Author: Robyn

* * * Thanks to everyone who emailed with face cream and eczema suggestions. I’m not going to respond to them, because I don’t have time, but I’ve definitely read them, and have dumped them into a folder so that once all the Bullshit! stuff is past, I can re-read them and decide what to do. Speaking of Bullshit!, I was reading Shopaholic Ties the Knot (I ended up staying up until after midnight finishing it – I mean, with a book like that you know there’s going to be a happy ending, it’s practically guaranteed, but you still want to see HOW it all works out) last night, and the main character, Becky, was up in front of a large crowd of people getting the once-over (the Manhattan Once-Over, I think she called it), and suddenly I was overwhelmed, and I put the book down and buried my face in my hands. “Oh my GOD, oh my GOD!” I groaned. “Yeah, I know,” Fred said, knowing immediately what I was freaking out about. “In two days, millions of people,” I stopped and reconsidered. Because it’s Showtime, after all, not HBO. “At least hundreds of thousands of people will be looking at us! What the hell were we thinking?!” Now, don’t get me wrong. The promo, which I’ve watched a thousand times, both on my computer and over Fred’s shoulder, has shown me that I’m not as big an idiot as I tend to think (that, or they have really good editors…), but still. It’s a freaky, freaky thing! One must wonder what on earth possessed us. Speaking of Shopaholic Ties the Knot, I was reading along, and was pleased to discover that the author – Sophie Kinsella – is obviously a reader of this very website. There was a shout-out! To me! In the book! I even scanned it so that y’all could see for yourself:

See? See how she, all in jest, spelled my name wrong and everything? Me and Sophie, we’re likethis! I’m kidding, of course. But if anyone out there ever writes a book, you’ll name a character after me, right? I knew I could count on you. * * * Since every muscle in my body continues to hurt, I’m suspending spring cleaning for the time being and will pick it up again in a few days. It amazes me that my abs are killing me from doing gardening on Monday – I mean, I could understand my arms and shoulders hurting, and my legs, but my abs? I guess I used those muscles when I was hoeing (hee!) more than I realized. I moved the bird feeders a few feet out toward the middle of the yard – I think I mentioned that – and our cardinal does NOT approve. He’s spent a good part of the last few days sitting on top of the hanger-thingy that we hang the bird feeders from, making very, very bitchy noises. At least one cat has used the dug-up flower bed as a litter box. I have my suspicions, but cannot prove anything. * * * Pet store kitty pics are here. * * * I am SO FUCKING SICK of programs installing themselves on my toolbar! That should be fucking illegal, and I AM LOOKING AT YOU, REALPLAYER! I can’t watch myself in the Bullshit! promo without RealPlayer, unfortunately, or I’d’ve uninstalled the motherfucker immediately. I HATE THAT SHIT. (And yes, I did figure out how to get rid of it, but that’s beside the point, damnit!) Heh. I just uninstalled Outlook, and got a popup saying “Uninstalling Outlook Express 6 may prevent Outlook from functioning. Do you want to continue?” Unfortunately there was no “FUCK yes!” option, so I had to settle for the simple “yes.” And just so you know – I have nothing against Outlook or Outlook users, it just pisses me off that it installs with fucking EVERY software, or so it seems. It installed with Office 2000, I uninstalled it, and then it installed with… something else. What was it? God knows. If I were an Outlook user, I’d probably love that, but I’m a Eudora gal myself. * * * Is it just me, or in Jennifer Lopez’s latest song (the one with LL Cool J), does she sound ASTOUNDINGLY like Lisa Lisa? Please don’t tell me that I’m so old you have no idea who Lisa Lisa is. Go download All Cried Out (Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam with Full Force) and listen to it back-to-back with All I Have (J. Lo and LL Cool J) and tell me I’m wrong. I dare you. Won’t Fred be surprised when he comes home and discovers I’ve used his computer to download a Jennifer Lopez song on Grokster! After yesterday’s debacle, I don’t dare to download it on my own system. * * * I don’t think I’ve shown y’all this series of pictures, but if I have, forgive me. They’ve been hanging around on my memory stick since mid-January sometime, and I’m clearing all the old pictures off. The And3rson kitties, partaking of some fine quality Kitty pot. Looking a little paranoid… Tubby sniffs for catnip remnants, annoying the shit out of Spot in the process. Tubby gets paranoid, giving a blank-eyed Little Orphan Annie look. And The Daddy tosses a pair of socks at the blinds, making a loud clatter and scaring the hell out of the kitties. (Spot particularly amuses me, in his mid-hop)]]>

