Author: Robyn

Coriander, Cilantro, and Clove had their spaying yesterday, and all went well. I usually don’t pick them up from the vet until after 5:00, but they were done early enough that I could pick them up and bring them home a couple of hours earlier. They were wide awake when I picked them up and when I got home with them, I put them in the foster room and shut the door so they could eat and rest, but of course they didn’t rest – they ran around in there like little wild things. It amazes me how quickly they bounce back!

Sweet Cori, snoozing in her favorite spot.

And Clove, snoozing nearby.

That’s a 23 ounce bottle of water next to Cori, for size reference.

Cilantro at naptime (obviously before the spaying – she now has a shaved belly with a small scar).

I don’t know what Clove’s keeping an eye on. Probably Elwood. She has a little crush on him.

Ciara would like you to know that she is, in fact, da bebbe.

Jake always enjoys a good belly rub.

Previously
2010: I hope it’s not a dog going after my other-dimensional chickens.
2009: I should have demanded a decorator’s fee.
2008: The last time I wore a bikini, I was around five, and I expect that unless I lose my mind, that’s the last time a bikini will come anywhere near my body.
2006: No entry.
2005: No entry.
2004: No entry.
2003: No entry.
2002: No entry.
2001: And then he looked at ME, like I was the instigator or something!
2000: “Where’s my food?! Where’s my FOOD, bitch?! I need fat, I need salt, I need sugar, and GIVE IT TO ME NOW, or I’ll drive you completely insane!”

I usually regard those reminder calls from doctor’s offices as annoyances, because I’m (almost) always careful to keep track of my appointments in my Google Calendar, which is syncable (is so a word) to any number of the devices with which I’ve surrounded myself. I suppose the reminder calls do serve a purpose, though, because the appointment I’d recorded as being on Wednesday is actually today.

Now if only I had any idea what the appointment is for. I remember going to see my doctor in January, and I remember her saying that we’d do a followup on… something… in six months. Which would be today, apparently. But for the life of me, I cannot remember what the hell the appointment’s for.

Probably the early-onset Alzheimer’s.

When you wake up at 4 am and can’t get back to sleep, so you decide to just get the hell up and get started on the day and then you do laundry and clean the kitchen and take the ton and a half of recycling to the recycling center and then go to Walmart and then come home and vacuum the house and then clean all the floors in the downstairs, all that before noon, and then you have lunch, you know what the most awesome thing to do in the afternoon is?

The most awesome thing is to lay down on the couch intending to watch those Real Housewives of NJ and then snooze really really hard for about 20 minutes. Then you can wake up and watch the rest of the show, and guess what? You might have snoozed through a third of the show, but you didn’t miss a damn thing.

In case you were wondering.

The Spice Girls are off to the vet for their spaying in a little while! Right now they’re still in the foster room (where we always put them at night), howling their little heads off and wondering where the food went. I suspect that tonight they’ll be racing around like nothing happened (or I suppose they might be a bit groggy, depending on what part of the day their operations take place). Then we get to just enjoy them until it’s time for them to go off to Petsmart!

Cori don’t care ’bout no spayin’ nonsense.

Over the weekend, I was walking by the guest bedroom, and I glanced in and thought “Who the heck is that hanging out on the cat tree with Alice?” It was Cori, but for some reason the way the light was hitting her, she reminded me of Dorothy – I don’t know why, because her colors are nothing like Dorothy’s, so maybe it was just the way she was laying or something. Who knows?

The many moods of Elwood.

Complaining.

Hating.

“You. Will. Bring. Me. Food. NOW.”

Cute ‘n cuddly.

Previously
2010: Now goddamn it, I OBJECT.
2009: No entry.
2008: No entry.
2007: Goddamn squirrels.
2006: No entry.
2005: No entry.
2004: No entry.
2003: No entry.
2002: OR I may have thought to myself, well, every author is entitled to a horrid piece of excrement or two.
2001: I’ve been packing in a desultory and lazy fashion this week, and have about half the upstairs done.
2000: I think if any of the kitties lose their mind and go on a human-throat-gnawing spree, it’ll be her.

