Month: March 2008

Yes – I did quote Dr. Phil to Nance yesterday, but ONLY because we were talking about Heather Mills McCartney and how it worked out that she ended up with something like $30,000 a day for their 4-year marriage. I said “Well, you know what they say – if you marry for money, you earn every dollar!” and Nance looked at me like I was all smart and shit, so I had to admit that I’d heard it on Dr. Phil.

(flickr) Rick bought us a cool hand-carved pig in Germany. Yay, Rick!

Nance and I partied it up yesterday, taking a trip to the drugstore and then to Big Lots. The Big Lots here is a lot bigger than the one at home, so I wandered around with my mouth hanging open.

Nance made me a fancy lunch, but I’m sad to report that neither of us thought of taking a picture of it, so you’ll have to take my word for it.

Maddy continues to avoid me – this morning she sat in the kitchen and glared at me, but of COURSE I didn’t have my camera with me, so no pictures of her. Nance said that last night, the instant I went to bed, Maddy showed up and hung out. Brat.

Regan came over and hung out for a while last night and snuggled the baby and we all sat around and shot the shit. I think sitting around shooting the shit is about my favorite thing to do – I don’t get nearly enough of it at home.

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Sadie continues to be completely charming. I don’t know that I’ve turned into a dog person, but I’ve definitely turned into a Sadie person. A Felina person, too. When Felina gets feisty and starts harassing Sadie, they crack me up. Sadie’s like the older, tolerant sister who puts up with the brat. She’s so sweet.

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Alex made me laugh out loud last night when Nance was talking about needing her sunglasses fixed and he called her “Corey Hart.” HEE. I kid you not, Alex and Trey are pretty freakin’ adorable and funny, don’t let Nance tell you any different. Shirley cracks me UP, too. I’ve been a laughing fool since I got here.

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Julie is such a total Daddy’s girl, it’s funny to watch her sit and give Rick the Eyes o’ Love. She reminds me of Miz Poo, only Julie’s less bitchy. A LOT less bitchy.

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Felina is slowly killing me with The Cute. The thing about Felina is that she’s smaller than she looks in her pictures. I’ll have to take a picture of her with a can of soda or a quarter or something to give you a better idea of her size. She sleeps a lot ’cause she’s still a baby, and then she prances around the house and when she decides she needs a lap to sit on, she politely touches you on the leg and waits for you to pick her up. Cutest dog on Earth, I kid you not.

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I’m making Nance take me back to Big Lots today because I was going to buy something (cat beds for $7, if you must know) and then put it back and now I wish I’d bought the damn things. Better than buying them and wishing I hadn’t, right?

Last night after dinner (really good lasagna and the best salad on earth), Rick was playing Wii Golfing and Nance and I were talking about how I get the occasional email from people who say “I read your journal, but I don’t like cats at all”, and I said “Why on earth would anyone who doesn’t like cats read me?”

Rick, in mid-swing, said “Because you’re a fascinating writer with an effervescent style.”

HEE.

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Previously
2007: No entry.
2006: No entry.
2005: No doubt she wishes I’d leave her the hell alone and just let her SLEEP, GODDAMNIT.
2004: I’m known for my dumbassery, though.
2003: Get your cart OVER TO THE SIDE SO I CAN GET PAST YOUR STUPID ASS.
2002: Good riddance to boring characters, I say.
2001: No entry.
2000: No entry.

(Flickr)

Guess who flew to Pennsylvania so she could eat cupcakes with Nance and Rick, snuggle the cutest dog on Earth, and reunite with Maddy?

(Flickr)

Yeah, that’d be me. No, I didn’t mention I was coming up here, because do I ever share my travel plans with you, stalkers? Of course I don’t.

(Flickr)

I’ve met the sweetest dog on earth, Sadie. All Sadie wants is a little lurve and not to be harassed by Felina. She is SO SWEET.

We walked through the door and Shirley brought Maddie down to see me, and Maddie took one look at me and was like “HELL NO”, hissed, and ran off. She’s been back to look at me a few times, but still won’t let me get close. Gorgeous but hateful, that one.

(Flickr)

Abusing the baby.

(Flickr)

(Flickr)

I think it’s about the cutest thing in the world to see Felina hopping around trying to pick a fight with Sadie, who outweighs her by a thousand pounds.

Don’t let Nance fool you – her family is fun to listen to, and her kids are funny and adorable. I felt at home immediately. They started up the Wii and I played several games of Bowling. Unlike real life, I can bowl like a madwoman in the virtual world. It was way too fun and now I kinda want a Wii. I guarantee you, if Fred ever got the chance to try a Wii we’d own one in about ten seconds flat.

Last night I called Fred before he went to bed, and the first thing I said was, “This dog (Felina) is SO freakin’ cute!”

And he immediately said, “No.”

Hmph.

Lots of pictures up over at Flickr.

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Previously
2007: No entry.
2006: everyone’s Irish today, right?
2005: Guess it must run in the family.
2004: The cats are on my fucking NERVES.
2003: You KNOW you’re fascinated!
2002: No entry.
2001: No entry.
2000: The Big Butt Fairy visits us every year though. Just like clockwork.

You might think that life here at Crooked Acres is nothing but work and drudgery and cleaning litter boxes and trudging through pig poop and stomping through chicken poop and dealing with dead things and cleaning up cat vomit interspersed with the occasional kitten snuggle or chick cuddle.

What you don’t know is that there are moments of pure glamour interspersed with all the drudgery. That’s right, I said it – flat-out glamour here on the farm. Who’d ever guess?

Friday evening after Flappy laid the mega-monster-mutant egg, Fred emailed a reporter at the local newspaper. Tuesday morning he got an email from the reporter that read “Fred, we’d like to do a story about your egg. Please call me as soon as possible.” We laughed about it, yelling “Stop the presses!” and “I wonder if we’ll be on the front page!”, then I promptly went about my business and forgot about it.

Later Tuesday morning, just as I was settling in for a couple of hours of reality TV, Fred called.

“Are you in a good mood?” he asked gleefully.

Whenever he asks if I’m in a good mood, I know it’s because he’s about to ask or tell me something that will put me in a bad mood, so I claim to already be in a bad mood to stop him. It never works.

“NO,” I said.

“Really, are you in a bad mood? Really?” he said, not sounding like he much cared if I was.

“What? What? WHAT DO YOU WANT?” I snapped, my Woohoo, reality TV! mood rapidly switching to a grumpy What is it now? mood.

“Well, I talked to the newspaper guy, and they’re going to do the story. They need a picture of Flappy, and they want a person in it with her.”

“I hate you,” I said.

Fred laughed. “I told him I could give him a picture of Flappy by herself ’cause I’ve got a ton of them, but he’s insistent that there needs to be a person in it, too.”

“I hate you. Why do you drag me into this sort of thing? I don’t WANT to be in the newspaper with Flappy!”

“They’ll be there tomorrow around 10,” he said.

“Did I mention that I hate you?”

Fred laughed again, and then in the background I could hear the sound of his cell phone ringing.

“Oh, that’s him!” he said. “I’ll call you right back!”

I hung up the phone and sat and pondered the depth and breadth of my hatred for my husband. A few minutes later, he called back.

