Author: Robyn

Ventures Online, my host, and the problem was solved mighty damn quick. And then, not two days later, I got an email from the people who used to host me, the incredibly sucky Hispeed, and in the email, they said “Hey. We see that you registered your site through us, but you’re not hosted through us. You should be hosted through us, really!” I recalled what life was like when Hispeed was my host, with constantly being down, and never able to access my email, and I recalled how much better life has been since I switched to Ventures, and so then, you know what I did? I switched back to Hispeed. Ha! Just kidding! No, what I actually did was go to Ventures Online’s customer service page, and I sent them a glowing letter, telling them how much I appreciate the fact that whenever there’s a problem, they respond quickly, and even if they aren’t sure what the problem is, they keep me informed. I got an email the next day from someone (I don’t recall his name) asking if they could quote from my Letter O’ Love, and I said they could use it any way they wanted to, and if they wanted to give out my email address to potential customers, I’d let everyone I came into contact with know that Ventures Online ROCKS. And now if you go to Ventures Online’s front page, there I am, all quoted and stuff, on the right hand side of the page. Next, I’m going to write a letter to the manager of the local Wendy’s and compliment them on the outstanding service I always get at the drive-up. Because I’m sure that people are more than willing to bitch when things go wrong (god knows *I* am), but when things go right, there’s nothing but resounding silence. I may make it a goal to write one Letter O’ Love a week.

So I took the spud out to dinner at Applebee’s Friday night (I had the chicken fajita roll-ups (and just picked the chicken filling out and ate that to be sure I’d have room for dessert) and Dulce le Leche cheesecake. Not bad, but not the Apple Chimicheescakes, either), and then when we were done, it was still fairly early, so I asked the spud if she wanted to run to Wal-Mart. I had a list of stuff I needed to buy for her to take to California (she leaves Saturday, and I’m only freaking a little so far) as well as a few things for the house, and she wanted to look for some loafers with 2-inch heels (yeah, I have no idea why she wants them so badly, but she’s been driving me crazy with the wanting), so off we went. I was reminded anew that I loathe Wal-Mart. The fucking AISLES are half the width of the aisles at Target, and when there’s a giggling gaggle of teenage girls hanging out in front of the tampons and pads, it’s not possible to get by them. So the spud went off to look for her shoes, and I went to find cat food, bird seed, pads, a fan for the garage, and a George Foreman grill, among other things. The spud finally found the shoes she wanted (they were marked $10, but rang up at $7 – and I would guess that right there explains why I shop at Wal-Mart even though I loathe it so), and after an eternal wait in line, we checked out. When I got home, I had blisters on the TOP of my feet, and let me tell you why. Two years ago, I bought a pair of sandals at Land’s End. I’ve used them all the time when I needed to run out and do an errand or two, because they’re easy to put on – I just slide my feet in them – and they’re comfortable. For my birthday this year, I got a gift certificate to Land’s End, which I promptly lost in my desk drawer. When I was looking for something else in that drawer earlier this week, I came across it, and decided that I should buy a new pair of sandals to replace the old ones. The old ones look like this: On the Land’s End page, I couldn’t find sandals that were exactly the same, but found these. I figured that although those were kind of ugly – why would you want sandals that are white where your nasty, dirty feet go? Why? – I’d go ahead and buy them anyway. They came Friday, and I opened the box. The picture on Landsend.com didn’t do them justice at all. The words “ass ugly” were invented to describe these shoes. I tried them on, and they were comfortable enough. The bottoms of the straps rubbed the tops of my feet a little, but I figured they just need to be broken in a little, and after all how often do I look down at my feet? Not very often, believe you me. I bid adieu to my old sandals and tossed them in the trash. I wore the new sandals to Applebee’s and then to Wal-Mart, and by the time I was halfway through my Wal-Mart experience, I was cursing the instruments of torture on my feet. The straps were rubbing the tops of my feet like mad, and I couldn’t get them to NOT rub my feet. When I got home I took the fucking things off and saw a huge, angry red blister on the top of each foot. And then I sent the spud inside to get me a pair of tongs, which I used to fish the old sandals out of the trash can. Those new sandals are going back to Land’s End as fast as I can box them up and mail them, and there’ll be a letter enclosed. It will NOT be a Letter O’ Love, believe you me. Pet store kitties are here. “There is something on the floor, and I am somehow compelled to sit on it…” A bag o’ Poo!]]>