Thursday morning, I was laying in bed thinking about getting up (it was 6:00 which is plenty early for normal people, but I was still feeling like kind of a slacker. This is what happens when you’re married to someone who gets up at 4:00 on the weekend and acts like you’ve become a Bed Person in need of rescuing by Richard Simmons if you stay in bed past 6:23.) and the phone rang. I got up and ran across the room to answer it, dodging cats as I went.

“Well, I finally did it,” Fred said disgustedly. “I always worry when I have a bunch of stuff to get out of the car that I’m going to lock my keys in the car, and now I’ve done it.”

I stifled the urge to helpfully point out that if he used the remote on the key fob to lock his car, he wouldn’t be in this pickle.

I told him I’d look for the other set of keys to his car and call him back. I got dressed, went downstairs to where we keep all our extra keys, and started looking through them. I eventually found the second set of keys to his car, but not until after I’d dug through a pile of useless keys. We haven’t owned a Jeep in five years, but by god we’ve got three Jeep keys anyway.

I called him back and told him I’d found the keys. I don’t have a sticker to get on base, so we decided on an off-base location to meet.

“Can we do it later, to miss the early morning traffic?” he suggested. “Like, 9:00?”

“Sure,” I said. After I’d hung up the phone, I immediately called him back.

“Let’s make it more like 9:30,” I said. “I want to eat breakfast at 9:00.”

“Okay,” he said.

I went out and worked in the garden until 8:45, and then came inside to start making breakfast. While my eggs were cooking, I called Fred.

“Can we make it 10:00 instead?” I asked. “I just got inside and want to eat and then take a shower before I head over.”

“Yeah, that’s fine,” he said.

I ate breakfast, and then called him again. “Can we make it 10:30 instead? I need to give Miz Poo her medicine at 10:00.”

“Yeah, that’s fine,” he said.

I showered and dressed, puttered around the house, and then called him at 10:00. “I’ll be leaving here in about 10 minutes so I’ll probably be there more like 10:40. You want me to call you when I leave?”

He sounded weary. “Just call when you’re crossing Thus-And-Such Road.”

I called when I was crossing Thus-And-Such Road, and made it to our meeting place, and then I sat and waited. And waited. And waited some more. I didn’t know who was bringing him to meet me, or what kind of vehicle they’d be in, so I eyeballed every vehicle that came into the parking lot, and when there were no cars coming in, I checked my email on my phone. Then I played a little Snood. Then I wondered if I was in the right place.

About five minutes after I’d gotten there, a red truck pulled up behind me and honked the horn. I got out and saw that Greg had given Fred a ride.

We call Greg Fred’s “work wife,” which Greg (and, one assumes, Greg’s wife) finds hilarious. Fred and Greg are best friends at work, but never have any contact outside of work.

I handed Fred’s extra keys over to him, and we chatted for a few moments, then Fred thanked me, and he and Greg left.

Fred Anderson, you might not be surprised to hear, does not believe in public displays of affection, even if “public” is only one other person.

That night, I gave him all kinds of shit for not kissing me goodbye. (Not because it really bothered me, you understand. Just because I wanted to give him shit. It’s how he knows I love him.)

“I don’t believe in public displays of affection!” he pointed out.

“Greg was the only one there,” I said.

“Like I said! Besides, I didn’t want to make my work wife jealous by kissing my home wife.” He thought for a moment. “He chews tobacco, though. Kissing him would be gross.”

I said nothing.

“Um. Not that that’s what’s keeping me from kissing him.”

“I know. His mustache would tickle your nose, is the real reason.”

“Shaddup.”

Over the weekend, Macushla was adopted! He was adopted into a home with two young cats (1 and 2 years old), and I expect he’ll be a happy boy, since he gets along so well with other cats.

That leaves Maggie, Fergus Simon, and Declan who are still available for adoption. Ciara’s still here with us for a little while longer, and at this point I think it makes sense to just keep her here ’til the Spice Girls are ready to go. We’ll see.

The Spice Girls are going to be spayed tomorrow, so after that it’s just a matter of waiting until there’s room for them at Petsmart. They’ve moved on from their baby-round stage to their miniature cat stage. They should be hitting their ridiculously long and lanky stage any moment now.

It’s sad, how tense Ciara is.

So smug.

I adore it when kittens sleep flat on their bellies.

Cori, doin’ the smug thing.

I love her little sleeping face, obviously.