“The bad news is, he wants to come right now!” he said.

“Well then, what’s the GOOD news? They don’t need me in the picture?”

“No, the good news is that you’ll get it over with and won’t have to stress about it for the next 24 hours!”

“Oh, you are TOO GOOD to me. Did I mention that I hate you?” I said.

“They’re on the way. Call me after they’re gone!”

I hung up the phone and went to change my shirt, comb my hair, and put on some makeup. Then I sat in front of my computer and tried to surf while obsessively looking out at the driveway for the reporter. He showed up about ten minutes after I’d last talked to Fred, and as soon as I saw his truck in the driveway, I went out to greet him with the intention of getting this all over with as quickly as possible.

He and the photographer greeted me.

“Hi, Miss Robyn!” the reporter said. “Now, before I forget – what’s the chicken’s name?”

“Flappy McGee,” I said, and blushed.

He chortled and asked me how to spell it. It’s a funny name ’til you have to spell it out for a reporter, let me tell you.

The photographer and I went into the chicken yard, and the chickens gathered around casting hopeful looks at my hands. I almost never step foot into the chicken yard without a treat for them (even if it’s just a handful of cracked corn), so they’ve come to expect that. I had nothing for them – it hadn’t occurred to me to grab something for them on my way out – and they figured that out pretty quickly and then scattered to scratch and peck at the ground.

Flappy McGee, skittish on the best of days, was as far from me as she could possibly get, casually scratching and pecking at the ground over near the back of the chicken yard.

“Chickchickchick,” I called, which is usually enough to get them to all come and gather around me. They all gathered around me again, except for Flappy, who shot me a knowing look and continued to scratch and peck.

I calmly walked in her general direction, and she high-tailed it for the other side of the chicken yard.

“Chickchickchick,” I said.

“Which one is it?” the photographer asked. I pointed her out.

“Your husband said it might be hard to get hold of her,” the reporter said.

“Yeah, she’s a little… high-strung,” I understated. I continued trying to get within grabbing distance of Flappy. She feinted left, I went left, she ran right. I chased her across the yard, and she ducked under the coop. “You… BRAT,” I said in exasperation. Flappy peeked out from under the coop, saw that I wasn’t close enough to grab her, and ran across the yard.

I walked over to the covered can sitting under the chicken rain shelter, and grabbed a handful of chicken feed.

“Chickchickchick,” I said. Chickens flocked around me hopefully. I scattered feed on the ground, and they went to work, grabbing it up as fast as I could scatter it. From the very edge of the flock, Flappy McGee glared suspiciously at me. I slowly, casually edged around the flock, and she ran back under the coop.

In my head I cursed her with every bad word I could think of. Twice. Out loud, I just shrugged at the photographer. Flappy peeked out from under the coop then zipped up the ramp and into the coop.

“Oh!” I said. “I bet I can get hold of her in the coop!”

I shut the door to the coop so she couldn’t get out, and then I opened the front door and stepped inside. The photographer hovered in the doorway. Flappy eyed me. I moved toward her. She feinted right. I moved right. She zipped around me and out the door.

“UGH!” I yelled. The photographer laughed.

I went back out and followed Flappy around the yard. I grabbed more feed. The other chickens gathered about, but Flappy wouldn’t come near me.

“If we could just get a picture where you and the hen are in the same frame,” the photographer said. “That would work.”

“Let me go in and get some cracked corn, they really like that,” I said. She nodded.

As I left the chicken yard, the reporter said “What did you think when your husband showed you that egg?”

I stopped and thought about it for a moment. “I think I said… That poor chicken! That egg was huge, I was worried about her!” And then I babbled some more and headed inside the house to get some cracked corn.

Back in the chicken yard with a cup of cracked corn, I crouched down and tried to coax Flappy closer. She’d have none of it. The other chickens thought they were in hog heaven, and gathered around me, eating the cracked corn as I sprinkled it on the ground.

I held out a hand full of cracked corn, and Frick ran over and started eating out of my hand.

“Is that the one?” the reporter called out.

“No, but it’s the same kind as the one who laid the egg!” I said back.

“So no one would know the difference?” he asked.

“No one but us!”

After a few more pictures, the photographer said she thought she had enough shots, and they thanked me and left.

“I hate you,” I said to Fred, having immediately called him when I got back inside the house.

“I’m sensing a theme here.”

“That chicken wouldn’t let me get ANYWHERE near her!”

Fred laughed. “I told him you probably wouldn’t be able to hold her.”

“Yeah, I called her ‘high-strung.'”

We talked for a few more minutes, and then I told him to let me know if he heard anything from the reporter.

This morning, I puttered around the house for most of the morning, clearing the junk off the dining room table (we tend to pile stuff up there, because we NEVER eat at the table anymore) and decluttering the computer room a little bit. Finally, around 11 I left the house to head for town to go to Big Lots and stop by the grocery store.

In the grocery store, I wandered around looking for the local newspaper. They were hiding it over by the pharmacy, and when I picked up the paper, I about fainted dead away.

ABOVE the fold, baby. Britney only WISHES she got coverage like THAT.

I grabbed several copies of the newspaper and went to stand in the checkout line. When it was my turn, the cashier grabbed the top paper and scanned it.

“Do you know you have two copies – well, more than that, I guess.” She counted the number of papers, then looked questioningly at me.

“That’s me on the front page,” I confessed, face glowing bright red. “You probably don’t recognize me with my eyes all the way open.”

She smiled and read the article. Then she called another cashier over, and then they called the manager over. They read the paper and then looked at me with approval.

“That’s pretty neat!” my cashier said. I smiled and nodded and paid and left before I actually burst into flames.

I read the paper, and then I called Fred.

“We sound like the biggest hicks on earth. We were sort of creeped out!” I quoted him, putting a thick redneck accent on it as I spoke. “I thought to myself, ‘Ouch!’ Oh my god, we sound like the biggest idiots.

Fred laughed. “Hey, this is the sort of thing the big news outlets pick up as a human interest story. Maybe CNN will call!”

“Yeah, I’ll let YOU pose for THAT picture,” I said. “I look like an idiot.”

The picture, if you must see.

As the day went on, I occasionally called Fred and read parts of the article to him. We quoted it to each other with thick southern country accents.

“We should totally record ourselves acting out the article,” I said. It took some convincing, but finally he agreed to it. After about thirty different takes, most of which I managed to mess up by laughing like a goon, we got a usable recording. Fred’s a much better redneck than I am – I started off okay in my quote, but then I veered off into the general voice I use when I’m imitating an idiot. Which I guess is still pretty apropos.

(Note from 2018: I took the wav file and put it in a video with random chicken pictures so I could upload it to YouTube. Also, we changed the name of our town (when reading it) to Smallville and the name of our road so that it would be a little harder to stalk us – not realizing that all you’d need to do to find the article was Google “Flappy McGee monster egg.”)

(Also, we recorded this using an old camcorder – remember, it was TEN YEARS AGO – so the sound isn’t the greatest.)

YouTube link

So, our 15 minutes of fame. Not quite how I expected it to go, really. I kind of expected a lot less chicken poop and a lot more Brad Pitt.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go fire the BB gun at some of the paparazzi camping out on the front lawn.

