Author: Robyn

Anatomy of a Smackdown
(Starring Fancypants and Miz Poo) Miz Poo: “I cannot stand your fanciness. I cannot, do you hear me? I will kick your fancy ass all over the place! I will, I will!” Fancypants: “Look into my eyes…” Miz Poo: “I am ready to spring forth and tear your fancy throat out with my sharp little teeth. I …. I….” Fancypants: “Look deep into my eyes….” ::eyelashflutter:: Miz Poo: “What was that?!” Fancypants: “It is just The Momma, trying to document my fancy ways.” Miz Poo: “I will spring… I will tear… I will… I am so sleepy…” Fancypants: “Feel the Fancy power taking you over…” Miz Poo: “I will hurt… I will maim… I will…” Fancypants: “Deeeep into my eyes.” Miz Poo: “Rub my belly?”]]>

“Self,” I said to myself yesterday, “What do you suppose would happen if you took that big flat-ish box out of the garage and laid it on the library floor?”

“I’m sitting on it. But I’m not happy about it!” “Meh. MEH! Meh.” “Sitting on the box. Sitting on the box. Yeah, man, I’m sitting on a box…” Miz Poo opts for the smaller box to the side. Someone mentioned in my comments yesterday that they liked our bird bath. We bought that last weekend, after we did our tour through the Cathedral Caverns. There’s a house in the country that’s surrounded by all kinds of cement things – bird baths, planters (some of the planters were huge – they were at least as high as my waist – and I can’t imagine how people get them home. They must need a crane!), and other assorted things. When Fred passed by the house a few weeks ago after visiting Cathedral Caverns with the spud, he’d stopped and asked if they took credit cards (he didn’t have enough cash, and he doesn’t carry a checkbook with him), and they said no. So we stopped on Sunday and looked all the bird baths over, decided on one that was shallow and shaped kind of like a daisy, then changed our minds and took the one shaped like a tulip. I’m starting to think we should have gotten the one shaped like a daisy so that the birds could get in and splash around and actually bathe. As it is, they’ll occasionally sit on the edge and take a drink, so it’s more of a bird fountain than a bird bath. It cost $45, and I hear it was heavy as hell. Luckily, I didn’t have to lift it myself, since I had a big strong man with me. I think we’re going to have to move it, though. It’s too close to the bird feeders, and it’s got a film of bird seed husks floating on the surface of the water. We’re still waiting for one of the cats to try to jump up on it to investigate. I hope Tubby doesn’t try it, because he’d probably knock it over on himself and be paralyzed from the waist down, and we’d have to buy him one of those carts so he can pull himself around. Okay, y’all. I have seen the funny cats video, thanks for forwarding it to me. I’ve gotten about 10 forwards of it, watched it every single time someone forwarded it to me, and laughed myself silly every single time. Almost as funny as the cats themselves are the owners you can hear in the background laughing or saying “Oh!” in surprise. Heh. Nothing funnier than a startled cat, I tell you. And lastly, reader Becky forwarded me something that made me laugh out loud. I put it up here. Trust me – it’s long, but the payoff at the end is more than worth it. I was taking pictures of the Doves in the back yard, mostly to illustrate how damn many of them there are, and this morning I was looking through the pictures and found one that was awfully funny. Does that Grackle look like he’s about to kick ass, or what? That’s a bird with a definite sense of purpose. 1. What do you most want to be remembered for? Being a bright spot in someone’s day – I want to be remembered with a smile. 2. What quotation best fits your outlook on life? I can resist anything but temptation ~ Oscar Wilde. 3. What single achievement are you most proud of in the past year? Not ending up in a belltower with a rifle. (No, not seriously, you freaks) 4. What about the past ten years? Getting out of a marriage that was going nowhere, and raising a great kid (though she’s not all the way raised yet). 5. If you were asked to give a child a single piece of advice to guide them through life, what would you say? Nothing worth having ever comes easy. If you put a bag on the floor, she will show up and settle in.]]>

Soap & Candle Stand. My credit card is whimpering in fear already!

