5/17/10 – Monday

Readers, Grace needs some help:

I do the flea – advantix, whatevs – stuff on the cats. I do not like them going out but hubs does let them out “with supervision.” Which today? There are a zillion mosquitoes (big rain = mosquitoes). And while the critters do not bother ME, because I have Cutter on, they are buzzing around the kittles. Is there any treatment you know of to keep mosquitoes from them, that you can put on them like the flea stuff? (Which does not keep fleas OFF, but does kill relatively fast?) We do spray the cutter stuff monthly and use yard guard etc. (OK, bad environmental policy, but to me? Better Living Through Chemistry, sorry y’all.)

Also? When we lived in H’ville they sprayed for mosquitoes, also they did in NO. They don’t here in the Houston Suburbs. Which means LOTS of mosquitoes. Seriously, lots. They do not care about West Nile AT ALL. In fact they told us in March to quit bringing birds, that Yes, there was West Nile and DEAL WITH IT HERE ARE THE SYMPTOMS.

Help from you and readers really appreciated.

I don’t know of any treatment to keep mosquitoes off of cats, hopefully someone else will have some good advice.

I do know that Bounce fabric softener sheets do amazingly well at keeping mosquitoes away – on the rare occasion I work in the garden, I tuck a sheet of Bounce in the waistband of my shorts, and the mosquitoes stay far away. Maybe you could make bandannas for the cats out of fabric softener sheets? (I’m mostly kidding. But if you do that, send pics!)

 

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Saturday night, bedtime. Fred was in bed, waiting for me. He always ends up in bed before me, waiting for me to brush my teeth, take out my contacts, and pee one last time before I join him. Probably if I didn’t spend the time he spends getting ready for bed in front of the computer surfing aimlessly, we’d end up going to bed at the same time.

But, y’know, something might happen on the internet, and I’d hate to miss it.

I was sitting on the toilet, about to pee. In my left hand was a dose of progesterone, which I was about to rub into the skin of my inner left arm. It’s the last thing I do before I head for bed, and I always pee and progesterone at the same time. It makes me feel efficient.

Fred appeared suddenly in the doorway, and I sat and stared at him like a deer in the headlights. He gave me a bug-eyed look and then held his arm out to me.

“GET THIS TICK OFF OF ME RIGHT NOW!” he said. I stood up and peered down at his arm. (PEERED, Jean. PEERED. I did not pee on his arm. Slow down with that reading!)

“Where?”

“RIGHT THERE, GET IT, GET IT!” he said, gesturing. I had to squint to see the tiniest little bitty tick on his arm, moving ever-so-slowly around in his arm hair. Given the way he was acting, you’d think it was the Speedy Gonzales of ticks, racing to and fro, avoiding capture.

I squeezed the tiny thing between two finger nails, and Fred walked out of the bathroom. I stood there, a tick in one hand and a blop of progesterone in the other, and waited for him to come back. I heard the sound of the bedroom floor creaking for a few moments, then the sound of him getting back in bed.

“Douchebag,” I grumbled. I wiped the progesterone onto the cap of the progesterone container, and grabbed a bottle of rubbing alcohol, put the wee baby tick down on the side of the sink, and dumped a generous amount of rubbing alcohol over the tick. The tick swam around merrily.

“Rubbing alcohol doesn’t kill a tick,” I said informatively after a few seconds.

“No, it doesn’t,” Fred called from the bedroom. “Crumpling it up in a piece of toilet paper and flushing it down the toilet kills it!”

I got a piece of toilet paper, and then envisioned the wee baby tick swimming merrily around in the septic tank for the next several months, until it got to be the size of a Buick, whereupon it would swim back up the pipes into the toilet and attack me at an unfortunate moment.

I squashed the wee baby tick with the side of the progesterone container, then crumpled it in a piece of toilet paper and tossed it in the toilet.

Then I peed and put the progesterone on my inner arm, and went to bed.

Whereupon I told Fred what a douchebag he is.

