Author: Robyn

Nashville Zoo, which I’m pretty excited about. The drive up to Nashville yesterday was pretty horrible, because it was rainy and windy and there were a bazillion 18-wheelers on the road. Also, I was driving through Nashville during rush hour, which was funfunfun. I made it to the airport in plenty of time – 45 minutes early, even – and Liz’s plane landed on time. During the time I was in the airport, the weather went from crappy and rainy to brilliantly sunny, and it was a much nicer drive on the way home. I had to force myself to hold my speed down to 80 (the speed limit being 70), which as Fred would tell you is quite unusual. Usually, he bitches about the fact that I drive the exact speed limit (not something I generally intend to do; it just kind of happens). We got home and dropped off Liz’s bags, and then went to Captain D’s for lunch, since Liz was hankering for some hushpuppies. After, we stopped at the movie store, and when we got home Liz went upstairs to take a nap. She’d taken a Xanax to get through the anxiety of the flight and hadn’t slept well at all the night before. “Don’t let me sleep too long!” she said. That was at 2:30. At 7:00, she finally got up, looking a lot more awake and alert. We spent the evening watching TV, and once Fred went to bed we watched one of the movies we’d rented – Legally Blonde 2 – and went to bed around midnight. And now you’re up-to-date.

* * * Last night, Fred and I were laying in bed talking. Fred was taken with a certain name, which I cannot disclose to you, except to reveal that it was french. For story-telling purposes, let’s say the name is Jean-Paul Gaultier. “JeanPaulGaultier!” Fred whispered, saying the name as quickly as he could. “JeanPaulGaultier!” I giggled. “That could be your mantra!” “Yeah. Heh.” We went on to another topic and eventually silence fell again. “JeanPaulGaultier!” he whispered again. “JeanPaulGaultier!” “Heh.” “That could be, like, my mantra,” he said, as if the idea had just come to him. “I JUST SAID THAT!” * * * Something on the table? Sit on it! ]]>

Looking particularly Bean-y. Looking particularly dead. Near a pile of catnip. Not particularly interested in it, but he wants to see what the fuss is all about. Sleeping Bean. Thirsty Bean. Purple sky last night. I found this in the parking lot yesterday. It was laying near the door of my Jeep, and I knew it was just meant for me. (Although the trailers for Cat in the Hat are kind of creeping me out and making me not want to see it) I was messing with my hair, and putting it like this amused me so much that I made Fred take my picture. See, this picture horrifies both Jane – because I’m clearly not using expensive up-scale hair products (AND I’m using a rubber band in my hair, which is a BIG no-no, because rubber bands cause your hair to break) – AND Nance, because I’m wearing not a lick of makeup. Clearly we need to have BitchyCon 2004 just so they can make me over! ]]>

Average Joe last night. I could kick myself! Argh!

