Author: Robyn

Over the weekend, I happened to read A Potential Problem, by Jennifer Groepl, on my iPod Touch. I’m not usually a big fan of YA

(though now that I think about it, the Harry Potter books and the Hunger Games trilogy are YA, aren’t they? Maybe I should stop saying I’m not a fan of YA.)

but I ended up staying up ’til midnight to finish reading it, and now I’m anxious for the next in the series to be available. This is what’s truly awesome about the e-book revolution (if I can cheesily call it that), that you get to read well-written books like this one for a mere $2.99, and (or so I’m hoping) you don’t have to wait forever and a day for the sequel to come out.

Definitely worth a read; check it out.

So, I was laying on the couch catching up on my vitally important Real Housewives episodes (I am not loving New York this season ’round), and there was a knock at the door.

Now, the TV (and the couches) could not possibly be closer to the front door. And most days I don’t open the blinds that hang behind the couch where Fred sits, but on this particular day I had, because I wanted more light to come into the room. The front door has a beveled glass design in it, so whoever was knocking could likely see through the glass that the TV was playing – if they couldn’t hear it. And if I didn’t answer the door, it would have been a mere three or four steps to the windows over Fred’s couch, where whoever was knocking on the door could peer in through the window and see that I was watching fine quality entertainment, AND that I was laying my lazy ass on the couch surrounded by 130 cats.

Besides that, our neighbor had come over the night before to ask Fred something, and so I thought perhaps it might be she who was knocking on the door to interrupt me.

I was trapped, in other words.

So I pushed 78 cats off of me and stood up, and went to open the door.

Was it our neighbor? Why, fuck no it wasn’t our neighbor. It was some guy holding an ADT sign and possibly (I don’t recall exactly, but it seems likely) wearing a polo shirt with the ADT logo on it.

“Hello,” he said, and offered his hand to me. I was taken aback for a moment – here in the South, it’s HIIIIIGHly unusual for a man to offer his hand for a handshake; in fact, I don’t think it’s considered proper etiquette CAN I GET A HOLLA COUNTESS LUANN, DAHHHHHHLING – but after a slight pause, I shook his hand.

Now. If you are GOING to offer your moist hand (yes, it was close to 100 degrees outside, and no, that doesn’t stop from being judgey because I was minding my own goddamn business when your moist hand knocked upon my door) for a handshake, it would behoove you to not lay your moist hand in MY perfectly cool and dry hand as though your hand is a dead, limp, moist fish. It would behoove you to shake hands properly. PROP. ER. LY.

I know what you’re going to say. “But Robyn!” you are exclaiming. “What about my arthritis! My old and aching joints cannot take the pressure of a handshake!”

To you I say, THEN DON’T OFFER YOUR ARTHRITIC CLAW FOR A HANDSHAKE AND IF A MOIST AND LIMP HAND IS PRESENTED TO YOU, GLARE UPON IT AS THOUGH YOU ARE MORTALLY OFFENDED. Really, does a moist and limp hand that lays in your hand make your arthritis feel better?

I suspect not.

So Mr. Moist and Limp set off the “I don’t care if you’re here to give me ten million dollars from a dear departed relative I never knew existed, I want nothing to do with you” alarms in my head, but I set my face in a polite listening pose and I waited.

Such a great deal Mr. MaL wanted to offer me. He wanted to put the ADT sign in my yard so that if my neighbors’ homes were broken into, they would see the sign, and it would cause them to call ADT to have a home security system installed.

BUT THAT’S NOT ALL.

For allowing them to put the sign in my yard, they would give – I SAY GIVE – me a $1,300 home security system. For my own home.

FOR FREE.

“Wouldn’t you agree that that’s a good deal?” said Mr. Moist and Limp, who was now rather sweaty.

“That sounds fabulous,” I said.

He stared at me, perhaps trying to decide if I was sincere (I was not). He inched slightly closer to me, perhaps already counting his commission.

“But you’d need to talk to my husband,” I said. “I don’t make any kind of financial decisions in THIS household.”