Fred took this picture the other morning. He said Tubby looks like the fat little kid no one will play with. Tubby loves to hang out under the bird feeders. If you look closely at the upper right side of the picture, you’ll see a bird sitting on top of the pole. I think he’s trying to decide whether he could outrun Tubby. (Fred took this picture, too) So, Julia Roberts – remember my fondness for Julia Roberts? – has been married 10 months, and according to The Scoop, she’s on the road to divorceville. Of course, you can take most everything a gossip column publishes with a grain of salt, but if it’s true I’m not surprised. After all, on the forum last July, I said I give it 19 months – it’ll really be over in 7, but they’ll drag it out for another year. I did a little online searching, and it appears (again, you’ve gotta take the gossip stuff with a grain of salt) that Julia Roberts has a reputation for jealousy. That really does surprise me, because she’s always seemed so completely confident. Goes to show you never can tell. Bonnie mentioned in the comments to yesterday’s entry that the woman who’d never mailed anything before was similar to a guy on Dog Eat Dog the other night who’d never read a book in his life. You know, I know that there are people out there who don’t like to read, because my best friend from high school, Liz, doesn’t care to read. She’ll occasionally pick up a couple of magazines every once in a while, but for the most part, she’s not a reader. What the hell do people who aren’t readers DO? I mean, if I have a minute or two of downtime, I grab the book I’m currently reading, or a magazine and read that. I carry a book in my purse in case I have to wait in a long line. I’ve been known to sit at the table and read the back of the cereal box. I read a book while I’m on the stationary bike to make the time go by faster. Do people who don’t like to read just sit there and stare off into space, or what? As a side note, I guess I should add that I don’t ALWAYS have my “nose in a book”. When we’re driving somewhere, I like to watch the scenery. But if I’m in a situation where there’s nothing much going on – in a long line, for instance – I prefer to read to pass the time. I can’t imagine being married to someone who doesn’t like to read. Fred loves to read as much as I do, although he tends more toward the political and other nonfiction stuff (::shudder::) with an occasional bit of fiction tossed in. I, on the other hand, tend mostly toward fiction. Our tastes do intersect – Stephen King, Jeffery Deaver, John Sanford, Michael Connelly – but for the most part I’m not interested in what he reads, and he SURE as hell isn’t up for any zany chick books, because his sensitive side has very strict limits. This all reminds me of the episode of Seinfeld where Elaine and Puddy are on a plane coming back from a month in Europe. Elaine begins reading, and Puddy sits staring at the back of the seat in front of him. She asks if he wants something to read, and he declines. She tries to read but can’t, because she’s so bothered that he’s just sitting there staring at the seat back, so she breaks up with him. When I think of a non-reader, I think of Puddy staring off into space, slack-jawed. (No offense intended to non-readers. I love Puddy.) Someone is an evil little shithead who killed a baby Mockingbird and left its body on the patio.]]>

The Bear, with Gary Busey as Paul “Bear” Bryant. For those of you not in the south, Bear Bryant coached The Crimson Tide, and was the winningest coach in the history of college football. Anyway, the movie was made back in ’84 and Fred never got a chance to see it. Lo these many years, it has apparently been his fondest wish to see it, though Bear Bryant’s family had bought up the rights and refused to allow it to be released on videotape until recently. But I digress. So Fred was watching the movie while I ate lunch, and after listening to Gary Busey’s voiceover, I turned to Fred, who was snuggling on the loveseat with Miz Poo, and said “He sounds an awful lot like the guy from Slingblade!” Fred turned and gave me a blank smile, then turned back to the movie. I continued eating lunch, and then – five minutes later – Fred turned to me with a big smile. “He sounds like Carl from Slingblade sometimes!” he said, all proud of his discovery and obviously expecting me to burst out laughing at his astute observation. “Oh my GOD!” I said, giving him the JESUS CHRIST DO YOU EVER LISTEN TO ME?! bug-eyes. “Oh,” he said. “Did you already say that?”

