Month: May 2011

Last week, Val said:

OK – I’m getting sweet Dorothy and Alice confused. Can you please post comparison pictures so I can get them straight in my head!!

Sure, twist my arm why don’tcha? 🙂

Dorothy: discovered in our neighbor’s driveway the day after the tornado swept through our area. Sweet little torbie, about 10 weeks old.

Alice: discovered eating from the food bowl on our side porch a few days before Christmas. Evil little calitabby, will be a year old on June 6th.

Dorothy: likes to watch the birds through the side door.

Alice: ditto.

Dorothy: sweet little handful who loves everyone.

Alice: more than a handful (I really think she’s going to be close to normal sized rather than the tiny little morsel we originally thought she’d be), and loves her daddy with a passion. If Daddy isn’t around, I’ll do. But really she prefers Fred. O HOW SHE LOVES HIM.

Dorothy: Not a permanent resident.

Alice: Permanent resident, because no one shall ever tear her away from her beloved Daddy.

Dorothy: Inside only.

Alice: Recently figured out the cat door to the back yard.

I had to put this one in here, because I can’t believe Spanky’s putting up with this. They slept together all afternoon!

If I were quick enough with the camera, I’d have a picture here of Dorothy smacking Elwood on the head and then chasing him down the hall. She puts those boys through their paces, and has no fear at all.

Actually, that’s another way Dorothy and Alice are alike: they’re small, but they have NO fear when it comes to the other cats.

And yesterday, Alice asked: Robyn, I don’t think you ever gave us the full story on Jake and Elwood (or maybe you did and I just can’t remember!). How did those two ever come to you, anyway? They’re so full of character, I just love them. 😀

In 2009, about six weeks after Mister Boogers died, we spent a Saturday on a road trip up into Tennessee. We were gone until early in the afternoon, and when we got home, we found two gray kittens playing around our side stoop, and a Cool Whip container full of cat food sitting on the steps. We brought them inside, and we got permission from the shelter manager to make them Challenger’s House cats, but it was probably less than 48 hours after we met them that we decided they were staying.

They looked so much like Mister Boogers that Fred was sure they were little troublemakers sent by him from the afterlife to wreak havoc, and of course one cannot look gift demons in the mouth as the fire and brimstone of their breath would singe your eyebrows right off your face.

The day we met them, August 15th, 2009.

I think keeping them was a really good choice on our part, because they make us laugh just about every day.

“Hallo. I am Macushla. I am not, as That Lady likes to call me, ‘Koosh ball.’ I don’t know what a Koosh ball is, but given the way she snickers at her own wit, I suspect it’s not a compliment.”

“I am very talented, and so I would like to show you my talented tongue. First, the simple slurp move.” ::thlurrrp::

“And then, I can make my tongue very very long. See?”

“Also, wide. Isn’t that a wide tongue? How do I fit it in my mouth? It’s a mystery!”

“Now, NOT wide. It’s like magic, first wide then not wide!”

“Now NO tongue! Where’d it go? I don’t know!”

“Snake tongue!”

::thlurrp:: “Thank you very much. That was my tongue. And I am Macushla. Good day.”

I lub my Corbie. (Yesterday, Fred was about to leave for work, and Corbie was sitting in the back yard by the fence, and Fred said “Corbie’s very pretty. Look at him, sitting in the sun. No, look! He’s really striking, isn’t he?” and I was like “Have I not been TELLING you this?” Like, DUH. I KNOW how beautiful he is, I’ve been saying it and saying it, right?)

Previously
2010: I DO NOT LIKE it when they talk shit about each others’ kids.
2009: Joe Bob just kept smiling.
2008: No entry.
2007: Ten.
2006: I walked over to them and threw Cheerios at them, and they looked at me as if I were mentally disturbed.
2005: Which he proved by dancing lightly about the room once I’d said we should just stay home.
2004: He asked questions, he really listened to the answers, and he was just really a nice guy.
2003: No entry.
2002: No entry.
2001: She’s obviously picked up her mother’s bad attitude.
2000: My day in pictures.

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.

Last week, I got an email from… Robyn Anderson. Seems that Robyn Anderson was sending herself pictures from work. You’d think she’d know her own email address, wouldn’t you? She works at Target, by the way. I’d post the pictures here and mock them, but there was nothing particularly mockworthy about them, so I’ll refrain.

