Author: Robyn

In Search of a Grownup. My favorite line in the entire article is the ultra-prissy Damon made out with one of his wife�s friends until Brenda told him that it was rude to do so because they had guests downstairs, a rule of etiquette with which I was not familiar. You know, I don’t believe that once you become a parent, every bit of you has to be absorbed into that role. Because if you define yourself for the rest of your life as PARENT, what happens when the kids have moved on and created a life of their own? What are you when you’re no longer PARENT? Is there anything left? If you feel the need to put a lock on the garage to keep your kids from walking in while you smoke marijuana, it may be nature’s way of telling you the time to drop the bong is when you put up the crib. Actually, I think that if you’re putting a lock on the garage to keep your kids from walking in while you smoke marijuana, that would be an example of keeping your kids out while you’re smoking marijuana, because you don’t want them to know what you’re doing, any more than you’d leave your bedroom door wide open with the lights blaring while you’re in there with your husband having sex. See, having sex is another thing that you don’t particularly want your kids to see you doing (no child should be subjected to seeing the sex face), so you lock the bedroom door. Having locked doors can be a good and necessary thing sometimes. Maybe Anna Quindlen would never dream of shutting a door between herself and her children, but I sure would, and the worst example you could give your child (when they get older, I mean – I’m not talking about you mothers of infants and toddlers, because you really do have to be attached at the hip an awful lot of the time, and I understand that) is to show them that there’s nothing else to who you are, that you live and die to be PARENT, and you have no other desire than to let your life revolve around them. I guess what really gets me is the implication that if you’re not living life Anna Quindlen’s way, it’s just flat-out wrong and you’re an awful, evil parent. I don’t have a problem with disagreeing how someone lives their life* – one of the downfalls of existing is that someone out there is going to think you’re a complete lunatic and the worst parent on Earth – but I do have a problem with the fact that Anna Quindlen saw that a facet of the van Dams’ life was one she disliked, and she jumped off that to insinuate that they were bad, lazy, evil, awful parents and really that’s the entire reason their 7 year-old daughter was murdered. Did she say that? Of course not. She lamely said Counsel never succeeded in making this relevant, as if she wished that they HAD made it relevant. She never once intimated that such a line of thought is idiocy. Which it is. Thus, the ladder fund. Want to contribute? *of course, just for the record, I DO have a problem with someone who disagrees with how I live my life emailing to tell me so, as if I should give a shit. In case there was any question.]]>

here.) * * * I’m looking for a picture of Renee Zellweger as Bridget Jones, in the bunny suit, to use as a temporary graphic for the Zany Chick page. If anyone could point me to that particular picture so that I don’t have to put the movie in and snap a picture of the screen, I’d appreciate it. (Got it! Thanks, you guys. You rock, you know that?) * * * We watched the crapfest known as The Sweetest Thing on Saturday night, and while there were a few laughs, overall it was crap. I don’t dislike Cameron Diaz, but I’m not sure I understand why she has an acting career. And I’ve seen far too much of her in her underwear. Time to stop that particular gimmick, thanks. Fred and I both noticed that Christina Applegate looks a lot like Jennifer Aniston sometimes. Also, there’s something I don’t quite understand. Why would you go home with a guy only to give him a blowjob and get nothin’ for yourself? I’m just curious, because honestly I don’t get it, not at all. Maybe it’s because I’m all old and repressed, you think? * * * This is from the giveaway page, and I thought I’d cut and paste in case some of you – horrors! – aren’t interested in the crap I find in the closets and under beds and offer up for free: This candle – from White Candle Barn – is frosted rose leaf scented. And it really does smell like roses. But I’m apparently quite odd, and sometimes something that smells like one thing to me also smells like another thing. This candle smells JUST like beer to me. I have no idea why. I’m a freak. And I can’t stand to have a beer-scented candle burning in the house, because if I wanted my house to smell like beer, I’d go on a week-long bender, wherein I spilled beer all over the house until the floors were so sticky they were like flypaper and the cats would get trapped halfway across the kitchen floor, meowing pitifully. And for the