Month: May 2012

Do you suppose I’m ever going to get my ass in gear and make a new banner for Bitchypoo? (Don’t hold your breath.)

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This week on Dinosaurs Can’t Eat Pizza, Nance and I made Strawberry Meyer Lemonade Spritzer. It should not be that difficult to find a damn ingredient.

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“We should get some ducks,” said Fred.
“We don’t need ducks,” I said.
We got four ducks. They cost $16.

(There was an old Fredster who bought four ducks.
I don’t know why he bought four ducks.
What the fuck?)

“We should have a pond dug,” said Fred.
“We don’t need a pond,” I said.
“We do need a pond,” Fred said. “The ducks won’t be happy with a kiddie pool forever. And they’re swimming in the dogs’ water bowls.”
We had the pond dug. It cost a lot.

“We have a pond,” Fred said. “Now we need catfish!”
“We should wait a year,” I said. “And see how the pond does during the summer before we get catfish.”
“I don’t WANT to wait,” Fred said.
We got 200 catfish.

“The pond is drying up,” Fred said. “It’s been so dry, I don’t remember the last time it rained. Look! I put this rock at the edge of the water yesterday and the water level has dropped by, like, an inch. If not more!”
“It’s too bad we didn’t wait a year to get those catfish,” I said.
He continued as though I’d said nothing. “We should have a well dug. If we had a well, we could use the water to keep the pond full! I’m going to call the guys who dug the pond and see if they know anyone who can drill a well for us.”

The guy’s coming next Tuesday to start on the well.

(Yes, we have a well under the house. It’s a hand-dug well that doesn’t go down deep enough to provide any decent amount of water and would only provide surface water, which is probably contaminated. I suspect that a human body would fit nicely in it, though. JUST SAYING.)

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Previously
2011: Really, I’m pretty sure they only invented weekends so everyone could take Saturday and Sunday afternoon naps.
2010: No entry.
2009: No entry.
2008: I always forget what bitey little brats they are at this age. They’re so MEAN.
2007: “I’m so happy,” he said. “That if this were a movie, in the next scene you’d be raped or killed.”
2006: No entry.
2005: Every time I type in “u” instead of “you”, I die a little inside.
2004: No entry.
2003: What happens if you put a box on the floor?
2002: “Where was it, Bessie?” he asked, trying to draw me into the trap with him, so he could perhaps trip me and then run away, leaving me there for her to latch onto.
2001: What do you s’pose a realtor’s house looks like? I always assumed it’d be a real showplace, with everything just so, all appliances gleaming and so on.
2000: Every time I blow-dry my hair, it sounds like the phone is ringing.

Over at Dinosaurs Can’t Eat Pizza, Nance and I made Blueberry Pudding Cake this week. One of us loved it, one of us did not, go read about it. Also, I made Individual Cream Cheese Danish for yesterday’s post.

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Also, Fred has started up blogging again – not at Vituperation, but somewhere else entirely. I’m trying to convince him to put up some of his old stuff, but he’s not inclined to do that just yet – probably because he’s been so busy working outside. There are lots of pictures of the garden over there (and more pictures of the garden over at Love & Hisses today, too).

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So after I announced that I was going off the estrogen patch, I did – I went off it completely, just ripped that bitch off my hip and tossed it in the trash and didn’t replace it with another one. Then about a week went by, and around the one-week mark, I turned into a total raving, irrational bitch. Here’s the thing about going off of hormones: you shouldn’t do it all at once, because the huge fluctuation in hormones will make you come very close to going on a shooting rampage. You need to step down off the patch slowly.

I went back ON the patch, and then last week I began the slow, slow, ever-so-slow stepdown off the patch. I went from an entire patch to half a patch, and when I’ve done that for a month I’ll go down to 1/4 patch and then after a month I will take that bitch off.

“But you’re so mellow when you’re on the estrogen,” Fred said sadly.

He fails to remember that before I went ON the estrogen patch, I was perfectly fine. No hot flashes, no moodiness, and then I had to listen to my stupid gynecologist, and I went back on the goddamn thing.