Spring Cleaning type things done since yesterday’s entry: Cleaned inside of all windows. Pulled out refrigerator and vacuumed back of fridge, floor, and wall. Also, scrubbed floor. Will attempt to create another cat out of the cat fur found there. Body parts NOT in screaming agony: Face and fingernails. If found a job as a gardener-type person, would probably be hardbody within three weeks. Conclusion reached: Am wimp. No spring cleaning today. Instead will surf the web, read my book, and whine about how much I hurt. Spring Cleaning type things to do tomorrow: Outside of windows (still too windy today, anyway), clean floors with Floormate, dust baseboards. “Lose” Fancypants so that he will not make me paranoid when he starts sniffing around a piece of furniture.

* * * I always forget how crappy my skin becomes in the spring. It’s especially bad this year – I have a bit of eczema at the best of times, but at the moment it’s going rampant all over my arms and the backs of my knees. I think that switching detergents – from Tide to Gain, because of a FIVE DOLLAR savings at Sam’s when I bought the big-ass container – may be contributing a little to the itchiness. My face, also, is itchy as hell lately. I used up the rest of the face cream I’d been using – the name of which escapes me at the moment – and switched to Clinique, because I’ve heard good things about it. But my face has gone from fine-but-dry to dry-and-itchy since I started using it. I think my face might be sending me a signal that more expensive is not necessarily worth it. I had intended to at least use up the jar, but I’m waking up with big red scratch marks on my face from scratching in my sleep, so I guess it’s time to move on. If you have any face cream suggestions for a cranky face, let me know. * * * I just received spam, the subject reading Re: How Big is a Inch? How Big are You? “How big is an inch?” What kind of fucking question is that? An inch is 1/12th of a foot. And how big am I? None of your fucking business, thanks. But you’d better believe that if I had a penis, it’d be a big swingin’ one. And I’d know how to use it. (Ha! See what I did there? I circumvented your “It’s not the size, it’s how you use it!” argument.) * * * Is it just me, or is Britney Spears getting kind of weird looking, the older she gets? She looks like a greyhound or something. * * * We watched the movie Jackass last weekend, because Fred wanted to see it. The one time I saw the show on MTV, they were eating hard-boiled eggs until they barfed, and I think I actually left the room until it was over, because I just can’t stand that shit. There were funny parts to the movie – especially the ceiling fan part – but there were also some pretty gross parts, and I had to cover my ears, close my eyes, and wait until Fred told me it was safe to look a couple of times. Anything with shit or dead cats, I couldn’t stand. I also didn’t care for the amazingly frequent barfing. Look, I know that barfing’s a part of life, but I just don’t want to have to see it for myself, mm’kay? As I told Fred, if you put several men in a room together, their idea of a good time would apparently be to punch each other in the crotch, and barf and shit all over the place. This weekend, we’ll be watching Red Dragon and I’ll be watching Far From Heaven. I thought Secretary was supposed to come out this week, but Movie Gallery didn’t seem to have it in stock. Don’t get me started on Movie Gallery. While I was looking at movies, I discovered that the book I was currently reading (I finished it last night during the dreck that was American Idol) had been made into a movie starring Heather Graham and Joseph Fiennes. I really, really liked the book – even gave it four Poos on the reading page – but I could immediately see how much the movie must suck. I mean, Heather Graham as the main character? In the book, the main character’s British – in the movie she’s an American living in London. I wouldn’t be surprised if that was because Heather Graham couldn’t fake a British accent to save her life. It almost makes me want to rent it just so I can laugh at it. * * * ]]>