* * * Good lord, what a day. It’s not even 1:00, and I’m ready for a nap! I got up as soon as Fred left this morning so that I could get started cleaning the upstairs. The biggest job – though the smallest room – was the spud’s bathroom. She’s in charge of cleaning her bathroom every Saturday and she does an okay job, but she seems to think that the cleaner she sprays on the tub and shower should do all the work and that she shouldn’t need to provide any elbow grease. As a result, her tub tends to be somewhat grimy. She does an excellent job of cleaning the toilet each week, but doesn’t clean the underside of the toilet, or behind the toilet, and there was a ton of dust back there. It took me two applications of Clorox Bathroom Cleaner with Teflon and lots of scrubbing, but now the bathtub is shiny and clean. I also got all the dust behind the toilet (which has probably been accumulating since about this time last year when I was cleaning the house a few days before Thanksgiving) and dusted the baseboards while I was at it. After that some vacuuming and some dusting, and now the upstairs is fit for human habitation once again. Yay! (Of course, now I don’t have to do any real cleaning for a long, lonnnnnnnng time!) Oh, and speaking of cleaning, that reminds me – someone recently asked in my comments how I clean the hardwood floors downstairs to keep them so shiny and clean. Of course, my immediate response is “Are you on drugs???”, but at the moment they are shiny and clean since I just cleaned them yesterday, so I’ll answer the question. After trying all manners of things, all kinds of cleaners formulated especially for hardwood floors but leaves streaks, you know what works the best? Ammonia and hot water. I bet that vinegar and water would work well, too – maybe next time I clean the floors (no doubt sometime in 2004) I’ll give that a try and report back. After cleaning, I ran to the grocery store. I had bought everything on the list except one – ginger ale – and I stood in the soda aisle for a good five minutes, trying like hell to remember what brand of ginger ale Liz drinks. When I just couldn’t remember, I decided to check out, go home, find the note I’d made regarding what kind of ginger ale Liz drinks, and then head for Kroger to pick up a couple of bottles of Light Done Right Blue Cheese dressing for Fred (Publix carries every flavor of Kraft Light Done Right EXCEPT Blue Cheese). And as a side note, see what wonderful hosts we are? If you come visit, we make sure to have your favorite soda in stock so you’ll have something to drink! Once I got to Kroger, I found the salad dressing and a few other things, and finally sucked it up and applied for a Kroger Plus card. As a rule, I think it’s shitty that you have to apply for a card so that you can get the savings – at Publix, you get the same price no matter who you are – but I couldn’t stand the thought of paying 90 cents more for a bottle of dressing just because I didn’t have the fucking card. Also, I saved $2 on a 5-pound bag of clementines and $1 off a 6-pack of water. I checked out using the U-Scan-It aisle, where you (I bet you can’t guess!) scan stuff yourself. I was doing well, had scanned the bottles of salad dressing, when I made the mistake of scanning the 6-pack of water and instead of bagging it, I put it back in my cart. “PLEASE PLACE ITEM IN BAG! PLEASE PLACE ITEM IN BAG!” the automated voice bellowed at me. “PLEASE PLACE ITEM IN BAG!” Apparently there’s some sort of sensor on the thing that sits under the bags and if you don’t put your item on the bag, the system notices and thinks you’re – well, I’m not sure what the problem is, exactly. I guess they want to have all your items in bags and not in the cart so they can see that you’ve scanned everything. The cashier in charge of keeping an eye on that aisle finally came over and fixed the problem, but not before everyone in the store turned to stare at the freak who was causing the automated voice to have a temper tantrum. * * * Okay, help me out, y’all. What the hell are those things called that pop up on the top of your tongue and kind of look like a tastebud has popped? Because I swear to god that for the last week I’ve had one every single day. They last for about a day and then go away, but pop up in another spot. I have one in the middle of my tongue right now and it’s DRIVING ME FUCKING NUTS. If you have any idea what the damn things are caused (I’ve only ever gotten them on the top of my tongue), let me know in the comments so I can do a search and see if there’s some important vitamin or mineral I’m missing in my daily diet that’s causing the damn things. * * * There’s a tornado warning going on right now and I have channel 19 on (one touched down in South Huntsville, it appears). Dan Satterfield – the weather guy – just asked someone to stop his wife from leaving the studio. I don’t know why that amuses me so much. For the record, Saturday was 14 years since an F4 tornado touched down and did some serious damage in South Huntsville. * * * Okay, that’s it for today. I’m in the middle of making a double batch of red beans and rice (we’re going to freeze half the batch and have the other half for dinner Thursday) and I need to go slice turkey kielbasa while I’m watching Dr. Phil. I don’t expect that I’m going to have the chance to update for the rest of the week, but if I can, I will. I may put up a cat-picture entry tomorrow before I leave for the airport. So basically, I’ll see you when I see you. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do! 🙂 * * * I sure do love that cat. A year ago: I think that everyone there had a little cartoon question mark over their head, ’cause I sure as shit did. Three: Thanks, y’all, for your emails regarding hamster sex.]]>

* * * I spent another hour and a half this morning cleaning the downstairs, including mopping the floors which I do far too infrequently. Like Fred said when I was scrubbing the baseboards, maybe we should have company a little more often!

* * * I did take a little time off from scrubbing the baseboards to go with Fred, who wanted to show me an amazing view from the top of Rainbow Mountain. I followed him over, walked about 1/10th of a mile to check out the view, snapped a few pictures, and was home within half an hour of leaving. Naturally, the picture doesn’t do the view justice. The sky was looking pretty cool, too. * * * When I got back from feeding the pet store kitties this morning, I heard a loud sound in the back yard. When I went to investigate – because I am, in fact, the nosiest person in the entire world – I saw this: Hallelujah! Of course, it’s too wet to let the kitties out and there are a few gaps in the back part of the fence that was caused by the accident that we need to fix – I don’t think the older cats could squeeze through them, but the Bean certainly could – but I suspect that it will only be a matter of a few days before the cats are out cavorting in the grass. Yay! * * * Pet store kitties pics are here. * * * Okay, aside from the cleaning and the fence, there’s just nothing going on around here. I’m going to slap up a few cat pictures and call it an entry. Because I can! Ha! He just looks so pleased, doesn’t he? And here we see the Bean showing us how he’d look if he were dead. As a bonus, we get to see his pink belly! ]]>

ABOUT FUCKING TIME, is all I have to say. Although I thought it had been longer than two months. It feels like it’s been closer to 6. And doesn’t it figure that the weather just started turning really cold in the last few days? The cats aren’t going to want to go outside when it’s THIS cold out, the little bastards. Maybe we should just wait until next Spring before we open the cat door again. Ah well – at least the damn thing is finally in the process of going up!