These Robyn Andersons, I tell you what. Who doesn’t know their own email address? She’s not even the first Robyn Anderson to send herself an email and sent it to me instead!

Thus far, we’ve got Irish Robyn Anderson, Illinois Robyn Anderson, Mormon Robyn Anderson (whose annoying goddamn family keeps trying to add me to their relatives on “We’re Related”, whatever the fuck that is), and now Target Robyn Anderson, who all are either giving out the wrong email address, or sending email to themselves at my email address. Oh, there was Canadian Robyn Anderson, too.

(I’m sure when they talk about me, I’m Cat Lady Robyn Anderson.)

Last year when Illinois Robyn Anderson signed up for frequent flyer miles and used my email address, I was so annoyed that I logged in and changed the password to the account. O YES I DID. She doesn’t apparently fly all that often, though, because there weren’t many frequent flyer miles and she hasn’t used the account since.

(Well, maybe because she doesn’t have the password? Duh.)

Fucking Robyn Andersons. They’re all pains in the ass, if you ask me.

Oh, lord. I just went and looked at my sent mail for that email address, and found this exchange from April, which I had forgotten about:

Robyn Anderson,

Warren
Sent on the TELUS Mobility network with BlackBerry

Warren –

Robyn Anderson

Robyn,

Sent on the TELUS Mobility network with BlackBerry

Warren –

Robyn Anderson

And then, back in March:

Hi Robyn:
Congratulations on becoming a grandma. That is so exciting. It’s a shame they live on the other side of the country!!! But I’m glad you got to go see the new baby and your daughter and son-in-law.

Bro. Hickey the Stake financial clerk has been nagging me about getting some sort of closure on the checks that were sent out for camp. I doubt you still have receipts, but if you could possibly send me a short written statement of expenses, signed and dated, that will do. It can be very general. This needs to be done in case of auditing, so they know where the money went.
Thanks so much and Happy Thanksgiving
Suzanne

(I simply emailed her back and told her she had the wrong email address. But then I forwarded it to Fred and said “You think she knows something I don’t?”)

And then this from last September:

Our records show the following for ROBYN ANDERSON:

Notes: Just a friendly reminder that you have a cleaning appointment coming up in our office. If the time listed is not convenient please call us as soon as possible to reschedule.

To which I responded: Please cancel this appointment. I’ll need to call and reschedule at a later date. Thanks.

(I’m an asshole, but I’m snickering about it all these months later.)

About a year ago, Robyn Anderson sent me (I assume intending to send it to herself) :

email and print calendar
do expenses
vegas selling day
order gwps
az travel update

Robyn Anderson
Southwest Regional Coordinator

I said: Don’t wanna. How come *I* have to do all the work?

(But never heard back from her. Robyn Anderson, Southwest Regional Coordinator is humorless, I think. Or embarrassed. I should have said “The GWPS is backordered. Should I order something else instead?”)

This reminds of when, several years ago, Fred sent a picture of the spud sleeping with her eyes open to what he thought was her email address. As it turned out, he got a very polite email back from the person he actually sent it to, letting him know he had the wrong email address.

I guess Robyn Andersons aren’t the only dumbass Andersons.

PS: My favorite wrong-email that I’ve gotten at that address is below. I responded to it with “You have the wrong email address” because I didn’t even know where to start even though I’m curious as shit to know why the front desk kept issuing key cards to people who weren’t booked for the room. I’d certainly like to know what “supposed wife of Edgar” means, and why that would afford her the privilege of having a card to a room that isn’t hers. But I decided to play it safe and not even try to get involved in that mess.

Ind/Robyn

Carla

Miss Dorothy in the sun. (Current nicknames: Fred calls her Dottie and Dortsy. I called her Dorfy and when I was looking for her Saturday evening, I called her KittyDorfin’ and then EnDorfin’. Oh, we amuse ourselves so very much.)

She is such a sweet and well-adjusted girl. I love to see her chasing Jake down the hallway, and she even got Miz Poo to chase her a little on Sunday!

“Am… under… attack… SAVE YOURSELF!”

“Who, ME? Climbing the cat tree? NO. What a ridiculous question!”