Spring Cleaning type things done today: vigorous dusting of all blinds (need to be redone, explanation in entry), clearing out of old daffodil and gladiolus bulbs. Opened windows in computer room to air cat pee smell out. (Note to self: encourage Fancypants to run away) Scrubbed down laundry room, especially around litter box area, cleaned out litter boxes and litter box holder, refilled clean litter box. Moved bird feeder holder out toward the middle of the yard, as the area where it was located is getting overgrown with strange bird-seed plants. Was going to wash outside of all windows, but need to wait for a less windy day. May clean inside of all windows later. Conclusion reached: Am not, despite lifelong inner belief, a gardener-type person. Have decided will simply buy cut flowers for rest of life instead of trying to dig up flower beds. When amazingly fabulously wealthy in future, will hire gardener-type persons. Spring Cleaning type things to do tomorrow: Clean windows inside and out (if less windy than today), scrub kitchen, library and hallway floors with Floormate (not strictly Spring Cleaning type chore, but needs doing anyway), dust walls and ceilings downstairs with Swiffer. If ambitious, do ceiling fans as well.

* * * Fred did this, that and the other, and fixed my computer. I have to get it all set up the way I like, but I copied the important things – Eudora and my Favorites folder – as soon as the computer was up and running last night, so it’s feeling like home. Have I mentioned that I love my geek of a husband? * * * So I got up this morning, did my yoga (I’m just doing yoga this week, because my ass needs a break from the bike), and then began some of the spring cleaning that’s been hanging over my head since, say, the fall cleaning I never did. One of the first things I did was to go around with a feather duster and dust all the blinds. I know that a real cleaning of the blinds would consist of taking them down, soaking them in the tub, and then rinsing them and putting them out back to dry. Won’t be happening in my lifetime, thanks. The feather duster, though, just didn’t clean the blinds the way I hoped it would, and I resigned myself to the idea of going back around the house and using a Swiffer cloth to clean them, which was going to be a pain in the ass. But then! Then, I went to the grocery store, and as I was going down the cleaning aisle, I glanced down and saw something that will make it much easier. The Swiffer duster! I tried it when I got home, and it worked great. Yay! And then I went out to dig up the bed where I planted daffodil bulbs and gladiolus bulbs, and what a PAIN IN THE ASS that was. I think I’ve finally decided I am NO gardener. The whole time I do any type of gardening thing, my main intent is to get it done and over with as soon as humanly possible. In the future, I’m going to plant things in planters, and be done with it. * * * * * * Have I mentioned recently that my readers rock? In the mail lately, I’ve received postcards from reader Retha and Jane, a St. Patrick’s Day card from reader Robbie, TWO Get Well cards for Miz Poo from readers Melissa and Kathy. And then today, when I checked the PO Box, I found a box from Amazon, and a box from Retha (who sent the aforementioned postcard). The Amazon box contained three audiobooks: In Her Shoes, Good in Bed, and The Nanny Diaries. Amazon didn’t tell me who sent the audiobooks, though, so whoever bought them for me off of my wish list, please let me know so I can thank you properly. And the box from reader Retha? It contained a BUNCH of stuff – apparently my Christmas, birthday, AND valentine’s day presents, all in one happy box! Adorable picture frames, cool pens, happy face slippers (which Retha referred to as “hideous”, but which I think are funny as hell), a Joe Boxer purse, good smelling candles, and more. Definitely a bright spot in my day. Retha, please email me, so that I can thank YOU properly as well! * * * I’m so very glad to have March done and over with – and April seems to be off to a pretty good start so far. Of course, when I read stuff like this, I realize that as bad as my March seemed, it really wasn’t all that bad.]]>