* * * I sure do hate paying bills. I also hate that I’m a total slob and tend to pile things all over my desk so that when it’s time to pay bills, I have to sort through piles and piles of crap. That’s a good way to be late on bills, you know. Not that I’ve done that or anything. It chaps my hide that we pay so much for phone service. I mean, $50! For a phone that hardly ever rings! Didn’t basic phone service once upon a time cost $10 or $20, or am I dreaming? I keep telling Fred that we should cancel our phone service to the house and just use our cell phones, but if we only used our cellphones, we’d have to carry them around with us, and that would be a huge asspain. Also, my cellphone is starting to die and is difficult to hear on, and I’ll be needing a new one in the next year or so, but when I tell Fred such a thing, he gives me the “There she goes again, SPENDING MONEY USELESSLY!” look, and I want to plunge my cellphone through his eyeball and into his brain. You know, I have no point at all. Just that I hate paying bills. * * * I’m not allowed to report that last night when we were watching Extreme Makeovers, and the guy was proposing to his girlfriend at the end, all romantic-like, getting all choked up, I looked over at Fred, who was all teary-eyed. So I’m not reporting that. At all. Never happened! * * * I have to do some cleaning this weekend, especially getting down and cleaning the baseboards in the entire downstairs portion of the house. They’ve gotten horribly dusty, and I would hate to have Liz come to visit and see what a mess the house usually is. I still have to get those daffodil and lily bulbs planted, too. Meh. * * * Don’t be fooled – this is NOT a submissive position that Miz Poo is in. When the Bean tries to leap on her, she’ll take those powerful yet stubby little back legs of hers, and she’ll kick him off her, lickety-split. There’s so much crap piled up on my desk that there’s hardly any room for these two. And how am I supposed to get anything done with them in the way, I ask you?]]>

GET a hallelujah??

* * * After all my bitching about hearing constantly about Jessica Lynch and how I wish the media would just shut the fuck up, what did I do today? Why, I bought the Jessica Lynch book, of course. My excuse is that I thought Fred wanted to read it. I guess another good excuse would be that I usually like the stuff Rick Bragg writes. Yeah, that’s the ticket. I saw that it was by Rick Bragg and didn’t know what it was about until after I’d bought it! Yeah! * * * So, I believe I mentioned that That Bastard Tubby peed on the floor in our bedroom a few weeks ago. We did what we usually do, which was to blot up as much urine as possible, saturate the carpet with Nature’s Miracle, and go about our business. Except that earlier this week, I noticed that every time I walked into the bedroom, I was greeted by an odor. The odor of fish. It smelled like someone had left a dead fish somewhere, and it had started to rot. And it was coming from the corner where Tubby had peed. Now, look. I know that Nature’s Miracle takes time to work, and it does all that cool breaking down of enzymes, but when walking into one’s bedroom – the room where one SLEEPS – makes one gag, it is time to stop waiting for the Nature’s Miracle to work. Fred dumped a huge-ass container of Febreeze on the area, waited to let it soak in, and then sucked it up with the steam cleaner. It worked for a brief amount of time, and then the smell came back with a motherfucking vengeance. I did a Google search and discovered that for the most part, the opinion was that the smell would never come out, that the carpet and pad would need to be yanked up, and the subfloor would need to be bleached and then sealed. Fred and I discussed having the carpet replaced, but if we have anything done in there, I’d much rather have hardwood floors put in, and Fred’s sure that’s mighty expensive. Especially since we have no desire to live in this house for much longer than it will take the spud to graduate from high school. But that’s four more years in this house, and I’ll be damned if I’ll spend those four years sleeping surrounded by the stench of dead and rotting fish. Last night, I dumped about five pounds of baking soda on the area and covered it with tinfoil (so the cats wouldn’t try to use it as litter or tromp all through it). Believe it or not, it helped. Today, I went to Sam’s and bought four 12-pound bags of baking soda and a huge-ass pack of tinfoil. I stopped by Target and bought an air purifier. When I got home, I vacuumed up the baking soda I’d dumped yesterday, dumped another four pounds of baking soda on the area and covered it with tinfoil. I plugged the air purifier (it’s a plug-mount purifier) in the outlet directly over the area. It’s not a big purifier, but since it’s directly over the area, I’m hoping it captures any smell that might arise. I also have both windows open (and the temperature outside is in the high 40s, thus the house is fuh-REEZING), which is helping, too. I’m going to vacuum up the baking soda every few days and throw down some new, then cover it with foil. I’m hoping like hell that this works, at least until our order of Cat-Off arrives. I’m not holding much love for Tubby at the moment, believe you me. * * * New movie of the week up, finally! Click on the “movie of the week” link over there to the right, under the “about” section, and if you’re going to watch it over and over again, please right-click and save it to your hard drive. It’s a big one, about 7.5 MB. Sorry about that, those of you on dial-up. This one’s a movie of Miz Poo and the Bean getting into it. If you turn your sound way up, you’ll be able to hear Miz Poo growling, the Bean’s war cry, and me laughing so hard I’m about to pass out. Those kitties sure do crack me up. * * * Spot, about to freak out and run away. Cameras scare him. Dust scares him. Silence scares him, noise scares him. You get the idea. Oh, “meh” yourself, you Tubby bastard. A year ago: He’s a gem amongst men, is what he is. Two: Is it just me, or was Reese Witherspoon totally channeling Christine Taylor’s Marcia Brady? Three: Fred thinks I have the hots for DA Richard Bay Four: Sometimes I just can’t find the time to drag my ass away from the couch and junkfood to update. You know that’s what you love about me.]]>