There are 14 cats in this picture, by my count.

Maxi, hanging out in the back yard.

Previously
2010: No entry.
2009: No entry.
2008: I am SO not crazy.
2007: Like mud with a soupcon of cat poop stirred in for good measure.
2006: No entry.
2005: No entry.
2004: No entry.
2003: If I were Jennifer Lopez, I would be VERY frightened at the thought of birthing an Affleck baby, if noggins like that run in the family.
2002: I mean, an online journal. Have you ever heard of such a silly thing?
2001: No entry.
2000: Okay, I just really don’t have anything to say today.

Sweet Miss Clove.

Ciara pretty much always looks appalled by whatever we’re doing. Even if we’re not doing ANYthing.

Ciara and the sparkle ball. Not very sparkly, though – the sparkly threads came off and were scattered from one end of the house to the other.

Declan’s smug little face.

“Soon… soon this will be over…” Poor Maggie, under a pile of kittens.

Cillian and Finnegan on the left, Clove and Cori on the right. Cilantro in the bed behind them.

Cori, sleeping but annoyed.

Cowboy Finnegan.

Cowgirl Cori. They’re exhausted from ridin’ the range and ropin’ cattle.

From her bed atop the kitchen cabinets, Stinkerbelle keeps an eye on things.

Including…

her true love, Tommy, who’s hanging out on top of the fridge.

Previously
2010: No entry.
2009: Not your average light and happy reading.
2008: No entry.
2007: Because then I’d probably poop my guts out, and that just wouldn’t be a pretty sight.
2006: I think I need a nap.
2005: Hey. What’s worse than not being able to stop yourself from crying? WHEN A MOTHERFUCKER KEEPS LOOKING AT YOU TO SEE IF YOU’RE CRYING. [I find it all cirrrrrrrrcle of life-y that it was about this time four year ago that Mia, from our first batch of foster cats, died.]
2004: She looked simultaneously confused and disgusted. “When do I eat CHICKEN eggs?” She wrinkled her nose.
2003: No entry.
2002: No entry.
2001: Sh’yeah. I’m sure Brad’s reallllly worried.
2000: Could that paragraph have been any more rambly and pointless?

If I had the slightest bit of drawing talent, I’d make a cartoon of myself with cats and kittens hanging off me in every direction, a cottage cheese container containing a stool sample (from a kitten, wiseass) in one hand, and a cat carrier in the other. I made so many trips to the vet last week with stool samples that I’m almost out of the convenient cottage cheese containers I use to carry them in.

Which reminds me – I find it very annoying that you can get single serving containers of nonfat plain yogurt but not regular-fat plain yogurt. I occasionally give cats and kittens dabs of yogurt with Forti-Flora mixed in. I don’t do it often enough to need a big container of yogurt, but I like to have yogurt on hand. What I ought to do, really, is make my own yogurt. But that seems like more work than I want to do, considering we don’t really eat yogurt.

I really need to get my ass to Kohl’s or to the mall and buy some decent bras. I have one that fits well, which I really only wear if I’m going out in public. At home, I almost always wear sports bras, because they’re so comfortable.

Okay, clearly I have nothing to say. Let’s move on to the cats, shall we?

As of last night, I can report that miss Ciara is doing well and should be ready to head off to Petsmart on Friday. I suppose I COULD take her today (adoption hours are held tonight), but I want to make sure she’s okay for real, and not just teasing me.

I can’t get over what a sweet, sweet girl she is. I think she got a little overshadowed by her brothers, and now that they’re gone, I can see what a gem she is. Sweet, friendly, playful, nice to other kitties. She’s the total package!

More pics from last week.

“Ya know, I was just LAYING here taking a snooze, and before I knew it, these little monsters had latched on!”

Cillian, keeping an eye on stuff.

Clove thinks about making a jump at Coriander. (We’ve been calling Coriander “Alice, Jr.” because Fred never learns any of the fosters’ names, so instead of continually calling her “The one that looks like Alice” so he’ll know who I’m talking about, I’ve resorted to “Alice, Jr.”)

Clove stole that toy from Cillian. He’s too gentle for his own good!

Oh, that little face. Couldn’t you just kiss her?

Snoozin’ Spicies.

Finnegan, watching birds.