Flappy McGee.

Read the article here.

Previously
2007: No entry.
2006: That is an amazing and scintillating fact, right there.
2005: No entry.
2004: No entry.
2003: Y’know, sometimes I wonder how I make it through the world, clueless as I am.
2002: Her portly butt probably cut off the circulation to something important.
2001: I should have her arrested.
2000: Work was just heavenly today.

Shortly after Fred and I wished each other a happy anniversary Monday evening, Miss Stank sashayed across the room, gave me an angry glare*, and snuggled up next to Tommy.

“You realize,” I said to Fred as I watched Tommy diligently lick the top of Miss Stank’s head, “Even if we wanted to, we could never get a divorce.”

“DARN,” Fred said, trying to look disappointed but only succeeding in looking proud of himself for dissing me. “Why’s that?”

“Because Spanky is mine,” I said. “You gave him to me as a gift for Christmas. And Miz Poo is mine, too. Sugarbutt and Tommy are mine, also.”

“Tommy’s not yours!”

“Tommy’s mine because we could never separate him from Sugarbutt. And Sugarbutt is ABSOLUTELY mine.”

Fred did not disagree with that.

“So if I took Tommy, I’d have to take Miss Stank as well, because it would break her heart to be separated from him. And I’d take Newt, because I love him and you prefer Miss Momma, so she’d be yours. So I’d end up with Spanky, Miz Poo, Tommy and Sugs, Miss Stank, and Newt. And you’d end up with Mister Boogers and Miss Momma and Joe Bob.”

There was a long silence as Fred considered.

“I could live with that!” he declared, once again looking proud of himself. Lucky for him, he’s got fast reflexes so the book I threw didn’t hit him squarely upside the head, only glanced off his shoulder.

 

*Every evening, we eat dinner around 5. Beginning around 5:30, Miss Stank decides it’s Snackin’! Time! and she begins her routine of walking across my line of vision, glaring angrily at me, and then meowing one high-pitched, demanding meow. I glare back at her and say “NO.” She goes away. Two minutes later she comes back, glares, sashays across the room, and meows again. If I stand up and walk anywhere near the kitchen, she runs in front of me, sits on the rug on the kitchen floor and howls. And howls. Then glares. Then sashays. And on and on and on until it’s 7:00. And if I should have the nerve to stop in the bathroom to pee on my way to the kitchen, she comes into the bathroom, glares at me, and howls and howls and howls. The NERVE of me.

 

We lost a chick yesterday – and by “lost” I mean “she died.” Fred noticed that she seemed slow and wobbly, more wobbly than the other chicks that is, and this morning he told me he was worried that she wasn’t going to make it. When I went out to look at them mid-morning, I saw immediately the chick he meant. She was just sitting under the heating lamp, not moving much. The chicks don’t ever realize I’m there until I say something, in which case they scatter all over the place, chirping in fear. This one didn’t even move, and when I reached down to touch her, she barely moved. I dipped her beak in water a couple of times, and she never drank. When another chick smacked into her in an attempt to run by, she fell over on her front and couldn’t seem to get back up. I set her on her feet, but she just sat and wobbled there. By the time Fred got home, she was dead.

Poor little chick.

We noticed another one was ailing last night and kept an eye on her and tried to get her to drink and eat, but when it’s a tiny bird, there’s really a limit to what you can do. This morning, she was dead. The rest of the chicks are looking bright-eyed and perky, so hopefully that will be the last chick we lose.

To tide you over ’til I post a video of myself sounding like a sheer and utter idiot on Friday (there’s something to look forward to!), here’s a video of the chicks and their reaction to being spoken to.

YouTube link

 

I spent two hours cleaning the hell out of the kitchen and laundry room yesterday, just because it had been so long. This cleaning included getting on my hands and knees and scrubbing the floor, which desperately needed it. I cleaned the microwave, I cleaned the refrigerator (and found a container of sour cream that expired in December, blech), I switched the flour and sugar and brown sugar and cornmeal to my new canisters (with red tops – they don’t really scream “country kitchen”, but they’ll keep the damn moths out that’s for sure), I wiped everything down, and when I was done the kitchen looked clean and if you really looked closely you might notice that I’d cleaned, but maybe not two hours’ worth.

Oh well. I know it’s been cleaned, and that’s all that matters.

The plan for today is to clean the dining room (and get the damn cat carrier off the table once and for all) and computer room and maybe my bedroom. I’m not making any promises, though.

Later I’m going to run to Big Lots and do some browsing. In and amongst all that excitement, I’ll snuggle some kitties and check on the chicks obsessively. Maybe run out a bagel and some grapes to the pigs.

I’d make a humorous comment here about how you wish your life was as exciting as mine, but to be honest, I kinda love my life right now and wouldn’t trade it for anything.

 

The kittens are doing just fine, though they are not crazy about this new twice-daily dose of Doxycycline. Can’t say as I blame them, but once they get past the taste, they forgive pretty quickly. And then I put Terramycin in their eyes, and they’re like “Woe is me, and when will the suffering ENNNNND?”

But then the sun shines and they get happy again. Nothin’ like sunshine to make some happy kittens, I tell you.

 

Previously
2007: No entry.
2006: No entry.
2005: No entry.
2004: I’m a total freak.
2003: She’s home!
2002: Of course, my sympathy for him will only last until he poos in the hallway instead of the litter box again.
2001: I am the dumbest dumbass in the whole wide world, I really am.
2000: Sometimes, they lay on the floor and perform for us.

Yesterday morning I left the house a little later than I like to on Monday mornings and I was just driving up the driveway toward the road when my cell phone rang. It was Fred, and when I answered he frantically asked “Where are you?”

“Just about to pull out of the driveway,” I said.

“The chickens are here!” he said.

We’d been under the impression that the new baby chicks were going to be born and shipped today, and would be here on Wednesday. Luckily, since I’d left the house late, it was no big deal to turn into the post office, pick up the chicks, and bring them home to situate them.

Last year I didn’t see the chicks until after Fred had set them up in their new home. This year it would have been silly for him to come home, get the chicks, and put them in their new home since I was right there. He finished the new brooder a few weeks ago, and I painted the inside of it (to protect the wood from baby chicken poop. Man alive, can little baby chickens poop like nobody’s business), and yesterday he set it up so that the only thing that needed to be done was to plug in the extension cord (which would turn on the heat lamps) and fill up the watering… thingy. Whatever it’s called.

So I left the box o’ chicks (a surprisingly smaller box than you’d think) in my car, since it was warm, and I brought the water thingy inside to fill it up with tepid water, and by the time I got the water thingy out to the garage (did I mention that the brooder is in the garage this year?) the heat lamps had heated up nicely. I managed to slop water all over the freaking place on my way back out to the garage OF COURSE. And when I stepped inside the brooder I simultaneously knocked down both of the heat lamps AND slopped a nice puddle of water on the floor of the brooder.

I’m lucky I didn’t electrocute myself, now that I think about it.

I set the heat lamps back up where they belonged and got the water set up in a corner of the brooder, and then finally opened the box o’ chicks.

I forgot how cute they are.

Although Fred had ordered 27 chicks, the packing slip listed 28 chicks, and we actually only received 24: 22 live, 2 dead in shipping.

