Author: Robyn

Monte Sano in Huntsville. There are a couple of fairly flat trails that Fred wanted to knock off, because it’s his goal to hike all the trails on Monte Sano this winter. Also, for some reason the spud had suddenly decided that she wanted to scatter the small container of my grandmother’s ashes in a place with a pretty view, and Fred knew the perfect place. We got to the hiker’s parking lot around 11:30 and parked. Then we followed a trail a short distance to a bluffline with a nice view. There, the spud scattered some of my grandmother’s ashes and I scattered the rest. Naturally the wind was blowing in such a way that I couldn’t get a handle on the best way to scatter the ashes, so they blew back on us. After brushing Gram from the front of our shirts, we turned around and walked back the way we’d come. “Do we want to do the 1.2-mile hike or the 3.5 mile hike?” Fred asked. I looked down the trail we were standing on, which was flat and wide as far as the eye could see. “Which one is this one?” I asked. “The 3.5 mile hike,” Fred said. Don’t swallow your gum, folks. Because what I said was “Oh, let’s just do the 3.5 mile one.” Fred about fell over. “Are you sure you want to do that?” “It’s flat all the way around, right?” “It appears so on the map.” He’s no fool. He knew that if it turned out that the last half of the hike was straight downhill, I was going to kick his ass. “Then yeah, let’s do this one.” You’re waiting for me to tell you that as soon as we got far enough into the hike so that it was no longer feasible to turn around, the trail got hilly and rocky, aren’t you? Nope, it was pretty flat and wide for most of the hike. But what appeared on the map to be a 3.5 mile hike somehow morphed into the Monte Sano Death Hike from hell. Once we reached O’Shaughnessy Point – the halfway point, or thereabouts – I was sure we’d be back to the parking lot annnnny time now, but somehow the trail seemed to stretch, and the further we went, the slower I walked and people were coming out of nowhere to blow by us like we were standing still, and I thought we were never EVER going to get to the end. At one point – before we got to the halfway point – I realized that like a dumbass I had guzzled about a liter of water before we’d even left the house to drive to Monte Sano. And then I realized that my bladder was close to bursting. And THEN I realized that though the 1.2-mile hike would have taken us by the bathrooms, the 3.5-mile hike? Not so much. Longtime readers might recall that I’m pretty much a virgin to peeing in the woods and have only done it two times in my entire life, both of them in one outing. To make matters worse, though the path we were on was flat and wide, to either side of the path were hilly areas that really weren’t all that climbable, at least not by me. “Oh, come on,” Fred said impatiently. “Just step behind that tree and squat and pee! There’s no one coming!” With Fred watching one way down the path and the spud watching the other, I stepped behind the tree. A small tree, certainly nothing that would hide my glowing white ass from anyone unfortunate enough to come moseying down the path at the exact wrong moment. Then I squatted down and peed. And peed and peed and peed. Did I mention I had an entire liter of water before we left the house, plus more on the drive to Monte Sano. I just knew someone was going to come along and be struck blind by the horrific sight of my ass, but the gods were on my side that day and I was able to do my business in peace. I did pee all over the back of my sneakers and soaked the hem of my pants, but I’d had SO FRIGGIN’ MUCH WATER that I’m sure the urine was completely diluted. Near the end of the hike, Fred was constantly claiming that he was sure he saw the parking lot. After about the third round of “I see the parking lot! We’re almost there! Oh wait, that’s just someone’s driveway…” I started to ignore him. (Also, FRED And3rson, I’ve SEEN the map, and I am NOT QUITE SURE why you thought the part of the trail to O’Shaughnessy Point was winding and the path back to the parking lot was more of a straight shot, because they are BOTH ten miles long and winding, which even a woman who can’t read a map to save her life can see. Which leads me to think that you’re a sadist who enjoys seeing your wife stumble along in eternal hope that ‘we’re almost there! we must be!’ when in fact we have entered some sort of scientific warp that Michael Crichton could surely explain in ass-numbing detail, but I lack the knowledge, wherein we actual travel 23.45 miles on a 3.5-mile trail. Don’t think you’re fooling me, you bastard!) When we really and truly were almost to the parking lot, Fred said “Oh! There it is! I see the car!” and I said “Oh, shut up. I hate you. You suck. We’re probably a HUNDRED miles from the car.” But he insisted with such certainty, “No Bessie, look! You can see the car right there!” that I looked up to see the car. Which is when my right foot hit a large root loop in the middle of the trail, and I sailed about three feet through air before landing on my left foot, doing a jerk-and-stumble I’m pretty sure I saw once in a Milli Vanilli video, and I was immediately embarrassed, so I snarled at Fred because OF COURSE it was HIS fault that I stumbled because he’d INSISTED I look at the fucking car. “Jesus Christ, baby!” I intended to yell bitchily. “I need to keep my eyes on the trail so that I don’t stumble and fall and break my leg requiring you to carry me out of the woods on your back, which would cripple you as sure as I’m standing here, so STOP insisting that I LOOK at things, and just find the FUCKING END OF THIS PATH!” What actually came out of my mouth was “Can I KEEP my FACE on the TRAIL?” and Fred turned and gave me a puzzled look and said “I guess you can if you want to.” Arrrgh. But we made it out alive, and that’s what’s important. Maybe next week we’ll do the 1.2 mile hike. Or MAYBE we’ll just do a jaunty little hike straight up the side of the mountain. Fun! (If you’re in the Huntsville area and in better shape than me (and really, who ISN’T?), it was the South Plateau Loop Trail. I recommend it as long as you’re not a whiny little bitch like me.)