“HI MAMA!” (Please ignore the scattered litter in the background. I hadn’t swept yet.)

“I find that simply amazing, my good woman.”

“I… did not touch the Kong Wubba. Why? Did someone say I did? Pay no attention to that paw.”

“Cowabunga!”

“Dude, it’s okay. I’ve got it covered.”

“HI MAMAAAAAAAAA!”

::chomp:: Her eyes are so neat right now – I love the way the permanent color is moving outward from her pupils.

Miss Maggie doesn’t miss a thing.

Newt, thinkin’ deep thoughts.

Previously
2010: No entry.
2009: No entry.
2008: Getting ready for surgery.
2007: They’d surely have fabulous gay parties and invite their fabulous gay friends and give my inner Mrs. Kravitz something to spy on.
2006: I’m READY FOR SUMMER, THANK YOU.
2005: I like cats. They’re good to eat.
2004: No entry.
2003: We’re some calendar-loving motherfuckers, that’s right.
2002: Kitty meeting.
2001: So… I guess we could probably sell your shithole…
2000: It sounds like there’s a lot to do in Gatlinburg, so it should be fun.

Yesterday was another of those really busy days where one minute it’s 9 am and the next it’s 1:00 and you don’t know what you’re going to have for lunch. I got the recycling taken to the recycling center, went to Publix to stock up on a few things, got home, ate breakfast, and then headed outside to get some more mowing done. Fred got all the mowing except the back yard done over the weekend, so I told him I’d do that part. I imagine it would have gone a lot faster if I’d used the riding lawnmower, but that thing annoys me, with all the backing up and going around stuff I have to do, so I used the push mower. It took me about 45 minutes to get that done, I took a break, and then headed back out. Fred did the side yard (in front of the garage) last week, but he wasn’t able to do the whole thing because it was terribly soggy. It was looking shaggy and kind of annoying me, so I wanted to get it cut. It was another pain in the ass, not as bad as the swamps in the pig yard or blue coop yard, but a pain just the same.

Once that was done, I glanced behind the garage and decided that that area was annoying me, too. It doesn’t get cut very often because it doesn’t usually need it very often, but I figured since I was out with the mower, I might as well get it done.

Let me tell you, a gum ball (from a sweet gum tree, not the kind that you chew)(though I guess you could chew it if you really wanted to) that flies out from under a lawnmower, hits the back of the garage, and then hits your calf at approximately 73 miles per hour STINGS LIKE A MOTHERFUCKER.

But I persevered and got it done.

Then I came inside to cool off, went back out to hang my laundry on the line, and then went upstairs to take a shower. I was in the shower when I was pretty sure I heard a knock at the door. I finished showering as quickly as I could, threw on some clothes, and went downstairs to find… nothing. I don’t know if someone knocked and got tired of waiting, or if I was just hearing the cats running around, or what.

I went in and hung out with the McMaos for about an hour, cleaning the room while I was in there (I’ve almost got all the litter boxes in the closet, yay!), and then had lunch. Then I made dinner (Fred likes to eat dinner at, like, 4:00 and I prefer to wait ’til a more normal hour. If I make dinner ahead, then he can eat when he wants, and so can I.) and put it in the fridge.

(Chicken and dumplings. But I didn’t have to cook the chicken first; I used chicken that I canned last Fall.)

I went out and got the hose I bought at Walmart the other day out of my car, and stretched it from the spigot to my little enclosed garden behind the back yard. Then I watered my raised beds, the herbs I planted last weekend, and the bale of straw we bought Tuesday.

(Katherine sent me this link about bale gardening, and I decided on the spur of the moment to give it a try with one bale. Why not, right?)

And then (can you contain your excitement? Is this not the most fascinating glimpse of my day? I should totally do a picture version of this thrilling step-by-step description of my day.) I went in and vacuumed the house. I brought in my laundry off the line and put it away (god knows how many wasps were in that laundry and are now angrily waiting for me to come along.), and at some point in there the air conditioner guy came.

As seems to happen about this time every year, the air conditioning unit for the upstairs went on the fritz. Luckily we haven’t hit the truly hot part of summer – not by far – so with my ceiling fan turned on high, it wasn’t too terribly hot during the night. The air conditioning repairman came, looked at it, put freon in, and left.