Bon-Bon!!!

* * * Fred pointed me to this link over at FARK. Some of them are really funny – go check it out! * * * I finally finished Wolves of the Calla (Dark Tower 5) last night, staying up ’til after midnight to finish it. Earlier in the evening, Fred and I went to bed early so that we could read for a while before lights-off at 9:00. Somehow, we started talking about my book, and Fred asked “Are the Wolves of the Calla really wolves?” “I don’t KNOW!” I said, all bent out of shape. “I don’t get to know yet! The whole ka-tet gets to know what they really are, but I don’t! And I consider myself a very important part of the ka-tet!” “Does the whole ka-tet really know?” Fred asked. “Everyone but you?” “Well, not the whole ka-tet. Eddie knows and he told Roland because Roland’s the dinh, but I don’t think Susannah and Jake know.” “Does Oy?” “No. But I still think I’m important enough to know, I don’t know why they gotta go whispering about it and not tell ME.” Yep. When you have a crush on a fictional character and whine about how no one in a NOVEL is telling you anything, it’s about time to get a life, say true. * * * ANY HATE MAIL REGARDING THIS SECTION SHOULD GO TO FRED. Also while we were talking about Wolves of the Calla, I said to Fred, “That bastard Roland is cheating on me. He’s getting some in this book!” “Who’s he getting some from?” Fred asked. “Susannah?” “NO!” I said. “Oh right, she’s with Eddie.” “Right.” “Is he getting some from Jake?” Jake is a 13 year-old boy. “Har har,” I said. “Oh no, that’s right. If anyone was getting some from Jake, it would be Father Callahan!” We guffawed over that for far too long. AGAIN, HATE MAIL GOES TO FRED. SAY THANKYA. * * * POSSIBLE AVERAGE JOE SPOILERS. Damn that Malena, or however the hell you spell it. I cannot BELIEVE she sent Dennis packing, he was my favorite! Hell, even Zach the ass was teary-eyed about it. But as Fred pointed out to me, Dennis is probably getting all the women he can handle, now. How useless is it to have a host when she’s only going to show up for a few minutes at the beginning of the show to tell us what’s going to be going on? Where is she when Malena has to tell the guys who’s going? And that whole “And the next person I chose to leave is…” thing is very awkward. Why isn’t she handing out footballs to the guys she wants to stay or something? I don’t know what the “big twist” they keep talking about is, but Fred has suggested that it has something to do with model-type guys, like she can choose a certain number of the average Joes to go and be replaced by hunka-hunka-burnin’-loves. Poor Dennis. ::sniff:: I still think Tareq is cute, by the way, but perhaps a bit impressed with himself. * * * On The Bachelor tonight, it’s the reunion! I hope there’s a slapfight between LeeAnn and… well, anyone! Whoo! * * * I think Fred’s getting the itchy feet. He’s been talking more and more often lately about selling the house. A good part of it is that the kids on either side of us are starting to really get on our nerves. They think nothing of tramping back and forth across our lawn, playing in our driveway, and this past weekend they were playing kickball on our front lawn, complete with hitting the front door with their ball several times and TROMPING THROUGH OUR FLOWER BED. I don’t know about you, but my mother probably would have smacked my ass for tromping around in someone’s flower bed and hitting the front door with my kickball (hee! ME playing kickball!). I would have deserved it, too. I know that kids will be kids and that having them occasionally cross our front lawn is no big thing. And if it was just that – OCCASIONALLY – I wouldn’t have a problem with it. But it’s constant, and the kids next door have a HUGE back yard, and yet they insist on playing in their front yard next to our driveway. I just know that one of these days they’re going to break a window in the house or the windshield on my Jeep, and then I might have to have a shit fit. (Probably not, though) I will only point out that 2 years ago when I liked the house in the nice subdivision on a 1-acre lot and front porch, Fred complained that it was too old and he didn’t like it. I bet he’s kicking himself now. * * * My best friend from high school, Liz, is coming to visit next week, arriving Wednesday and staying until Sunday. It’ll be fun to have her here. Fred’s not so sure – she’s very into sports, and he’s afraid she’ll try to talk to him about sports. Heh. * * * Someone asked in my comments yesterday if we’d gotten all the cats when they were kittens and if I had pictures of them when they were little. Naturally, I’m happy to share! This is Mr. Fancypants when he was about 2 months old (for you new readers, here’s the story on Mr. Fancypants – he went missing at the beginning of this past summer and hasn’t been seen since). Miz Poo, at 10 weeks old. My favorite Miz Poo picture. I don’t remember how old she was – four months, maybe? We have no baby pictures of Spot, but here’s one of him when he was about two years old. And here’s Baby Tubs at around two months old. He had (and still has!) such pink little ears! ]]>