Patterson’s Cats calendar, one has scenic views of Maine, and one is a Get Fuzzy calendar. What’s worse is that those aren’t all the calendars in the house, oh no. On one side of the refrigerator is a calendar with pictures of famous works of art with a smiley face inserted somewhere in the picture. It cracks me up every time I walk by it – I’ll have to scan some of them. On the other side of the fridge is another smiley calendar, that one with the smiley face taking up the whole top of the page. And I think the spud has at least two calendars in her room. We’re some calendar-loving motherfuckers, that’s right.

Oh, I finally got the page for the Anderson Kitties up and running. I put it over on robynanderson.com instead of bitchypoo – that way I can link to it from both web pages. It’s here, and if you want to see it in the future, you can get to it through the cast page. I may put up a separate link to it on the sidebar, but I may not – there’s already an awful lot of stuff linked over there. As a side note, I do know that some people – like Beth on her book page – have the option of clicking on a box if you want all links to open on a separate page. I may spend some time trying to figure out how to do that, or I may not. If anyone out there wants to send me clear, concise directions in words of two syllables or less on how to do that in Movable Type, I’m certainly willing to listen. While we’re on the subject of moving stuff and links and the like, at some point I’m going to move my reading list over to robynanderson.com as well, so I can link to it from my weight loss page. For that matter, I probably ought to just move the cast page over there as well – that way there’d be not much on this site but the journal. I’ll have to think about that. Oh, stop rolling your eyes. You know you’re fascinated! Our rose bushes are going nuts lately. I like all of our roses, but hold a special love in my heart for the non-red ones. I think red roses are boring, because I’m a freak. If I’m going to get roses, I’d prefer yellow ones (shocking, eh?) or a mix of cool colors. I really love our yellow rose bush, especially the way they have tinges of pink around the edge. Don’t ask me what kind of rose bush it is. I have no idea. (Note: It’s a Peace Rose. Thanks to the readers who emailed to let me know! Y’all know everything, you really do.) Note to self: Get potting soil and plant those damn petunias this weekend! Damn do the cats get excited when I open one of the windows in the computer room. They must like the smell of roses, too. 1. What drinking water do you prefer — tap, bottle, purifier, etc.? We have a purifier on our refrigerator water dispenser, and that’s pretty good. I’m not terribly picky about my water, though – if I had to drink from the tap, I could get used to it. 2. What are your favorite flavor of chips? If they’re real chips – not reduced-fat or baked – I love sour cream and onion chips. If they’re baked, I prefer BBQ. 3. Of all the things you can cook, what dish do you like the most? I really like my chicken soup – unfortunately, the other bastards in the house don’t feel the same, so I don’t get to make it all that often. I also like my chicken and dumplings. 4. How do you have your eggs? If it’s just eggs, I prefer them scrambled. I like to make the occasional omelet as well, though, with mushroom, onions, cheese, and sometimes spinach. 5. Who was the last person who cooked you a meal? How did it turn out? That would be Fred, who made steak burritos for dinner last Saturday (he also made black beans and rice on Sunday, but that doesn’t count, because I actually started the meal). They ROCKED. “Meh. MEH. Meh!”]]>

