* * *
This is Spanky. He’s the GOOD boy, unlike his bastardly brothers, Fancypants and Tubby. This picture cracks me up.
The big picture. I bought the big cat bed specifically so Tubby would have room to lay in it, but he never gets a chance, between Miz Poo and Fancypants. I think these cat beds are the best investment I’ve ever made.
Is this a bitchy look, or what? I may have to go submit this to My Cat Hates You. (Um, holy crap. And we thought Tubby was big!)
“The front window! It’s open! The front window is open! Let us sit and look longingly at the front yard…”
* * *
We actually, as a family, left the house on Saturday. Yes we did, and the earth, contrary to our suspicions, did not crack open. We were going to go to Bankhead National Forest, have a picnic (Subway sandwiches) and then go for a hike. We ended up stopping in Decatur and having a picnic and a walk by the river. It was pretty nice, and Fred’s got pictures of our experience in his journal. There’ll probably be more pictures up later today, too.
It was really nice to get out of the house for a few hours, and it was so beautiful and sunny (and by the by, it’s supposed to hit 85 today. Feast or famine, folks. Feast or famine. Either it’s gray and overcast and rainy and cold, or it’s a gorgeous blue sky and warm, warm, warm. I sure as hell won’t complain about the latter, that’s for sure.) that we just couldn’t stay in the house. When we got home, Fred and I crashed for half an hour or so before dinner.
Sunday, Fred and the spud spent 12 hours watching the newest Harry Potter, and I sat in my chair by the window, reading and watching the kids outside play, with a portly Poo on my lap.
A damn fine weekend, all in all.
* * *
One of the – many! – things that sucks about it being That Time of the Month is that about a week before my period is due, not only do my boobs swell up to twice their usual size, but I also stop sleeping as soundly as I usually do. Add to that a cat who likes to tromp back and forth all night long, and I end up waking up 10 to 15 times a night.
Not only does Miz Poo tromp back and forth from one side of me to the other at regular intervals, but she will also occasionally decide that I need to be laying on my left side, so that she can snuggle up into my armpit and hang over my arm. To let me know that it’s time to turn over, she sits next to me and digs at me. Ignoring her doesn’t work, because she’s stubborn as hell and would probably sit there for a week, digging and digging and digging, until I turned over. Tossing her off the bed doesn’t work, since she simply waits until I’m asleep again and does it again. Whining “Miz Pooooo! Stop! I want to sleep on my stomach!” doesn’t work either, because she’s a heartless little bitch. The only thing that stops her is obeying her every whim, and I’ve learned to just give in to her.
Usually when she tromps across me during the night, I just wake briefly, identify the source of the pain, and go back to sleep. Often, I just sleep through it. When the menstrual hormones are raging, though, I wake every time she so much as twitches, and it takes a while to get back to sleep.
And Fred wonders why I’m so bitchy when this time of the month comes around.
* * *
During a conversation with my mother last night, we had a mini-argument about how old the spud is. We were talking about not this upcoming summer, but next summer. The spud’s father will be getting married next summer (the summer of 2004), and for some reason the spud is of the impression that my parents will be invited to the wedding. I have no idea whether this is because he said so to her, or because she’s just assuming, but my mother was concerned to hear that she was expected to be at the wedding of her former son-in-law, and so wanted to know what was going on.
“Well,” I said. “They’re not getting married until next summer.”
My mother relaxed a bit and said “Oh, next summer. And [the spud] will be how old next summer?”
“Fifteen,” I said.
“No she won’t!” she said.
Now, I ask you. Why would she ask me how old the spud was, and then tell me I’m wrong? Am I not the one who lugged around the bundle of joy through the hottest part of the summer? Am I not the one who was ripped open from side to side so that she could be lifted, screaming at the top of her considerable lungs, into the world? Am I not the one who ended up staying in the hospital for a week because I had a fever and an infection they couldn’t seem to locate? Am I not the one who had a delayed reaction to the anesthesia and barfed all over hell and creation in my hospital room? Trust me. October 26, 1988 is burned into my brain for all time. Even when I’m laying in the nursing home, with all the important things in my brain burned away by the Alzheimer’s, I’ll remember that date, okay?
Patiently I said, “Well, she’s 14 now…”
Long, long pause. “She’s 15!”
Slowly I said, “2003 minus 1988 is 15… She’s 14 and will be 15 in October.”
Finally, she conceded that I might be right. I don’t know if she actually believed that I was right or simply didn’t want to pursue the argument any further, but either way she gave it up.]]>