I had to take the (live) chicks out one by one, dip their beaks in the water, and watch to make sure they got the idea. Every single one of them would sit there for a moment contemplatively, then tilt their heads back and swallow.

I about keeled over from the cuteness of it.

About halfway through the box of chicks, I called Fred in frustration.

“They keep getting in the water and sitting there!” I said.

“Are they able to get out of the water?”

“Yeah, they can get out, but then some of them get back in! Maybe they accidentally sent us ducks instead of chickens.”

“If they can get out, they should be okay,” he said.

“I’m not worried about that, I’m worried about the fact that they like to just all of a sudden fall asleep where they are, and I don’t want to come home to chickens who’ve drowned, even if it does ensure the survival of the fittest.”

We decided I’d find marbles or stones at Michael’s to put in the water so that even if they did fall asleep while they were in the water, they (hopefully) wouldn’t drown.

So far, all the ones who arrived alive still are. Let’s hope that continues.

She’s an Americauna like Frick and Flappy, so will lay blue eggs when she grows up. If you look closely enough, you’ll see her tongue sticking out.

Americauna on the left, a white crested black polish on the right. I’m already calling the wc black polish chicks “Ivana Trump.” Fred’s calling them “Don King.”

A sleepy Rhode Island Red.

At the trough.

All the bebbes.

I cannot wait ’til these puffy-headed chickens grow up. They’ll lay eggs, but I think we all know that their main purpose is nothin’ but entertainment.

 

Yesterday went by amazingly fast for me. By the time I got home from the pet store, Target, and Michael’s, it was almost 11. By the time I was done wasting time online, it was after noon. I spent some time with the kittens, checked on the chicks a couple of times, checked for eggs from the Girlz, ate lunch, and the next thing I knew, Fred was home. Spent more time with the kittens, made dinner (“making” dinner consisted of warming up the chicken Fred smoked in the smoker on Sunday, and tossing some summer squash (from last summer) and corn on the cob (also from last summer) on to boil.), went for a walk around the back forty, stopped to feed the pigs leftovers (corn cobs and summer squash), stopped to feed the chickens leftovers (corn on the cob, chicken scraps), a little more time with the kittens, and voila. Time to go watch TV ’til bedtime.

I hate having to adjust to the time change every spring, but I adore the fact that it’s light outside until 7ish.

On a side note, I mentioned up there somewhere that we had boiled summer squash for dinner last night. That’s squash left over from last summer, and I know that at the time, everyone said that you can’t freeze or can summer squash, that it tastes horrible. I’ll say that it’s certainly nowhere near as good as the fresh, but it’s certainly not horrible. It’s kind of bland, but if you put some salt and pepper and Brummel and Brown on it, it’s pretty good. I’ve also been sauteeing summer squash with an onion, dehydrated Sungold tomatoes, and okra, and that’s a mighty fine side dish.

 

The foster kittens are doing okay, though they’ve – Lindsay, mostly – started developing a bit of congestion, and the goopy eyes, so I’ve started them on Doxycycline and Terramycin, and hopefully that will take care of that. Poor kitties, they’d just gotten used to being happy to see me (they get half a can of food in the morning and another half at night to accompany the dry food they have available all day long), and now it’s “Am I happy to see you, or are you going to shoot nasty stuff in my mouth?”

Lindsay is such a little purr machine. She turns it on the instant she sees us, and even when we’re medicating her, she only stops purring until the medicating is over, then on goes the purring again.

Miz S asked if it was true that it’s unusual to have orange cats be female, and I do believe it is. I’ve heard or read (or possibly completely made up!) that about 75% of orange cats are male. So it’s a little unusual, but not unheard of. What are the chances that I’d end up with three orange tabbies given my complete and utter love for them?

(And no, we’re not keeping them!)

Bath time for Maeby.

And Lucille.

Playful kitties.

“What?”

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Newt is absolutely dying to get into the foster kitten room. I’d like to think it’s because he wants to bond with them, but really it’s because they get Science Diet Kitten to eat, and Newt enjoys a little kitten food now and then. I don’t want him to catch whatever they’ve got, so I’ve been keeping him out. Doesn’t stop him from trying every single time, though.

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Newt loves to spend his days snoozing on my bed.

 

Previously
2007: No entry.
2006: No entry.
2005: No entry.
2004: OR MAYBE I JUST NEED A NEW COMPUTER.
2003: So, there. That’s my day so far.
2002: I’m a total calendar-having fool.
2001: No entry.
2000: No entry.

Today marks 12 years since I first met Fred.

Happy anniversary, baby!

 

Remember back in December when I asked y’all to send good thoughts toward Jonas, who’d just been medevacced out of town?

Well, Jonas is finally home! Yay!!!!

 

We had a little weirdness on Friday in the form of a super-mega-mutant egg. Read about it (and see pictures!) on Fred’s site. I spent Friday evening cringing in sympathy for poor Flappy McGee. She seems to be perfectly okay, though, so I guess she recovered quickly.

Fred posted another entry yesterday, complete with pig movie. The pigs talk to Fred. Fred talks back. He sounds like, well, go see for yourself.

 

For the record, when I said in Friday’s entry,

if the pigs are boys (and we suspect they are), they were castrated before we brought them home.

what I meant was

if the pigs are boys (and we suspect they are), they were castrated before we brought them home.

I did not say

if the pigs are boys, I assume they were castrated before we brought them home.

So, to restate the statement so that it’s clearer:

I don’t know if the pigs are boys, but Fred tells me that they are. If they are boys then they were castrated before we brought them home, because the man who sold them to us told us that he castrated all the boys in that group of pigs himself.

 

I don’t know if I mentioned that we’ve started watching The Office or not, but we finished off the disc from Season 1 (which we got from Netflix) pretty quickly, and since Saturday was such a cold, crappy day Fred went to the movie store, and we spent the afternoon watching movies and the first disc of The Office, Season 2.

That is such a damn good show. I should have known it would be – my friend Liz loves it, and without fail every time she recommends a show, we end up loving it. Vis a vis: Oz. Seinfeld (I didn’t get into Seinfeld until around Season 3, I think). There are others, I just can’t think of them at the moment.

At one point, Fred said “I think Dwight Schrute might be the best character ever shown on television.”, and I had to tell him “That’s because you are Dwight, only with a sense of humor.” Then I thought about it and said “You’re Dwight with Jim‘s sense of humor.”

Such a fine, fine show. If you’re looking for a show to fill your time ’til the previously-on-strike shows come back, you could definitely do worse.

 

 

Friday afternoon I was sitting in the living room watching Lost when the phone rang. The manager of the no-kill cat shelter I volunteer for was calling.

“Want some kittens?” she asked.

“You know I do! When can I come get them?”

“Any time!”

So I got up and got me some kittens.

Lindsay, Lucille and Maeby.

They’re named, in case it’s not apparent (or you’re not a fan) after the women of Arrested Development. They’re about three months old, and they were just spayed Thursday (I think). The first day we had them, all they did was sleep. And sleep. And sleep some more. If I went in and picked one of them up, they’d let me snuggle them, but they weren’t into it.

Then yesterday morning I went in, and they got up and played. And chased each other around. And came over to sniff me.