While he was out running errands on Saturday, Fred had occasion to be in the Dollar Store, where he bought me a nice big bunch of smiley-face balloons. Aren’t they great? Naturally, Miz Poo was enthralled with the ribbons hanging from the ceiling, so we had to be careful so she wouldn’t chew off a length of ribbon and swallow it, which would make her intestines bind up and require another zillion-dollar operation. (Soon after we took the picture, we moved the balloons so she couldn’t reach the ribbon tied to them) I’d like to take a moment to extoll the virtues of yet another cleaning product. It’s fairly new, I believe, and in my experience it’s definitely worth the cost. A few weeks ago I purchased a bottle of Clorox with Teflon toilet bowl cleaner. The idea is that the “Teflon Surface Protector” keeps dirt and stuff from sticking, and so the areas you clean with it stay clean longer. I was skeptical – I mean, there were no actual Scrubbing Bubbles with big bug-eyes and blue eyebrows and a smile peeking out in the Scrubbing Bubbles Bathroom Cleaner that my mother bought once at my behest, and I have to admit that I was deeply scarred by the disappointment, because I was going to catch a couple of Scrubbing Bubbles and keep them as pets. But I digress. So always an optimist, I bought the Clorox with Teflon toilet bowl cleaner, because if there’s any one place in the house where I’d prefer dirt (among other things) not to stick, it would be the toilet bowl. When the downstairs toilet needed cleaning – because Fred’s father and stepmother were coming over to watch a few episodes of The Shield with us, and to be frank with you, the only time I bother to clean that bathroom is if someone’s coming over, and thus the reason it only gets cleaned three times a year, if that – I used the Clorox stuff to clean it. Two weeks later? Clean as a whistle. AMAZINGLY clean and sparkly and shining. I don’t even cringe when I see the cats belly-up to the toilet bowl, partaking of some scrumptious toilet water, because it’s just THAT clean. Yesterday, I bought a bottle of the bathroom cleaner, because the OTHER place I would like dirt and grime to stop sticking is in the bathtub – we use a lot of bath gunk in the tub, and a few days after cleaning the tub, it’s usually gunked back up – and the shower. This morning I cleaned the bathroom, using both the Clorox with Teflon products, and I have to say, so far so good. The area between the sinks has never looked so shiny. For that matter, the area around the tub is looking pretty damn good, too. So I have to say two thumbs up to the Clorox with Teflon products. All I need now is for them to make a kitchen product, and I’ll be all set. I was weirded out a tad at the post office yesterday. First of all, I walked in and stood in line behind a girl who had just put something in a Priority shipping box and sealed it. She looked up from her package and looked around, seeming confused. “Oh,” she said, smiling at me. “Go ahead. I’m a little confused.” So I moved around her to stand in line. I glanced back and saw her, still confused, looking around. She saw me looking, pointed, and said “What’s that?” “What’s what?” I asked. “That,” she said, pointing to the section of the post office where you can buy stamps and envelopes and various things. “That’s where you can buy stamps and envelopes and various things,” I said. “They also process packages for people, too.” “Oh,” she said, nodding her head. She resumed perusing her package. A few moments later, she tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around and smiled at her. “Can you – are you allowed to write directly on the box?” she asked, holding up the Priority box. “Yes, you sure can,” I said. She smiled, clearly embarrassed. “I’ve never mailed anything before.” I simply smiled in response and turned back around. It’s been so long since I’ve been around other people that saying “How on earth does someone get to be an adult (she appeared to be in her mid-20s, and had no foreign accent that I could determine) having never mailed anything before?!” seemed like it would be rude. But truly, the mind boggles. I go to the post office at least twice a week, and on at least one of those days I have one or more packages to mail. I’ve been mailing things since I was around the age of 10. How does it happen that an adult could have never mailed anything before? How? Was she locked in a convent until just recently? I stood and wondered what her story was, but by the time I thought of a good opening question (“Seriously? You’ve never mailed anything before?”), the time to ask it had passed. Today I’m still burning with curiosity, and I wish I’d asked anyway. He’s a good boy. Yes he is!]]>

Nance‘s birthday, but she wasn’t home, so I didn’t wish her a happy birthday. Let me take a moment now to say “Happy birthday, Nance!!!!”