Let’s reiterate: the ONLY reason I went back on the estrogen is because the gynecologist thought I should because of my age. Not because I was having any issues, just because of my age. With a family history of breast cancer, that is a dangerously stupid old-school knee-jerk line of thought, and I’m a dumbass for listening to it.

All of this is to say that I am about a week into the step-down off the estrogen patch, and I’m a teeny bit irritable. I knew I would be, and it’s not bad – I’m not screaming at the computer at the top of my lungs, and I haven’t threatened my iPod’s life, and have you noticed here that it’s mostly the electronic things that drive me to the brink of violent insanity? If only there was a solution. I wonder how the electronics in this house would like a swim in the pond.

So yesterday I got up and I said to myself “Oh, it rained last night. I’m not going to work in the garden because it’ll be all MUDDY. I am ever so sad that I can’t work in the garden today (NOT), I guess I’ll go run that shitload of errands I’ve been putting off.”

The biggest errand that I’d been putting off is taking stuff to the recycling center. Here in the country, we don’t have a recycling truck that comes around and collects our recycling (O Madison, it is times like this that I miss you terribly). I let it collect in the garage until I can’t stand it any longer (usually 2 – 3 weeks), and then I pile it all into my car and head for the recycling center.

I arrived at the recycling center, and there were several other people there, so I parked at the end of the row of dumpsters, and I started tossing plastic into the plastic dumpster, etc.

Some guy came wandering along as I was pulling a bag out of the back of my car, and he looked at my car.

“The birds have been using your car as a bathroom,” he pointed out. I nodded. There’s lots of bird shit on my car.

“You must park under a tree,” he said.

“I do,” I said.

“That’s very very bad for your paint job,” he said disapprovingly.

I ignored him and went about my business, but I will tell y’all that I kind of wanted to rip his head off and shit down his throat. Because, um, FUCK YOUR MOTHER YOU NOSY MOTHERFUCKER AND MIGHT I ASK WHO THE FUCK ASKED YOUR OPINION ABOUT MY FUCKING CAR?

When he realized he wasn’t going to engage me in a conversation about my car and how I am a terrible car owner for parking MY own fucking car under A FUCKING TREE because apparently this affects his life a great deal, he continued on to a truck that was parked at the other end of the row of dumpsters. And he sat there, and he watched me as I put all my recycling in the dumpsters. I was just waiting for him to be so overcome with the fact of my careless treatment of my car (MY car, you know, the car he is not responsible for in any way, and if the bird shit burns holes in my car, I won’t be coming to him to buy me a new one? Yeah, that car.) and to get out of his truck to make it SUPER clear that bird shit is bad for my paint job. He didn’t, though, he just stayed there and watched me.

Now, THAT isn’t creepy, is it? He stayed there when I left, so maybe he was hoping someone would come along who would be properly shamed by the fact that they park their own car under a tree and let the birds shit on it.

(I see y’all dying to tell me how bad that is for my car’s paint job, and let me say (1) I don’t care, (2) If it bothers you so much, feel free to come wash my car, and (3) Because my side of the garage is taken up with gym equipment, that’s why I don’t park in the garage.)

Then I continued on to Walmart, where I bought three big containers of Cat’s Pride Fresh & Light litter. (What’s that? What is my current kitty litter regimen? I’m so glad you asked! See, about every three weeks or so, I scrub down the litter boxes, and then I refill them with fresh litter. And I use THREE kinds of litter – a thin layer of Fresh Step on the bottom, a thick layer of Cat’s Pride on top of that, and on the very top, a thin layer of Cat Attract. It works well for me, but your mileage may vary.)

I went to the “20 items or fewer” lane – it being early, Walmart wasn’t very busy – and the cashier rang up the first box of litter. She looked at me. She rang up the second box of litter. She looked at me. She rang up the third box of litter. She looked at me.

“How many cats do you HAVE?” she asked, and it wasn’t a friendly question, like she was asking how many cats I had so she could tell me about her cat(s). It was a “Clearly you’re batshit nuts over cats. Just how batshit nuts ARE you?” tone. It was a “Tell me how many cats you have, so my coworkers can talk about the loon with three hundred cats.” tone.