record, beer sometimes smells like apple wine to me. Yeah, I don’t know folks. I don’t make this stuff up, I just report it. And it’s not just candles, y’all. Wendy’s has a grilled chicken sandwich that I used to just adore. A year or so ago I used to eat it twice a week every week, sometimes more, and then I had to stop eating it because one day I went and picked up my usual lunch, and the sandwich smelled like bologna to me. And I’m not a bologna fan, so I swore off for almost a year, and now they don’t smell like bologna to me. Just so you know, I had to sing the “My bologna has a first name, O-S-C-A-R, my bologna has a second name, M-A-Y-E-R. Oh, I love to eat it every day, and if you ask me why, I’ll sayyyyyyyyy, Oscar Mayer has a WAY with B-O-L-O-G-N-A!” song to remember how to spell “bologna” in the above paragraph. * * * Mouse number three made it into our house last night after Fred went to bed, but unfortunately, this one didn’t make it out alive. I was sitting in my chair reading when I heard the elephantine sounds of the cats on the loose. I glanced up at the doorway and saw Spanky run by, and since he’s the house whipping boy for the other cats, I was sure they’d taken it into their heads to kick his ass for no particular reason. Half an hour later, Spot ran into the door, and I glanced up. He had a mouse hanging out of his mouth. “Spot!” I yelled. I was out of the chair in an instant and headed toward him. Spot did an end run around me and ran for his favorite place in the whole wide world – under the bed. “SPOT!” I bellowed. He made it under the bed, and I went for reinforcements. When Fred had been advised of the situation, I went back into the bedroom and slammed my hand on the bed. “Drop it!” I said loudly, sounding like a Drill Instructor. I was assuming Spot was torturing the poor little mouse, and I hoped that being ordered to drop it would startle him. I got down on the floor to see what was going on, hoping that the mouse wasn’t going to run at my face, because I would surely scream myself hoarse if that were to happen. The mouse was laying under one corner of the bed, unmoving. Spot was laying in the opposite corner, purring quietly. I stood up. “Is it under there?” Fred asked. “It’s dead,” I said. “Can you reach it?” Fred asked. “Yeah, but I’m not GONNA,” I told him. “You are. This is your job.” I got him a wad of paper towels, and he grabbed the mouse and looked closely to make sure that it really was dead. It was. Poor thing. Damnit. (That story would have been a lot funnier if the mouse came back to life and leapt at Fred when he had his face a few inches away, checking it for breathing. Alas, it didn’t happen. Poor mousie.)]]>

This picture is for Theme Thursday (yes, I know it’s Friday. Shaddup). The topic is Dog Days of Summer. See? I used a picture of a cat. Hee! Oh, I slay me… I would have used a picture of a cat flopped in the grass, but they weren’t interested in going outside yesterday. Speaking of Miz Poo, right now she’s laying under the desk and licking the top of my foot and purring to beat the band. * * * This morning, the spud came and knocked on my bedroom door to let me know that she was leaving to go wait for the bus. Fred stood in the middle of the room as I said goodbye to her, and then I remembered something and called her back to the doorway. “Please be careful to shut the door hard when you go out,” I said. “The past two mornings, it wasn’t shut all the way, and it blew open.” Luckily, I was right there when it blew open. It would surely have sucked to get up and go downstairs to see the door standing wide open and cats scattered all over the front yard. Fred smiled. “Okay,” the spud said, and we said our goodbyes again. When Fred was sure she was out of the house, he turned to me. “Actually, I’m the last one to go out the front door in the morning,” he confessed. “But you let her take the fall for you!” I said. He smiled. “I know.” Evil. * * * Someone recently asked me why I don’t have a page of links for the online journals that I read. My answer is that I am too lazy to keep up a list of links. This was proven by the fact that I had a list of links up when I first started the journal, and for the next year and a half I never once updated it. So I took it down, and I’m much happier without having that hanging over my head. I’ve thought about making a list of the journals I read as an entry, but the problem with that is that I’d forget someone – there are people who update very infrequently, and the only reason I know that they’ve updated is because I receive their notify email – and probably hurt their feelings, and they would say rude, snide (but probably true) things about me, and it would just be a big, bad fuckarow, and I just don’t need that. Also, if I stopped reading a journal – it happens, you know, and not because I particularly stop liking the person, but