What Makes me Crazy 1. Da kitties. Specifically – and let me take a second to thank god she’s okay – Miz Poo, at the moment. I love that she follows me from room to room, and I love that she likes to lay on me, but for the last three nights, she’s been waking me up every hour to climb on top of me, digging the talons in her back feet into the most sensitive skin, settling down with her nose an inch from my ear, and then snoring. If she’s not doing that, she’s smacking my arm to get me to roll over from my stomach (my favorite sleeping position) to my side, so that she can dig at my arm pit (I have no idea why), and then curl up next to my hand and rub her wet, slimy nose all over my hand until I obey and scratch her on top of the head, between her eyes, and behind her ears. And woe betide the Momma who falls asleep while doing so! To reiterate – INCREDIBLY glad that she’s going to be okay, but Momma needs her sleep. Also, Fancypants, who was furious at Fred, who had the nerve to shut the cat door against the driving rain Saturday morning, and responded by peeing in a corner of the computer room. I’m all for tossing Fancypants’s ass outside and leaving him out there all night, I really am sometimes. Bastard. 2. Some readers. I DO NOT HAVE A SOUTHERN ACCENT! Ya nutballs. 3. Books and magazines. There are so many of them! How can I possibly choose one single book to read at a time, and how can I sit with a book when my beloved magazines are calling my name? I’m only one woman! 4. The online journals and diet journals I read. Because they don’t update often enough. Even though I’m a few days behind in my journal reading, y’all STILL don’t update often enough, hear me? 5. Fred. The doors? And drawers? Which you love to open? They shut as well, did you know that? And your dirty dishes? Which you are dumping into the clean, empty sink? Can just as easily go into the dishwasher with the OTHER dirty dishes, yes they can. Really they can! And all that talk about getting me a new car? I know you’re just trying to get me all excited! I won’t be suckered in, I won’t be suckered in… Ooh! That Echo really is adorable… 6. The spud. No! It’s my computer, and I won’t be off soon, and even when I am off, please stop forwarding the same thing to each and every one of my email addresses! Momma loves you, but don’t make me hide my email address from you! And the dishes? Which you’re dumping into the clean sink I emptied not ten minutes ago? I should think you’d know how to load the dishwasher by now, since you do it every night! 7. Candles Like the books, too many choices! Too many choices! How can I decide between Buttercream and Oatmeal Raisin Cookie? How could I possibly make a decision like that?! Thank god for eenie meenie minie moe, that’s all I have to say. 8. My car. And Fred’s, too. They’re running rough, they’re running loud. They’re both 1997 Jeeps, and altogether have less than 100,000 miles on them. 100,000 COMBINED, people. And we’ve dished out a fucking fortune in recent months to fix them. Doesn’t seem to be working. Gah! 9. My computer. Still locking up, still claiming I’m using too much memory when I only have Eudora and Internet Explorer open. I’ve probably said “Don’t start with me, you fucking thing!” 32,000 times in the last week. Damn thing! I’ve backed everything up, and Fred’s going to floople the doop (technical term) tomorrow, so if I’m missing for a day or two, it’s probably because Fred made my computer blow up.]]>

today’s entry. Trust me, you want to read it. But don’t forget to come back!