He stared at me, and then stammered for a moment before I took pity on him and told him Fred would be home after 6:00.

I cringed through another limp and moist handshake, and then he was gone.

I was upstairs with the kittens that evening around 6:15 when I heard a knock on the door. Fred wasn’t home – he was supposed to be when I told the guy he’d be home after 6:00, but he later found that he had to work later than expected. I didn’t answer the door, and the guy hasn’t been back.

You better believe I’ve left the blinds behind Fred’s couch and on the front door closed ever since.

“What’s she doing?”
“Eating our Babycat. Isn’t she purrrrty?”

“Where’s she going?”
“I dunno.”

“This one needs a bath.”

“What? She was hungry!”

Coriander gets hissy with Ciara.

“What the – ?”

“I DON’T KNOW WHAT IT IS, BUT IT’S SKEERY.”

“You know, I’m not really sure what I think about all these little – Ooh! Babycat! Pardon me while I belly up to the bowl!”

Macushla keeps an eye on Cilantro.

“Where’d she go?!”

I had no sooner uttered the words “I’m pretty sure the McMaos aren’t nursing any more” than they apparently took my words as a challenge.

I love all the different stripes.

Poor Maggie. She puts up with so much from these little brats!

Even at too old for this nonsense, they are utterly adorable when they nurse.

In the doorway between the hallway and dining room. (Hey, that’s appropriate, no?)

She’s had just about enough of THIS.

“Do you see? Do you SEE why I’m always hungry? They’re sucking the life out of me!”

Maxi and Newt, in the side yard. Newt spends almost all day either in the side yard or in the house. Maxi spends most of the day off to points unknown, then moseys back home mid-afternoon.

Previously
2010: Fucking flies.
2009: Brian graduates.
2008: No entry.
2007: “UGH. I HAVE A DEAD BIRD IN MY HOUSE AND I TOUCHED IT!”
2006: Do I know how to live large, or what?
2005: It took me a minute to get it. Duh.
2004: Have I mentioned that I have a big ol’ crush on Roland? Yeah. There’s me, being geeky again…
2003: Still no Fancypants.
2002: Well, did you feel the earth crack open?
2001: I guess not everyone is as much a wimp as I.
2000: I feel like I spent all day running around like a chicken with it’s head cut off and got nothing accomplished.

You know, I’m sitting here thinking, and for the life of me I cannot remember what on earth I did on Saturday. I’m sure there was housework and lots of snuggling with kittens, but other than that do you think I can remember a single thing I did? Not a one.

Actually, that’s not true – I know that Saturday afternoon I could no longer keep my eyes open, so I lay on the couch and looked through magazines for a few minutes. I decided it was time for napping, so I turned onto my side and that was the signal to all 300 cats in the house that it was time to GET WILD. I had one behind my knees and one in front of my knees, and they were snaking their sharp little monkey claws between my knees to bat at each other. I put them on the floor, and one bounded up onto the back of the couch and the other settled on my hip, and they batted at each other and rolled around biting each other and occasionally me. I put them on the floor again, and they bounded up from the floor, did a half-gainer across my face, to the back of the couch, and back down to the floor. Over. And over. And over again.

Little fuckers.

So when they were taking THEIR naps at 5 pm (seriously, naps at 5 pm. Have you ever heard anything so ridiculous?) I went in and poked them and said “Are ya sleepin’, huh? Are ya sleepin’? Wake up, it’s TIME TO PLAY!” It was no fun, though, they just blinked at me and went back to sleep.

We watched the Coen Brothers’ remake of True Grit Saturday night, and it was really good. I could only understand about every third word Jeff Bridges (as Rooster Cogburn) said, but that didn’t affect my understanding or enjoyment of the movie. I recommend it.

Sunday morning I slept in ’til 6:15 (horrors!), and when I got up, I had to clean up a pile of cold cat barf in the computer room not two feet from Fred, who SWORE he hadn’t seen it. LIKELY STORY.