Fred got home and ate dinner. I got all the garbage together (Thursday being trash day), Fred took it out to the street. I planted the catnip I bought at Walmart the other day and put mulch down around the blueberry bushes in the back yard. I snuggled kittens and kissed Maggie and held Dorothy like a baby and kissed her on her nose.

Today, I tell you what, I’m laying my lazy ass on the couch and getting caught up on TV. I’ve got like 20 episodes of House on the DVR calling to me, and an episode of Sister Wives, and I have no desire to do anything but veg.

Still recovering from the tornado, I think.

A volunteer maple tree-in-the-making amongst my purslane.

A last shot of Rufus.

Rufus was fine on the drive to Petsmart the other day. I had a bit of a struggle getting him into the carrier (he fought me and got away, but all I had to do to recapture him was call to him, and he flopped right over on his side to be petted. Didn’t I feel evil, snatching him up to put him in the carrier!) He settled right down in the carrier and didn’t make a peep on the ride to Petsmart.

He was a little scared when I let him out of the carrier into the kitten room, and ran off to hide while I got his cage ready. I put some of his favorite toys in the cage, and then snuggled with him for a long while before I put him in the cage and left.

He, of course, because he wanted to break my heart, went right into the litter box to hide. They always do that at first – in fact, I don’t think Reacher ever came out of the litter box during his stay at Petsmart. Usually, though, it only takes a day or so before they adjust to their surroundings.

Adoption hours weren’t held Tuesday night because the power at Petsmart went out. I’m hoping that by the time adoption hours take place on Friday, he’ll be more relaxed.

You know I’ll let y’all know as soon as he’s adopted!

Cillian swipes! He misses! (And that’s an odd angle, so it looks like he has long ape arms.)

Practicing the song and dance for the big show!

“Hi! What? Nothin’.”

They sure do like this little cat tree. It makes me want to get a big one for them.

Maggie gets a moment to herself so she can relax. But only a moment…

“HI MAMA! HI!”

“Make room, Mama!”

“Mama, your armpit smells good. You’re so pretty! I love you.”

A loud car went by on the road outside, sending all the kittens running to the safety of the closet. Finnegan and Ciara were in charge of checking stuff out to make sure it was safe for everyone else to come out.

“Is it time to eat yet?”

“Mama is HUNGRY.”

Pretty Macushla.

No, Alice, it’s okay. Go right ahead and hang over the side like you’re going to jump to the floor from there. You won’t give me a heart attack or anything.

Previously
2010: It’s a Jakeapalooza!
2009: And when the wily snugglicious runt has determined that no smackdown is coming her way, what does she do?
2008: And… that was my weekend!
2007: No entry.
2006: Where the hell did the year GO?
2005: If my nose is cold, the rest of me is cold.
2004: I guess this is what we get for living in the Bible Belt, isn’t it?
2003: No entry.
2002: No entry.
2001: No entry.
2000: Ah well. Maybe next life.

Tom asked yesterday if we’d considered building a structure in our yard so we could handle more cats. We did, last summer, decide that we were going to convert the (now unused) blue coop into a “kitten coop” so we could have more fosters, but that hasn’t happened yet, and I don’t think it’s going to. I really prefer to have the cats and kittens in the house with us, and after our tornado scare from a couple of weeks ago, I worry that if we had some kittens upstairs in the foster room and some out in the coop and maybe one or two in the guest bedroom, there’s no way on earth that I’d be able to get all of them in the closet under the stairs (or in the storm shelter, once we have it put in) and our own cats as well. That might change – the only consistency around here is me declaring one thing one day and then suddenly declaring the opposite the next – and of course if it does, y’all will be the first to know!

Dorothy would like to say “hi” to her adoring public.

Note that it’s not until I compliment her dramatic eye makeup that she starts kneading and purring. Clearly her affections can be bought with flattery!

Sweet miss Dorothy.

Sleepy, sleepy McMaos.

::chomp::

::chomp::

“Hey, guys, c’mere! This foot taste funny to you?

“I can sit in your lap please?”

::sniff::

::sniffffffff::

::slurrrp:: (The little smile KILLS ME DEAD.)