* * * Stupid me, I answered the door when someone rang the doorbell yesterday, thinking it might be one of the kids next door needing to go into the back yard. Instead it was some guy wanting to sell me something to put himself through school, and I listened politely to half his spiel waiting to get a word in edgewise, and when he held out the packet of whatever the fuck it was that he wanted me to buy, I knew better. Because once they hand you the fucking packet, they do NOT take it back, and you end up paying $64 for a little packet of paper towels, or some shit like that. I refused – REFUSED! – to take the packet, told him I was JUST about to leave to run some errands, and could he come back later? Why did I not just say “Nope, not interested!” and slam the door? I have no idea. He responded to my OBVIOUS lie – I was wearing sweatpants and a stained t-shirt, and even *I* don’t leave the house in that kind of getup – by telling me it would just take a minute, and I gave him a tight-lipped smile and repeated “I was JUST about to leave”, and he wished me a good day. And probably hung around to see if I actually left the house, the fucker. Why can’t we outlaw door to door selling? I mean, it’s hardly safe to be walking from door to door to sell shit, is it? What if I were a psycho? (Oh, shaddup) This is probably why they choose our middle-upper-class neighborhood, I suppose. Less chance of psychos. Little do they know… What kills me is when they start spouting off the names of our neighbors who bought whatever it is they’re selling. I know the names of, maybe, three of our neighbors, and I’m not even certain about two of those. And the third one sold us our house, for the love of god. I want to say “Who? Who the hell is that? Where do they live? Do they have any kids? What do they look like? What do they drive? Nope, don’t know them. Clearly they made the idiotic decision to buy something to get rid of you.” Don’t even look at me like that. I make plenty of charitable contributions. I just make it a point not to buy anything from someone who comes to my door. Well, except for Girl Scout cookies, maybe, though to be truthful I haven’t had any of those in four years or more. Don’t look at me like that, Local High School Football Team. If you really wanted to raise some funds, you’d pony up with the cookie goodness. Heh. This just occurred to me – I should gaze blankly at them and say “Do you have an appointment?” when they start in. “If you don’t have an appointment, I’m sorry. I can’t help you. No, I can’t give you an appointment, do I LOOK like someone who schedules appointments? Jeez! You’ll have to call and – No! No, you cannot have the phone number! If you were someone who truly wanted to make an appointment, you’d have the phone number!” * * * A reader emailed yesterday Oh god, I just kicked Miz Poo in the nose. IT WAS AN ACCIDENT. She forgave me eventually, but do I feel like a total Poo abuser, or what? Poor Miz Poo! Where was I? Oh yeah, a reader emailed yesterday (hi Shannon!) to say that she’d never heard the phrase “shit the bed” outside of her group of friends, and no one else she ever said it in front of seemed to know what it means. That cracks me up, because it seems so obvious what it means! Of course, trying to come up with a definition, I’m drawing a blank. I guess you either know what it means by the very sound of it, or you don’t. Suddenly, I’m reminded of the time I was driving to Pennsylvania a couple of years ago to meet my sister and hand over the spud. Debbie’s car broke down somewhere around New York City, and I called Fred on my now-it’s-working now-it’s-not cellphone and asked him to call my father. Ten minutes later when I could get service on my cellphone, I called Fred back. His first words? “Now I know where you picked up ‘You’ve gotta be shitting me!'” That was the first thing my father said when Fred told him. Fred had never heard anyone but me say it before. What’s funny is that in one of the first few episodes of the first season of The Shield, both Shane and Dutch said “You’ve gotta be shitting me!”, each with their own interpretation of it. And speaking of shit, why is that they can say “crap” on network TV, but “shit” gets bleeped? It means the same damn thing, does it not? I’ve always preferred “shit” to “crap”, because “crap” sounds more explicit to me somehow. Your “shit” discussion is now over. You may move on. * * * I know I’m supposed to think it’s treacly, sentimental crap, but I sure did love the American Idol rendition of God Bless the USA Wednesday night. God bless not only the USA, but god bless Grokster. Amen. * * * And while god’s blessing everyone, god bless the tech support at my host, Ventures Online. It took some time, hard work, and recreating of an inbox somewhere (don’t ask me, I didn’t do it), but I was finally able to get the mail sent to me from Tuesday night through Wednesday morning. You have no idea how happy I am – it was like my email was just out of reach, taunting me. I’ve set up forwarders so that all the emails I have set up on my two domains will be forwarded to one central account. Which I’m not going to post anywhere online in the interest of not getting spam.]]>

* * * I need to spend part of today backing up my system while I’m at it, because I get this very strong feeling that my computer’s about to shit the bed. So to speak. Is March almost over?