If you’re going to look like a pouty princess all the time, you might end up with the nickname Pouty Princess, brat.

Fergus Simon, on the platform in the kitchen. Yeah, I’d say they made themselves at home while they were here.

Sugarbutt, always comfy.

Previously
2010: Random pics.
2009: No entry.
2008: No entry.
2007: Nest = empty.
2006: If you could possibly NOT lay three inches from me and spend 63 hours slurping on your asshole so that I am driven into a homicidal rage and forced to run you out of the room, I would very much appreciate it.
2005: They’ll be fine, they’ll be fine, they’ll be fine, they’ll be fine…
2004: And I’m not even a George Michael fan. Though “Faith” rocks the casbah.
2003: No entry.
2002: Fred: “It’s dick in your mouth good!”
2001: No entry.
2000: You know, life would just be so much simpler if I were already queen of the world and in charge of punishments and such.

I think I mentioned last week that as a direct result of my finding a Brown Recluse, we ordered a large number of glue traps to put in the closets and behind furniture?

Well, over the weekend Fred spent quite some time putting the glue trap boxes together (they come in a sheet of three, you separate them, and then fold each one into a two-sided box) and putting them in various places. Then he proceeded to check them every twenty minutes, all weekend long. He claimed to be relieved that we didn’t catch a single spider.

Which leads me to the question: where can I get tiny, realistic-looking plastic spiders? Like, a lot of them. A LOT. And if they look like Brown Recluses or Black Widows, so much the better.

We did some furniture moving on Sunday. I’d actually intended to move one piece of furniture (the desk in the guest bedroom) on Saturday, then the second piece of furniture (the bookcase in the guest bedroom) on Sunday so as not to do too much heavy lifting in one day. But I forgot about moving the desk on Saturday until it was late in the day, and similar to how I refuse to work out in the garden past 9:00, Fred refuses to do any heavy lifting that will make him sweat past the time he’s taken a shower.

So Sunday after I got up, I told Fred to let me know when he was ready to start moving stuff. The desk was pretty easy, because it’s really not that heavy. We carried it out to the garage and up the stairs to the top floor where we throw all our crap.

(When I am 90 years old and that desk’s drawers is loaded down with evil mutant spiders, the spud will thank me for tossing so much crap up there as she carts me out the door to the nursing home.)

Then I pulled all the books, DVDs, and CDs off the bookcase, and we moved it out into the front room. I dusted it, and put everything back. I was afraid that putting the bookcase out into the front room might make it look too crowded, but it doesn’t. It’s a big front room, and both bookcases fit on that wall quite nicely, with plenty of room for the cat tree between them. Now it’s set up so that the cats can jump onto the top of either bookcase from the cat tree, if they so desire.

(I think the dude from My Cat from Hell would approve at how much vertical space our cats have to roam. Speaking of, are you watching that show? Did you SEE the man DIG IN THE LITTER BOX WITH HIS OWN HAND? As someone who spends far too much time digging in the litter boxes my own self, I have this to say: he was going for the shock value with that move. You can see what’s going on in a litter box without having to DIG IN IT WITH YOUR OWN HAND. I don’t know – LITTER BOX SCOOP, perhaps? Ya think? Gah.)

The guest bedroom looks a lot more roomy now – there’s the bed, the dresser, and various and sundry cat furniture in there and not much else. I told Fred recently that since we’re housing cats in there more often than people, it was time to make more space so that if one of the little fuckers goes on, say, a pooping spree, I won’t have to move so much furniture to clean it up. (“One of the little fuckers” meaning one of the foster kittens. Not one of the occasional human guests who sleeps in there.)

I did have to take down the pictures that were hanging on that wall in the front room, though, so I need to figure out where to hang them instead. Maybe the hallway – those picture-hanging strips should work well for that, as for some reason unknown to me, those walls are apparently made of steel and I cannot hammer a nail into the hallway wall to save my life.

I also emptied out the drawers of Fred’s dresser, made him go through everything to decide if anything could be gotten rid of, and then folded the clothes that he was keeping, and neatly put them away. Then I cleared out the guest bedroom closet, and moved a bunch of stuff out to the garage. Friday night, I did the same to the hall closet. Fred’s been positive that we’re harboring at least 73 Brown Recluses in each closet, but I have yet to see another one.