So, the spud got on the plane to California just fine, and several hours later called me from her grandparents’ home in California to let me know she’d arrived. I guess I can relax until June 15th, when she’ll be flying from California to Rhode Island, where she’ll stay with her father for a week before she goes to Maine. Saturday morning we were standing at the ticket counter while the ticket counter lady did her thing – printing out tickets, making me fill out the “Unaccompanied minor” envelope, making sure the spud had a big goofy-looking pin stuck to her shirt that signified that she was an unaccompanied minor – and while we were waiting, they searched her suitcase, and she turned to me and said, her voice echoing through the airport as she spoke as loudly as possible, “AT LEAST THEY KNOW I DON’T HAVE A BOMB IN MY SUITCASE!” For an instant I thought of running away from her as fast as possible, with the intent of disavowing all knowledge of the child or who she might be “Who, her? Nope, never seen her. Yeah, I heard her say something about a bomb in her suitcase. Gotta go, bye!” Instead I settled for making the big, horrified bug-eyes at her, waving my arms wildly in the air and hissing “Shhhht upppp!” “What?” she said. “It’s not like I HAVE -” “SHHHHHT UPPPPPPPP!” I hissed again, horrified. And to my relief she did shut up. When we were walking away from the counter and there were no other people within earshot, I said in her ear “You do NOT need to even THINK the word “bomb” when you’re in an airport!” Naturally, she wanted an explanation. “Why? How come you shouldn’t even say the word? Whyfor? Howcome?” “BECAUSE I SAID SO.” Fortunately, that still works. We got to the security thingy (that’s the official name) where they send you through the metal detector, and they’ve changed it now so that about 10 feet in front of the metal detector/ x-ray machine, there’s a guy at a podium who looks at your ticket and (in my case) temporary boarding pass and gives you a stern “I know you did it! Just admit it!” look designed to make the guilty person break down in tears and confess all. From there, Podium Man (Podium Man, Podium Man, doing the things a podium can…) can direct you either straight ahead to the x-ray/ metal detector, or to the right to a small enclosed area. He directed me to the former, and the spud to the latter. I was through the metal detector and my purse through the x-ray machine in less than a minute, and I stood and waited for the spud. In the enclosed area, they patted her down and then led her to a spot where they wanded her down. The pin on her shirt – the one indicating to all and sundry that she was an unaccompanied minor – set off the wand, and the wand lady made her take it off. Once she’d been wanded and cleared, they got her belongings from the bin they were sitting in after going through the x-ray machine, and thoroughly searched her bag. And then finally, after finding no contraband items, no bombs, no guns, no knives, they let her go. I waited with her at the gate until the gate agent took her to the plane, and then I watched through the window until they shut the door to the plane and started backing away from the gate. And then I went home and said to Fred “Now I can walk naked across the bedroom without worrying that she’ll be standing in the doorway watching me, and will be scarred for life!” It’s oddly quiet around here. Sunday, we drove to the Cathedral Caverns – which Fred visited a few weeks ago with the spud – and took the tour. It was pretty cool, all in all, and I impressed myself by not bitching about the fact that there was so much hilly walking. For some reason I’d assumed it would be a fairly level walk, and it very much so was not. But my legs were apparently just relieved that I wasn’t going to make them lift weights, and cooperated, thank god. At the end of the tour, when the guide turned all the lights off, was my favorite part. As I said to Fred later, “That’s how dark I wish I could get the bedroom at night!” I found it oddly soothing. Possibly I wouldn’t have found it quite so soothing if the guide hadn’t been RIGHT there, ready to turn the lights back on, and also if I hadn’t known that Fred had a flashlight in his hand. But I swear I could have curled up with a blanket and napped for a good long time. Pet store kitty pictures from yesterday are here.]]>