* * * Pet store kitties are hither. The spud went with me to the pet store today, and somehow the earth did not crack in two at the sight of her being awake and ready to go at 7 am. Like her mother, she’s a sleeper, but – also like her mother – she loves the kitties, and will forgo some sleep for some kitty lovin’. (I think she went back to bed, though. I’ve heard nary a poop (hee!) peep out of her since we got home) A couple of the litter boxes were particularly bad today, and I amused a kitty or two by reeling around gagging like the drama queen I am. * * * Fred called yesterday to buy the spud’s plane tickets to California and from there to Rhode Island. I had been, for some reason, under the impression that we’d have to buy two one-way tickets (Huntsville to California, California to Rhode Island) for her, since she was going to be staying in California for three weeks and a day. We were very pleased to find out that they could do it as a round-trip ticket, and it ended up costing half of what we thought it would. Of course, on top of the ticket cost will be a $75 fee each way so that someone will make sure she gets from gate to gate, but that’s definitely worth the peace of mind it buys, so I don’t have to worry about the spud wandering lost around the airport. And she would. Yes, she’s 14, and she gets straight As, but when it comes to the real world she’s been a tad overprotected in her life. * * * To the left of us lives a family composed of a mommy, a daddy, and three or four small boys. These small boys, possibly following the example their father sets, are very into all kinds of sports – football, baseball, soccer, tennis, the usual. Which is great, because god knows America’s youth spends too much time doing nothing active. But what kills me is that the boys next door, who have a nice, large backyard, spend all of their time playing baseball, football, etc, in their front yard, which is the size of a postage stamp. Several times a week the doorbell rings, and there stands a tiny boy asking if it’s okay to go into our backyard and get their ball, because they’ve tossed it over the fence from their tiny front yard into our back yard. Of course we always tell them to go ahead and get the ball, and it doesn’t really bother me that they need to, since they’re careful to close the gate behind them and we haven’t lost a cat yet. It really makes me wonder why they don’t want to play in the back yard, though. * * * A Tubbly man, waiting for the sun to come his way. And if you look carefully, in the background amongst the daffodils is Fancypants, who insists on laying there, even though I chase him out. Because he’s a bastard.]]>

* * * Last night Fred and I were watching TV, as we usually do at night. I don’t remember what we were talking about, but I glanced down at his foot and said something about a big, nasty callous he had on his big toe. As he stood up to go into the kitchen and get a drink, he grabbed his crotch and leered “I’ve got something big and nasty for you!” A second later, he looked into the kitchen – which is fully visible from the living room – and his mouth dropped open. From the kitchen, I heard the sound of the spud dropping a cup into the sink. I began laughing immediately, sure that she’d heard him. But then I discovered that what he’d been looking at was just Spot, standing on the stovetop. Which is a weak ending to the story. Maybe I oughta just claim it was the spud and she heard and was disgusted?

* * * And speaking of Fred, we were watching TV over the weekend (yes, I know. Eat your heart out at the glamorous life we lead!) and I’d been chattering about something or another. But I’d finished talking, and was flipping through a magazine, when something on TV – something about the war – caught my attention. I glanced at the TV, and then looked at Fred. Fred responded by raising his left hand and pointing his index finger skyward in the universal “Shut the fuck up, I want to hear this” gesture. I WASN’T EVEN TALKING, AND THE FUCKER SHUSHED ME! I’ll tell you what, he’s lucky I didn’t go get the cleaver and chop that fucking finger right the fuck off. * * * Miz Poo was taken to the vet yesterday by her horrible, evil, awful father. Her father who had to leave the room when they pulled her drain out because he couldn’t stand to watch it. In fact, he left the building so he wouldn’t have to hear her squeal, or do whatever it is that she did when they yanked the drain out, because he really is a big softy when it comes to any of the cats. From a high of 11 pounds, Miz Poo now weighs 8.5 pounds. I don’t think that’s terribly underweight, because she’s a small-boned cat under it all, but Fred said that we needed to buy some weight gain powder for her. Heh. She’s not terribly interested in the crunchy food that we feed the other cats, but she’s been very interested in the runoff from Fred cans of tuna, and in the cat food I discovered in the cupboard. She doesn’t actually eat much of the soft cat food, but rather mostly licks the gravy off. Last night, she climbed up on the table and jumped onto the kitchen counter, and proceeded to meow sadly until Fred gave her a little bowl of cat food. This is probably a bad habit to get into, but for now we’re going to spoil her a little. Of course, the other cats make out like bandits, too, because she licks the gravy off the food, and then leaves the food, and whoever gets to the bowl first finishes off the food. Yes, we let our cats roam around on the counters. Nasty, I know, but I get to make the rules. They don’t actually walk around on the counters all that much.]]>

That’s me, Obyn. Just call me Obyn. I’ll spot you the “r”, mm’kay? Quality control, anyone?