* * * I’ve said this before (over at the Tater, I think), but I just canNOT stand Phil Hellmuth. Every time I see his face on the TV screen I long to smack him upside the head really hard. Every time he starts with his whining, I yell “Shut UP! God! He’s such a whiny little bitch!” and Fred laughs. Because Fred, of course, LURVES Phil Hellmuth. Ugh. Give me Annie Duke any ol’ day. * * * The spud asked me Sunday morning if we could go to the mall, because I had mentioned that I needed to buy some Wallflower refills from Bath & Body Works and she wanted to look at candles or something like that. So after working out and taking my shower, I was ready to go. I looked online at the mall web site, but there was nothing telling what time the mall stores open on Sundays. I decided that I was pretty sure it opened at noon, and so the spud and I left the house at 11:30 since I needed to stop by the post office. We got to the mall at exactly noon, and I was relieved to see a lot of vehicles in the parking lot. Surely that meant the mall opened at noon, right? Wroooooong. And not only did the mall NOT open at noon, it also didn’t open at 12:30 – nothing in the frickin’ mall opened until 1:00. We could have gone home and come back, but I reallllly didn’t want to. So we walked around the mall, and it ended up being like a mini family reunion – not only did we run into Fred’s mother, we saw his sister’s daughter. I haven’t seen his mother since whenever it was in the spring that we went to Memphis, and I haven’t seen my niece since last Christmas. I’m so unaccustomed to seeing people I know when I’m out and about that I almost didn’t recognize his mother when I saw her, because I so wasn’t expecting to see her. So the mall opened at 1:00, and we went into Bath & Body Works, and I noticed that they were hiring for the holiday season, and I briefly considered it, because if nothing else I could spend my paycheck in the same store where I earned it, but I really hate the kind of pushy stuff they’re required to do, where they follow you around and ask if you need help, and then hover over you while you’re sniffing the various scents, and pointing out that “If you buy six more, you’ll get one free!” and “Those are four for $10!” and all that, so I decided it probably wasn’t the thing for me. Also, I hate people, so a job dealing with people? Uh, no. Anyway, I got out of there without buying ANY lotion, though I was seriously tempted to buy a small bottle of Vanilla Sugar, and then I remembered that I have sixty-three (estimated) unused bottles of lotion at home, and I refrained. For which I should get a PRIZE, I should add, because that stuff smells REALLY good. I did buy a $4 yellow ducky for the tub because, well, I CAN, and who wouldn’t love a yellow rubber ducky for the tub? You know you’re glaring jealously at your monitor at gnashing your teeth, you’re so jealous of my yellow rubber ducky. After Bath & Body Works, we went into Hallmark for a minute – not the good one at the end of the mall, but the semi-sucky one over by Lane Bryant – and were out of the mall by 1:30. And that should be it for going to the mall this year, at least until I go to Maine after Christmas and hit the mall up there for the after-Christmas sales! * * * Spanky, drunk on sunlight. ]]>

October’s logo was created by the wonderful and talented Susan. Thanks, Susan, every time I look at the logo, it cracks me up!