What event in your life do you feel deserves its own Memorial Day? (Only one stipulation on this — no weddings or births, since those are already celebrated.) The event in my life that deserves it’s own Memorial Day would be March 10, 1996 – the day I wandered into the IRC Undernet room #!Fredsplace, where I talked to Fred for the first time. I’d been in the channel a time or two before and seen him in passing, but never really talked directly to him. You know how chat can be. On this particular evening, sitting in front of my incredibly crappy on-it’s-last-legs $50 computer I’d bought from a friend’s husband, I watched as Fred, who was the “owner” of #!Fredsplace, flit from conversation to conversation. At one point, he jokingly asked for a volunteer to flirt with him. I watched him ask once, and then pretend to pout when no one jumped to volunteer, and so I typed /me raises her hand. We chatted in the channel for a few minutes and then took it to private chat, where we found that we had an awful lot in common. We got into the “Me too!” mode, where one would say something, and the other would say “Me too!” “I breathe oxygen!” “Me too!” I’ve written about how our relationship began and developed before – so I won’t talk about it further here. So much has happened in the more than 7 years that have passed, but if I hadn’t wandered in that room at that time, if Fred hadn’t been a flirty mood, if if if, then very likely my life would be very different right now. Frankly, it scares me to think too much about it. So, yes. If there’s one day that deserves a Memorial Day in my life, a day that is not already marked by a birthday or anniversary, then it would be that day – and I’d celebrate it with huge, booming fireworks from coast to coast if I could. Because what happened that day made the past seven years possible, and I wouldn’t change a thing.

Happy 36th, baby. I love you!]]>

Three. At least this one didn’t actually make it into the house, although if Fred hadn’t gotten back from his run this morning and stepped into the back yard to see that Tubby had this guy cornered, I’m fairly certain that it would have ended up in or near the master bedroom in a show of love on Tubby’s part. It’s interesting that Tubby’s the culprit rather than Fancypants. Thinking about it, it really makes sense that it would be Tubby, because as much as Fancypants thinks he’s a badass, deep down he’s a big wimp. He’ll hiss and growl when he sees a strange cat, but if the cat comes toward him, he runs and hides. Tubby, on the other hand, really is a badass. A while back when a strange neighborhood cat actually came in through the cat door, it was Tubby who kicked it’s ass and chased it out, while the other cats were hiding upstairs. He’s a badass motherfucker, that’s right. (Yes, I’ve used that picture before. But it’s such a good one I’m using it again!)

Did you know that if you order books on Amazon, and part of that order are used books, they’ll put each used book through as a separate charge? Because I don’t have enough trouble balancing the checking account each and every month – now I have to deal with 145,000 small charges from Amazon. Fuckers. I have to say that I’m mighty glad that I can look at my checking account online whenever I want. My credit union RAWKS, man! I meant to mention, in the midst of all my spazzing about the spud flying to California by herself, that she’s actually done it before. When she was 10, or thereabouts, she flew from here to Rhode Island to spend a week with her father for Christmas. And I know she’ll be fine, but it’s a mother’s prerogative to worry, y’know? Miz Poo loves to be held and snuggled and cuddled and loved. But sometimes all that love is too intense for her and she starts biting – literally – the hand that loves her, snarling and growling while she does so. It’s funny as hell, because it’s about the least threatening thing ever, and I encourage the behavior, sad to say. Yesterday, she got into one of those moods while I had the camera close at hand. I am going to BITE your fingers OFF your hand, and then I’m going to play with them, bitch! I love that damn cat. Have I mentioned? 1. What brand of toothpaste do you use? Crest, usually. I think we’re using Crest Rejuvenating at the moment, though it could be another brand. 2. What brand of toilet paper do you prefer? Scott Tissue, always. Fred used to use Charmin, which I hate, because it’s too soft. He’s come around to my way of thinking over the past 7 years. It ticks me off that Sam’s doesn’t carry Scott Tissue, though. One of my fears is running out of toilet paper, perhaps because it seemed to happen so often when I was a kid. (I could be wrong, though – it may have been just one isolated incident that has scarred me for life.) 3. What brand(s) of shoes do you wear? New Balance – I assume we’re talking about sneakers. I used to wear Nike Air Prestos, but since I need to wear a heel cup in my sneakers, the Nikes hit the top of my foot in an uncomfortable way. 4. What brand of soda do you drink? Diet Coke, always. 5. What brand of gum do you chew? Trident White, in wintergreen. We all chew it, and we go through it pretty damn fast. Which is why I buy it in bulk at Sam’s. Y’all have a great weekend – stay safe and drive careful. I want to see you back here on Tuesday, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed!]]>