* * * Okay, I’m weighing in on the Dixie Chicks thing – yes, I know it happened a long time ago in the grand scheme of things, but I’m just now getting around to thinking about it, okay? I’ve had more important things to think about than Natalie Maines. Here’s the thing. If what Natalie Maines said bothers you, why why WHY would you respond by burning or otherwise ruining your Dixie Chicks cd? You spent the $17 (or ever how much), and by ruining that cd, all you’re doing is screwing yourself out of the money you spent. I understand that it’s to send a message, but the message you’re sending is “Natalie, clearly what you said while on stage in front of a bunch of your fans is INCREDIBLY important, in fact, it matters SO MUCH to me that I’m going to go out of my way to BURN the cd, thereby wasting the money I spent on it, while not taking any money out of your pocket.” Seriously? Who gives a shit what Natalie Maines or any of the Dixie Chicks thinks? Who gives a shit what anyone in Hollywood thinks? What have they done that makes their opinion so very valuable? Dennis Miller? Shut the fuck up and bring forth the funny, buddy. Natalie Maines? Zip it, and warble us a tune. Michael Moore? Didn’t you get the “accept/ present your award and keep the political jabber to yourself” memo? Jesus. Don’t get yourself into a lather because Natalie Maines went to another country and dissed the president. Natalie Maines’ opinion doesn’t and won’t ever amount to a hill of beans in my life. She shouldn’t matter in yours, either. (And before you say it, yes. You shouldn’t give a shit what I think, either.) * * * The spud and I watched 8 Mile Saturday night. Can’t say as I was all that impressed. It seemed that neither was the spud, and she’s the one who thinks Eminem is the shiznit. At one point I was watching the movie (I couldn’t sit and read through the whole thing, which I would have preferred, because I had to be ready to fast-forward through the sex scenes, while yelling at the spud to look away. And thanks for the You beat around the bush, Like you�re scared to lick pussy so you eat around the tush rap lines, Eminem. By the time I realized what you were saying, it’d already been said. Appreciate that. There should be a web site with a list of all the parts to skip while watching with your 14 year-old daughter, ya think? But I digress.) and I thought to myself “Damn, he has a pointy nose. I never noticed that before.” The VERY next second, the spud turned to me and said “He has a really pointy nose!” Freaked me out. I kept trying to send her thought messages to see if she was really reading my mind, but results were inconclusive. * * * So, remember when I said I was going to buy a new domain and move bitchypoo over there? I was, I was going to buy either robyn.to or nybor.org, but upon second thought I decided it was silly to move a journal named bitchypoo from bitchypoo.com to another domain. I decided to just stay here instead, though I may do some reorganizing. And I’m also going to start using Movable Type for the journal, what with it being so damn easy to use, and not having to mess with linking “before” and “after”, and updating the calendar every time I write an entry. * * * Whoo! I got 13 points in the Oscar Pool! I didn’t expect to win, since most of my choices were guesses, but I was certainly glad not to have gotten the lowest score, either. * * * The spud is turning into SUCH a teenager. Fred actually had to go wake her up around noon on Saturday. NOON. Even I can’t sleep ’til noon, and I LOVE to sleep. I suspect after a week of sleeping until all hours of the morning, she’s going to be one hurting unit when it comes time to get up at 6:30 to get ready for school. Two months from yesterday, she leaves for California. Am I happy about her flying from Alabama to California, alllll the way across the country, by herself? Nopenopenope. I’d say that I should fly with her and immediately fly home after handing her off to her grandparents, but she also has to fly from California to Rhode Island (where her father will pick her up, keep her for a week, and then take her to Maine) three weeks after that, and there’s no way I’d be able to fly to California, drop her off with her father in Rhode Island and then fly to Alabama, because we’re talking an AWFUL lot of money. I know she’ll be fine, and I know they’ll (for a fee) be sure she gets from one gate to another, but it still freaks me out.]]>