rather because I find that I’m skimming all of their entries or not looking forward to their entries – I would feel REALLY bad about taking it off the list, because that seems malicious. One of the reasons I have my notify lists set up so that I can only see who’s joining and not who’s leaving is because I don’t want to know if someone leaves and/or stops reading me. I mean, why would I? “Oh shit, so-and-so took themselves off my notify list, I guess they didn’t like my entry about blah-blah-blah!” Speaking of notify lists, if you have a journal and don’t have a notify list, get your ass in gear and start up a notify list. Y’see, I have so damn many things in my “Favorites” folder in IE that I hate adding things to it. I hate going to a journal and trying to figure out which was the last entry I read. I hate going to a journal and finding out that there’s been no update. That’s why I like notify lists, preferably notify lists that include a direct link to the entry for which the notify is being sent. Because all I have to do is click, and I’m there. No clicking from the front page to the most recent entry, reading the first paragraph, and realizing that I’ve already read the entry. So, to reiterate: go start up a notify list now, damnit! Yes, it’s a pain in the ass to send out a notify email when you’ve updated, but I’m worth it, aren’t I? * * * 1. What is your current occupation? Is this what you chose to be doing at this point in your life? Why or why not? Uh. I’m a domestic engineer, I guess. I did, in fact, choose to be doing this, and I’m lucky that Fred supports my lazy ass. 2. If time/talent/money were no object, what would your dream occupation be? I’d be a writer. No wait, I’d be a singer! Oh, or a veterinarian who specialized in cats. One of those. 3. What did/do your parents do for a living? Has this had any influence on your career choices? My father’s a quality assurance specialist at a ship-building plant. While I was growing up, he was an outside machinist (I have no idea what that is). My mother’s always worked at medical offices – when I was growing up, she worked the front desk (I think), and now she does billing. She hates working in the medical field, I think, but it’s what she’s most qualified to do, and her attempts to go into other fields were never very successful. This had no influence whatsoever on my career choices, mostly because my career choices have consisted of “Who will hire me?” 4. Have you ever had to choose between having a career and having a family? Nope. Heh. My illustrious career. 5. In your opinion, what is the easiest job in the world? What is the hardest? Why? Oh, this is an easy one. The easiest job in the world is the one you love, and the hardest is the one you hate. The easiest job for me is taking pictures of the cats and writing journal entries. The hardest is cleaning. Some domestic engineer, huh?]]>

Also, our rose bushes are responding well to the incredibly stifling heat and putting out blooms like nobody’s business. A gorgeous yellow butterfly has been flitting around in the front flowerbed for the past several days. He’s always out there, and if I want to see him, all I have to do is look out the window, and sooner or later he flits by. It’s kind of like a sign, isn’t it? I mean, I don’t know what that particular sign would mean, but it seems very sign-like. * * * The recipe for the poppy seed cake (hee! I originally typed “poopy seed cake”!) the spud made in Maine that was so scrump-dilly-icious is here. Also, the recipe for the blueberry muffins my mother made while I was in Maine is here. * * * Currently reading: Speaking with the Angel. A bunch of popular writers – Melissa Banks, Dave Eggers, Helen Fielding, Colin Firth (the actor, yes), Nick Hornby – each wrote a short story and contributed it to this book. It’s good so far – I’m on the story by Colin Firth at the moment, and enjoying it. * * * Something on the floor? I think you know what to do… Miz Poo would like you to know that her Momma is being very annoying with that friggity-ass camera.]]>

We really couldn’t get a good picture of it, but they shaved her poor little chin. From the right angle, it looks like her lower jaw was removed or something – I hadn’t realized just how thick her fur is. Not only did they shave her chin and give her a shot, but we also have to give her oral medication, wash her chin twice a day, and put medicine on it. It’s going surprisingly well, probably because there are two of us doing it. I said to Fred last night “You’re not allowed to die before me, because there’s just no way in hell I could give the cats their medicine without you to help me.” How do people do it without help? I mean, if you’ll recall, I wasn’t even able to get a pill down the throat of Tubby while Fred was recovering from surgery and he had to do it. I’m useless when it comes to certain things, I’ll