* * * Thanks, everyone who posted and emailed recipes. They all looked really good, and I printed them out and will go over them in the next few days to decide what’s doable for us and what isn’t. Y’all rock, you know that? * * * We didn’t actually watch the debate last night, because we knew we’d hear all we wanted (and more!) about it this morning, spun to hell in every direction. The Kerry lovers claim Kerry won and Bush is a blithering idiot. The Bush lovers claim Bush won and Kerry is a flip-flopping fool, and ne’er the twain shall meet. All I know is that at one point we flipped over to see what was going on, and the President had this exact look on his face: * * * There’s a new meme in town I’m going to try: Think of 3 pictures you’d like to see. Leave whatever you’d like to see in the comments. Things around my house, or whatever… something I can take a picture of easily. Once I have enough requests, I’ll start posting them. If I can’t, or won’t, take a picture of something you’ve requested, I’ll let you know. I’ll give you guys ’til, say, next Wednesday (the 6th) before I start taking pictures and posting them. (via PeskyApostrophe) * * * Stupid City of Madison. This is what I see when I look in my backyard: Yes, they’re STILL working on the friggin’ road back there. It’s been, what, six months? How friggin’ long can it possibly take to dig some ditches, toss down cement tube THINGIES and cover them up? I could have done a faster job with a measuring spoon and my ass. Fuckers. (Yeah, I don’t know where my ass would come into the equation. It just seemed like the thing to say.) * * * I went to the post office this morning, and I don’t think I’ve mentioned it before, but they’ve recently installed this do-it-yourself kiosk where you can weigh your package, decide how to send it, pay for the stamp, and drop your package into the package… drop… thingy… all without having to deal with a single, solitary person. Now, if that wasn’t created with ME in mind, I don’t know what was. The only thing that sucks is that it doesn’t give you a media mail option, so you have to send everything parcel post, priority, or express. Or, if the package is light enough, you can send it first class. But no media mail. Ah well – I guess nothing’s perfect, eh? * * * Okay, time to clean off the memory stick… Lickety lick-lick, lickety lick-lick, look at Stumpy liiiiick! STOOOOOOOOOOOP in the NAME of LOVE! Well, he’s a clean little bastard, you’ve gotta give him that. After licking the parmesan and seasonings off the popcorn in The Daddy’s bowl, Meester Boogers frantically licks the evidence from his nose. ]]>

I I love kitties. All kitties. Old kitties, baby kitties, cranky kitties, standoffish kitties, cuddlesome kitties, hissing kitties, smacking kitties, fighting kitties, biting kitties, I love them all. I wish I lived in Maine. I wish I could convince my husband that you get used to the cold. Then I remember that when I was in Maine earlier this month and the temperature was a relatively balmy 75 degrees, I was FREEZING. I haven’t been sleeping well lately, tossing and turning and sweating so I kick off the covers, then a stumpy little bastard tromps across my legs with his freezing-cold toes and wakes me up, and I realize I’m freezing and pull the covers over me, only to wake a while later to find that I’m hot again. I feel like we end up making the same 6 recipes for dinner over and over again. I think you should leave me a link to a recipe, or the recipe itself, in my comments. I don’t like any kind of peppers, ground turkey, or big chunks of tomatoes – you might want to keep that in mind. The easier, the better. I prefer not to spend much more than half an hour fixing dinner. I wish I was a clean freak, but sadly I am not. The dust has to be an inch thick before I’m sufficiently horrified enough to dust. I hate dusting. I vacuum regularly, and I clean the bathroom (at least the master bathroom) somewhat regularly, but I loathe dusting. I know that’s idiotic, because it takes like five minutes with a rag and furniture polish to dust the entire upstairs; less time than that if I choose to use a Swiffer Duster. I am amazed at how quickly cobwebs develop in the corners of rooms in this house. I’ve never seen anything like it before; I suspect it has something to do with the large amount of traffic that drives by every day down the road behind our back yard. I worry about the fact that I enjoy not working. I always thought that some day I’d want to go back to work, if even part-time, but it’s been four years and I’m still pretty happy staying home. I do get bored sometimes, though. I spend way too much time on my ass in front of the computer. I have Miz Poo draped over my arm at this very moment. She’s keeping me warm, but she’s a wee bit ticked that my arms are moving while I type, and she keeps reaching her paw out to touch my hand as if to say “Okay, goddamnit, knock it the hell off, will you?” I know I tell too many cat stories in my journal, but I can’t seem to help myself. I am a worrywart. If I know you, I worry about you. I worry the most about Fred and the spud. If I could lock them in a room to keep them safe from harm… well, I probably wouldn’t do it, because what kind of life would THAT be? But I’m be sorely tempted. I lie awake at night and worry sometimes, but I’m trying to stop from doing that, because what the hell is the point of frittering away your life worrying about things that will probably never happen? I talk to myself all the time. Especially in the car. Yesterday I had a five-minute discussion with myself about the correct way to pronounce Iam’s (the lady on the radio pronounced it I’ms, and I thought it was pronounced more like I-ams, so I had to pronounce it out loud several times and then launch a discussion on the likelihood of the woman on the radio – doing an advertisement for Iam’s – mispronouncing it when she was surely paid to know how it’s pronounced). I also inform the other drivers on the road that they’re a great big pain in my ass. “You are SUCH a pain in the ass,” I muttered at the guy trying to turn left in front of me, and blocking me so that I couldn’t turn left onto the road he was on. “God. What a pain in the ass,” I said to the guy going 30 down a road with a 55 MPH speed limit. “Does your mother know what a great big pain in the ass you are?” I asked the guy in front of me who sat at the green light for a good long time before realizing it was green. I always say this stuff in a conversational tone, to myself. I’m a freak. I love and adore Stephen King, but I suspect he might be just the tiniest bit crazy. I also love and adore Tabitha King, and I wish she’d publish another book. I think The Dark Tower ended the only way it could. I still have a wee crush on Roland. I’m reading a chick lit book to kind of lighten things up before I start another serious book. I’m hungry. I think I’m going to have oatmeal for breakfast. I think this entry is done.

