I’ve lost 9 pounds since Monday morning. I know you’re all clamoring to know HOW? HOW ROBYN DID YOU LOSE THE WEIGHT, TELL ME SO THAT I CAN LOSE WEIGHT LIKE THAT, TOO!
Here’s the secret: food poisoning.
I know, right? What an awesome diet idea! I should totally write a book about it and become a best-selling author! I don’t know that it was food poisoning, but I’ve heard for years now that there’s no such thing as the 24-hour flu, that it’s almost always food poisoning, so that’s what I’m going with. It started Monday after lunch, was horrific all day Tuesday (I did nothing all day but lay on the couch and watch TV, snoozing through most of it. My DVR has never been so empty!), and just as I was starting to believe that I was probably about to die (when Fred told me I’d fallen asleep HARD on the couch while we were watching TV, I asked him if I’d sounded like I couldn’t breathe. “No, why?” he said. “Because I feel like I can’t get a good, deep breath, so I’m pretty sure I’m going into multi-system organ failure.” Note: Today I’m able to get a good, deep breath just fine.), I started feeling better. I was still woozy and a little dizzy yesterday, but this morning I feel 100% better.
Which isn’t to say that I’m not going to slack today. I am SO going to slack today. Right after I do some laundry, vacuum the house, and scrub out the litter boxes, that is.
Sights from around Crooked Acres.
Momma hen and baby. These damn hens have been going broody all summer long, even in the hottest heat of July. I know that when it’s sweltering out, there’s nothing I feel more like doing than sitting on a clutch of eggs 23 hours and 45 minutes a day.
Newborn chicks always look so smug. “You’re DAMN TOOTIN’ I came out of that egg! I smashed the HELL out of that egg!”
Fred bought a propane torch recently to torch the weeds around the fences and by the driveway instead of using Round-Up. This picture is from the first time he went around the fence around the back forty. Gracie tracked him the entire way around, but she very much did not care for the sound of the torch, so she kept well back.
Cucumbers. We didn’t do very well in the cucumber department this year, but at least we got enough for some refrigerator dill pickles and a batch of sweet pickle relish.
I’ve probably posted one million pictures of okra flowers, but I can’t help it. They’re purty!
Dirty dawg.
Muscadine grapes. We’re going to get one hell of a crop this year, I think.
Did I mention that we’re down to one rooster? The rooster/ hen ratio was off-balance, and the girls were walking around with bare backs (roosters grab on to the feathers on the back of the hens when gettin’ jiggy with it), and I hated seeing that. So Fred processed all the other roosters, leaving this guy, who probably thinks he’s died and gone to heaven, with all these hens to himself. We’ve got small roosters coming up, and unless there’s a particularly pretty or charming one, they’ll be off to freezer camp when they’re big enough.
“You tawkin’ to me?”
Pretty little hen.
Keeping an eye on the flock.
“What?”
These guys slip under the fence in the morning and spend the day wandering the property. I’ve told Fred that it’s my goal to make it so none of the chickens can get out under the fence. I kind of like seeing them wandering around during the day, I’ll admit, but I don’t like seeing them tromp onto the neighbors’ property. Not that they’ve complained, but I don’t like it.
Sugarbutt must be running around the top of the cabinets. He likes to get all wild and do that and make me worry that the cabinets are going to come crashing down.
I count 7 cats in this picture, including two Bookworms. Oh, they make me despair. They don’t even act guilty when I catch them out back, anymore, and when I shoo them inside, they look offended. BRATS.
Rhyme, at the very back of the back yard, watching the chickens.
“Madame, I take exception to your tone. I am merely laying here chewing on this stick. If you have a problem with that, please take it up with the proper authorities.”
Comfy, are we, Marty?
Dodger. I have mentioned that he loves a good sun puddle, haven’t I?
“I HAZ A COMPLAINT.”
“So there.”
Sweet little Dodger. Yesterday, Martin jumped on him and bit his neck, and instead of just laying there and taking it like he usually does, Dodger bit back. I was egging him on from the sidelines – “Kick his butt, Dodger! Get him!”
I have no idea what’s up with the lack of Melodie pictures lately. I need to get some more shots of her because she is SUCH the gorgeous monkey.
Stinkerbelle, keeping watch over her Tommy while he sleeps. I have perhaps mentioned that she loves Tommy?
Previously
2009: I adore stories that talk about what a pain in the ass Gwyneth Paltrow is, and I always cackle when Dlisted refers to her as “Fishsticks Paltrow.”
2008: Or… is that how learning curves work?
2007: No entry.
2006: No entry.
2005: she’s got the skank lines rolling off her, doesn’t she?
2004: Fred is just amazed that one portly cat can have so many health issues.
2003: ::Sproing!:: he went, leaping at least a foot in the air, and I watched, impressed that he’d contained that much energy in his dry and dead-looking little body.
2002: “TUBBY GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!” I ordered, and grudgingly he did.
2001: No entry.
2000: Being completely, one-hundred percent useless in the slightest emergency, I slapped my hands to my cheeks and let out a horrified scream.