“Close your eeeeeeyes and goodniiiiiiight…”

“Go to sleeeeeep little brudderrrrrrr…”

::thlurrp::

“What?”

“That’s right, I ate all the Tender Turkey Feast. You’ve gotta learn to move faster next time. I ate it all and I’m NOT SORRY!”

“So there.”

Rufus enjoyed a little outside time before he went off to Petsmart yesterday.

Loony Jake in the sun.

Previously
2010: Life with Fred.
2009: Blessed are the pure in het, for they shall see Dog.
2008: No entry.
2007: Mister Boogers doesn’t have opposable thumbs and finds it too difficult to text anyone – he gives up and stomps off in a huff after texting a few LOLs.
2006: Which to ME means “I’m not interested,” but to the operator apparently was code for “I might be interested. Try harder!”
2005: Now, I don’t know. I think that if your life is SO BUSY that taking the time to put a little pill in your mouth throws your entire schedule off, then perhaps it’s time to reorganize your life.
2004: You can’t have genius every day, y’know.
2003: No entry.
2002: No entry.
2001: SHE WAS FIXIN’ TO GO DOWN THE HILL.
2000: Poor overworked, abused child…

The temperatures around here have gone from in the 50s last week to in the 80s this week.

(I’m not complaining.)

We’ve had several partly sunny days in a row, and there’s no chance of rain for the foreseeable future. I’m beginning to have real hope that our property will actually dry up, at least the swamp in the blue coop yard and the swamp in the pig yard and the swamp in the side yard in front of the garage.

Since the weather’s been so nice, I’ve been hanging our laundry on the line to dry. One day last week, Fred took a t-shirt out of his drawer – a t-shirt I’d washed at least 5 days prior – and put it on. Then he was promptly stung by a motherfucking wasp.

Hardy creatures, those motherfucking wasps. Needless to say, it didn’t last long after it had stung him and dropped to the floor; he stomped on it and tossed it in the trash.

So I’ve been particularly careful when I get dressed in the morning. I shake out the shirt of the day and look inside the sleeves before I pull it over my head.

Yesterday I did just that, pulled the shirt over my head, and then levitated about three feet off the floor when something dropped onto my foot. It turned out to be a piece of straw. How it got inside my shirt, I have no idea. I was stung by a wasp last year for the first time in my life, and it hurt like a motherfucker. I’d prefer not to repeat the experience.

Tammy asked if Fergus Simon (heh, I almost called him “Rufus Simon”!) allows belly rubs. Indeed he does – but if there’s too much of it, he’ll eventually sink his teeth and claws into your hand and he’s got a strong little bunny kick that could probably tear your hand to shreds if you’re not quick enough to pull away.

Rebekah asked if the kittens ever squeal when they’re in the litter box. Some of them cry a little when they first get into the litter box. They cry, dig a little, get into position, cry, dig a little more, get into position, cry, and so on. Once they’re actually doing their business, though, they’re usually completely silent. I like to imagine they’re thinking about what good boys (or girl) they are, using the litter box like they’re supposed to!

Thus far I’ve only seen one litter box accident when, I imagine, the kitten couldn’t get to the litter box on time. At this point in time, I am slowly moving the litter boxes toward the closet, a few inches every day. My ultimate goal is to get all the litter boxes in the closet and (I hope) confine the litter scatter to the closet.

Someone – a couple of someones, maybe – asked if Dorothy could/ would become a permanent resident. She will not and can not, because have I mentioned we have 14 cats? Dorothy will go up for adoption after she’s been spayed in a few weeks. Rufus is also not going to become a permanent resident, as space has opened up at Petsmart and I’ll be leaving here in a little while to drop him off.

I’m going to miss Rufus (well, and Dorothy when she goes, of course). Can you believe we’ve had Rufus here for two months now? This is the part I always hate, because I’m pretty sure that in his mind Rufus believes he’s home already; he doesn’t know (and we can’t explain to him) that it was just a stop on the way to his forever home.

Such the pretty boy.

So tense, though. I wish you’d relax, Rufus!

“I’m borrrrrred. When can I bust out of this clambake?” Soon, pretty girl.

Declan, in the process of catching and killing a North American Gray Hoodie. What a smart boy!

Macushla, waiting patiently for the belly rub.

Declan and his fancy white bathing suit.