* * * The sun. He loves it. Have I mentioned? ]]>

Jane‘s entry yesterday, wherein she discussed (or mentioned in passing) Paco’s habit of frantically pacing whilst talking on the phone makes me want to tell you all that when Fred gets a phone call, he doesn’t frantically pace. Oh, no – he does something much worse. He goes out into the garage and shuts the door so he can concentrate on his call in the peace and quiet of the garage. Which makes me think he’s out there talking shit about me, of course. He used to be normal and would just sit in the house and talk on the phone, but then he’d hang up, and I’d ask him what he meant when he said something-or-other to his dad (or whomever he’d been talking to), and he wouldn’t be able to remember, and then he’d get annoyed, so he started taking the phone into the garage so I wouldn’t harass him. Bastard.

* * * We watched Super Size Me last night. Good movie! I think we must be getting reallllly old, because we’re starting to really love documentaries. I know that when I was a kid, the idea of watching a documentary made me want to fall asleep immediately, but nowadays I just can’t get enough of them. In the morning while I’m working out, I’m currently watching Stevie, which is sometimes hard to watch so I end up pausing it for a little while. Before that, I watched My Sergei, which was documentary-style, and I think there was something else before that. We’re also going to rent The Hunting of the President at some point as well – I would have rented it yesterday, but we’re taping so many television shows to watch that I don’t think we’d have time to watch it this week. Maybe next week. Speaking of Sergei Grinkov – which I was up there in that paragraph somewhere – remember how a few months after he’d died, all his skater friends (and wife) got together and did a tribute show to him, called Sergei Grinkov: Celebration of a Life, or something like that? And how Oksana Baiul came out in black and skated to Ave Maria, and by the end she was so sobbing and hysterical that you would have thought she was the widow? Man, I need to figure out how to get a copy of that show because just thinking about it makes me want to see it again. Anyway, we watched Super Size Me! and enjoyed it a great deal. I find that it always helps when the guy the documentary is about seems like someone it’d be fun to hang out with. I was surprised that of all the times Morgan Spurlock went to McDonald’s – three meals a day times thirty days is in the area of 90 visits – he was only asked to supersize his meals nine times. When I worked at McDonald’s as a teenager and someone ordered “a fry” without specifying what size, you were supposed to say “Was that a medium fry?” because if you said “What size fry would you like?”, the person would probably say “Oh, give me a small”, but if you suggested a medium, they’d almost always go with that. It was called up-sizing and was one of the things we were supposed to do regularly. In fact, if you were being evaluated and didn’t attempt to up-size, you’d get points off. I imagine it’s the same thing with super-sizing, that employees are supposed to suggest the super-sizing every time someone chooses a value meal. How much “value” there is in a McDonald’s value meal is another topic altogether. I found the movie fascinating, and the end even more so. It took two months to reverse the damage Morgan Spurlock had done to himself in one month of eating McDonald’s three meals a day. It took TWICE AS LONG to reverse the damage that he’d done to his body. That is just amazing. The paintings that showed up all through the movie were CREEPY as hell. Just thinking about them now gives me the willies. Brrrr. Good movie, though – highly recommended. * * * I stepped out of the bathroom this morning after putting my contacts in to see that the door to the bedroom closet was mostly closed. From in the bathroom, I had heard Meester Boogers running around in the closet and then heard something fall over. I glanced at the floor along the bottom of the closet door, and my mouth dropped open. It looked like there were bug parts spread all over the place, and I could only imagine what kind of bug he had in there. When I got closer to the closet door I realized those weren’t bug parts – those were pieces of Kitten Chow. I know I’ve mentioned it before, but I’ll mention it again: Miz Poo, Meester Boogers, and Spanky get a little pile of Kitten Chow as a treat every night before bed. We keep the box of Kitten Chow on a shelf in the closet, and it appeared that Meester Boogers had knocked the box off the shelf. I opened the door to see Meester Boogers sitting on the closet floor surrounded by Kitten Chow, the Kitten Chow box next to him. He glanced up at me, made a grumpy sound, and continued eating as much Kitten Chow as he could fit into his mouth. I picked the box up and put it away, and Miz Poo and Spanky heard the noise and came running. I thought about vacuuming up the Kitten Chow, but in the end left it, because I know that between the three of them, they’ll vacuum up each and every piece of Kitten Chow before the day is through. I guess we need a better hiding place for the box of Kitten Chow. * * * Mysterious, or just a dork? You decide. ]]>

