8/26/09 – Wednesday

I am without my car today and tomorrow – it’s off being serviced – and it’s kind of disconcerting. OMG, what if I need to go get groceries (I don’t, I got them yesterday) or pick up a bag of cat food (I don’t, we’re completely stocked up) or emergency-run a cat to the vet (I’ve never had to before, why start today?)?! Even if the car wasn’t off being serviced, if it was parked in the driveway, I have nowhere pressing to be today or tomorrow, it’s just knowing that if I WANTED to go somewhere I couldn’t that’s annoying me a little.

And I shouldn’t even be annoyed – if I truly wanted/ needed to go somewhere, I could use the truck. I don’t know where the keys are, but I suspect if I called Fred and said “Where are the keys to the truck?” he’d likely tell me. I don’t like to drive the truck, though. In fact, I don’t like to drive anything but my own car. I guess I’m a creature of habit. Or I’m looking for something to complain about. WHATEVER. I don’t even like my stupid car that much.

Hey – now that I think of it, I could take a page from the book of the old man who lives down the road, who drives his riding lawn mower to the post office every day. I kid you not. And he goes pretty damn fast in that thing.

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I will likely be kicked out of the Huntsville area or divorced by my husband when I confess this to you, but it must be said: I think Big Bob Gibson’s BBQ sauce is good, but I’ve found one that’s even better. When we first visited a certain restaurant in the Lawrenceburg, TN area on our way to Amish country, I liked the BBQ sauce on the table so much that I made Fred buy a bottle of it before we left.

Johnny Fleeman’s Legendary Bar-B-Que Sauce is the bomb. THE BOMB. I love the stuff so much that I ordered six bottles directly from them so I wouldn’t run out.

Highly, highly recommended, if you’re looking for a good BBQ sauce.

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My trip to the doctor went just fine yesterday – and boy HOWDY do they have a nice office! She totally remembered me (or at least pretended to), and I was in and out of there pretty quickly. She ordered bloodwork to test my this level and that level, but I have to go to the lab another day, because I’d eaten breakfast before I went to my appointment and I need to be fasting for the blood work to be done.

That mole on the back of my hand is not anything to be concerned about at all, it’s not skin cancer. In fact, it’s so much not skin cancer that she barely glanced at it before she said “Well, it’s due to aging…” When I told Fred later on, he said “DO YOU HAVE A LIVER SPOT?” Fucker.

My elbow? Not elbow cancer. Not a tumah. Tendinitis.

My thyroid? Still there.

I got a prescription for thyroid medication and a prescription for pain patches for my elbow, a hug from my doctor, and I was out of there.

What’s disconcerting is that I discovered that my doctor is the same age as I am – in fact, a little younger. She turned 41 recently. My gastroenterologist is a few days younger than I am. This means that when I’m old and doddering, they’ll be old and doddering too. Who the hell is going to be my doctor when we’re all old and doddering?!

Fred says I’ve now hit the age where when I get a new doctor for something, they’ll be younger than me.

Damn whippersnappers.

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Over the weekend, I started letting the kittens have more room to roam. For the first day, I put up baby gates across the hallway – one stacked on top of the other – but the hallway is wide enough to make the gates barely reach, and though the kittens didn’t attempt climbing them, it was only a matter of time, and the weight of a couple of kittens would surely have brought them down.

I talked to Fred, who thought about it, and ended up building something that was sturdier and couldn’t be climbed – basically it’s a light piece of plywood, cut to fit across the hallway with hooks on either side. We call it “the wall”, it’s temporary and can be moved out of the way in the evening. It’s not gorgeous, but it works really well.

In addition to their room, the kittens now have the bathroom to run around with (complete with a big-cat litter box! Kittens, I have found, are just like little kids. You know when you’ve just potty-trained a child and they get to where every time they see a bathroom they have to try it out? Kittens are totally like “Hey! New litter box! Time to kick some litter around, WHEE!”) as well as my bedroom. Like all kittens, they’ve particularly taken to my bed, and most of the time when they pile up for a nap, it’s on my bed.

I let them roam for most of the day (I put the “wall” up at the end of the hallway around 7 am, and then herd them into the kitten room around 9 pm), and go up often during the day to visit and snuggle. Sometimes when they’re upstairs racing around and I’m downstairs, they sound like a herd of elephants.

Sam the charmer.

Tell me it doesn’t look EXACTLY like Bill’s sharing a particularly juicy secret.

“Heyyyy, good-lookin’!”

Hoyt adores laying on his back and having his belly rubbed.

I share this picture not only because you can see Terry’s little pink hernia bulging out (down toward his back legs), but because you can see the wonkiness of his paw.

See? He’s got three pink pads, each one belonging to a “finger”, and then over to the side (toward the top of the picture), he’s got two “thumbs.” It’s unbearably cute.

It looks wet around Bill’s eyes because I’d just put gel in them. It seems to have the effect of making them lick their lips for some reason, and then clean their faces.

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Stinkerbelle kinda LOOKS like she’s looking at me, but really she’s looking past me. It’s very subtle, but if you look you can see she’s not really looking at me. She’d never lower herself to look AT me. Brat.

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Previously
2008: I don’t know why he can’t just call it Demer0l or whatever the fuck other people call it.
2007: No entry.
2006: No entry.
2005: No entry.
2004: I sure do hate the hell out of housework.
2003: When I think of Judge Roy Moore, the phrase “Getting too big for his britches” comes to mind.
2002: If he didn’t do that creepy, over-intense stare all the time, he wouldn’t be so (you guessed it) creepy, but he does, so he is.
2001: No entry.
2000: No entry.