8/13/07

We have chickens. Here’s why.

* * * As of today, I have lived in Alabama for 11 years! That’s 28.2051282051282051282051282051282051 (etc) percent of my life, but it doesn’t feel like a day over 27 percent. I’ve lived in Alabama longer than I’ve ever lived anywhere else. I still think of Maine as home, though. * * * Friday night, I was thisclose to jettisoning cats left and right, tossing all of them out the door so they could fend for themselves in the great wild. At 9:00, we got up to make our usual trek from the front room to the computer room to check our email before brushing our teeth and going on to bed, when Fred stopped in the dining room and turned on the light. I am in the process of making cinnamon pickles, and one of the steps is to cover them with a syrup then let them sit for 24 hours. So I’d covered them with the syrup and put the bowl on the table and covered it with a cloth so nothing would get into it, and I left it there, secure in the knowledge that it would remain there, safe and unharmed. Except that one bastardly Booger had decided to jump up on the table, and when he did, he landed with his back paw in the bowl, and when he did that, the cloth went downward into the bowl, and his big stupid foot got all covered with sticky red syrup, and he thought to himself “Hmm. My back foot is covered in sticky red syrup. How ever shall I deal with this dilemma? I know! I’ll shake my big stupid foot so that sticky red syrup will go everywhere! And then I’ll jump down and I’ll run around in random directions, shaking my big stupid foot, until I have covered as much of the dining room, kitchen, and computer room with red sticky syrup as possible!” And then he did. So instead of quietly checking our email and then going to bed, we spent the next half hour wiping sticky red syrup off the floor, the table, the chairs. It is only by the grace of god that my laptop – sitting right there on the table not a foot away from the bowl – didn’t get a single drop of red, sticky syrup on it. I was ENRAGED. Wiping up all that sticky fucking syrup from the table, the chairs, the floor, I swore the entire time, and I’m pretty sure the words “WHY CAN’T WE EVER HAVE ANYTHING NICE?!” came out of my mouth. And what’s worse is that we got it all cleaned up, went to bed, and I realized I needed to get something out of the computer room. Walking across the dining room to the computer room, I discovered three more sticky spots we’d missed when we were cleaning. And then all day Saturday I’d find yet another random spot of stickiness, and I’d swear loudly and then have to go get the rag and the cleaner, and clean it up. I was so ready to send that fucking bastard out to live with the chickens. Ah hets him. “Ah hets you, too.” * * * Thursday I called Fred at work. “I think I have a brain tumor,” I said. “It’s not a tumah,” he said, as is standard. “Or I’m going blind.” “What makes you say that?” he asked. “I’m having a hard time focusing, my eyes feel strained and achy by the end of the day, and I’ve had mild headaches lately.” “Maybe you need reading glasses.” “Shut up. I don’t need reading glasses. I have a brain tumor.” “Maybe you should go see the optometrist.” “I have an appointment tomorrow at 9:15.” So Friday morning I got up, ran around the house to get shit done, made breakfast: It appears we have a chicken who consistently lays double-yolkers. and left for my appointment (note to self: find optometrist closer than Huntsville. There’s gotta be one.). I got to the eye place a little early, popped out my contacts, put on my glasses, and walked in. Since I was early, I had to wait even longer than the usual fifteen minutes, so I watched people pick out glasses, and read magazines. Turns out that I don’t necessarily have a brain tumor. Instead, it seems that my vision has improved since last time I was there. If I recall correctly, at my last visit my vision had improved since the time before. At this rate, I’ll have perfect 20/20 vision right around the time I turn 100. I just won’t be alive to enjoy it. I bought boxes of contacts in the new prescription and tried on several frames before I found ones that I liked. I ordered them, and will be picking them up later today. * * * Maryanne continues to make herself at home. Using the Litter Robot (I think she actually likes to get in there and just kick the litter around sometimes) Hanging out atop the cat tree. Working on the Look o’ Het. She’s so purty. (Not documented in pictures: this morning she picked a fight with Miz Poo, and Miz Poo slapped her but good, then she picked another fight with Miz Poo, and Miz Poo slapped her even harder, and THEN she picked a fight with Miz Poo, and Miz Poo smacked her so hard she went rolling across the bed. Not a fast learner, this one.) * * * The boy cats, knowing what a bitchy little spaz Miz Poo is, love to tease her. They circle her, staying just out of reach of the Paw o’ Doom. Circle some more… Get a leeeeeettle closer… And then run off to nap, leaving Miz Poo to sadly ponder why no one will play with her. * * * Previously 2006: No entry. 2005: No entry. 2004: Give me time, I’ll have fifteen different versions of “Xanadu” in my music folder. 2003: MY ARM HURTS. 2002: I think no one ever told Billy Bob that if you ANNOUNCE you’re taking the high road, then you aren’t taking it. 2001: No entry. 2000: No entry.]]>