The Dark Tower book, and Come Home Soon by SHeDAISY – specifically, the video for Come Home Soon. I like to have CMT playing on the TV upstairs while I’m puttering around in the morning, and every single day that video comes on, and I have to sit down and watch it from beginning to end, boo-hooing like a big baby the entire time. The Dark Tower has made me cry – repeatedly – for reasons I can’t get into, unless I wanted a bunch of really pissed-off people who hadn’t read it yet to hunt me down and hurt me. I will say this, though: Dear Stephen King: Stop defending what you did, and just write the goddamn story. Love, Robyn. PS: I’m not sure about the guy who did the illustrations for this book. Could Roland look any more like Clint Eastwood? Also, Jake looks a tad more… feminine than I’d imagined him. Good job on Eddie, Susannah and Oy, though. PPS: “Can-toi” really rolls off the tongue, and I occasionally find myself staring off into space chanting “Can-toi. Can-toi. Can-toi.” I’m driving myself crazy.

* * * I did a LOT of house cleaning yesterday – cleaned the master bathroom EVEN THOUGH it didn’t desperately need it, vacuumed the entire downstairs, washed all the floors, vacuumed the stairs, did laundry, AND MORE. I was a house-cleaning freak, though not on the order of that freak-ass woman on Wife Swap the other night who spends FIVE HOURS a day cleaning her house. I don’t know if I could even find five hours worth of cleaning to do around here, seriously. What kind of life is that? So anyway, I did ALL this cleaning. And did anyone even notice? NO. Bastards. * * * We went to Lowe’s on Saturday to pick out a new dishwasher, because the old one had shit the bed (hi, Shannon!). We’ve had problems with the old dishwasher on and off for the last few years, and finally it just wasn’t draining the way it should and repairmen weren’t able to fix it, so we decided it was time for a new one. We did some looking around online and Fred thought he was going to just go out and buy a new dishwasher, but I put the kibosh on that because hello! I want to be able to go and LOOK at the available dishwashers before we actually buy one. It’s one thing to buy clothes and books online without looking at or touching them first, but big-ass appliances are another story altogether. Fred had seen a dishwasher online similar to the one we had – I think this is the one we had, and this is the one Fred found online. So we went to Lowe’s Saturday morning (along with the rest of the population of Madison) and looked at what they had, and which one did we decide on? That’s right, the one Fred saw online, the GE Triton XL. This morning the guy came from Lowe’s and installed it in about 45 minutes, and now we have a brand-spankin’-new dishwashwer, whee! I love having a dishwasher, but I’ll admit that after the old dishwasher was taken out and there was a huge empty space where it had been, I thought about what we could do with that much storage space, and I wondered if we actually NEED a dishwasher. Uhhh… yeah. We do. * * * Also on Saturday, after picking out and paying for our new dishwasher, Fred and I went for a hike. The man is just a hiking fool, and I’m not so much a person who loves to hike, but it was getting to the point where on the weekends the spud and I were hanging out at the house while Fred went out on long hikes, and I said to myself “Self,” said I, “Perhaps it is time to join Fred in this not-so-new obsession of his.” And then I said to Fred, “Baby,” said I, “Why don’t you pick out an easy hike for Saturday and the spud and I will join you, and then if you want to go on a challenging hike, you can go do that by yourself on Sunday?” Because a hike with the spud and I? Not challenging. If I wanted to challenge myself, I would sit and try to remember the names of every man Paris Hilton has fucked in front of a camera (impossible!), not go hauling my ass through the woods. So Fred picked out an easy hike, and then the spud bailed (though in all fairness, she didn’t actually know that there was a hike planned before she decided to spend the night at her friend’s house) and so it was just Fred and I, with the stumpy little slow-moving legs, going on a hike. The hike Fred picked out was, I would say, a 3 or 4 on a scale from 1 – 10. A 3 or 4 to me, that is – I sweated my ass off, and he didn’t break a sweat at all. We saw a snake and a deer, and a couple of showing-off male hikers who passed us at such a speed that they were nothing but big blurs. I managed pretty well, although at one point I stepped up onto a big rock behind Fred, then started to lose my balance and grabbed his arm to stop the fall, and he wasn’t expecting it, so he stumbled back a step and then held firm so that I didn’t go tumbling ass-over-head onto the ground and break my tailbone or snap my spine or something else equally horrific. So this is going to be a new thing, I believe – family hike on Saturday mornings. I’m sure I’ll have stories to tell about that… * * * He lurves the sun, oh yes. ]]>