They are seriously cute and sweet. I don’t expect them to be around very long; since they’ve been spayed and they’re all healthy, we’re just waiting for room to open up at the pet store.

Lindsay, the friendly one. You pick her up, and she starts purring very loudly. Actually, you don’t even need to pick her up, you can just talk to her, and she purrs and purrs. She’d let you hold her all day long and pet her if you wanted.

Maeby, the semi-friendly one. She won’t come looking for love, but if you pick her up and pet her, she’ll put up with it for a little while before she remembers she’s got somewhere else to be. She’s the most playful of the three, though she’s not impressed with catnip (none of them are).

Lucille, the least friendly of the three. She’d rather you not pick her up, please. Also, she doesn’t want to play. She’s suspicious of your intentions. Why do you keep looking at her? Oh, OKAY, if you must pick her up she’ll stay in your arms for a long 30 seconds before she runs off. It’ll take a little while to make friends with her, but I suspect that once she’s your friend, she’s your friend forEVER.

Lindsay and Lucille, snuggling in the sun.

Lindsay in the sun.

Lucille in the sun.

Maeby would like to nap, please.

The permanent cat residents of the house are not impressed with the new additions, especially since that means they can’t hang out in the foster kitten room anymore. Maxi was so eager to get in the foster kitten room that I let her in for a minute to see what would happen. Would she be all “Oh! Bebbeh kittehs! I love!” and begin grooming them?

Not so much. Instead, she sniffed noses with one of them, and then hissed and would have gone so far as to start smacking, but I picked her up and put her out of the room. The kittens responded by puffing up and walking slowly around the room.

Maxi, apparently, is not the new goodwill ambassador to the kittens.

*****************

Give Maxi sunshine and concrete, and she’s a happy, happy kitty.

 

Previously
2007: No entry.
2006: Today’s the 10th anniversary of the day Fred and I met.
2005: I met Fred nine years ago today.
2004: Eight years ago today, I entered the IRC Undernet channel #!Fredsplace and met the geek who owned and ran the channel, who would eventually become the love of my life. (Complete with mush!)
2003: Sick Poo.
2002: No entry.
2001: Five years ago today, I was on IRC and I wandered into the Undernet channel #!Fredsplace, and I met the love of my life. (More mush!)
2000: Four years ago today, I wandered into the IRC Undernet channel #!Fredsplace, thus setting into motion a chain of events which would echo down through the years.

I apologize for the length of this movie, but I am no movie editor; I just dumped it to a file and uploaded it. If you want to hear the peegs grunting as they run up to me, crank your volume up. This is from yesterday, when I took a sliced apple, a ton of grapes, and a bagel out to the pigs. That little one sure does like his grapes.

YouTube link

 

Dear Robyn: As you know I am highly opposed to these pigs, but whatever, my question is…why must you feed them people food? Is there some reason? Don’t they sell Pig Chow? I mean, you can’t be serious that you are actually buying full price GROCERIES for swine? Sincerely, Pig Hater.

and

I was wondering, too, why you don’t feed them Pig Chow? I didn’t think it was too expensive and it’s got everything needed for healthy pigs. You can always give them treats of table scraps.

and

Here in Milwaukee, many grocery stores have “seconds” tables set out reduced produce/bakery. (Usually a smaller market will do that but not usually the big ones.) Maybe a stores in the bigville does it and stores in smallville don’t. Good luck – seconds can be a great deal if you dig deep enough on the table.

I guess I forgot to mention the fact that we actually do feed them Pig Chow (or whatever it’s called); that’s their main source of food. They have that available to them all the time in the bowl by their shelter. The other stuff I buy – bagels, fruit, vegetables, is in addition to the pig feed. Because it’s the law here at Crooked Acres that all animals must be fed and fed well for all the days of their lives.

We have a bakery thrift store near where Fred works, where they sell bakery stuff for rock-bottom prices. It’s where we get our bread, and Fred was there earlier this week but didn’t see anything worth buying to feed the pigs.

I promise, I do NOT buy full-price groceries for the pigs, I buy stuff that’s on sale or about to go bad, so it’s marked way down. Also, they get our leftovers.

 

I have a question for tomorrow that might really be more for Fred, but I thought maybe you could answer it. Is there any aspect of “you are what you eat” with respect to the pigs and the quality of their meat? I mean, does the quality of the pig meat (which you guys will be eating!) change with what you feed them? Can you make it leaner and/or more nutritious if you give them healthy grains and veggies vs. Little Debbie Snack cakes? Just curious.

As mentioned above, the main source of their intake is the “Pig Chow” we leave available for them in their bowl, as well as the stuff they dig up from their yard (pigs like to eat roots, among other things). The majority of the people food we give them is fairly healthy – fruits and vegetables with bagels tossed in because they like them so much. The Little Debbie snack cakes are a more occasional treat specifically chosen because the pigs can take them directly from Fred’s hand (Fred, sitting behind me right now, says he’ll take care of his fingers just fine, thanks.) and they’ve already come to know that when he does that (holds food out to them), it’s ’cause he’s got something good to eat. That training ensures that when the time comes to shoot them in the head, he won’t have to do it from a distance.

 

Those are going to be the most spoiled piggies on the planet. The pictures of them frolicking in their yard too cute. Do they have names?

As of last night, they are named! Meet:

Hock Hudson.

And Hamuel (“Ham”) L. Jackson.

 

I was listening to a show on NPR the other day regarding backyard chicken and egg production. One of the drawbacks, according to the person being interviewed, is that in late summer flies can become a huge issue. Did you find that to be a problem last summer? if so, how did you and Fred deal with it? – I would imagine it to be a good idea to avoid pesticides as much as possible, especially if one plans to consume either the eggs or the chickens. Do those sticky fly strips work?

The fly situation was actually not that bad, except in the coop itself. We put up sticky fly strips around mid-summer, which helped a lot. Cleaning out the bedding on a regular basis helps keep the fly population down, too.

 

Ed, my orange tiger, has started eating about half of his meal like a cat, and then eating the second half like … Idk, a raccoon? A monkey? He uses his paw, scoops up some food and then eats it off his paw. He only does this for the second half of the meal and I have gone over to the bowl and fluffed things up, thinking maybe he can’t get the food with his tongue anymore? But he still eats the second half (roughly, he’s not standing there with a scale and a t-square) with his paw. Is he a freak?

I think I’ve heard of cats doing that, though I don’t believe any of ours have ever done it. I saw somewhere (I did a lot of Googling around so don’t remember where I saw this) that it’s possible cats who lick food off their paws do so because they don’t like having their whiskers touch the side of the bowl, and if you feed them off a plate rather than a bowl, it’s not an issue. So the question is – do you feed him from a bowl? If so, give a plate a try and see if that makes a difference!

 

I don’t even know what edamame or quinoa is. Are.

The only reason I knew what edamame was in the first place is because someone on Survivor once objected to the idea of killing a chicken, and asked why they couldn’t have gotten a nice pile of edamame instead. And then I read about it in a magazine, and then someone mentioned it to me in an email, and then I saw it in the produce section of the grocery store, so I decided to give it a try. And I found that it was GOOD.