Did I mention that Tuesday was a very good mail day for me? Candles from the awesome Peg – Strawberry Cheesecake and Supreme Irish Creme. I burned the Strawberry Cheesecake for a little while last night, and it was AWESOME. A T-shirt that the wonderful Adrith saw when she was in Washington, DC. For some reason, it made her think of me. Can’t imagine why. And last, but certainly not least, a cool love letter from Mo‘s Frankie to Miz Poo. (A note to Mo: Miz Poo says that a reply will be forthcoming, but Frankie shouldn’t beat himself up. She completely understands.) (Note to readers: That card, by the way, is a Tickelope, if you’re interested.) Ah, me. I do love the mail.

Pet store kitties pictures are here. The spud and I have begun the long, laborious process of packing her suitcases (two, of course. And they’re both huge.) in preparation for her trip to Californ-I-A. The difficult thing is that I really don’t know how much to pack. I ended up packing all of her jeans (except what’s in the wash right now), about ten of her favorite shirts, all of her underwear and bras (which you can never have too much of), three pairs of pajamas, and several pairs of shorts. And all three (!) of her bathing suits. And 4 pair of shoes. And pads in case she has her period, razors and shaving gel, earrings, her flute, pictures, her yearbook. The main part of the packing is done, I guess, except for what’s in the wash. I figure if we forget anything, she’s going to be in California for 3 weeks, and I can just send it out there. I also figure that she’s 14 years old. What aside from her glasses and clothes does she need that they don’t have out there? Speaking of the spud, she’s been getting a bit of the teenage princess attitude the last few days. Fred finally had to speak to her last night after she did the bitchy (implied) “GodDAMN you people are stupid. Why do I bother to speak to you?” sigh, rolling of the eyes, and flouncing up the stairs. Today, she’s back to her usual sweet self. Honest to god, I have no idea why this picture makes me laugh so hard. Maybe it’s the “I’m suddenly very annoyed, and I don’t know why.” look on Miz Poo’s face. Maybe it’s the way it looks like we grafted a miniature Fancypants head to the middle of Miz Poo’s back. Whatever it is, I can’t look at the picture without giggling like a dork. The Fanciest thang for miles around.]]>

Possum #2. Apparently the cats ARE planning to bring the entire family of possums, one by one, into the house.

Bill O’Reilly wrote a column about Madonna this week that I wholeheartedly agree with. There’s just nothing sadder than someone who used to be pretty cool, who starts to take themselves far too seriously. (Thank you to Fred, who sent me the link) Spoilers below for the season finale of The Bachelor. I watched the season finale of The Bachelor last night (it was on Sunday night and I taped it and watched Malcolm in the Middle instead), and I’m happy that he chose Jen instead of Kirsten, because Kirsten’s entire voice and personality just grated. Jen was classy all the way – never saying anything mean about Kirsten – while Kirsten was happy to say “Jen doesn’t like animals! She’d never fit in here!” and “The thought of Jen and Andrew together makes me want to throw up.” On the other hand, who the hell doesn’t like animals? What’s that about, Jen? Freak. Heh. The whole time I watched it, Fred sat and smugly said “I know who wooooon! I know who won! I know who won!” Apparently he read something about it somewhere. He didn’t know who was who, though, and had to ask me. The most excited I got, though, was at the end when they announced that Bob was going to be the next Bachelor. I LOVE Bob, and I’m REALLY looking forward to that show! I finally had a chance to visit the new Sam’s – the one that’s only about 3 miles from home – and was mightily impressed. Everything was so shiny and new and clean, all I could do was wander around with glazing eyes, trying to take it all in. The only downside was that there were no fresh chicken breasts. What the hell’s up with that? The butcher (one of them, anyway. There was a gaggle of butchers standing around chatting it up.) said they’re still getting set up or something, but they’ll definitely carry them. Bastards. Chicken breasts were the whole reason I went to Sam’s! Of course, I managed to find plenty to buy. The day I walk out of Sam’s without buying something is the day y’all oughta start finding god, because I believe that’s one of the signs of the Apocalypse. Our government has just raised the Terror Alert to orange, and in three days I’m going to be putting my 14 year-old daughter on a plane by herself to fly across the country. Yep. Didn’t have enough to worry about already. My only consolation is that she’s not flying into LAX, and one would assume that if terrorist acts were going to be committed at an airport, they’d be one of the larger ones.]]>