I still have a lot more clearing and organizing to do. I’ve got empty boxes in one of my closets that can be broken down and recycled. If I’m a hoarder of anything other than cats, it’s cardboard boxes. I do a lot of online shopping, and stuff arrives in these awesome, sturdy boxes and I think “This is a GREAT box! I can totally use this box!”, toss it in my closet, and then never use it. I don’t mail out nearly as much stuff these days as I used to – haven’t sold any jam or hot sauce in months and months – so I think it’s time for the boxes to go. Joe Bob has his box in the dining room, there are a couple of boxes in the front room, and Spanky’s taken a shine to the box I put in the computer room for him, so I think we’re all set as far as boxes go, at least for the time being.

The great thing about using the cardboard boxes I get in the mail is that when they do get peed on or vomited on or whatever horrors the cats like to visit upon the nearest surface, I can toss them and replace them with another awesome box.

So I guess the theme for my weekend was organizing and cleaning. Maybe the theme for my week should be getting out the sewing machine and using up some of that cat material I bought a few weeks ago?

(Probably not, though.)

I delivered Maggie and her boys to Petsmart Friday morning. They were fine – they were a little confused about what was going on, but they didn’t howl all the way to the store as I’d expected. When I was getting their cages set up, they explored the cat room a little, and then settled back in their carriers and watched me work.

I ended up putting Cillian and Finnegan in one cage, Maggie in a cage by herself, and Macushla, Fergus Simon, and Declan in another. (Don’t feel too sad for them – they all get to see each other in the morning and evening when their cages are cleaned.) I gave everyone a last snuggle and kiss, and put them in their cages. Then I stopped to pat Maggie and thank her for trusting me enough to let me help her raise her babies, and ohhhhh how the tears came tumblin’ down.

None of the McMaos were adopted Friday, but I got the word Saturday evening that Cillian and Finnegan were adopted – TOGETHER! That makes me really, really happy. I told Fred of the adoptions, and then I started thinking about how I saw them every day of their little lives, and now I’ll probably never see them again, and got teary-eyed. But then I got over it, because those boys will have each other, and no doubt they’ll be loved to death by their new family.

I had originally thought that Ciara would be able to go to Petsmart tomorrow, but it’s been one step forward two steps back with her, so now I’m thinking she’ll be here ’til at least Friday. I hope she doesn’t forget her brothers and Maggie before she gets to see them again!

Like I posted over at Facebook, Ciara turned from a slightly standoffish kitten into a puppy overnight. She wants to follow me around, and when I sit down, she sits at my feet. She wants to be petted, and if I’m not paying enough attention to her, she howwwwwwls like nobody’s business. I wish she’d get over whatever it is she’s got (the vet was unable to find anything at all wrong with her) so I can take her to Petsmart and she can lovebug her way into a new home!

The Spice Girls don’t seem to notice that Maggie is gone. I’m sure they’d be happy to see her come back, but they’re pretty happy without her here – I’ve made a point of spending time just hanging out and petting them. They are such sweet little monkeys – and now that they’re all over two pounds, it’s just about time for them to be spayed!

Clove, nuzzling at Maggie. Maggie’s all “Please, is it time to GO yet?”

Snoozin’ Macushla.

Fergus Simon and his catnip cigar.

Cillian’s a quiet little observer.

That’s quite the little pile of kittens, no? Maggie’s under there somewhere.

I love how, over there to the right, Fergus Simon is straddling Declan. And in the middle, Clove is all “This bed of kittens is lumpy. I am displeased.”

Maggie’s all “I HAVE HAD ENOUGH.” The look on Clove’s face, there, in the middle, is cracking me UP.

It’s a Newtie in a box!

Maggie says “You about done in there? I’d like a turn.”
Newt says “You go ‘way. This are MY box.”

Previously
2010: No entry.
2009: No entry.
2008: I hate the fucking SHIT out of pattypan squash.
2007: “It tastes awful… chickeny,” he said.
2006: I thought I was going to die from the sheer annoyance factor.
2005: But really, is there anything less threatening than giving someone the FINGER?
2004: No entry.
2003: Ever have one of those days, or is it just me?
2002: He can’t close a drawer all the way to save his life.
2001: What next, I ask you?
2000: Surely y’all know me better by now?