admit it. When Fred got back from the vet, Miz Poo got out of the box, her eyes big and dark and her ears held out to the sides, as if there was something not right, but she just couldn’t put her paw on it. She followed me around from room to room and then sat and stared at me, as though I held the answer. My poor baby! Fred and I compared this vet’s bill to the one we got when he took Fancypants a few months ago, and saw that the new vet charges less for almost everything – including a single charge of $30 for the office visit and examination. The old vet charged $17 for the office visit, and another $20 for the examination. PLUS, they gave Fred the name of someone who’ll come feed the cats while we’re in Gatlinburg in October, so we don’t have to impose on his father to do it. Too cool. * * * Currently reading: Mother of Pearl, and likin’ it, to my surprise. I’ve been eyeballing it as I drew closer and closer to it (y’know I’m still trying to finish off the shelf of books I started a few months ago), thinking “Oh maaaan. I don’t REALLY want to read that, do I?” I mean, it’s one of the Oprah’s book club books. But I’m really liking it more than I thought possible. I guess there’s more to life than Zany Chick books. Not that Zany Chick books don’t have their place, but you can’t live on a steady diet of Zany Chick books any more than you can survive on a diet of Ring Dings and whoopie pies. Well. Maybe you could, and you’d probably die happy… Okay. Shut up, Robyn.]]>

a frog a few weeks ago. Who am I to judge? As we rounded the corner, she pointed to another yard. “I was scared of those dogs, too, until I saw that they wouldn’t leave the yard.” I nodded my understanding, and as we walked a bit further, she told me that she was going to go home and get an umbrella to defend herself in case she needed it, and finish her walk. She pointed out that just opening the umbrella would scare off any marauding pups, and if that didn’t work, she could stab them – using both her arms, she lunged forward in a violent stabbing motion – and then run away. We approached the corner of her street, and a tiny dog came running at us. I watched her carefully to see if this dog – who was the size of my foot and a miniature something-or-other, something with a lot of hair and a bow on it’s head – was going to freak her out. It turned out that she knew this dog, whose name was Gizmo, and after I petted him on the top of his head and waved in her direction, I went on my way. Heh. You thought I was going to say that I’d thrown myself in the path of an attacking dog, didn’t you? Silly readers.]]>

Fred’s entry Saturday. I’m just as glad I had no idea it was going on. Later Saturday morning, Fred and the spud went off to Wal-Mart, and I settled my lazy ass down in the chair in my bedroom to read. After about an hour, I heard the distinctive thumping of a cat running his fat ass as fast as his stubby legs could carry him. It didn’t sound like he was running for the sheer joy of running, or like he was chasing another cat. No, it sounded like he was CHASING something, probably something scary that would cause me to scream and run around in circles. I saw a big white blur as he pounded into the bedroom and was hidden from my view on the other side of the bed. “Oh, fuck,” I muttered and got up to investigate. A large dark blur – something frog sized – was running under the bedside table. Tubby blocked it’s passage on one side, whereupon it ran in the other direction, only to be blocked again, and then it disappeared under the bed. “TUBBY!” I bellowed, and he turned to look up at me. He meowed bitchily. I stomped my foot at him. He meowed bitchily again. “TUBBY GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!” I ordered, and grudgingly he did. My heart in my throat, I reluctantly got on my stomach and peered under the bed. There was a lot of cat hair, several earplugs, a Puffkins magnet, and on the far side sat Spot, who blinked sleepily at me. No frog. No nothing. I sat up and puzzled over it. Maybe the dark thing I’d seen had been Spot’s hindquarters? I could have sworn that Tubby had been the only cat running, but Spot is fairly light and maybe the pounding sound of Tubby’s stubby legs hitting the floor drowned out any sound Spot had made. It was possible, maybe. I looked under the bed again, searching for anything frog-shaped. I looked at Tubby, who was sitting right outside the bedroom door. I looked at Miz Poo, who was sniffing wildly along the path from the door to the bed. I looked under the bedside table, the other bedside table, the chair, in the bathroom, made Spot move so I could look where he was sitting, and nothing. Not a thing. I shrugged and determined that Tubby had been chasing Spot. I decided to go eat lunch, keeping an ear cocked for the sounds of running cats. When Fred and the spud got home, I told her to go upstairs and