reading: Death in Blue Folders.
Finished over the weekend: Little Bitty Lies (good book – have I mentioned that I really like Mary Kay Andrews?) and I’m Not the New Me – another very very good book. I started it last night and ended up staying up ’til almost 1, ’cause I could NOT put it down. I recommend it!
* * *
SURVIVOR SPOILERS: SKIP TO THE NEXT SECTION IF YOU HAVEN’T SEEN LAST NIGHT’S SHOW
Though what I really would have liked to see was a final two of Stephenie and Angie, I’m okay with the fact that Tom won.
That boneheaded move of Ian’s, though, giving up immunity if Tom would take Katie to the final two? WHAT AN IDIOT. I said to Fred “Somewhere, Richard Hatch is having a conniption right now.” I get what he was doing, but I repeat: WHAT AN IDIOT. Giving up a million dollars if Tom and Katie will promise to be his friend again? What is he, ten years old?
GOD.
I haven’t watched the reunion show yet, but I sincerely hope that someone thumped that boy upside the noggin. Bless his heart – he might have pulled a dumbass move, but he sure is cute. He’s like a Precious Moments doll, with those big dark eyes.
On a side note, every time Ian hugged someone, all I could think of was a few weeks ago when Jeff Probst said “Ian, you REEK!” And everyone seems to come up to Ian’s armpits, and when they’d hug and their face was pressed into his armpit, I had to hold my breath in sympathy, because I was sure it was stinkeriffic.
I actually felt sorry for Katie at Tribal Council, she was catching so much shit. I didn’t much like her, but to be told time and again that you’re a lazy, worthless, coat tail-riding slacker can’t be fun.
Also, I never noticed this before last night, but what the HELL was up with Jenn’s duck lips? She kept sticking them out as though she thought it was a good look for her. Note to Jenn: It’s not. You look weird. Stop with the fucking duck lips. Thankyew.
Oh, Survivor, how I love thee. When does the next season start, anyone know? I guess I’ll find out at the end of the reunion show, eh?
* * *
Saturday morning Fred had gone to get groceries, and I had just fallen back asleep when the phone rang. I pushed Miz Poo off me and flailed across the bed for the phone. Caller ID said that it was Fred calling, and I assumed he had a question about something on the grocery list.
“Want to see a dog?” he said.
“A dog?” I said.
“There’s a dog in the garage,” he said.
“I’ll be right down.”
I tossed my nightgown on and hurried down the stairs. I assumed that the itty bitty miniature pinscher from next door had gotten loose and was wandering around our garage, but when I opened the door to the garage, Fred was petting a small tan-and-white dog I’d never seen before.
“Where’d he come from?”
“I don’t know,” Fred said. “He was sitting by the front door when I drove up, and he whimpered and shook when I petted him.”
The dog came over and wiggled excitedly in front of me. I bent down to pet him, and he scampered off, running around the garage and sniffing everything.
“He’s not wearing a collar,” I said. “I wonder if he belongs to someone in the neighborhood.”
“Yeah, I was wondering that, too.”
The dog scampered around the garage a little longer, and then went over to the door into the house, and gave me an expectant look, as if to say
Hey, you going to let me in, or what? I’ve had quite enough of this outside stuff, and I can smell cats in there. I like cats. They’re good to eat.
(No, we didn’t get any pictures.)
He ran around the garage a few more times, and then ran into the neighbor’s yard, where he sniffed wildly.
Fred and I discussed going around the neighborhood and knocking on doors to see if we could find where he belonged, but it wasn’t even 7:30, and that’s too damn early on a Saturday morning.
“We could put him in the back yard and call Animal Control,” I suggested. We talked about it for a few more minutes, and then I went inside, because I was cold, and started putting groceries away.
Fred came in a minute later. “I’m going to take Mister Boogers out and see what he does!” He picked up Mister Boogers, flung him over his arm, and went out the front door.
A minute later, they both came back inside.
“He belongs to the people on the other side of the Smiths,” he said. “The lady who lives there was calling for him – his name is Oscar – and he went running.”
Mystery solved.
Later that morning, I took the spud to the house of one of her friends who was throwing a pool party/ sleepover in honor of her birthday/ high school graduation. The friend had gone to pick up someone when we arrived, and the friend’s mother was sitting outside their apartment. She waved us down, told us what was going on, and invited us inside.
In her arms she held the most adorable chihuahua (well, second only to the magnificent
Vince, that is), named something like “Loola”. Inside the apartment were another two chihuahuas, and they pranced around and licked my hands and sniffed at my feet. They were awfully cute, and I petted them for ten minutes or so before I left. And I left with a raging case of
I-want-a-puppy-itis.
I got over it pretty quickly, though.
I guess the theme for Saturday was “dogs.” Unusual in the life of a girl who spends most of her time surrounded by cats, I’d say.
* * *
After last week, when I took a child’s dose of Benadryl and experienced next to no itching at all at the pet store, what do you suppose I did today? That’s right, I left the house without taking Benadryl, and didn’t realize it until I got to the pet store.
And the itching was so bad that I wanted to remove my skin with a vegetable peeler. MY GOD IT SUCKED. I think I’m going to put the bottle of Benadryl in my purse so this doesn’t happen again. Nothing is less fun than standing in a room of concentrated cat hair and dander, and digging at your itchy, itchy skin until it bleeds.
Hey. Speaking of digging at your itchy, itchy skin until it bleeds, did you know that Meth addicts scratch a lot? I watched Friday’s episode of Oprah, which was all about Meth addiction, and that’s one of the things they covered. That Meth addicts are often covered with sores because they think they have bugs under their skin, and they scratch, and then they dig holes in their skin. Due to the eczema, I scratch my arms a lot. No doubt I look like a fucking meth addict when I’m standing in line at the grocery store, scratching wildly at my arms.
That Oprah show about Meth addiction was some scary, scary shit. They had a 17 year-old who’d been addicted to Meth for a year and a half, and they basically had an intervention on the show, and ended up whisking her off to rehab.
(There’s a good series about Meth addiction
here.)
It wasn’t until I’d erased the show that it occurred to me that I should have saved it and watched it again with the spud. Not that I think I have anything to worry about with her, but it’s always a good thing to scare the bejesus out of a kid when it comes to drugs.
Just say “no”, spud! JUST SAY “NO”!
* * *
The Booger is pissy because it’s raining out and he can’t go chatter at the birds. DAMN IT.
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