I thought of several responses – “WHY THE FUCK IS IT ANY BUSINESS OF YOURS?!” being the first one and the one I wanted most to say – but I just smiled at her in a “I do not understand the words that are coming out of your mouth.” way. She clearly thought about asking again, but let it go.

I had more errands to run, but I was concerned enough about my mood that I was afraid I’d end up in jail for assault (I needed to pick up a prescription at the grocery store pharmacy, but MAN I do NOT LIKE the kid who works at that pharmacy, I DO NOT LIKE HIM so much that I transferred all my prescriptions to the pharmacy down the road so I’d never have to see his stupid face again, but this prescription was for Fred. I’m going to have to strongly insist that Fred transfer his prescriptions, too, because that kid who works at the pharmacy? DO NOT LIKE. Did I mention?) before the day was through, so I just came home, sat my ass on the couch, and caught up on my junk TV.

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I read this article about couples who sleep in separate bedrooms and whether it’s good or bad for a marriage.

First of all, for fuck’s sake. Can we agree that there’s no one answer? Some couples NEED to sleep in the same bed, other couples NEED not to. One’s not better than the other, no matter what the “experts” say.

Also, I like this:

YES! The time before we fall asleep, when we talk in bed or make love, is the MOST precious time of my whole entire day. I wouldn’t change it for the world!

Well, shit. I didn’t know that you had to sleep the entire night in the same bed to accomplish those goals! For fuck’s sake.

FOR FUCK’S SAKE.

(Yes, this is me “mildly irritable.” Who am I trying to kid?)

Fred barely gets five hours of sleep a night as it is. If he and I slept in the same bed, I doubt he’d get nearly that much sleep. And I prefer to stay up past 9:05 PM. So when he toddles off to bed, I turn my light on and I watch stuff on my iPod or I catch up on my Words with Friends games, or I read, or whatever the fuck my little heart desires.

But as part of our nighttime routine, we lay in bed for half an hour or so before he goes off to his own room. OMG! Alert the presses! You can lay down and talk or WHATEVER and then NOT sleep in the same bed? My god! I need to patent this idea!

This does not hold true for every married couple, of course, but I’ve noticed that generally people who’ve been married for a year or less are HORRIFIED at the idea of sleeping in separate rooms. I can’t do that! I couldn’t possibly spend the night without being able to reach out and touch the love of my liiiiiiiiiiiiife! On the other hand, couples who’ve been married for more than a couple of years will generally say something along the lines of “I wish I had MY own room!”

I think Fred would agree with me on this: everyone should have their own room if they want. Humans are not meant to sleep in the same bed, because humans are annoying fucking creatures who snore and grind their teeth and flail around and try to take up the whole bed and steal the blankets or toss all the blankets on top of the other person, and OH how the list goes on.

Really, in the end, I don’t give much of a shit whether you sleep in the same bed as your partner or alone or with 300 cats or a big stanky dog or in a tent in the middle of your back yard or whatever, and I imagine you don’t give much of a shit about how we sleep, either, aside from the general interest of the story.

But then, I imagine an article entitled “Who gives a shit whether you people sleep in separate rooms or not?” probably wouldn’t have the same must-read-this impact as “SLEEPING SEPARATELY: DOES IT DESTROY YOUR MARRIAGE? EXPERTS SAY IT MIGHT!”

FOR FUCK’S SAKE.

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Previously
2011: We just may have a decent garden this summer after all!
2010: One thing y’all do not know about Fred And3rson is that when it comes toward clothing, he gravitates toward the bright, flamboyant colors.
2009: No entry.
2008: One of the many things I don’t get: sour cream.
2007: No entry.
2006: No entry.
2005: WHERE’S THE SENSE?
2004: ”It’s HOT in the SOUTH in the SUMMER?! You don’t say!”
2003: No entry.
2002: I hope you’re planning on marking the occasion with style and panache, people.
2001: And so on until it’s lunchtime and I’m so excited at the thought of Lime Jello for dessert (it being Tuesday and all) that I hang up on her and go hobbling out to the lunchroom with all the other old people.
2000: Fuuuuuuuuuuuck.