see what the cats were doing. She reported back that they were just laying around (I don’t know what I was expecting her to tell me – that they were rehearsing for their rendition of Cabaret?), so I decided there was nothing to worry about, and forgot about it. We spent the afternoon watching Clockstoppers. Actually, Fred put the movie in and I asked him to turn on the light (it’s closer to where he sits), because I was going to check out a magazine while the movie was on, and he got a disappointed look on his face. “You’re not going to watch the movie?” he said sadly. I felt so bad that I put my magazine down. TEN FUCKING MINUTES into the movie, he disappeared into the computer room and came back out exactly twice during the main part of the movie, for maybe two minutes each time, and then watched the last five minutes of the movie with us. “I was flooping the flibberty-flap,” he said, throwing technical terms at me so I wouldn’t suspect he’d been downloading porn. After dinner, we went upstairs to lay down and talk for a few minutes, and I walked into the bedroom to see Tubby laying and staring at the stuffed animals I have gathered on the floor next to the cedar chest sitting under the window next to the bathroom. Follow? “Tubby’s trying to seduce my stuffed animals again,” I said. Fred went over and patted Tubby. “I wonder if there’s a frog amongst your animals,” he said jokingly. A second later he said “These kind of look like droppings…” And yet another second later, he said “Hey. There’s a mouse behind the trunk!” Sure enough, there was a cute little brown mouse sitting there. We blocked off one side of the trunk, Fred held a Steak-Out cup on the other side, and I used a stick to push the mouse into the cup. He very much did NOT want to go in that cup, either, but he was no match for the stick. Fred covered the cup with a book, and we took him out back to let him free. Fred pushed him through a hole in the fence, and I’m hoping like hell he doesn’t get dragged back into the house again. He sure was cute, though. It was a very productive day for the hunters in the house, apparently. I just hope like hell they don’t bring a skunk into the damn house, because I really WILL ship Tubby’s ass off to you, Nance! * * * Recently, Fred was checking the stats for his site, and followed a link to someone’s links page. They had me listed first, and said something along the lines of “Robyn is hilarious.” They had Fred listed second, and said something like “Fred is Robyn’s husband. He’s just as funny if not funnier than she is!” Fred reported this to me with a self-satisfied gleam in his eye. I just smiled and went about my business. Because I know that Fred thinks he’s funnier than I am. He thinks he’s not only funnier than I am, but WAY funnier than I am. He’s wrong, of course, but it’s always nice to let him have his delusions. * * * I was watching Sex and the City last night, and – this was during Carrie’s party – a man came on the screen next to Candice Bergen. “Hey,” I muttered out loud, since there was no one else around. “That’s Isaac Mizrahi.” A second later, someone mentioned him by name. My question to you is this: Why the fuck do I know Isaac Mizrahi’s name? I know he’s a designer, but since I only buy from my own personal designer – Cheap ‘n Crappy Clothing Iz Us – why would I know the name of Isaac Mizrahi? What does he design, and WHY DO I KNOW WHAT HE LOOKS LIKE? Why is his name and face taking up valuable brain space that could be better served by retaining something useful, like math stuff (of course, let’s not be silly – my brain ain’t made to retain math stuff)? What the chances that I’ll ever ever buy anything from him? I’ll tell you what the chances are – zip, nada, zilch. If I were to win 45 million dollars in the lottery, I MIGHT go from shopping at Wal-Mart to shopping at JC Penney’s for my clothes, but Isaac Mizrahi? I don’t think so. Other designer names that are taking up brain space: Dolce and Gabbana. Vera Wang (probably because every Hollywood starlet who gets married has her do their wedding gown. Plus, I wear Vera Wang perfume sometimes). Donna Karan. Todd Oldham. There are more, but those are the main ones who come to mind. I wish I could go through my brain files and delete willy-nilly the way I do with files on my computer. Of course with my luck, I wouldn’t be paying attention and would accidentally delete something important, like my name, or those pesky “Fred” files. * * * Poor Miz Poo. It appears that she may have developed herself some chin acne. If it’s not one thing – her eyes – it’s another, ain’t it? Fred’s taking her to the vet tomorrow. I hope it’s acne, and not something nasty and highly infectious that she’s passed on to me. Poor Miz Poo. Poor portly, evil Miz Poo. ]]>