Chevrolet Aveo in silver. Not ONLY is it a new car and a cute one to boot, but it also reportedly has a kick-ass stereo AND air conditioning. I’m so excited for her! Deb’s never owned a brand-new car in her life and I think she’s a little weirded out by the idea of owning one. Now, what should I send her for a car-warming present?

* * * Friday night, Fred and I watched an episode of Barely Famous I’d taped the night before. Barely Famous, if you’re not interested in following the link, is a reality show on CMT about Brad and Brett Warren – the Warren Brothers, obviously – who’ve been in the country music business for ages, written hits for artists such as Faith Hill and Sarah Evans, among others, but no one outside of the industry has a clue who the hell they are. It was a pretty funny show – I thought Fred was going to pass out laughing when the Warren Brother with the long hair (I don’t know which is which just yet) was standing in the reception area of their record label, and someone’s cell phone went off, and long-haired Warren said “Got a loud enough ring there, Helen Keller?” Those guys do NOT look like country singers, though – they look more like stoners. No offense to you stoners out there, but the Warrens totally look stereotypical stoners. I’m sure you do not resemble the stereotypical stoner, and are a fashion plate unto yourself, so I’m not insulting you, mm’kay? Look, over there! Doritos! So the show was amusing enough and it was cool to see the occasional country star, but I don’t know that I’d go out of my way to watch it again. I might tape a few more episodes so that we’re never stuck watching “real time” TV again, though. * * * Saturday night at 7, Fred was wandering around in the kitchen making his evening snack. The spud walked into the room, grabbed a bag of microwaveable popcorn, and put it in the (can you guess??) microwave. I was sitting on the couch reading a magazine while waiting for them both to get the hell out of my way. “Did you know that muttermuttermutter died?” the spud said to Fred. “Yeah,” Fred replied. “Who?” I said, turning around to look at them. “Who died?” “Morrie,” they chorused. “Oh my god!” I gasped. “Maury Povich is DEAD?” “No,” Fred said. “Morrie, from Tuesdays with Morrie.” The spud’s been reading that book, and had apparently come to the end. “Oh. Yeah, I knew he was dead.” And I wonder why I have a reputation for being ditzy… * * * The spud’s sleepover at her friend Becky’s house went well. I told the spud to call when she wanted me to come pick her up – though it had to be before 10 or after 12, because Fred and I were going on a hike – and she didn’t call until sometime after 2. When I got there to pick her up, Becky brought a one week-old kitten out to show me. Her cat had had four kittens, and they were all spoken for except for one. Naturally, the spud was DYING for me to say yes, and Becky said “You KNOW you want to say yes!” and I said “Of course I do, but no.” and we left. It sure was a cute little thing. But it might turn out to have problems on the scale of those Miz Poo has, and we can barely afford to keep HER up and running, let alone throwing another problem cat into the mix. Her lip, lately, has been getting worse. The vet thought that she might have allergies, so we (meaning Fred) have been giving her a pill two to three times a day for the last few weeks. It didn’t get better, and in fact got worse. It got so bad that it was hard to even look at her, because it just looked painful. It didn’t seem to really bother her, but it certainly bothered us. Saturday morning Fred called a different vet than the one we usually go to. Our regular vet hadn’t been able to figure out what was going on, so we thought it was time for a second opinion. He made an appointment for 2:00, so he was gone when I left to get the spud, and he was still gone when I got back. He didn’t get home until almost 3:00, in fact. $300 down the drain, once again. Fred has taken to referring to Miz Poo as the money pit, and our million-dollar cat. The vet ran several tests on Miz Poo, took blood, and finally said that she thinks it’s an autoimmune disorder and might even be responsible for all the eye problems she’s been having. She gave Fred antibiotics and steroids, and wants to see Miz Poo in two weeks. We (Fred) started her on the medication right away, and already her lip looks better – less swollen and less dry and cracked. If this helps, then Miz Poo will most likely have to be on steroids for the rest of her life. The pills are $1 a pill from the vet, but Fred found the same pills online for 20 cents a pill, so if this becomes a lifelong thing, we’ll start buying them online. Miz Poo on steroids? Watch out for that ‘roid rage… * * * Pet store kitty pics from today are here. The pictures from last week are here. * * * “You talkin’ to me? You talkin’ to me? You talkin’ to me? Then who the hell else are you talkin’ to, yellow ball? You talkin’ to me? Well, I’m the only one here. Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?”]]>