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I am pleased to announce that for the first time since Sunday I can straighten my legs completely. That’s the sort of thing you take for granted until you can’t do it, believe you me. Okay, anyone have any clue what the fuck kind of language this is? Is it spam? Anyone? This person keeps emailing the same email to me, and I have no clue what they want. And it’s not one of the language Babelfish translates, so I’m at a loss. merhaba seni aradim ulasamadim.. nerdesin?? d�n anneme kamera aldirdim zorla hehe simdi baya ii cekiyo kamerayi actim izlemek istiyosan buraya tiklat hadi g�r�s�r�z kendine cooook ii bak optum The other night, Fred and I were laying in bed talking before bedtime. Fred, as is his way, farted. “I wish I could do that when the spud comes in to say goodnight!” he giggled. It is his dearest wish to fart on the spud when she’s not expecting it. And it’s her dearest wish to fart on him when he’s not expecting it. So far, I believe she’s ahead in the fart wars. I continued breathing through my mouth – I can’t remember the last time I laid in bed and dared to breathe through my nose – and we resumed chatting. Ten minutes later, the spud knocked on the door, alerting us that she was there. She and Fred did their “What?” “Hug?” “Yes, I know what a hug is” dorkiness, and she entered the room. Every night when she comes in to hug Fred and I goodnight, it’s generally a long ordeal that involves her stopping to pet every cat in the room, making random remarks (“I did the thingy with the doohickey. I’ll do it again tomorrow”) that make no sense to us. Eventually, she approaches the bed and flings herself down across Fred’s upper body, where she lays like the dead, and would probably stay there the entire night, except that Fred pokes her to get her moving. On this particular evening, however, she approached the bed and began to lean down. Fred lifted the comforter and top sheet a slight amount, letting air circulate beneath the covers. The spud stopped suddenly, a disgusted look on her face. “Oh, GROSS!” she yelled, and then giggled. “You FARTED!” Countries as far away as Afghanistan made note of the momentous occasion. She continued her drama queen ways, waving her hand around in front of her face and making gagging sounds, punctuated with “Gross!” and “Ewww!”s. Fred was laughing so hard he was almost crying. After fifteen minutes of discussion about how Fred had farted and it was stinky and gross, I got impatient. “Quickly!” I yelled, which is what I yell when she’s dawdling, since it always gets her moving. Holding her breath, the spud gave Fred a quick hug and then rounded the bed to hug me. We hugged, and she bent over to pet Miz Poo, who was laying beside me. As she straightened up, I heard it, like a distant foghorn. “GodDAMN!” I yelled, holding my nose. The spud giggled wildly and ran for the door. “What?” Fred said. “What happened?” “She FARTED on me!” Fred and the spud laughed as if it were the funniest thing that had ever happened in either of their lives. You want my life, you know it. I don’t know if we have just one squirrel that occasionally visits our bird feeders, or if they’ve all been different squirrels, but we were visited by a squirrel this past weekend. Naturally, I got pictures. “Mmmm. Damn those Andersons sure are nice to stock the good stuff!” “Whuh? Did I hear something? It sounded like a whine from a portly animal…” “What the hell IS that on the other side of the window?” “Damnit! That fucking squirrel is always too fast for me!” Yes, I know. The next thing the cats bring into the house will be a friggin’ squirrel. You can imagine I’m looking forward to THAT.]]>

this page, When an opossum is attacked and can no longer defend itself through bluffing (baring his teeth/hissing nastily) or biting, it will go into a catatonic state known as “Thanatosis.” Thanatosis is a defense mechanism that apparently makes the attacking creature believe the animal is dead with the hopes of it losing interest in “killing” it. The opossum will actually appear dead when this happens. So maybe the possum wasn’t really dying, I suggested to Fred when he came upstairs to get ready for work. Fred smiled. “Maybe he’s playing possum!” Fred got ready for work, and I dozed off and on. We talked about the possum some more, and then he went back downstairs to find a cough drop and check on the possum. I had almost dropped off to sleep when he walked back into the room. “Houston,” he said. “We have a possum!” The dying possum was now up and moving around and occasionally opening his mouth threateningly. Fred went to wake up the spud so she could look at it. And let me just say, DAMN are possums stinky things. Possibly because one of their main sources of sustenance is roadkill (which would also explain why so many of them are roadkill themselves – they’re not fast enough to get out of the way of traffic). We discussed what to do with the possum. Fred was in favor of putting it in the next door neighbor’s yard, because we’re pretty sure that’s where it came from – that’s where the adult possum came from a few weeks ago, and the couple of times Fred’s seen a possum, it also came from that direction. I nixed that idea, though, because if we put it back where it came from, it would undoubtedly wander back into our yard, or Fancypants would find it in the neighbor’s yard and bring it into the house. Finally, Fred decided to take it over to Rainbow Mountain on his way to work and let it loose. He called when he got to work to let me know all had gone as planned. Let’s just hope there aren’t other adolescent possums next door ready to be snatched up and brought into the house. You knew there’d be a picture, right? Amusing possum links I found a few weeks ago and meant to link to: Fat Possum Records. Old Possum’s Book Store. The ‘Possum Pages. The Possum Cookbook. Possum Dixon. Doesn’t everyone need possum fur nipple warmers? Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats (thanks to reader Fitchypoo for reminding me of this one!)