It’s Veteran’s Day, Americans. Take a moment to remember and thank those who are willing to serve and protect this country as well as those who died doing so.

* * * I had sushi rolls – California rolls – for breakfast this morning, and they were mighty fucking fine. Certainly beats my usual scrambled-eggs-and-fruit by a mile. * * * I have 120 daffodil bulbs and about 60 lily bulbs to plant. I should be out there doing it right now, but I don’t wanna. Tomorrow’s supposed to be somewhat warm, with thunder showers in the afternoon, followed by a cold front. I’m guessing that my ass will be outside digging a bed to plant the bulbs tomorrow morning, is what I’m guessing. Hmm. If I’d planned better, we could have had BitchyCon this week, and the price of attendance would have been digging in the back yard. That’s what I get for never planning ahead. * * * There are a bunch of car places that I pass on the way to and from the pet store. Last week as I was driving to the pet store, I saw a gorgeous little yellow car, and naturally became interested. Until I saw the price on the windshield. $35,999. Yikes! I promise y’all, even if the day comes that I have $35,999 laying around, I will never own a car worth that much money. I might splurge on a $15,000 car and spend the rest on books, but I’d just be scared to drive a car worth that much money around. I mean, what if I got a scratch on it? They’d probably charge thousands and thousands of dollars to fix it, right? I’d be much happier in a yellow Beetle, I’m sure. Coincidentally, there’s a yellow Beetle for sale (WITH a sunroof!) on the road I drive down to get to the post office. It seems to be in excellent shape and can’t be more than a few years old. And it has a sunroof! Wouldn’t that be an excellent Christmas present? You should go mention that to Fred, really you should. (Not holding my breath – but a girl can dream!) * * * When bitching about Christmas shopping and all that yesterday, I probably should have mentioned that last year I went shopping the day after Christmas and bought some serious bargains for several people on the spud’s Christmas list – her father’s parents and sister. I’ve also started making my list (though I didn’t check it twice) so that when November 28th comes along, I’ll be ready to start shopping. Or at least ordering things online. * * * If you’re in the process – or ever will be in the process – of looking for a bank through which to get your mortgage, here’s some advice for you. Do NOT go with the “small, friendly” bank, because within two months the motherfuckers will sell your fucking mortgage to a huge bank like Chase Manhattan, and what will Chase Manhattan do? Why, Chase Manhattan will decide they’re certainly not getting enough money from you, and Chase Manhattan will include a fucking advertisement with every mortgage statement, telling you that for A SMALL MONTHLY FEE, they could transfer half your mortgage payment AUTOMATICALLY every two weeks, and over the life of the loan, you’ll save THOUSANDS. And yet, when you point out that you could easily just WRITE a check every two weeks for half your mortgage payment and mail it to Chase Manhattan for a SMALL FEE of 37 cents each time, which adds up roughly to 74 cents every four weeks (not including the cost of the envelope, the cost of your time to write out the check and lick the envelope, and also let’s NOT forget about the time-intensive addressing of the envelope), and that doing that yourself rather than letting Chase Manhattan do it and charge you for having done it will save you THOUSANDS over time, they have no response. Also, those Chase Manhattan motherfuckers, who have your home phone number, because you had to give it to them when you filled out the paperwork, because they don’t want cell phones, oh no, those fuckers will call you on the average once a week to offer you some new hair-brained money-saving bargain. And believe you me, once those fuckers start talking, they don’t stop to take a breath, and so you have to just interrupt them and say “SO SORRY, NOT INTERESTED, CHASE MANHATTAN CAN BITE MY ASS, BUH-BYE!” and then hang up. Never once did I ever get a single call from AmSouth when they had our mortgage when we lived in the other house, is what I’m saying. * * * No new cat pictures, so here are some oldies but goodies: This is when Tubby was a svelte young thing. Spot, the Washington Journal reporter. Baby Spanky! This picture of Miz Poo cracks me up, because a) it was not long after her surgery last year, when she had a bit of her lip cut out and tested for cancer (it tested negative) and b) the sticker over her head, which reads “Aren’t we just a ray of fucking sunshine”. I sure do miss that evil, fancy bastard. Not an old picture, but it cracks me up. A year ago: “… after doing the laundry, I had sex on the kitchen floor with Fred once again. Floor continues to be TOO FUCKING COLD…” Four: Smile and nod, and she’ll go on forever.]]>