* * * I charged my cell phone yesterday, and when it was done charging I turned it on, to find that I had a voicemail message. I dialed in to listen to it. It was a long, rambling message left by a man who sounded, I don’t know, Indian? Maybe? But I could only understand about every third word the man said. I heard “tow truck driver”, I heard “sister”, I heard “Leroy’s” and I heard “call me back or” and a phone number. Now, I’m pretty sure that it’s a wrong number, because the guy was calling from the “404” area code, which is the Atlanta area. I’m 99.999% sure there’s no reason for a strange man to call and leave a message about my car or Leroy’s car or my sister or a tow truck. Another person might call the number the guy left to let him know he’d called the wrong number, but NOT ME, nosirree. You think I want to try to talk to the guy when I can’t understand what the hell he’s saying? Talking to someone I can’t understand always stresses me out, because I feel like such an idiot for not understanding. I can’t help it! It’s my stupid, ignorant, self-centered American ears that cannot understand the words coming out of your mouf!

* * * I woke this morning to the sound of Fred standing in the closet laughing. Before I could ask what the hell he was laughing about, he walked across the room, into the bathroom, laughing the entire way. I finally got up and went into the bathroom. “I just thought of the most awesome children’s book title ever!” he announced before I could even ask what he was laughing about. “What?” “The Mysterious Mr. Boogers.” Now, that right there is some funny shit. I started laughing and although I went back to bed, every time I woke up for a few seconds I’d think of The Mysterious Mr. Boogers and laugh some more. We disagree what the plot of the book would be about, though. Fred thinks the mysterious Mr. Boogers would be a cat who would appear out of nowhere to comfort children when they were frightened. I, on the other hand, think the mysterious Mr. Boogers should, first of all, wear a cape. And he’d show up out of nowhere to solve crimes. Kind of like Sherlock Holmes. Spanky could be his dimwitted sidekick! Or, for that matter, Miz Poo could be his cranky and sassy sidekick. The possibilities are endless! So very mysterious, that Mr. Boogers. * * * I fail to see how this could possibly be comfortable. ]]>

Robyn, help! Why can’t I submit my email address on the Gmail thing?? There is a space to enter my email address, but no where to “submit”! Am I missing something??? Type in your email address and hit “enter” – that should work. I feel so out of the loop..what is the world is gmail and how does it work?!!!! It’s a web-based email run by those fine people at Google. It’s similar to Hotmail, but you get more storage space (1000 MB) and since it’s still in beta testing, you have to have an invite to sign up for a Gmail address. Can’t you click the gmail ‘remember me for two weeks’ thing. That’s what I do. I could, but I have two Gmail addresses – one for personal email, and the other for notify list email. I have to log out of the notify email to check the personal email, and then log back into the notify email, so checking the box wouldn’t work for me. Hey about your gmail thing. Why don’t you use the gmail notifier? It sits down in your system tray and notifies you of new mail, or you can double click the icon and gmail opens without having to re-enter your username and password. Here is the link to download. That wouldn’t really work for me (see above about having two Gmail accounts), but I thought I’d include the link for anyone out there who might be interested.