I’ve never had quinoa, and only vaguely know that it’s something grain-like. Right? This site says it’s the botanical fruit of an herb plant. It is treated as a grain in cooking. It’s one of those things I’ve always thought about trying, but never really got around to it. (It’s pronounced “keen-wah”, by the way.)

Does typing edamame that many times make it look as weird as it does reading it that many times?

Every time I type it, I have to stop halfway through and talk myself through the damn word.

One more edamame thing: Trader Joe’s has a really great combo called “Soycutash” – it’s like succotash, except instead of the lima beans, they use edamame. Really yummy … I bet you can make your own this summer with your garden produce. (You can google “soycutash” to see it)

Y’all make me so jealous with your Trader Joe’s love. There are NO Trader Joe’s around here, damnit!

That Soycutash looks good, only I don’t like red peppers. I could see making something like corn, edamame and beans, though. I bet that’d be good!

 

A friend of mine found these and for some reason I thought of you and Fred.

I’ve posted the first one before, and just saw the second one for the first time a couple of days ago. That cat in the second one, the way s/he sits and thinks about it before moseying through the door? That is EXACTLY what Miss Momma does, and it drives me nuts. I actually start COUNTING OUT LOUD sometimes when she’s sitting there debating whether she wants to come inside or not. Usually by the time I hit three, she gets her ass through the door.

 

How in the heck does one manage to swallow cross stitch thread? and do I even really want to know? heeeee I cross stitch like a mad woman at times and have never had this happen yet and would like to try to avoid it.

As I am sitting on the couch cross-stitching, sometimes the end of the thread gets a little frayed, and I hate that, so I use my little scissors to clip the end off, and then I touch the scissors (where the thread is) to my tongue because both my hands are full (one with whatever I’m cross-stitching, the other with the scissors) and I intend to pick the thread off my tongue when I have a free hand, but sometimes I forget and swallow the thread. THAT’S HOW THAT HAPPENS.

 

Hey Robyn – Just wanted to let you know that pigs LUUUUV chocolate! This is probably TMI, but we artificially inseminate the sows on our farms. So when the boars get up on the dummy and we have collected their semen, they get a little cookie for doing well. Whenever I share my “hog farm” stories with my girlfriends, they always ask if I leave cookies on my husband’s nightstand!

Fred laughed and laughed when I read this to him, at the idea of boars doing their thing, getting off the dummy and then getting a cookie for their efforts. Thanks for the info, though – next time I make cookies, you KNOW Fred will be running out there to feed them to the pigs!

 

We used to have problems with our cats getting into the potted plants also. Since I had a boat load of plants I was damned if I was going to throw them out and waste all that money so I went and spent more money… on a big bag of river rocks. I covered all the dirt with rocks and the cats hated it. Pro: I could keep my plants and water them easily. Con: They weighed a ton and were a bitch to move.

I think this is THE MOST AWESOME piece of advice I’ve ever gotten. Never EVER would have occurred to me – what an awesome idea. I’m going to go start buying plants again!

 

i have used twin sheets as curtains. you don’t have to sew anything if you make a tiny slit with a seam ripper in the side hem of the curtain. i didn’t adjust the length and just let them puddle on the floor. one of my GAY husbands was over to see the house after i got them up, and he grabbed them and said something about me “being miss fancy with her expensive suburban window treatments” and he couldn’t believe they were just bed sheets. works, plus they have a line at linens-n-things called colorups that you can buy in a jillion shades and just buy only the twin flat sheet for like $5. i usually hung them up in pairs, and if i didn’t puddle them on the floor, i would use tassels from dollar tree as tiebacks. fancy schmancy!

I was actually just going to make valances to go across the tops of the windows in my bedroom. But we’ve got the old, crappy blinds traded out for the lovely plantation blinds (that look SO much better!), and I still feel that if someone really wanted to, they could peer through the little gaps at the side of the blinds and see into my bedroom. Which, big thrills there, all they’d see is me laying in bed reading, but still. I think I might have to give the twin-sheets-as-curtains idea a try and see how it looks and how I like it!

 

Regarding the cat sucking thing, do you think that applies to dogs too? I have a 3-year-old Weimy who sucks on blankets and has since the day we brought him home.

I don’t see why not!

 

I think you should call one “Pork” and the other “Chops”. I also noticed for the pics on Fred’s page that one has piggy eyes (like you read in a novel “He had mean little piggy eyes…”) and the other has big pretty eyes like Wilbur or Babe. Pretty cute.

Fred said that exact same thing (about the eyes, I mean). I don’t know, they both look the same to me, I’ll have to take a closer look.

 

Unless I’m mistaken, in the 3rd picture of the pigs on Fred’s site, the pig on the right appears to have nipples. I could be wrong, but don’t only female pigs have nipples?

and

umm, forgive my ignorance, but is it not possible to see piggy private parts? Nipples or not, why can’t anyone tell the gender?

and

If you do manage to get a picture of the “piggy privates,” PLEASE post it if one of them is male. Pigs have a corkscrew shaped penis and I want to see that. I’m gross that way.

Like humans, male pigs can have nipples; nipples don’t determine sex. (The same holds true for cats – every time he stretches, Tommy points a nipple at us that is glaringly obvious and we’ve been known to whine “Tommy’s pointing his NIPPLE at me!”)

There’ll be no pig balls evident here at Crooked Acres; if the pigs are boys (and we suspect they are), they were castrated before we brought them home.

And if there were any corkscrew shaped penises, I can assure you you would never see a picture of them HERE. Maybe Fred would be posting pictures all over the place, but not me. I spend as little time as possible NOT looking at the back end of the pigs, because there’s nothing on that end that interests me at ALL.

 

Donny Osmond. I was far more into Sean Cassidy. Oooh baby. My plan was to go to LA when I turned 16 in a blue dress (his favorite color) and happen to slip and fall in front of him. Because he would of course help me up and look into my eyes and fall deeply and forever in love with me.

Oh my GOD. At some point after Donny Osmond broke my heart and married that Mormon manstealer, I fell in lurve with Michael Damian, who played Danny Romalotti on The Young and the Restless.

(Shaddup.)

And I had the most BRILLIANT plan. I was going to move to LA, and I was going to buy a house down the street from his house. Then one day I would be walking by his house at the SAME TIME he was walking out his front door, and he would take one look at me and fall in love. Of COURSE.

Also, when I was an older teen, I had a mad crush on Bryan Adams. Who is from Canada. And I thought that I would move to Canada after I graduated from high school to find my True Love Bryan Adams, because (I swear to god, I said these exact words) after all, how big could Canada possibly BE?

 

What was the quote? I love the Alien movies.

Someone needs to take off and nuke the site from orbit. It’s the only way to be sure.

 

So, what do the kitties think of Pork and Chop? If they are anything like my cats, they have thoroughly investigated the situation already.

The indoor kitties haven’t seen the pigs at all – and in fact, can’t really see them from the back yard. Miss Momma and Newt have seen them, though. Miss Momma spent a long, long time sitting and staring at them with big, dark eyes like she was thinking “What the HELL?” Newt just glanced at them like “Yep, there are the pigs,” and kept on going. He had places to go.