“Pardon me. You has a snuggle for me?” (Finnegan)

I love how, at this age, when you rub their bellies, they think about it for a moment, then begin vigorously grooming themselves.

“I KEEL YOU!”

“Okay, I’ll let you snuggle me. BUT I WON’T LIKE IT ONE LITTLE BIT.”

Miz Poo, taking a snooze in the sun.

Previously
2010: Why do I bother buying cat toys, again? (Oh, right. It’s an illness!)
2009: No entry.
2008: No entry.
2007: I call you people SKIMMERS, because we have SOLD the house, fools.
2006: I NEED MY VEGGING TIME, PEOPLE!
2005: We call him… FANG!
2004: Who has more fun that me, kids? That’s right, NO ONE!
2003: No entry.
2002: I think I’ll call him Fredriq, and make him talk in a French accent and squeal with excitement while he’s doing it.
2001: Your shoes are not lined up exactly, and what’s this?? A PIECE OF GRASS ON THE BOTTOM OF YOUR SHOE??? TO THE DUNGEON WITH YOU!”
2000: Exhausting!

Man, what an active (for me) weekend I had. It’s going to take me all week to recover!

Saturday morning we left the house a few minutes before 9:00. The local high school sells vegetable plants every spring, and though we’d discussed telling the garden to go to hell this year and buying all our produce at the local farmer’s market, in the end we really like growing our own veggies. So rather than start from seed again, we decided to see if the high school had the plants we wanted.

We ended up buying 12 tomato plants (Celebrity and Park’s Beefy Boy), 6 cucumber plants (most of the cucumbers I planted before the storm made it through, but a couple hadn’t, so I wanted to fill in where the dead ones had been), some cayenne peppers (luckily, most of the jalapenos we planted before the storm were still standing), yellow squash, zucchini, and eggplants.

We stopped by Lowe’s to buy a few things, stopped by the Co-op to buy seeds so Fred could replant the corn and beans, and headed home. Once we got home, I pulled the push mower out of the tractor shed, and mowed around the raised beds where I’ve got spinach, radishes, purslane, romaine, carrots, and radishes growing. Fred put up a fence around those beds a few weeks ago so that I don’t have to worry about Maxi, Newt, and Coltrane using them as litter boxes, and the grass had gotten pretty high.

It was so pleasant, working outside, that I told Fred I’d mow the back yard if he wanted, but he suggested that instead I mow around the perimeter of the back forty, next to the fence. He usually mows that with the riding lawnmower, but can’t get close enough to the fence with that, and the resulting weeds at the fence line annoys us both.

I took the push mower out to the back forty (which is about two and a half acres) and did three circuits around, followed the entire time by Gracie. Then I cut the grass in the maternity chicken yard, and I was just thinking about mowing the pig yard when Fred came out. He hauled the lawnmower into the pig yard for me, and we talked for a moment. He turned to leave, I took a step back, and my boot was immediately grabbed by the quicksand-like mud in a wallow the pigs we had last Fall had dug, and for a moment I thought I was going to be stuck there forever and ever.

(Or until I pulled my foot out of my boot.)

Fred grabbed my arm and held on while I pulled my boot out, and then he headed on his way while I started mowing the pig yard.

WHAT A FUCKING NIGHTMARE.

The pigs we’ve had in that yard have done so much rooting and digging that there’s not a bit of flat land to be found, so I was continually getting stuck. And pretty much the left back quarter of the pig yard is swamp, and I was doing my best to cut the grass there despite the calf-deep mud, and after I’d made one circuit around the outside of the pig yard, I was all “FUCK THIS” and gave up. I think it took me about 45 minutes of struggling to get that much done, and the sweat was pouring off me, and my face was bright red.

I was so exhausted from the pig yard ordeal that after I ate lunch, I took a shower and changed clothes, visited with the McMaos, and then took a 45 minute nap.

We didn’t do much but watch TV Saturday night.

Sunday morning I got up and immediately got dressed, did all the usual morning scooping and feeding, and then headed outside. I filled five containers with soil, put them in the fenced area where the raised beds are, and planted a different kind of herb in each container. Garlic Chives, Dill, Cilantro, Lemon Basil, and Lemon Balm are all planted and I’m ready for them to sprout, the sooner the better. I also have a packet of catnip that I need to plant, but didn’t have enough containers (or soil, for that matter), so that had to wait.