Fucker.

 

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Saying “Speedy Gonzales” up there in that section reminds me that on Friday, Fred and I went up into Tennessee to Amish country just to get the hell out of the house, and after we drove aimlessly around the Mennonite settlement and bought a few pepper plants, we stopped for lunch at a Mexican restaurant. When Fred’s order came, the guy delivering his food held out the plate and said “The Speedy Gonzales?” Fred had ordered his food by the combination number, so he hadn’t realized it was called The Speedy Gonzales until then. As the server walked away from the table, Fred pursed his lips in mock disapproval and said “THAT’s an awfully racist name.”

A misleading name, too, for that matter. There was nothing speedy about THAT meal.

Seriously, the food was really good (I had a shrimp quesadilla), but it was the slowest service we’ve ever had in a Mexican restaurant. Usually the food comes in an amount of time that can be measured in seconds, but this time around we had to wait at least ten minutes.

I know! Except for that big bowl of tortilla chips we were cramming in our tortilla-holes, we might have starved to death!

(Seriously, spell-check, you don’t recognize “quesadilla”, but you have no issues with “tortilla-holes”?)

When we watch Kitchen Nightmares, it always boggles my mind when the voice-over guy says “An HOUR into service, and no one has received their appetizers yet!”, because hello? If I had to wait an HOUR for my fucking appetizer, I’d be out of there. An hour after I’ve first walked through the door of a restaurant, I want to be at home on the couch, sleeping off the carb coma, not gnawing on my fingernails and wondering which circle of Hell I’m occupying.

 

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Let’s see, my weekend:

Friday: Amish country. Home by 2:30, napped on the couch. First baby chicks of the Spring were finally born. The hens started going broody awfully late in the season this year for some reason. Fred caught a mole and killed it. I reflected that it was funny that on Thursday we did everything we could to save one rodent (the squirrel) and on Friday we (he) did everything we (he) could to catch and kill another. (I’m assuming moles are rodents.)

Saturday: Woke up with a million things to do, but that all went out the window when Egg the Pig Man called to let us know we could come get our pigs. Left here at 9, got the pigs, talked to Egg for half an hour, home at 11. Got the pigs set up in their new home (they seem to be under the impression they’re cows – they didn’t touch the pig food in the trough, instead spent the day eating grass). Vacuumed. Cleaned the kitchen. Napped on the couch. Puttered around, accomplished approximately zip.

Sunday: Made Strawberry Lemon Marmalade (it looks and tastes just like strawberry jam to me, but Fred says he can taste the faintest taste of lemon). Intended to sand and stain the bookcase in the garage so I can get the damn thing into the house, but didn’t. I don’t know what the hell I did on Sunday, but it sure went by quickly!

 

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The Bookworms had their last vaccination Saturday afternoon, so for the rest of Saturday and all of Sunday, they moped around, slept a lot, and occasionally whined at me for no reason.

Today, they’re back to normal, of course.

Until Saturday, I was giving the kittens their snack in the guest bedroom so that they wouldn’t have to fight off the bigger cats to get food. They’ve essentially been trained to come running when I call “Little bitty kitties!”, and so Friday night I was standing in the guest bedroom calling and calling, and Reacher, Rhyme, and Bolitar were dancing around my feet. But there was no Corbett, no matter how much I called. Fred went looking for him, and found him.

Apparently Corbett WANTED to get down, but Stinkerbelle was sitting there glaring at him, and he was too skeered. We rescued him and fed him, and all was well.

Rhyme in the sun.

Corbett.

Rhyme and Reacher were tussling, and Jake had to get in the middle of it.

Rhyme.

 

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I don’t know what the issue is, but Spanky absolutely loathes Joe Bob, and so he often follows Joe Bob around and stares creepily at him. We call him “Creepy Cousin Spanky” when he does it. This picture makes me guffaw every time I look at it. It’s the quintessential “Creepy Cousin Spanky” picture.

 

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Previously
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.