After Friday’s entry, when I said that it was embarrassing that we’d had that damn Amish pantry for a year and it was STILL out in the garage, I decided it was time to get our asses in gear. Fred wanted to wait ’til Saturday to try moving it, but Jean had offered to help us get it inside, so I figured if we tried it on our own and couldn’t get it moved, maybe we could beg her to come out over the weekend to help.
That pantry is heavy as hell, but we were able to get it out of the garage onto the back of the truck, then drove the truck into the back yard, unloaded it onto the walkway, got it on the dolly, and then Fred pulled and I pushed, and we got the pantry up the steps into the laundry room. It had to rest there while we moved the bookcase that was in the spot where the pantry was going, and holy COW was there a lot of dust and crap behind that bookcase. I vacuumed, then I sprayed the wall and floor and scrubbed ’em down, and then we got the pantry in place, and I spent the next few hours organizing my kitchen. I did more organizing on Saturday, and while the kitchen isn’t quite yet organized the way I want it to be, it’s almost there.
Of course, the DOORS aren’t on it yet (they still need a coat of polyurethane), but when they are, it’ll look awesome.
We watched Every Which Way But Loose over the weekend (Fred seems to be on a Clint Eastwood kick at the moment). Or to be more accurate, he watched it while I snoozed through most of it.
I actually laughed at several parts of the movie, but my favorite sections were when Ruth Gordon was on, of course.
“That’s YOU in 30 years!” Fred said.
Indeed.
Saturday morning, knowing that Maura’s new mom was going to be arriving any time, I let Maura out of her room where she’d been sequestered for the week. She immediately came downstairs, hung out in the chair in the computer room, sat on the dryer and looked out the window, and when her mom arrived, she was rolling around on the rug in the kitchen.
This is where, since Maura is now safely ensconced in her new home, I can tell you who her new mom is – Kathy, in Birmingham! Kathy says things are going well, Maura is happy in her new home, and she’s a snuggle bug.
I just love the fact that Maura has a home, that it’s a home with people I can harass for updates on her, and she’ll never have to sit in a cage at the adoption center. It’s no secret that black cats often wait a long time before they’re adopted, and I didn’t want Maura to have to go through that (well, I never want ANY of my fosters to go through that, of course).
Yay for Maura, and yay for Kathy!
Now that Maura is gone, we’re down to just our eleven, plus four fosters. Why, it’s like we hardly have any cats in the house at all!
Except for times like right now, when all four of the fosters are supercharged with energy and flying around like their butts are on fire. They love ALL toys, but they especially adore crumpled up balls of tinfoil. Bolitar carries one around in his mouth and growls at any other cat who comes near. With the money I spend on cat toys, their favorite toys are the tinfoil balls, the milk jug rings, and boxes. Why do I bother buying cat toys, again? (Oh, right. It’s an illness!)
Corbett, considering.
They certainly make themselves at home, don’t they?
“Here is the snacks, lady. Did you forget where they are?”
I’ve been giving the Bookworms a morning and evening “snack” of canned cat food. I decided yesterday to cut out the morning snack. That went into effect this morning, and boy were they confused. They came upstairs after I got out of the shower, like they do every morning, and they escorted me down the stairs to the guest bedroom, like they do every morning. I scooped the litter box like I do every morning, and then I walked out of the room without giving them a snack. You could practically see the question marks over their little heads, like “THAT’s not right!” They followed me around and mewed and chirruped and rubbed up against me, then I threw toys for them, and they were distracted just long enough to forget that they hadn’t had their morning snack and were starving to death.
I absolutely adore them at this age.
Newt, keeping an eye on the chickens. Those two are Sassy and Sissy McGee, our two free-range chickens. They fly out of the chicken yard every morning to wander around our property, and then fly back into the chicken yard at night time. If they were prone to wander beyond our property, we’d clip their wings so they couldn’t get over the fence, but they don’t, so we don’t. (And I really like seeing them wander around, scratching and pecking.)
Previously
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!