Subversive Cross Stitch. Ah, if I’d only thought of that first… I have enough cross-stich pattern books and cross-stitch alphabet patterns that I could probably put together a “Go Fuck Yourself” for myself. I could hang it by the front door, because really what could be more warm and welcoming?

* * * I read On Writing for the third time last Monday night. It’s such a good book, though I find the C.V. section far more interesting than the writing tips (which is not to say that I couldn’t use some writing advice from Stephen King, but I’m far too lazy to put them into practice). He grew up in Durham and attended Lisb0n High School, y’know, which is where I went to school as well, and it’s cool to see him mention people and places that I know. Which reminds me – when I was in high school, several of the teachers who taught there (and probably still teach there), went to school with Stephen King and claimed to be friends with him. Yeah, they wish. Anyway, I read this line: I found the idea of social drinking ludicrous – if you didn’t want to get drunk, why not just have a Coke? Hell, I’ve been saying that – or something similar to that – since I was in my early 20s. I totally don’t get social drinking at all, don’t really care for the taste of alcohol, cannot stand wine (and I’ve even tried the terribly expensive shit), and haven’t been drunk in at least ten years, when I had a fight with my best friend and got as shitfaced as I’ve ever been, and ended up barfing up a lung several times before passing out on my bed, and waking up several hours later still a little drunk. Every now and then I’ll have a drink – I had a strawberry dacquiri with Liz at Applebee’s this past summer – and since I’m such a lightweight I’ll catch a buzz about halfway through the drink, and then I remember “Oh yeah. I hate this feeling. I should have just had a Diet Coke.” I want to like the taste of wine. You wine-lovers wax poetic about it, and make it sound so good, but it just does nothing for me. Like coffee, I suppose it’s an acquired taste. * * * The Bean, ever since we got him (has it been a month? Something like that?) has never been a terribly affectionate cat. He’d let you pick him up and pet him and snuggle with him, and he’d purr like mad and meow a trilling meow, but he never sought affection, never came up to you and insisted upon being picked up and loved. Miz Poo howls and howls until you pick her up, and then she snuggled onto your shoulder, and she purrs loud enough to make the entire house vibrate, and she will stay there for hours or until something catches her fancy and she goes to check it out. In the last week, however, the Bean has become more friendly. He’s started jumping up on the counter in the morning while Fred’s throwing his lunch together and rubbing up against Fred. He’s started laying against me and stretching fetchingly until I rub his belly. This morning when I came in from working out and sat down on the couch to call Fred, the Bean climbed up on the pillow next to me and rubbed and sniffed and purred and rolled around. Maybe he was withholding his affection until he was sure he’d be around for a good long time? * * * Okay, you know what? I REFUSE TO DO MY CHRISTMAS SHOPPING UNTIL AFTER THANKSGIVING. Stop advertising the “Under the Christmas Tree” sale. Stop talking about Santa showing up at the goddamn mall when November is barely a week old. Is it not e-fucking-nough that you fucking bombard me with Christmas ads and Christmas movies and Christmas sales every fucking day from the day after Thanksgiving on? You have to start three weeks BEFORE Thanksgiving? Because the more you advertise your fucking sales, the less likely I am to buy from you, motherfuckers! I swear, if it were left up to me, I’d leave the country from Halloween until New Year’s Day every fucking year. Fucking radio ads. * * * Also, I am sick to DEATH of hearing about Jessica Lynch and Elizabeth Smart. I don’t want to hear any more about either of them, I don’t want to watch the stupid movies about them, I don’t want to read their motherfucking books, and I don’t want to see a fucking TV ad about them every 10.2 seconds. I’m glad they’re fine, I hope they live long and happy lives, NOW I WISH THE FUCKING MEDIA WOULD SHUT THE FUCKITY FUCK UP ABOUT THEM. * * * Very early Saturday morning – around 5, I think – I woke up and