Vote for Suzanne!!!
Good Mood Gig from SAM-e
FOAM pics of the day.
Food: Teeny, tiny egg. Looks like we’ve got a new lay-er.
Outside: The cat bird house on the front porch. Well, it’s made to be a bird house, but I just use it as decoration.
Abstract: The sun through a sheet on the line.
Myself: Couldn’t get a picture I liked, so I used them ALL.
Turkeys, I think you will be shocked to find out, are amazingly stupid. If the Cookies’ heads are filled with marshmallow Fluff, then chickens’ heads are filled with lint, and turkeys’ heads are filled with nothing but pure air.
Chickens are stupid, but compared to the turkeys, they are the EINSTEINS of the poultry world.
Every morning – EVERY SINGLE FUCKING MORNING – the turkeys fly over the fence at the front of the back forty. And then?
Then they get lost. They wander around the side yard, making sad weeting sounds, like “We are lost. Where is home? Is this food? Let me try to eat it. Why is that cat looking at me. Are we home? Where’s home?”
See, the problem is that they are big and strong enough to fly OVER the fence, but they are too incredibly stupid to know how to fly BACK over the fence.
So every morning, when I judge that they’re getting too close to the driveway (I know it’s just a damn matter of time before the fucking idiots go wandering up the driveway and into the road, where they’ll become roadkill AND THEY WILL DESERVE IT), I go out and herd them back to the back forty.
They are always SUPER relieved to get back into their yard, and they practically kiss the ground and go around the coop to make sure nothing has changed in their absence, and they eat like they haven’t eaten in days.
And two hours later, having FORGOTTEN that they are easily lost when they fly over the fence, back over the fence they fly.
My day consists of scooping litter boxes, wiping kitten asses, and leading GODDAMN STUPID FUCKING TURKEYS back to their yard.
I know you envy me.
“Are THIS my home?”
“Are THIS my home?”
“Are THIS my home?”
“Are THIS my home?”
“Are THIS my home?”
“This are not my home! This are a Poltergeist tree!”
Here. Watch a five minute-long movie of me herding the goddamn turkeys back into their yard. I think I tell them 300 times how fucking stupid they are. Try to contain your excitement.
I had my appointment for my annual gynecological exam on Tuesday morning. Why is it that when they tell me to get undressed and put on the cheap paper cape and lap cover, I always get undressed SUPER FAST and run over to the exam table (which starts out as a chair, then reclines when the gynecologist is going to do the exam), because I am EVER SO CERTAIN that she’s going to come in any second now?
And then I sit there on the table and I wait. And I wait. Then I wait some more. And I can always SEE my book across the room, sticking out of my purse, which is sitting on top of my pile of clothes (underwear neatly tucked under my jeans because OH MY GOD WHAT IF THE GYNECOLOGIST SEES MY PANTIES!). My book mocks me, and I consider running over to get it and then running back to the table, only I never do, because I am the ultimate optimist, and I am EVER SO CERTAIN that she’s JUUUUUUST about to walk in and OH MY GOD WHAT IF THE GYNECOLOGIST SEES MY BARE ASS!
So I sit and I sit and I hear her going into allllll the rooms around me, but never mine. I imagine hell must consist of an eternity of waiting for the gynecologist to come in and stick that GODDAMN BOTTLE BRUSH up where the sun don’t shine and then SCRAPE IT ALL AROUND. The anticipation is always the worst part.
At least I never get cold while I’m sitting there waiting, so there’s that.
Also, I learned (because I could hear her talking in the next exam room over) that cervical cancer is an extremely slow-growing cancer and it’s generally caught with pap smears before it goes from dysplasia to cancer, and never once in her 130 years of practice has my gynecologist had to treat a case of cervical cancer.
Because they always catch the dysplasia with the pap smears and then remove the dysplasia-ed area, I guess.
Or something. I don’t remember every word, but I think that was the gist of it.
Finally, she came in and we discussed that I am on birth control and yet still spotting like a spotting motherfucker and I said to her “Whatever it takes, I’m getting tired of this, it’s gotten to be a HUGE PAIN IN THE MOTHERFUCKING ASS (except it sounded more like “It’s gotten to be a real pain.”) and I know women who dealt with this shit for years and I AM UNWILLING.”
She looked at the ultrasound I had back in June, and said something about the fibroid that would make it difficult to do… some procedures that she might recommend. She did not clarify what those procedures might be, now that I think about it.
And I straightened up in my classy paper cape, and I made meaningful eye contact with her and I said “Oh, I don’t mind getting SUPER AGGRESSIVE, THAT IS PERFECTLY FINE WITH ME, THE AGGRESSIVENESS, AND IF I AM NOT MAKING MYSELF CLEAR LET US DO THE YANKY-YANK ON THAT MOTHERFUCKING UTERUS, SHALL WE?”
She made a note (“patient does not get along with uterus, wants to break up”, I assume) and said that before she could make a suggestion on what the next step would be, she’d want to get an updated ultrasound and I considered saying “Couldn’t you just rip that bitch out?”, but she’s the professional and all, and I have fairly decent insurance, so what the fuck? I suppose I can withstand another transvaginal ultrasound. I have no pride left.
WHATEVS.
So next week I go for an ultrasound, and I do not doubt that she’ll suggest something like an endometrial ablation, but if I’m lucky, she’ll be all “Oh, whatever. I’ve got nothing fun going on next week. LET’S RIP THAT BITCH OUT!”
A girl can dream.
PS: The physical exam showed no problems, which DUH, I knew it wouldn’t. I think we can all agree that my uterus needs to be set free to wander the world and cause spotting elsewhere, don’t you think?
Bratty teenage attitude commencing in 4… 3… 2…
What you cannot tell from this picture is that Hydrox is a solid little thing. I swear to god, it’s like picking up a brick.
Also, he likes to be kissed.
Did I mention that Pink is now bottle-free? I stopped giving her her bottle three days ago, I think, because at feeding time we were taking her out to the living room to give her her bottle, and she was acting like “Oh, ::sigh::, alRIGHT, I’ll drink the bottle.”, so at the next feeding time we didn’t give her a bottle, and guess what?
She lived.
And she’s gaining weight. I never see her eating, but she’s gotta be eating something – she’s up to a pound and a half as of last night!
Sneaky little brat.
As of today, we’ve had the Cookies for one month. I can’t believe it’s only been a month – it seems like we’ve always had them!
I’d say Mike’s got the head tilt down pat.
Please understand that this is Spanky’s box, and if you touch it, he will MESS YOU UP. Sure, he looks like a sweet old guy, but he’s no lightweight.
Previously
2008: Can’t connect to the internet, new entry will have to wait ’til tomorrow.
2007: “IF HE RUINED THIS CAMERA, I AM GOING TO TAKE HIM OUT TO THE BACK FORTY AND SHOOT HIM IN THE BACK OF THE GODDAMN HEAD!” I bellowed at Fred, who made an I’m-listening-really-this-is-fascinating noise and kept clicking around the internet.
2006: No entry.
2005: No entry.
2004: Questions answered.
2003: Pictures.
2002: Just another example of my weirdness.
2001: God in heaven, has the WORLD GONE NUTS?
2000: “Oh, you’re giving us the COT free of charge? Well, let me do a friggin’ happy dance for that!”
1999: “Lookit them buildings, Fray-uhd! They’s so TALL! And look! A homeless person. Give him money, Fred! Give him money!”