Even shaved, he’s the fanciest thing around. ]]>

So, after I lifted weights on Saturday, while I was stumbling around with noodles for legs (the pain didn’t set in until Saturday evening), we decided to go to a roadside petting zoo about 45 minutes away from here. Fred’s going to do a whole entry about the petting zoo, complete with zillions of pictures, but let me tell you what I think was the best part of the zoo. The best part of the zoo, my friends, were the baby pygmy goats. My god in heaven, they were the most adorable things I’ve ever seen. Seriously, I was thisclose to snatching one up and tossing it in the Jeep. I said to Fred “Someday, if we have a house on enough land, promise me we’ll get some pygmy goats!” He wouldn’t, though, damn him. This little guy had just been born at 8:00 Saturday morning and was only hours old. More cuties, only a few hours old. These guys were a little older, and starting to get their horns. Their fur was so soft, and though they’d run from us when we entered the corral, once we started petting them, they seemed to think “Hey, that’s kind of nice…” and would stop running away. Little bunnies, who liked to be petted on their little heads. Seriously, the man brings me to a petting zoo full of cute animals, and then is surprised when I want to bring some of them home with me. Personally, I’d love to see the looks on the faces of the cats if we brought a baby pygmy goat home with us. I bet they’d be seriously freaked out.

You know, it’s funny. I installed Movable Type because I was tired of messing around with remembering to link each entry to the entry before and after, and changing the links on the front page every day, and so forth. But I’m doing more html by hand than I ever did while using Dreamweaver. It’s a fair trade-off, I suppose, to be able to change the look of the entire site so easily, and also not to have to worry about the “before” and “after” links working. So, here’s the question for y’all. When I link to something, do you want the link to open in a new window – like such – or the same window – like such? It makes no difference to me, just requires an additional bit of html to each link, so it’s really up to you. Poll time!

Links – new page or no?

Do you want links to open in a new page or not? I prefer links to open in a new page I prefer links to open in the same page Frankly my dear, I don’t give a shit. Current Results

I’ll go with whatever the majority vote decides, mm’kay? ]]>

This shit is just unreal. Maybe I’m idealistic, but I really feel that something like that wouldn’t happen in the south because the cops wouldn’t put up with that shit. Not only would the cops not put up with that shit, but I would hope to holy hell that their parents would beat the living shit out of them. I’m not for beating your kid, god knows, but if I ever found out that the spud was hanging out with a group of hoodlums doing that sort of shit (Hee! Let me take a brief moment to laugh myself silly at the very thought.) I’d kick her ass. There’s a follow-up here. (Both links came from Fred’s forum, and originally from Rachel Lucas)