 

Wait. You fed the “Girlz” scrambled eggs? Aren’t the “Girlz” the chickens? Isn’t that … well, I don’t know what it is exactly and it’s not like I haven’t wanted to scramble and fry my own two rotten kids on occasion, but … I don’t know. Something is hurting my brain here.

The Girlz not only eat scrambled eggs, they eat cooked chicken as well. They’re total cannibals, and they love it!

 

Yes, I can see now that dinner is now going to be cooked for 4 – you, Fred, Pork and Chop. And when the big day finally comes there is no way Fred is going to be able to slaughter his dinner guests for the past 2 years

First of all, dinner doesn’t get cooked for FOUR, dinner gets cooked for the two of us, all 13 of the chickens AND the pigs. We’ve been feeding the chickens our leftovers for the past (almost) year, so of course the pigs are going to get in on that action.

Second, those pigs won’t be around for two years – they’ll be slaughtered in December, when they’re about 11 months old.

 

I’m laying a bet right now that the little piggy in that photo is going to die of old age on Crooked Acres. He’ll never be a pork chop.

I’m trying to convince Fred to take all y’all on – something like, everyone places a bet and if he goes through with it, y’all owe the shelter we foster for the amount of your bet; if he doesn’t, WE owe the shelter the amount of your bet. Anyone interested? (This is not an official call for bets – just seeing if anyone’s interested in taking part in something like that!)

 

I’ve been wondering whether the pigs will be getting a bath before they’re slaughtered?

Yeah, I’ve been saving up bath bombs for them, and we’re going to bring them inside and gently scrub their backs with a loofah.

I kid (but I wouldn’t put it past us!).

Fred says no, that they’ll be scrubbed and scalded when they are dead.

 

Any idea why our darling cat insists on stepping just inside the litter box far enough for all four feet to be on the litter, yet her hiney hangs over the edge, so poop is usually half right on the edge, half out, and often she pees on the litter mat instead of going in the box. We’ve always used the same litter (Fresh Step), keep it clean, and have the biggest box you can buy. It doesn’t have a top (we tried that, but have taken it off to see if that helps – it doesn’t). When I talk “cat stuff” I usually preface with, “Robyn says….” so thought I’d bring this issue to you. Thanks for any and all help!

Everything you’ve done is exactly what I would have recommended – the last thing I can think of is to buy something tall enough so that she can’t hang her butt over the edge of the litter box. For years, we used plastic sweater boxes, you know the ones you can get at Wal-Mart or Target, that come with lids that are meant to store things in? We’d buy those, discard the tops, and use the box itself as a litter box. If it’s tall enough, I would think that she’d have to get all the way in it and thus couldn’t hang her butt over the edge. It’s worth a try – the sweater boxes aren’t terribly expensive, and if it solves the problem, it’s worth it, right?

 

“I am former Senator Stanley J. Boogerton, and I disapprove this message.”

 

Previously
2007: Going on hiatus!
2006: Hell of a way to start out your retirement, ain’t it?
2005: Book recommendations and a meme.
2004: No entry.
2003: Be afraid. Be very afraid.
2002: Food for her youngs.
2001: Not much going on here.
2000: Mean mommy, huh?

Last night I was laying in bed reading, and I kept hearing the most annoying rubbing sound, so I finally put my book down and looked around to see what the hell was going on. Tommy was on the floor next to my cedar trunk, and he was rubbing his entire body against the trunk and purring very loudly. Finally, he stopped rubbing against the trunk, and just flopped down next to it.

And then he started licking it. He must have licked it for two or three minutes straight, until there was a big wet spot on the side, and then he stumbled off, looking for all the world like he was high.

I know that when Fred cut down the cedar tree in the back yard last year, some of the cats could smell the cedar on his clothes, and they acted high. This is the first time any of them has had that reaction to the trunk in the bedroom, though.

Have y’all ever heard of the smell of cedar making cats high, or is it just my freaks?

Since y’all had so many questions about edamame (pronounced “ed-a-MA-MAY“), here’s some information. First of all, edamame is (are?) young soy beans, picked when they’re first ripe, then usually boiled and frozen immediately. I buy the big-ass box of Imperial Gourmet Edamame at Sam’s Club. They’re separated into 8 microwaveable bowls of edamame. I pop the bowl into the microwave for 3 minutes, and voila! Ready to go!

I don’t eat a whole bowl at once, because it’s kind of a lot, so I take what I want and put the rest in a Tupperware container and keep it in the fridge. You can eat edamame hot or cold, but I prefer cold.

With fresh (not previously boiled or steamed) edamame, you boil or steam them for 4 or 5 minutes (add a little salt to the water if you boil them), run them under water to cool, then eat.

If you’ve never eaten edamame before, you might not know that the pods aren’t edible. After the edamame is steamed, you can either go through and scoop the edamame out of the pods into a bowl with your fingers and eat them all at once, or (this is what I do), squeeze the beans out of the pods with your teeth and eat as you go.

I’ve also seen packages of edamame in the produce section at Publix, and I believe I’ve heard that Costco carries them in their freezer section as well.

We’re going to grow our own edamame this summer!

Any other edamame questions?

After my hair appointment yesterday, I ran to Sam’s Club because we were completely out of Splenda, and getting dangerously low on edamame. While I was there, I picked up some blueberry bagels for the pigs, and a three-pound bag of about-to-go-bad grapes for the pigs and the chickens. I’d say we’re going to go broke feeding these pigs, but most of the stuff we (I) buy for them is the cheap stuff, and Fred’s got people at work bringing in stuff they’d ordinarily toss in the trash, which helps a lot.

Fred stopped by Wal-Mart the other day to see about getting their about-to-go-bad produce and day-old bread and stuff of that sort, but found out that they won’t do that, they can’t – company rules dictate that they have to toss all that stuff into a compactor and turning it into trash instead of giving it to someone to feed their livestock. Same with the local grocery store. Ridiculous, isn’t it?

When I got home, I went out to the pig yard to bring a bagel and some grapes and egg shells to them (yes, they eat egg shells), and they were at the very back of their yard. It took them a moment, but once they spotted me, they came at a run. They didn’t run right up to me, but it’s clear that they’ve made the person-entering-yard = FOOD IN OUR DISH connection. When they got about 15 feet away, they veered over to their food dish, sniffed around, and gave me expectant looks. I dumped the food in their dish and backed away.

They made very short work of that food, let me tell you.

Later, after Fred got home (with a box of Little Debbie snack cakes for the pigs – because, hey, that’s cheap stuff, too!) we went out there and coaxed the pigs to come close.. I’m not really interested in making friends with the pigs, because I’ve read how aggressive they can get, and I have no desire to become dinner, so I keep my distance most of the time. However, I think their ears are really neat, and so I wanted to touch them and see what they feel like. After a lot of hesitation, they finally came close enough that I could reach out and touch one of the big one’s ear and have my question answered.

They feel cartilage-y, like human ears. Go figure.

I don’t think Miss Momma and Newt have spent much time out near the pig yard since we got the pigs, but when we went out for a walk around the back forty the other night (before it rained and turned the back forty into a swamp), Miss Momma followed us out and sat near the pig yard, staring at them with big dark eyes. Hopefully she won’t try to go in there – I have a feeling that given a few more weeks, the pigs would enjoy a little kittycat tartare.