pirated software from one of their auctions two years ago, I’m not holding out much hope. Thank god it was only $11 and not hundreds… Again – CHECK THOSE FEEDBACKS, people! * * * So, contrary to what I previously stated, I won’t be attending JournalCon THIS year, either. It all came down to the fact that it was a choice between my going to JournalCon, or all three of us going to Gatlinburg, and after much discussion we decided it was going to be Gatlinburg. I’m already saving for next year, though. * * * We (Fred and I) watched In the Bedroom last night. I liked it, Fred didn’t. He thought it dragged too much, and whined and moaned about how LONG it was (it’s about 2 hours, for the record). He only was interested in seeing it because he’d heard that one actress smacks the shit out of another, who wasn’t expecting a real slap. Fred also thought it was too jumpy, jumping from scene to scene without any kind of transition, but I think the story was told well. I had NO idea that it was going to end the way it did, and it kind of seemed to strike a false note there, with that happening (heh – I’m trying not to put any spoilers in here, can you tell?). The scenery was awesome – at one point, I yelled to Fred “Hey! I’ve been right THERE! And there, too!”, because the movie was filmed in Maine, and I recognized some of it. There were a couple of goofs – mainly when one character says “But the airport is south of here.” when it in fact is NOT south of where they were starting out from, at least not if they were headed for the Portland airport. That seemed to be an easy thing to check out, and I almost wonder if the director left it in on purpose. William Mapother – Tom Cruise’s cousin – plays Marisa Tomei’s almost-ex-husband. I was amazed at how he had all of Tom’s features – the nose, the beady eyes – but whereas Tom is very good-looking, his cousin is very much not so. Sissy Spacek and Tom Wilkinson were excellent – actually, all the actors in this movie were pretty good. I recommend it, if you’re not the type of person who prefers forgettable action as does someone we all know and love. * * * If you’ve never heard of SHeDaisy, they’re a country group comprised of three sisters, who have had a couple of hits. When their first hit “Little Goodbyes” came out (at least I think it was their first one – and I assume it was a hit, because it was in heavy rotation on GAC), I was absolutely amazed by the resemblance of one of the girls to a famous person. A famous man, to be exact. I submit for your perusal the following two pictures for comparison. On the left, Kelsi Osborne from SHeDaisy. On the right, one Kurt Russell in drag from his role on the craptastic Tango and Cash. You can’t deny the resemblance, no matter how hard you try. I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find out someday to find out that he’s her biological father or something. Not that I’m saying that Kelsi is manly looking or unattractive – in fact, I think she’s the cutest one out of the three Osborne sisters, but she’s just a dead ringer for Kurt Russell. Could be worse, right?]]>

This is only the breast. Granted, the breast is the biggest part of the turkey, but can you imagine what this guy looked like when he was still alive? They must have pumped hormones into him every 10 seconds – there are entire turkeys smaller than this breast. Looking at this hormone-laden piece of meat makes me… well, it makes me kinda drool, actually. I basted it with Brummel and Brown (for that buttery taste!), and tossed Old Bay and Italian Herb seasoning on it willy-nilly, rather than ruuuuubbing it into the skin. I can’t stand to touch raw meat – remind me to tell the story about the Thanksgiving when Debbie and I were responsible for stuffing the turkey – and it’s not because it was once a living thing or anything. It’s because I can almost see the salmonella running off the meat and running wild across the counters with the sole intent of making me ill from food poisoning. Apparently Fred feels the same way, because when I set the turkey breast on the counter to partially thaw last night (yes, I KNOW you’re supposed to thaw it in the refrigerator, but there’s no way it would have been thawed enough by today to cook it), the frost on the package melted, and Fred said “You’ve got a big pool of salmonella making a run for my bowl of popcorn.” Heh. Anyway, the turkey’s smelling really good right now, and I’m thinking I’ll have to use the leftovers to make some turkey soup for dinner one of these nights. I’d invite y’all – I’m sure there’ll be plenty – but Himself would probably not look kindly upon such a thing. * * * So, now that Athena received the package I sent her last week, I can show you a picture of the funniest damn stuffed lobster I’ve ever seen: I found this guy when we were in Boothbay Harbor – I went into the store to see if they had any stuffed lobsters, because Athena’s baby Ty has an ocean-themed room, and no ocean-themed anything is complete without