lay there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out why I was awake. I finally realized that I was hearing a distant kind of moaning sound. I sat up and took the earplugs out of my ears and listened some more. It was an almost rhythmic moaning sound, and I thought for a moment that it might be the Bean, who is still wheezy (though not Weezy) despite progressively stronger medication in the weeks since we adopted him. I decided it wasn’t that, and listened some more. As I stared toward the door, I realized that Spanky was sitting near the door, staring out. And then Spot jumped up on the bed, looking nervous, and stared in the direction of the door. Ohjesus, I thought immediately. Someone’s in the house and they’re hurting Fred or the spud! Or maybe Fred dropped weights on himself and he’s hurt and can’t get out from under them, and he’s moaning in pain! I got out of bed and put my nightgown on and slowly walked toward the door, expecting at any moment to see a strange man coming toward me. As I reached the top of the stairs, the sound got louder, and I realized it was coming from somewhere downstairs. It was also clearly the sound of a cat losing his shit. Miz Poo and the Bean were sitting at the top of the stairs staring down with some interest. Ohjesus, I thought. Someone’s in the house and Tubby’s trying to defend hearth and home! I went to Fred’s bedroom door and knocked. From the other side, he mumbled a “What?”, and I opened the door. “Come out here,” I said. “One of the cats is going nuts downstairs!” Fred followed me back out to the landing at the top of the stairs, and then stepped over Miz Poo and the Bean, and walked down the stairs. “There might be someone in the house!” I whispered hysterically. Fred ignore me and kept going. “It’s Tubby,” he said when he reached the living room. Tubby was sitting in front of one of the living room windows, his tail bushed as big as it could be, and making a scary, half-growling half-howling sound. “There must be something outside,” Fred said, and just as I hissed “DON’T JUST OPEN THE DOOR WITHOUT LOOKING!”, he flung the door open. There, on the other side of the window, sat an orange cat, who was puffed up and growling. Fred chased him off, and then we went upstairs to lay in bed and talk until my pounding heart stopped, uh, pounding. “So, you thought someone was in the house?” Fred said. “Yes!” “And yet I notice there was no gun in your hand!” he said disapprovingly. “I thought about it!” I said. “Yeah, and that could have been the last thought you’d had!” Hmph. * * * Pet store kitties are hither. * * * Heeee’s too Beanie for his fur, so Beanie it hurrrrrrrrrts… How can this possibly be comfortable? A year ago: Pictures! Two: The cats continue to be terrified of the big slobbering thing living outside. Three: “Who the hell’s this from??? It’s signed ‘your father’, but I have no idea who it’s from!!” Four: Twice he bounced up and flailed his front paws at the butterfly/grasshopper, and on the third bounce, he hit the fence with his back feet and actually ran paralell to the ground for three or four steps before pushing off, flipping over, and finally landing on the lawn.]]>

SURVIVOR SPOILERS IN THIS SECTION. Okay, Andrew, love ya lots, but get over yourself. You really pissed me off with the way you opted to vote Lillian off instead of Darrah, despite the fact that Lillian worked her ass off and Darrah did nothing but sit on hers. Also, when Lillian asked you to let her know what you’d decided, did you? Not so much. What a shocker that Lillian would decide to vote your ass off. Buh-bye! Oh, and also? When you were standing by the fire with Lillian and saying “Well, YOU aren’t going anywhere next tribal council, it will be one of US, because YOU are immune!”, I was hoping like hell that Lillian would smile and say “Yeah. SUCKS to be you, doesn’t it??” or “To tell the truth, Andrew, I’d like to see YOU go.” But Lillian held her tongue. I love the fact that she came back and fucked Andrew over, although I’ll admit that I for some reason find her a tad creepy. I think Rupert takes himself a little seriously, by the way. But I love him. I can’t help myself! I think the girls should gang up and vote off all the guys, really. But then, I always think that. Heh. Did Mush Mouth say a single word last night? I sure do miss her melodic voice.

