugarbutt haz a flavor.
Previously
2007: No entry.
2006: No entry.
2005: The spud is officially licensed.
2004: Ain’t it always the way that when you call someone names in your journal, secure in the knowledge that they’ll never see it, they always do?
2003: (And before you say it, yes. You shouldn’t give a shit what I think, either.)
2002: Is it just me?
2001: No entry.
2000: If you knew you’d get $341 million for being treated savagely and cruelly for 7 years, would you do it?