You know you’re hormonal when the video for Reba McEntire’s “Fancy” (hee! I almost typed “Fancypants”) makes you all teary-eyed. You also know you’re hormonal when someone calls you a bitch in traffic (I’m 99.9% sure I had the right of way) and you desperately wish you had a gun with you so you could shoot his big fat head right off. (Calm down, I don’t carry a gun, and I don’t intend to start. Oh, wait. Um. Note to stalkers: Yes I do, and I’m not afraid to use it, motherfucker!) (And as a side note, after I flipped him the bird, I had a conversation with myself about whether or not that was the right finger. Hee!) So, we went to the spud’s school concert last night. The concerts are always a big deal, because not only do we have to leave the house at night (horrors!), but we also have to bring food. They have a “reception” once the concert is over (which we never stay for), and I always get a call asking me to bring something. I always volunteer to bring cookies, and on his way home from work Fred buys some cheap cookies from the bakery in the grocery store. Anyway, the spud had to be at the school at 7:00, and told us she’d be playing at 7:30. We got to the school, turned the cookies over to the reception committee, and sat in the auditorium. For half an hour we sat and watched people wander in and out of the auditorium. We made comments to each other about various people, and listened to the bands – one on the stage, the others down in the front rows – warm up. The instruments got louder and louder, blending in a painful cacophony reaching a pitch that seemed aimed at making my brains leak out my ears. After an interminable amount of time, the band director stepped up onto the stage and waved his arms for silence. The instruments quieted almost immediately, except for a tuba, which gave a final defiant blat before fading into a wary stillness. We were unpleased, by the way, to find out that the spud’s band would be the second, not the first, band to play. We had to sit through the 7th grade band’s stylings, and a little award ceremony wherein 3/4 of the band got a “Director’s Award”. I perfected the appearance of clapping without actually hitting my hands together, because too much clapping makes Momma’s hands sore. The band director made a speech wherein he said something along the lines of “the expression that these kids are, uh, expressing is just wonderful!” After the 7th grade band played and finally left the stage, we waited while the parents of the kids in the 7th grade made a mass exodus, oblivious to the band director’s sad “I know you’re busy, but you might find it interesting to stay and watch all the other bands!” Fred leaned over to me as the people streamed by and whispered “Lucky bastards!” An eternity passed while the spud’s band took the stage and tuned up (or whatever the hell it is they do). The director pointed at various people and had them play a tune or two, and then play it again. I leaned over and said to Fred, “Do you ever want to yell ‘If they don’t know it by now, they never will!’?” Finally, they began playing. They played “Alamo March”, “Phantom of the Opera”, “Gypsy Dance” (in our opinion, the best one, because of the tambourine player, who danced like mad while waving his tambourine around), and then there was a break while the band instructor handed out Director’s Awards again. Like last year, 3/4 of the band got an award, and the spud did not. Or maybe that’s just how it seemed. Lastly, they played “Rites of Tamburo”, we gave them a standing ovation, and then hauled ass out of there. We waited in the hallway while the spud stayed to listen to one song by the Jazz Band. It was just after 9 by the time we got home. I convinced Fred to stay up to watch Survivor (so long, person who was voted off. Glad to see you go!), which is an amazing thing. After a period of staying up until 10:00 every night, we’re back to going to bed at 9, because I was so tired of hearing Fred bitch about staying up “so late.” (When I say “bitch” what I mean is “whine.”) And that, dear readers, was our big night out. 1. Would you consider yourself an organized person? Why or why not? Not really – I mean, I’d like to be organized, and I always INTEND to be organized, but at this point in my life, I think it’s just time to accept that organization on a daily basis just isn’t in the cards for me. I can organize certain things – for instance, when we go on vacation, I’m very organized about getting things packed and almost always remember everything we need to bring – but on a daily basis, I’m not particularly organized, no. 2. Do you keep some type of planner, organizer, calendar, etc. with you, and do you use it regularly? I have three calendars hanging over my desk. At the moment, only one is on May – I haven’t gotten around to turning the other two over from April. I write birthdays on the one closest to my computer, but for the most part I only have them because I like the pictures (I also have another one in the kitchen). I have attempted carrying an organizer around with me, but frankly, my life isn’t so hectic that I really need an organizer. 3. Would you say that your desk is organized right now? Organized as in I have some idea where everything is? Yes. Organized as in uncluttered? Ha. No. 4. Do you alphabetize CDs, books, and DVDs, or does it not matter? I’ve been intending to alphabetize all the movies and CDs we have for about three years now. Hasn’t happened yet. I don’t alphabetize books, though, because it really doesn’t matter. 5. What’s the hardest thing you’ve ever had to organize? The Bullshit! distribution list! It helps a LOT that there are so many great people keeping me informed of what’s going on, though. Y’all have a great weekend!]]>

