You guys, I am SURE, already read this, but in case you haven’t, let me be the one to tell you: go read Jane right now, and then read this one, too.
And then shave your heads to show solidarity. Also, wear nothing but pink. Also also, make sure you give her LOTS OF BIG HUGS. She pretends to be a non-hugger, but she secretly loves the long, long hugs. She’s a closet hugger!
Okay, you guys had questions about the chart. Let me see if I can address them all…
The chart is set up thusly – the names going across the top are the ones who are feeling, and the names going down the side are the ones who are being felt about. For instance, in the first column, where Spanky’s at the top, that shows his feelings toward Miz Poo, his feelings toward Tommy, and so on, going down the list. Most of the time the feelings are the same in both directions, but there are a few occasions where the cats have different feelings toward each other – ie, Spanky tolerates Jake and Elwood, but Jake and Elwood like Spanky.
Don’t feel sorry for Miz Poo and Kara – they are not fans of the other cats, but that’s because they’re people lovers, not cat lovers. Miz Poo would be perfectly 100% happy to be an only cat (it’s good to dream!), and Kara would too, except that then Kara would go crazy because there’d be no one for her to keep in line. As long as the other cats stay the hell out of their way, they ignore them. If anyone gets too much up in either of their faces, they hiss and smack and make it known that The Bubble has been breached.
There is one time of day when Kara LOVES THE HELL out of all the other cats, and that’s Snackin’! Time! While the cats are milling around excitedly waiting for their Snack!, Kara will rub up against any other cat she happens across. Usually that’s Jake and/ or Elwood, sometimes Spanky. And sometimes she’ll rub up against Jake or Elwood, and then in the next second she’ll smack the hell out of them.
I don’t know what on earth the deal is with Joe Bob, honestly. When he was our foster cat four years ago (or thereabouts), he was great friends with Mister Boogers, Tommy, and Sugarbutt. When we adopted him and Fred brought him home, Mister Boogers didn’t care for him at all, Sugarbutt ignored him, and Tommy went back and forth between being friends with him and picking on him. Most of the other cats have no use for him (oh, how Stinkerbelle LOATHES him, mostly (I think) because he picks on her), which is too bad, because he’s a good cat. I will say, though, that it’s not all their fault – he’s kind of touchy about being looked at by the other cats, and can take it as a challenge if they look at him for too long. He’s a little bit of a drama queen, is what I’m saying.
Actually, the chart is incorrect, now that I think about it – Spanky HATES Joe Bob, and will follow Joe Bob around and glare at him, sniff at the places where Joe Bob has been, and just generally make Joe Bob feel uncomfortable. (We call him “Creepy Cousin Spanky” when he acts like that.)
Someone asked if there are any major cat fights around here, and the answer is that sometimes there are, mostly between Stinkerbelle and Joe Bob (though now that I’ve said that, I think it’s been relatively calm between the two of them). Occasionally Jake or Elwood will chase Stinkerbelle, and she runs and hisses like the hounds of hell are after her. Sometimes Stinkerbelle will be up on top of the bookcase in the front room, and Kara will jump up there, and there’s a hiss-off, culminating with one or the other of them jumping down and running off. One day last week, Miz Poo was on top of the cat tree near the same bookcase, and I don’t know WHAT possessed her, but she decided to jump up to the top of the bookcase. The problem was, Maxi was already up there, and there was yelling and hissing and growling, and I sat up and looked over to see Miz Poo jump down to the top of the cat tree in terror, and then the poor thing fell OFF the cat tree (she’s fine).
Okay, I think that answered all the questions – of course, if I missed one, feel free to ask again!
So, I think I forgot to mention that I had my follow-up appointment last Thursday with my gynecologist (if you’ll recall, at my 6-week appointment, my internal incision wasn’t quite healed up). It was again not quite there, so she hit it up with the friggin’ silver nitrate a little. This time around it hurt a lot more than last time, WHICH I ENJOYED SO. She told me that I didn’t have to come back for another follow-up, but to let her know if I had any problems.
I don’t intend to have any problems. I am not fond of that damn drive, I’m telling you.
The thing about my gynecologist’s office is that instead of calling the day before to remind you of your appointment, they now call you two days before. And when you answer the phone, they make sure they have the right person on the line, and then they remind you that you have an appointment.
Then there’s this pause. I always say “Okay!”, expecting that they’ll say “See you then!” and hang up.
But they don’t.
What they do is remind you that if you don’t show up for your appointment or cancel it at least 24 hours in advance, they’ll bill you for the office visit. And I always feel really defensive, like “BUT I WAS PLANNING ON BEING THERE!”, like they KNOW me, and KNOW that my REAL plan was to just ditch the appointment and not bother to cancel in advance. Which would be stupid on my part, because I have to go back eventually, right?
(Well, I guess I don’t. I could always find a gynecologist nearer, I know But I’m too lazy to go looking for another gynecologist right now.)
When they called on Tuesday to remind me of my Thursday appointment, I confused the lady who called by saying “8:45, right? I’ll be there!”, and she just meekly said yes and hung up.
Had I known that the Census Bureau would be wasting MY TAX DOLLARS by sending me a postcard letting me know that my census form was on the way and THEN sending the census form and THEN sending another postcard to inform me that I should have gotten the census form, I wouldn’t have been quite so fast to fill the damn thing out and send it back. The SAME DAY, I sent that stupid thing back.
Will they be calling me now, to check and make sure I understand that they know I filled it out? Will they be knocking on my door? “Mrs. Anderson, it says here that there are only two people living here, but HOLY CRAP you spend a lot at Sam’s. Can you explain that to us? Also, the washer seems to run a lot, as shown here by your water bill. Cats? You have cats? Really, I don’t think a couple of cats would make… Oh. 11? You have 11 cats? In this house? Oh… and five fosters. So that makes… Okay, so two people and 16 cats. I see. Well, we’re going to need to put you on the SPECIAL list….”
Fucking census people, mind your own fucking business. Unless you wanna find out how many GUNS two people and 16 cats can cram into one house*.
(Attention FBI and other law enforcement: That is not a threat. That is me being annoyed and talking shit.)
*I don’t know how many. A lot. Enough so that Fred and I could each have one in each hand and one in each foot with a few left over. Not that I’m saying my toes are strong enough to pull the trigger of a gun, but you know, desperate times call for desperate measures. And unless you count the shootout over the kibble between the Bookworms yesterday, no one’s been shot yet. YET. But I’ve got guns and I know how to use ’em, stalkers. That’s all I’m saying.
I’m sorry, does that little face KILL YOU DEAD like it kills me?
Dreamy little Corbett. He is just SO FREAKIN’ GORGEOUS, I can’t stand it.
“Halp! HALP I SAY!”
“Who, me? Sharpening my claws on your jeans? I’d NEVER.”
“Hellow.”
“Okay, hi, my eyes are UP HERE, if you don’t MIND. Jeez.”
Tommy needs a good dusting, apparently.
Previously
2009: No entry.
2008: If you see my bottle of Feliway, please send it home. Thankyew.
2007: “If a fluffy black cat prances across the yard, goes upstairs and shits on the carpet, could you give us a call?”
2006: “Hmm,” I said, like that meant something to me.
2005: Just because the fuckers are talking to me doesn’t mean I’m obligated to listen to their bullshit, does it?
2004: What exactly the fuck was I supposed to be doing at 5:30 on a Sunday afternoon, running for fucking president?
2003: No entry.
2002: Apparently the Committee for Deciding Who is Hellbound was meeting in the waiting room.
2001: “Jesus has arrived in Madison,” he said nonchalantly.
2000: Now that, my friends, is wickedly fast.