After almost two months of owning it, I have to confess: my smartphone is not working for me. I was so excited to get it, so excited to use it, and it’s a neat phone and all, but honestly? Half the time I don’t get a signal, and even when I do get a signal, it takes forever to connect to whatever I’m trying to connect to. Also, I’m hardly ever more than half an hour from home, and it’s just more phone than I need.
(Also, I continue to be bitter that I cannot play Snood on it. I have perused and tried all the games I can download onto the Optimus, but none of them have captured me the way Snood immediately did.)
All I really and truly need to keep me happy, cell phone wise, is a phone that makes calls and sends and receives texts. So I’ve ordered a less intelligent phone – dumbphone! – from Virgin Mobile, and will be selling my Optimus on eBay.
Of course, in a perfect world I’d be able to get an iPhone and only pay $25 a month for service, which would remove the necessity for an iPod Touch, but I guess you can’t have everything, can you?
(I may be replacing my iPod Touch with an iPad pretty soon, though. WOOT.)
Speaking of my iPod Touch, I have to tell y’all that during the first 6 weeks after I had my plastic surgery*, I had my iPod Touch within reach at all times. In fact, when I started sleeping in my bed rather than downstairs in the recliner, I would sleep all propped up with my arms on pillows and a pillow under my back, and always had my iPod Touch laying on my chest. I wasn’t sleeping the whole night through, so I’d snooze for a while, then wake up and pick up my iPod to check Twitter and Facebook and my email, then go back to sleep.
Speaking of surgery, I finally saw my plastic surgeon again yesterday. I originally had a follow-up appointment scheduled for three weeks ago, but I rescheduled because I was SO not in the mood for the drive. That rescheduled appointment ended up being two days after the tornadoes came through, and since the office didn’t have any power, they called and rescheduled me again for yesterday. I still wasn’t in the mood for the drive, but sucked it up and went anyway.
I will tell y’all this – I am pleased with the results of the breast lift, though directly after surgery I said to Fred “Do you suppose they’re actually supposed to be located in my armpits?” With time, though, I’m more pleased with the results. They look pretty normal to me, I think. Whyn’t y’all send me pictures of your boobs so I can compare whether mine look normal? (I KID. Please don’t.)
I’m mostly pleased with the results of my upper arm lift, though around my left elbow is, as the plastic surgeon said, “full.” In other words, I’ve got chubby arms. I know that if I was really bothered by it, he’d do a revision, but I will tell you this: I am never ever ever going to have elective surgery done on my upper arms ever again, ever. That was the worst part of the whole recovery, and while I like the results, I don’t want to have to go through that again. Though my arms look chubby, the surgery has taken away all the damn extra skin that was hanging there, and if the sleeves of a short-sleeved t-shirt don’t come all the way to my elbows, it doesn’t bother me. I haven’t actually worn a tank top while working outside yet, but I’d be mostly comfortable wearing one, I think.
My neck lift, though? I am displeased. There’s still too much of a wattle there, and the surgeon agreed. He said that it’s a loose skin issue rather than underlying fat or loose muscles, and his nurse should be calling in the next day or so to talk about a revision. Unless he can do it very soon, I’ll likely put it off ’til the Fall. I want it done, but I don’t want recovery to interfere with all the shit I need to do in the next little while (not least of which is GARDENING), even though the recovery from this won’t be nearly as long or involved.
Perhaps one day I’ll actually get around to taking some (clothed) after pictures so y’all can see that, well, I probably don’t look any different to anyone else, but I look different to me. And honestly? That’s what matters.
*GET AWAY FROM THAT SEARCH BOX, I had plastic surgery on February 10th whereupon I had my breasts, upper arms, and neck lifted, you damn skimmers. (Or newbies.) No, there are no before and after pictures for you to stare judgmentally at. I haven’t gotten around to doing that yet. I’ll do it some day.
I got home from running errands on Saturday, and as I walked from the driver’s side of the car to the trunk, Fred opened a window in the front room.
“I need your help!” he called. I ran toward the house, wondering what the hell could possibly be going on. When I walked into the front room, Fred was standing near the subwoofer, holding a trash can.
“There’s a squirrel under here,” he said, pointing to the subwoofer. The subwoofer is a square about 20 inches by 20 inches, that has legs about 2 inches tall.
“Of course there is,” I said. Turns out, Fred had been walking down the hall toward the kitchen when he heard the distinctive squeal of an angry squirrel, and a moment later Elwood came in through the cat door with a young squirrel in his mouth.
Who ever expected Elwood to be fast enough to catch a squirrel? Not me.
After some discussion, Fred lifted the subwoofer enough to spur the squirrel into action. He feinted left, eyeballed me, and then ran straight ahead instead. Directly into the trash can Fred had set down on the floor.
Someone needs to clean that nasty-ass trash can.
We took the trash can outside, Fred turned it over on its side, and off the squirrel went.
It certainly could have gone worse!
Rufus has not been adopted yet. However, I went by to see him at Petsmart over the weekend, and not only was he NOT hiding in his litter box, he was in fact flopped out on his bed, sound asleep. I went in to see him and pet him, and he just lay there and purred like mad. I snapped a few pictures with my phone.
Somehow, I’d forgotten just how silky smooth his fur is.
“HI MAMA!”
::CHOMP::
Oh, his little face just kills me DEAD.
Don’t give ME that look, young lady. It’s not MY fault they’re such little ruffians!
When we brought Maggie home, I stuffed a pillow in that kitty condo so that Maggie wouldn’t go in there and give birth. Then I left it in there so the babies wouldn’t go in there and pee in it. But being cats, of course they figured out that they can get in there anyway, and they do it often. I’d take the pillow out, but I suspect that that would ruin the fun for them.
“MY toy. You hear me?”
Macushla in my lap. All the McMaos are snuggly, but he’s particularly so.
Fergus Simon, sneaking up on his brothers. “Be vewwy vewwy quiet!”
Elwood in the window.
Jake, enjoying the sun if it kills him.
Jake in the guest bedroom, Elwood at the bottom of the stairs.
Jake on the platform in the kitchen. I love his loony little face.
Previously
2010: I always pee and progesterone at the same time. It makes me feel efficient.
2009: No entry.
2008: No entry.
2007: “Goddamn!” I said. “I’m going to have them haul your ass away to the nursing home! YOU WERE THERE WITH ME AND PICKED OUT THE GODDAMN SKIRT FOR ME!”
2006: Sorry, no real entry today.
2005: Fucking cats. They sure are a money pit.
2004: Oh, look. It must be a day that ends in “y.”
2003: No entry.
2002: You know, this whole band shit drives me nuts.
2001: The spud’s band is having another concert tonight.
2000: I would put a sign announcing the name of the house: Horseshit Alley.