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We’ve been watching Eco-Challenge Fiji all this week and really enjoying it. I LOVE that damn show, and I wish they’d show it more often than just this week. Every time we watch the show, I get all starry-eyed and think that adventure racing looks like the bee’s knees. Last night, I turned to Fred and said “We should take up adventure racing!” I thought for a moment, considering my current physical condition. “When we’re forty!” Fred laughed. “Yeah, except I’d turn into Ian!” (If you never saw Amazing Race 3, Ian and his wife Teri were an older (50ish) married couple, and Ian reacted to stress by screaming at his wife to move her ass. Charming, really. They came in second behind the loathesome Flo and the poor, beleagured Zach.) Actually, Fred would be Ian, screaming at me to move my ass, and I’d be Flo, having a constant hysterical nervous breakdown and blaming everything on him. It’d certainly be interesting, at least until it came to blows, I’m sure. We’ll be missing Survivor tonight, because we have to attend yet another of the spud’s school concerts. This – thankyajesus! – is the last one for this year. I don’t know why it is, but every single damn concert we have to attend is on a Thursday. It’s a conspiracy, I think. Of course we’ll be taping the show and watching it when we get home, but it’s just not the same, damnit. Okay, that’s it for today. I’m going to post this and then go land on the couch and finish the book I’m reading before I have to start dinner. Y’all have a good one!]]>

Scoop: Madonna has taken some heat lately for supposedly bashing her adopted country, England, but those stories have it all wrong. It�s the U.S. she can�t stand. The �American Life� star recently gave an interview to the BBC, and a source says Madonna made some pretty harsh comments about her native country � which were all edited out of the show that was broadcast. �Madonna said that most Americans are rude and obnoxious,� says a source. �She said that Americans are upset with her for having abandoned that country for England. And she�s clearly no fan of American president George Bush. But for some reason, all those comments were left on the editing room floor.� A BBC spokeswoman says she cannot comment on what was left out of the interview, and Madonna�s spokeswoman didn�t return calls. Most Americans are rude and obnoxious? Once again, pot-kettle-black. And as for Americans being upset with her for having left the US – I personally am not upset at ALL. In fact, she shouldn’t let the door hit her in the ass on her way out. You know, I can’t wait ’til little Lola and Rocco are old enough to pen those Mommie Dearest books. Oh – and check out The Top 16 Titles for Madonna’s Children’s Books. My favorite? Are You There, Lucifer? It’s Me, Madonna. Hee!

Be warned that I will be harassing people later today about whether they’ve received the Bullshit! tape and sent it on or not. If you received the tape and didn’t email me to let me know you were sending it on, please let me know now. If you haven’t received the tape, do nothing. Well, except send me a million dollars, if you’re of a mind. Ten and twenties, please. Speaking of email (kinda), I am far, far behind on my email and journal-reading. If you’ve emailed me in the past few months and haven’t heard back, don’t give up hope. Someday I’ll get back to you! After I lifted weights this morning, I went upstairs to take a shower. I was shocked and appalled at the sight that greeted me when I stepped into the master bedroom. I’m accustomed to seeing Spanky snooze on that chair, and sometimes I’ll see Tubby there, but never – NEVER! – at the same time. It’s unheard of! Spanky can’t stand to have another cat – or a person for that matter – in his space. On the occasion when Fancypants needs some love and the only other cat around is Spanky, you can imagine the look of disgust on Spanky’s face when Fancypants tries the trilling-meow-and-swish-by that works so well with Tubby. All I can guess is that Tubby slipped Spanky some of the kitty pot, and when Spanky slipped into a drug-induced slumber, Tubby slyly snuck up on the chair and settled in. While I’m talking about cats (yes, yes, I hear you – “Robyn, when are you NOT talking about cats?!”), go read this funny-ass piece by Sour Bob. I just finished ordering Mother’s Day flowers for Fred’s mother and stepmother and my mother. I had filled in all the required information and was juuuust about to click on the “Place order” button when I thought to myself, “Self, is it really that smart to send the same bouquet to all three mothers? Because, true, my mother will most likely never have the occasion to discuss the flowers she got from us for Mother’s Day with Fred’s mother and stepmother. And also, it is true that Fred’s mother and stepmother won’t be spending time comparing notes (“Red roses, you say? And lilies? In a white basket?”).” And then I stopped and imagined a scene that could easily happen. A scene involving Fred’s sister talking to their mother. Their mother saying “Yes, it’s quite lovely. Roses and lilies. In a cute white basket. Adorable.”, and Fred’s sister responding with “Oh, that sounds like the same arrangement [their stepmother] got from them! Uh, I mean…” Feelings would be hurt, I’d get in trouble with Fred, it would be a big brouhaha, and I’m not fond of the brouhahas, I’m really not. So instead of clicking on the “Place order” button, I canceled the order and sent each mother a completely different bouquet. Took longer, but it averted THAT potential disaster, yes it did.]]>