order them online! How cool is that?! I ordered a selection of boxes to see which Fred’s book (which hasn’t been printed yet, but we know what size it will be) would fit in, because I’m apparently too dumb to notice that they had the dimensions listed under each box.

So, Fred got it into his head a few weeks ago that he wanted a kayak. And then he followed his usual m.o., which was to harass the living shit out of me until I finally screamed “Fine! Fine! GET A GODDAMN KAYAK, JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP ABOUT IT!” As usual, he then decided he didn’t want one. Then he did. Then he didn’t. Did. Didn’t. Did. Didn’t. He made 45,000 trips to Dick’s Sporting Goods store to gaze moony-eyed over the kayaks, and talked incessantly about it. Is it any wonder that I drink? (Oh, wait. I don’t. But I oughta!) Finally, on Sunday, he bought the fucking thing. He brought it home and put it on the garage floor and sat in it and discussed every detail of it until my ears bled. Then, of course, he wanted to take it to the river and try it out. Since he’s never BEEN in a kayak before, I insisted that he take me along. Not that I’d be much help, but I figured I could always call 911 and report a drowning. (Oh, calm down. Of COURSE he has a life jacket.) So we went to the river, or some offshoot of the river or something like that, where there’s a boat ramp, and he put the kayak in the water and paddled around. He was doing pretty well, so after I watched him for a while and took a thousand pictures (many of which will decorate his journal entry, which will be up later. Here‘s a picture to tide you over until then.), I went back to the Jeep and read for an hour or so until he was ready to go. Naturally, when he got home from work yesterday afternoon, he wanted to go out in the kayak again. Now, this is a big deal because except for taking the spud to her Youth Group thing at church on Wednesday nights, we rarely leave the house on a weeknight. So I made dinner early, and we headed for the river. We got there, he got the kayak in the river, and I watched him for a few minutes. Once again, I headed for the Jeep and sat and read the book that I always keep in my purse for just such an occasion. We’d agreed that he could spend about an hour on the river, so it surprised me when he showed up back at the car after half an hour. He didn’t have a watch or any way to tell time, so he was surprised that it had only been half an hour. He put the kayak on top of the car and began cinching it down. My cell phone rang, and I answered it to find the spud on the other end. She wanted to know when we’d be home, and as I answered her, I glanced up. The parking lot we were parked in is surrounded by woods, and coming out of the trees I saw four dogs. As I continued talking to the spud, I got Fred’s attention and pointed toward the dogs. He glanced up and nodded, then went back to what he was doing. As the spud said something on the other end of the phone, I watched the dogs. They caught sight of us and started hauling ass in our direction. “Babe!” I said, loudly and sharply, pointing at them. I brought my hand down, hanging up the phone, and stared at the pack of dogs coming toward us. Seriously, I don’t think I’ve been so scared in my life. I thought I was going to lose control of my bowels. Fred saw the dogs running toward us, and – leaving the front driver-side door (the door across from me) wide open – ducked into the back seat and pulled the door to. The dogs reached the Jeep, and one of them stuck his head in the open door, sniffing. As I got ready to kick at him, the dogs circled the Jeep and ran back the way they’d come. Later, Fred said “You know I would have protected you if they’d tried to come in the open door and attack, right?” Suuuuure he would’ve. I had such an adrenalin rush that I shook for most of the half hour ride back home. The funniest thing is that the dogs had been down in the river chasing balls thrown by their owner – and the “pack” was made up of three black labs and a beagle. I was scared shitless by black labs and a beagle. Possibly the least vicious dogs in the dog kindom. I’m a badass motherfucker, that’s right.]]>