* * * In lieu of a real entry, I’m going to fall back on a survey thingy which I have stolen from the lovely Athena, who stole it from someone else, so that I can declare this entry finished and go snuggle on the couch with the Bean and Stephen King. Fair enough? A: Actor. Oh, let’s say Christopher Meloni. We’ve seen a great deal of the Meloni penis lately while watching Oz, and any actor who’s willing to show his penis that frequently and also lay the serious liplock on another guy every now and then is aces with me. B: Boyhood Idols. (How about a girlhood idol?) Jamie Sommers. Also known as The Bionic Woman. C: Chore You Hate. Just about all of them, but I reserve a special hatred for vacuuming the stairs, because they look crappy before I vacuum and they still look crappy after I finish. Damn carpeted stairs. I swear, with god as my witness, I will never! have carpeted stairs! ever again! D: Dad’s Name. Marvin. But I won’t tell you his nickname. Sorry, stalkers! E: Essential Video In Collection. When Harry Met Sally. F: Favorite Actress. I don’t really have a favorite. Let’s say that cute little Amber Tamblyn, aka Joan of Arcadia. Interesting (though “interesting” may be overstating it a tad) bit of trivia – Amber’s father Russ played Dr. Lawrence Jacoby in Twin Peaks. The first time I saw her last name, I wondered if they were related. Yes, I’m a dork. G: Gold or Silver. I almost never wear jewelry, but I have no particular preference for either gold or silver. My wedding band and engagement ring are gold. H: Hometown. Lisb0n Falls, Maine. I: Instruments Played. None. Well, I played the guitar for a few months when I was 10 or so. I actually learned all the chords to play “Take me Home, Country Roads”, and it sounded a lot like: strum, strum, strum (long pause while changing chords) strum, strum, strum (long pause), etc. Speaking of that song, here’s a story to showcase my dorkiness. When I was 5 and we lived in Michigan, I had a friend named Candy Rhodes. I assumed the song “Take me Home, Country Roads” was written about her father. You know, her father. Country Rhodes. I am a dumbass of long standing, it appears. J: Job Title. Professional Ass Sitter. I’m sure Marty “Asswipe” Nemko would not approve. I sure do wish he was MY therapist. K: Kids. One. The spud. She’s 15. We’re thinking of locking her away ’til she’s 31, ’cause we’re not ready for the boys-and-dating thing. L: Living Arrangements. One house, one husband, one kid, five obnoxious cats, many annoying neighbors. M: Mom’s Name. Brenda. N: Number People Slept With. Less than 1,000. O: Overnight Hospital Stays. Oh, let me think. Tonsils out (1), tumor removed from knee (2), c-section (3). I think that’s it for overnight stays. P: Phobia. The phone. Eek! Q: Quote You Like. All you motherfuckers are gonna pay. You are the ones who are the ball-lickers. Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back R: Religious Affiliation. Born and raised Protestant. S: Siblings. Older brothers: Tracy and Randy. Younger sister: Debbie. T: Time You Wake Up. 7:00 on days that I have something to do (feed the pet store kitties, for example), 8:00 – 8:15 on days that I don’t. U: Unique Habit. When I’m really into what I’m reading I do this thing where I twitch my lower lip back and forth. Also, I twitch my feet in time to my lip. V: Vegetable You Refuse To Eat. Brussels sprouts. I also refuse to eat Collard Greens. W: Worst Habit. Probably chomping on my gum. X: X-rays Taken. Oh, I had a ton taken of my knee before they operated on it. Other than that, nothing comes to mind. Y: Yummy Food You Make. Chicken and rice casserole, Unfried Chicken, Sweet Potato Crack. Z: Zodiac Sign. Capricorn. * * * The Bean, just before he leapt for the toy mouse in Fred’s hand. In mid-leap, with the mouse in his front paws. Miz Poo disapproves of the horseplay.]]>