One of the many other women in my husband’s life. She LURVES Fred. She’ll lay next to him in the evening when we’re watching TV and just stare at him all evening long.

Previously
2007: Did I mention my hormones are all out of whack?
2006: “And they’ll have to call it Wipe the Ass!”
2005: No entry.
2004: No entry.
2003: Want some cats?
2002: I had no idea what to say – “Well, of COURSE you’re only going to date someone you think is cute!”? Then I’m anti-ugly.
2001: Except for that crying at the drop of a hat thing, she’s just fine.
2000: Do y’all ever do that, have moments where the startling realization that you’re a complete dumbass smacks you in the face?

Man, what a crappy, dismal, rainy day we had yesterday. Half the back forty had standing water in it and when the pigs hadn’t shown themselves by 10:30, I went out to take them some food and check to make sure they were still there. I couldn’t see them, because they were buried under the straw, but I could see the straw moving a little, so I assumed they hadn’t escaped overnight, and was proven correct later on. The rain stopped for a little while, so the pigs came out to root around in their favorite spot (under the tree) before they went off to take yet another nap.

The temperature dropped 30 degrees between Monday and yesterday; I certainly can’t blame the pigs for spending their time snuggled up together in the straw, keeping warm, instead of out in the cold, wet field. I’ll be glad when the weather warms up for real.

 

Since I have nothing of interest to report, and I have to leave soon for a hair appointment (and a run to Sam’s), a meme! I stole it from somewhere (I don’t remember where) last week or the week before. I think. Anyway! On to the meme!

MOUTHOLOGY

Q. What is your favorite fast food restaurant? A. Depends on the meal. I like the occasional Egg McMuffin from McDonald’s for breakfast, and the occasional chicken sandwich from Burger King. If I’m in the mood for tacos, there’s always Taco Bell. I can’t really say any of them are my favorites. Unless Subway counts? Probably it does, so I’ll say Subway. I like to get a sandwich from Subway and spread it out over two (sometimes three, depending on the sandwich) meals.

Q. What is your favorite sit-down restaurant? A. If I have the choice of any restaurant in the world, I’m going to say The Muddy Rudder, in Yarmouth, Maine.

Q. On average, what size tip do you leave at a restaurant? A. 30 – 40%, generally. I almost always overtip.

Q. What food could you eat every day for two weeks and not get sick of? A. Right now, I’ve got a little edamame addiction going on. I also eat scrambled eggs for breakfast almost every day. I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of eggs.

Q. What are your pizza toppings of choice? A. Pepperoni, onions, and black olives.

Q. What do you like to put on your toast? A. I don’t eat toast, but if I had to I’d probably have jelly or a little peanut butter on it.

TECHNOLOGY

Q. What is your wallpaper on your computer? A. I actually had to go look – it’s this picture of Sugarbutt.

Q. How many televisions are in your house? A. One. Well, two if you include the one in the guest bedroom. Actually, now that I think about it, three if you include the one in the guest bedroom closet. Only one (the one in the living room) is hooked up to cable, though.

BIOLOGY

Q. Are you right-handed or left-handed? A. Right

Q. Have you ever had anything removed from your body? A. A (noncancerous) tumor, a baby, and a gallbladder.

Q. What is the last heavy item you lifted? A. Miz Poo!

Q. Have you ever been knocked unconscious? A. Nope, never.

BULL****OLOLY

Q. If it were possible, would you want to know the day you were going to die? A. No.

Q. If you could change your name, what would you change it to? A. I can’t imagine having any other name, actually.

Q. What color do you think looks best on you? A. Dark purple. It makes my eyes “pop”, according to my sister!

Q. Have you ever swallowed a non-food item by mistake? A. I have the unfortunate habit of swallowing little pieces of cross-stitching thread.

Q. Have you ever saved some one’s life? A. No

Q. Has someone ever saved yours? A. No.

DAREOLOGY

Q. Would you kiss a member of the same sex for $100? A. Sure.

Q. Would you allow one of your little fingers to be cut off for $200,000? A. I think so. It’d have to be my left pinky, though. Wait. Would it be the whole pinky, or would I be left a nubbin to assist when I’m typing? Doesn’t matter – I’m pretty sure I’d take $200,000 for a pinky, though.

Q. Would you never blog again for $50,000? A. Probably.

Q. Would you pose naked in a magazine for $250,000? A. I can’t imagine anyone would want to see that, but sure. Why not?

Q. Would you drink an entire bottle of hot sauce for $1000? A. There’s no way I could manage that.

Q. Would you, without fear of punishment, take a human life for $1,000,000? A. No.

DUMBOLOGY

Q: What is in your left pocket? A: I don’t wear pants that have pockets in them, actually.

Q: Is Napoleon Dynamite actually a good movie? A: I don’t know that I’d say “good.” I’d definitely go with “amusing”, though.

Q: Do you sit or stand in the shower? A: Stand.

Q: Could you live with roommates? A: Not unless I was desperate.

Q: How many pairs of flip flops do you own? A: None. I don’t like the strap that goes between your toes. It’s very irritating to me.

Q: Last time you had a run-in with the cops? A: I don’t have “run-ins” with cops.

Q: What do you want to be when you grow up? A: I think I’ve settled on being the crazy old lady who walks up and down the highway median picking up trash. Does that pay well?

LASTOLOGY

Q: Last Friend you talked to? A: Other than Fred, probably my sister.

Q: Last person who called you? Fred.

Q: Last person you saw? A: Fred!

FAVORITOLOGY

Q: Number? A: I don’t have one.

Q: Season? A: Spring or Fall.

CURRENTOLOGY

Q: Missing someone? A: Yes.

Q: Mood? A: Pretty good – a little rushed, though.

Q: Listening to? A: Sugarbutt snoring in the bed on my desk.

Q: Watching? A: Nothing – but keeping an eye out for the pigs.

Q: Worrying about? A: Remembering to get everything I need to get at Sam’s.

RANDOMOLOGY

Q: First place you went this morning? A: To the bathroom and then to clean out the litter boxes.

Q: What can you not wait to do? A: Go on a road trip!

Q: What’s the last movie you saw? A: Once. I really liked the music.

Q: Do you smile often? A: Yes.

Q: Are you a friendly person? A: Most of the time.

 

Every night beginning at 6:00, Sugarbutt gets up on the filing cabinet in front of the printer and waits. And waits. Sometimes the wait is so long and strenuous that he sits there, dozing. He knows that Snackin’! Time! is coming, but he’s not sure when. He’s decided that the best place to wait for Snackin’! Time! is on the filing cabinet, so that when I stand up from my desk and head for the kitchen, he can FLY! across the computer room and escort me into the kitchen. I might need help finding the plates or the cans of Snack!, you know.

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Previously
2007: “Yeah, it’s really fleein’ the interview,” Fred said.
2006: No entry.
2005: No entry.
2004: You suppose they’d mind if I went over after dark and pressed my face up against the window to see what’s going on?
2003: Maybe I should go for the dreadlocks look…
2002: Any resemblance to persons living or dead are completely coincidental. I don’t fart.
2001: every Mulvaney shat gold upon command three times a day.
2000: Here at casa bitchypoo, we believe in extremely lazy Sundays.