When she came inside, she sat in the living room for a few minutes, and then walked over to the kitchen and threw up. You can bet your ass I freaked out. I called Fred on his cell phone, and he said “Oh no!” We discussed it for a few minutes, decided to just keep an eye on her, and she hasn’t vomited since. THANK GOD. She’s eating; not a lot, but enough to keep me happy. I gave her some soft cat food this morning, and she also had the juice from a can of tuna yesterday. She’s supplemented that with lots of water, and the occasional bite of regular cat food. The drain, which runs along her entire incision, was originally sticking out both ends. Last night, we noticed that the part coming out of the lower part of her incision wasn’t there, despite the fact that it had been stitched in place. We decided that it had slipped under the incision, and when Fred called the vet this morning, he said that as long as stuff is coming out, not to worry about it. One of the things we have to do twice a day is get a bowl of warm water and a cloth, wring the cloth out so it’s not dripping, and hold it against her belly for five minutes (rinsing the cloth once it’s cooled off). She’ll tolerate it for the first minute or two, but after that it’s a struggle. I imagine that her whole belly is tender, and having something pressed against it – no matter how gently – doesn’t feel very good. The drain will be coming out tomorrow, and Fred kindly decided to take her. I don’t think I could be in the same building, let alone the same room, when they pull that thing out. Just the thought freaks me out a little.

* * * And after a bit of a lull, when it seemed that things might get better around here, yesterday morning the phone rang. It was Fred’s mother, letting him know that his sister’s husband was in the hospital. He’d been having some very bad heartburn, finally decided to go to the hospital, whereupon the doctors discovered that the artery covering the left half of his body was 98% blocked, and they had to do an angioplasty. Yep. Happy March! (He’ll be fine) * * * I just glanced out the window of the computer room, to see a woman walking by, with a clear message to me: I don’t know what it said under the happy face, but this is a sign from the universe that things are going to get better, right? That, or she’s a stalker-reader.]]>

* * * So, ever since we had an incident last month (or maybe the month before, I don’t remember) with a neighborhood cat getting into our house, we’ve started shutting the cat door at night. Usually, Fancypants comes into the house sometime between 7:30 and 9, and when Fred hears him come in, he goes and shuts the door so no one else can go in or out. I’ve been saying that one night Fancypants wouldn’t bother to come home, and Fred would have to decide whether to lock him out all night, or leave the cat door open. Last night was that night. At 9:00, when Fancypants hadn’t come back through the door, Fred went out into the yard and called for him. We went upstairs to read, and Fred came back downstairs to check for him a couple of times, then closed the cat door. Before going to bed, Fred checked the yard a few more times, but Fancypants was never out there. I checked myself a few times before I went to sleep, and again he was never around. He finally moseyed into the house sometime this morning to get some food, and then left again, and I haven’t seen him since. I suspect he’s either got a girlfriend (one who doesn’t mind that he’s neutered), or he’s found a family he likes better. Fred’s mostly worried about the fact that Fancypants is declawed in the front and can’t defend himself, and he’s also the most aggressive of our cats, so if he picks a fight with the wrong cat (or dog), he’ll get his ass kicked. As much as I want to boot Fancypants in the butt sometimes for his carpet-shitting chair-peeing ways, I do worry about him, too. I know that we could just keep the cat door closed all the time, but I don’t think it’s fair to the other cats, who like to go out and sit in the yard during the day. If they could all jump the fence, it’d be one thing, but clearly Fancypants is the only one who’s light enough to do it. Damn cats. They sure do like to make me worry.

* * * Fred was flipping around the news channels last night, and I was reading a magazine, looking up from time to time. On either Fox News or CNN, Harlan Ullman, the author of Shock and Awe: Achieving Rapid Dominance (one of the authors, I guess I should say) was being interviewed. I half-listened to the interview and a moment before Fred changed the channel, he said something about the American bombing runs. My mind whirred and processed what I’d heard. I put down my magazine, my eyes wide. “‘The boldness and bodaciousness of the American bombing runs’?!” I repeated what I’d heard. Fred laughed. “Boldness and audaciousness,” he corrected. I think I like my version better.]]>