* * * It took me a distressingly long time to figure out exactly what the holy hell Heather was talking about in this entry. And then I snorted Diet Coke out my nose. Ouch. Everyone! Reconvene your procedure! * * * I stayed up past midnight last night, even though I felt sweaty and feverish and just generally crappy, to finish The Cabinet of Curiosities. Now, I BOUGHT the book because I had read Brimstone, wherein it was implied (or I assumed, I guess) that there would be more information about a character (Constance Greene) who was mentioned almost in passing in Brimstone. So I kept waiting and waiting and WAITING for Pendergast to come across Constance Greene in The Cabinet, and IT DIDN’T HAPPEN. Fuckers. At least Preston & Child had the common decency to put more information about Constance Greene on their page. Not that you’re interested, but I just had to vent. * * * I just went and picked up the stuff I dropped off at the framer last week. They did an excellent job: I had them put non-glare glass on the bluebird picture, and that stuff is awesome – you honestly can’t even tell there’s glass on the picture unless you reach out and touch it. The more I look at it, the more I like it. My sister did an excellent job on the picture, didn’t she? I can’t wait to hang it up. We’ve been in this house a little more than three years, and I’m finally getting around to hanging stuff up on the walls. It’s starting to feel almost like home… * * * More from my comments: Spanky’s fort is beautiful especially the head board. That is gorgeous. Where’d you get it? I’m guessing it’s “in the family”. This is referring to this headboard: That bed was Fred’s when he was growing up; his parents got it at an antique auction. I like the bed, but wish the headboard wasn’t quite so tall. Look at that GIGANTOR bottle of coins!! When are you going to bring those to the bank? That’s regarding this bottle of coins: We’re going to bring it to the bank (or rather, probably roll them ourselves and then take the rolls to the bank) when it’s full! Actually, we’re hoping to fill it up in the next four years and use the money to help pay for our 10th anniversary trip to the Bahamas. (Did you notice that we WERE going to go to Hawaii for our 10th anniversary, but now we’re going to the Bahamas? That’s ’cause I actually made that 63,000 hour trip to Hawaii and I’m in no hurry to do it again!) Hee. Was the Bean actually gnawing on the cat food bag? That’s regarding this picture: And yeah, he was gnawing on the bag o’ cat food. That’s because his mean ol’ daddy bought the cat food and then left it at the bottom of the stairs, and Meester Boogers could SMELL the cat food, but couldn’t get to it, and he got frustrated, and hung around the bag of cat food and subtlely indicated that his daddy should open the bag and give him some food, but the daddy just ignored him, and the frustration overwhelmed him, and he sunk his fangs into the bag. Which is when his mean daddy took the bag of cat food upstairs and hid it in the closet. Because after all, they HAD a bowl full of food already! What building is that on the candy jar? This candy jar: That building is apparently The Darien. I have no idea where The Darien is, or if it even still exists. I don’t, for that matter, have any idea where my grandmother got the candy jar. It sat on the table next to her couch for a good part of my childhood, but there was never actually any good candy in it. Heh. I don’t know what I’m going to do with the candy jar. I don’t want to stick it up in the cabinet where it’ll never be seen or used, but I also don’t really have any place to display it, and we don’t keep candy around anyway. Maybe I’ll fill it with Trident Wintergreen gum and keep it on my desk. I looked at your contact page to get your mailing address and noticed you posted a new email address. I remember you used to have your email address posted differently because of spiders or bots or whatever and getting spam — is that no longer a concern with Gmail or something? Yeah, my email address used to be posted as an image to prevent spam. When I got the Gmail address I decided to put my email up as a link just to see whether the Gmail spamcatcher was any good. So far, it’s caught all the spam headed my way and put it in the “spam” folder, so I’ll say it’s pretty good and I’m probably going to leave the email link the way it is for now. Maybe it’s just me, but when I read “as ever”, the voice in my head says “as if”. EXACTLY. I always hear “as if” or “whatever” in my head when I read “as ever.” I’m still signing my notify emails with “as evah”, by the way, and I giggle a little every time I do it. Does Miz Poo act adversly from her many health issues or is she pretty much the same throughout? She pretty much acts the same throughout. Sometimes she’s a little more clingy than others – for instance, when she came home after they sewed her eye shut, she wanted to be laying in my lap or arms constantly, and had to be right up against me, flopped over my arm, at night. As she started feeling better she’d give me a little more space. This is how I determine whether she’s feeling okay: if I’m holding her on her back and rubbing her belly, after two or three minutes of belly rubbing, she goes into kitty overload and starts growling and grabbing my hand. I figure if she’s feeling fractious enough to fight with me, she’s doing okay. Also, if she growls and smacks Meester Boogers when he’s just walking by not trying to start anything, I figure she’s doing okay, too. Basically, if she’s ready to kick ass, she’s probably feeling good. * * * “The momma and the daddy are boring.” “Bor-RING.” “Sometimes they annoy me.” “But mostly they just bore me.” ]]>

* * * Boy, I sure wish this guy had his own journal. Though the insulting-a-woman-you-hate-by-calling-her-fat is SO overdone. I’d say the boy still has issues, wouldn’t you?

* * * I left the house at 11:45 this morning to run errands, and ended up taking TWO HOURS to run them. I have no clue why it took me so long to go to the bank, Barnes & Noble, Target, and the post office. All I can guess is that I spent more time than I realized wandering around Barnes & Noble looking at (and putting back) books. I ended up buying the new Dark Tower book (and holy CRAP is that fucker heavy. It’s a good thing I lift weights, or I’d’ve needed help carrying it to the checkout.), and subsequently went to Target, where I found it for $3 less than I paid at B & N. Figures. * * * See him? No? Sometimes a boy just needs to hang out where his bratty little brother won’t find and harass him. Sexy and smoldering, or just sleepy? Who can tell? ]]>