Then, because I am a blithering idiot, I asked Fred if he wanted me to mow the yard around the blue coop (newishcomers, the blue coop is what used to be our chicken coop until Fred made a much larger coop and fenced in the back forty so they’d have more room to roam. The blue coop is still there – and a sturdy building – and we were talking about finishing it out and making it an extra space for foster cats, but I don’t know that we’re going to do that. I really prefer to have fosters in the house with us. But in any case, the blue coop yard is still fenced in, and hadn’t been mowed in a long time.) He said that would be great, so off I took my stupid self to mow the stupid blue yard.

The swamp in the back third of the blue coop yard makes the swamp in the pig yard look like…. well, okay, maybe the pig yard swamp is worse, but the blue coop swamp was bad enough, and I mowed as much of the blue coop yard as I could before I told Fred I was done. Part of the problem there is that there are a lot of branches down in that yard, and I had to mow around the ones I couldn’t move, and it was a huge pain in the ass.

Then I planted the tomatoes and cucumbers we’d bought. As I was planting, I discovered that four of the tiny tomato plants I’d planted before the tornado were actually standing – but still pretty tiny – so I left them where they were, and planted around them. After I planted the tomatoes we’d bought, I went over to the compost heap and dug up three of the volunteer tomato plants that have popped up (one of them already has flowers!!!) and planted them at the end of the row.

I have 18 more tomato plants coming this week (I’ve gotta have my Sungolds!) and may dig up a couple more volunteers from the compost heap. So despite the fact that I said repeatedly last week that if we were going to replant the tomatoes we were not going to replant 45 of them because that’s far more tomatoes than we need, it looks like we’re going to end up with about 44 plants.

Way to make a stand!

What can I say? I like tomatoes! We haven’t really had a decent tomato harvest yet, but hope sure does spring eternal.

I spent the rest of the afternoon doing laundry, vacuuming, cleaning the kitchen, and making dinner before settling down for the evening in front of the TV.

Now I need to make a run to Sam’s and maybe Walmart, need to take all our recycling to the recycling center, and need to swing by and pick up a few groceries.

Sweet little Dorothy is still in the guest bedroom for the time being. She’s being treated for parasites, poor girl, and despite the fact that she’d dearly like OUT of her room and Jake and Elwood and Rufus would dearly like IN her room (more because of the kitten food that’s in there than out of their desire to see the kitten), we have to wait to introduce them ’til the medicatin’ is done.

However, Rufus is a stealthy little man, and one day last week he apparently snuck into the room when I was leaving it, and I didn’t realize it.

I went in about ten minutes later to find this.

The little hussy.

Despite my insistence that they stay tiny little babies forever, the McMaos seem determined to grow up. They practically grow right before my eyes, and I DON’T LIKE IT.

Cillian is particularly long. Hee. He’s like a kitty dachshund!

“But… I WANNA grow up to be a big boy and kick the butts of all other cats!”

Ciara decided my foot belonged to HER, and spent a good five minutes rubbing her face on me.

Serious little Cillian.

An idea forms…

Stage 1 of implementation…

Total capitulation. Well played, little man.

I know it’s rude to post a litter box picture, but the thousand yard stare makes me giggle every time.

Fergus Simon of the spotted belleh.

Sugarbutt, recovering from his vigorous weekend of sleeping.

Previously
2010: No entry.
2009: No entry.
2008: She just didn’t want to start eating food until SHE wanted to and once she decided she was ready, there was no problem.
2007: Cleaning is my favorite thing ever, you know, so it was a happy, happy day for me.
2006: 18. Have you ever been in a fight? Nothing stronger than a slap-fight. Are you kidding? I’d shit myself and pass out before anyone got a chance to hit me.
2005: NO ONE GIVES A SHIT ABOUT COREY CLARK.
2004: No entry.
2003: You know you’re hormonal when the video for Reba McEntire’s “Fancy” (hee! I almost typed “Fancypants”) makes you all teary-eyed.
2002: It rocked. I loved it. I see a strong love for sushi in my future.
2001: I’ve managed to stay strong.
2000: Poor, poor pitiful me.