The Fancypants, as you may have noticed is a long-haired kitty, and not only is he a long-haired kitty, but he also spends a lot of time outside. He’s always had several matted places on his side and back, but after he recently got wet, it got worse and the mats were impossible to brush out. We thought about it for a while, Fred called around to different places, and finally we decided to go for it and have him shaved. He’s his usual Fancy self. He’s always been pretty laid-back, so this didn’t bother him too much. The other cats, though, have been pretty freaked out. Miz Poo and Spanky, in particular, have been sniffing at him and then hissing. It’s as if they’re thinking “He SMELLS like the Fancy one, but he just doesn’t LOOK right!” We’re going to get into a regular grooming schedule with him, so hopefully this won’t have to happen again. He’s awfully funny to look at, though. He moves like he always did, and it’s funny as hell to see a big, fluffy tail swishing back and forth, and a big fluffy head, with a skinny little body in between. Poor Fancypants!

So, as I mentioned in the little blurb I put up yesterday, I didn’t update yesterday because I was in a great amount of pain. After taking six months off from lifting weights (dumbass!), I lifted upper body weights again on Saturday, and woke up with every muscle screaming on Sunday. I tried Tylenol, aspirin, and ibuprofen, and nothing took away the pain. Sunday night I said to Fred, “At least this is the worst of it!” Wrong-o. I woke up yesterday morning wishing someone would put me out of my misery, and I ended up spending most of the day on the couch, moving my arms and shoulders (and chest) as little as possible. Last night, I took a narcotic pain-reliever left over from Fred’s surgery about a year ago (and yes, I know you’re not supposed to do that, but I already did it, so don’t give me shit about it. Y’all would have done it too, trust me.) both to get rid of the pain and to help me sleep. I slept like a rock, but even after sleeping until 10 (with some time spent awake in front of the TV once the tornado sirens woke me up) I’m kind of groggy today. But the pain is much, MUCH less than it was yesterday, thankyajesus. I was even able to haul my ass out to the garage and ride the bike for 20 minutes, so all is good. From the most recent Entertainment Weekly: Madonna: The new kabbalah-inspired kids’ author told VH1, “Now I’m starting to read to my son, but I couldn’t believe how vapid and vacant and empty all the stories were. There were like no lessons… There’s like no books about anything.” If that ain’t the pot, like, calling the kettle black, I don’t know what is. On Sunday we went to a huge cemetery in Huntsville – Maple Hill Cemetery, if you’re local – and spent about an hour walking around taking pictures. Fred’s going to put the bulk of the pictures up in an entry today or tomorrow, but I called dibs on a couple of them. We’re waiting for you, Nance! Obviously, as I told Fred, a sign that I should be buried at Maple Hill! I’ve always said that when I die, I want to be cremated and have my ashes scattered over the ocean off the coast of Maine. I didn’t want to think about my body moldering in a casket six feet under the ground for eternity once my soul was gone. But after walking through the cemetery and seeing graves for people who died over 100 years ago, I’ve come to think that there’s really something awe-inspiring about the fact that years and years after these people have died, when everyone whose lives they touched are gone as well, there’s a small plot of land dedicated solely to them, a plot of land that will be there for years and years to come.]]>