a stuffed lobster. When I saw this lobster, I fell in love so completely that not only did I buy one for Ty, but I also bought one for ME. (I also bought Ty and his big brother Aidan matching t-shirts with grinning moose mooses meese on them, but forgot to snap a pic.) His name is Looney Lobster, and he’s made by Fiesta� , but I couldn’t find a link where y’all could buy one for yourselves, sorry. You’ll just have to live with that seething jealousy in your hearts, I guess. * * * For some reason, the master bathroom is a popular hangout for spiders. They weave their webs, sit grumpily in them for a day or three, and then move on when they realize that the bathroom isn’t exactly Bug Central. Earlier today, before I vacuumed them up, there were no less than three abandoned fuzz-filled spider webs in the bathroom, and that’s just in the last week. I can understand why they’d set up shop near the downstairs window, the one with the cat door in it, because some kind of bug or another is always trying to sneak into the house there, but in the bathroom? I don’t see it. Considering how many spiders I run across in the house each day, I’m amazed that I was ever scared of them. At this point, I look at them to make sure they’re not poisonous, and if they aren’t (and I haven’t seen a poisonous one yet) I let them go about their business. Sure, if I’m vacuuming or wiping down the baseboards, I suck them up or grab them with my dustrag, but if they’re not in the way and as long as they keep their webs relatively clean – no fuzzies or bug parts hanging around – I could care less. They’re pretty small spiders for the most part – it would probably be a different story if one of those HUGE ones with big, fat bodies showed up next to my desk. Speaking of bugs, while I was in Maine, after we all went out to eat one night, I walked into my parents’ kitchen to see the most ADORABLE little bug sitting next to their sink. It was so cute, sitting there with it’s little antennae waving around as it tried to figure out what planet it had ended up on, that I turned to my father and said “What kind of bug is THAT?” My father looked closely at it, shrugged, and said “Just a bug.” And SQUISHED it with his finger. Poor cute little bug. * * * When I was running around looking for Tubby so I could take the picture for the Theme Thursday yesterday (and for the record, I thought it WAS Thursday yesterday, that’s why I put the picture in my entry), I got some other pretty good pictures I must share. I know you’re amazed – “Cat pictures?!” you’re exclaiming with shock and wonderment, “She NEVER shows us any cat pictures!” Well, there’s always a first time. Doesn’t she look pleased? Spanky’s favorite spot – on the chair in the corner of my room, snuggled under the pillow. He’ll spend all day there sometimes. Another shot of the faaaaabulous Tuberella.]]>

And really, what embodies that topic better than a black and white picture of a black and white cat? * * * With this group always smiling evilly at me, is it any wonder I always feel like someone’s watching me? * * * Fred made a REALLY good choice at the grocery store this week, as far as flowers went. They don’t quite look real, do they? Trust me, they are. And they’re gorgeous, and I love him for buying me flowers that he knows I’ll love. * * * I’m still working on getting those Maine pictures put up. I haven’t actually DONE anything about putting them together you understand, but I’ve been thinking about it (“I really need to get the Maine pictures put up… Hey, is that Welcome Back Kotter?”). One of these days. Speaking of cameras (well, pictures), my father’s birthday is in less than two weeks, and when I spoke to my mother on Sunday she shooed my father out of the room and asked if I could order a camera for him just like mine, and she’d pay me back. So all week I’ve been looking for the best price for the best accessories, and finally decided that my mother could pay for the camera, and Fred and I would give him the accessories that make having a digital camera easier to deal with – the rechargeable battery, the memory stick reader – and that way I know for sure he’ll definitely use his birthday present this year. I’m usually at a loss what to send him and settle for flowers. The camera and accessories will be a big hit, I’m sure. My poor grandmother will probably get flowers again, though. * * * I’m currently reading Choke, by Chuck Palahniuk, the same guy who wrote Fight Club, which I never read. I’m 2/3 of the way through the book, and can’t decide whether I like it or not. Though now that I think about it, I had the same reaction to Fight Club, the movie. And speaking of books, Fred was laughing so hard when he was reading Barrel Fever the other night that I thought he was going to pass out. I think that’s the next thing I’m going to read, because I know I’ll like anything by David Sedaris.]]>