After an early morning cup of Diet Coke, I pulled on my gardening gloves and went out to work in the garden. We put down weed fabric between the rows of tomatoes, and then Fred hooked the sweeper up to the lawnmower, and I drove around and swept up the dried grass from when he mowed Thursday. As the sweeper filled up, I went over to the garden and filled up a bucket, and carried it into the garden and dumped it. When I was done, the weed fabric was covered in a thick layer of dried grass (and leaves, and god knows what else the sweeper picked up).

I know, I know. You’re all “But why did you bother to put the weed fabric down if you were going to just cover it with dead grass, which would effectively block weeds from growing? Why? Why, Robyn, why? And did you wear those damn BOOTS with shorts and a tank top, did you really?”

I say to you, YES I wore a tank top and shorts and BOOTS, because sneakers would have been filled with grass in ten seconds flat and also those boots are comfy and furthermore shaddup.

I say to you also that Fred erroneously told me that as grass decomposes it leeches nitrogen out of the ground which would make my tomatoes unhappy. HOWEVER. Last night I was questioning him further about this made-up sounding horseshit and GUESS THE MOTHERFUCK WHAT. He made it up in his own mind, and we didn’t need to put that weed fabric down, I could have just tossed that grass down on the bare ground and not have to pull the weed fabric up this Fall, and I tell you what, I will be CURSING HIS ASS when I’m pulling that shit up. Is what I’m saying. That fucker.

So it took me the better part of the morning to drag the sweeper in a most random fashion around our property, then dump it on the garden. I only got one row covered in grass clippings, but Fred mowed the back forty on Sunday. After the clippings out there has (have?) dried for the better part of the week, I’ll take the sweeper out there and I’m sure by the time I’m done gathering all the clippings from the back forty, I’ll have enough clippings (clippings clippings clippings) to cover the garden six feet deep in, y’know. Clippings.

Who won’t be weeding the garden this summer? That’s right, it’s us who won’t be weeding, WOOT.

(I hate weeding.)

Then I transplanted all my catnip from the pots they were growing in, to the empty raised bed I pulled the spinach and romaine from last week. I stood over my garlic chives and despaired about how they are spindly and useless and stupid and not growing worth a shit for some reason (fuckers). Then I went into the house, and by the time I’d showered and put dishes away, it was lunch time.

I didn’t do anything noteworthy (or that I can really even remember) for the rest of Sunday. I should probably go out and do something in the garden today but, eh. I don’t wanna. I suppose I’ll vacuum.

OH. I know what I did Saturday afternoon – I cleaned the piles of crap off the top of the dresser in my bedroom, and straightened out the two bookcases in my room. It makes a huge difference, at least to me. Seriously, I’ve been piling crap on top of my dresser for months now, and it’s nice to have it all put away and mostly organized.

A few months ago I bought a plastic drawer unit thingy at Lowe’s so I could keep all my kitten supplies in one place. Once I got it all organized how I wanted, I put the unit in my closet. Unfortunately, it gets really hot in my closets in the summer (and cold in the winter) and I was afraid that wasn’t good for the medication, so I moved it out into my room. It’s not the prettiest thing, but it’s behind the door and no one will see it but me (and Fred, though I highly suspect he doesn’t even notice it), and I’d rather be safe than wondering why the holy hell the dewormer (or whatever) I’m giving the kittens isn’t working.

So I’ve got it sitting next to the small bookcase that used to live in the bathroom, behind the door, and I also got all my cat beds and blankets straightened out into neat piles.

“What doin’, lady?” (Declan, with Ciara and Fergus Simon behind him.)

Declan, up close.

Macushla, sleeping on the guest bed. Even though they have the run of the house during the day, they tend to return to the guest bedroom for naps, and of course they’re locked in there for the night.

Pretty Ciara, giving me some sass.

Cat bed under the human bed. What better place to sleep, right?

Just checking in.

So, Maggie has been doing more visiting with the Spice Girls. In fact, if I go upstairs during the day, she’s apt to follow me up and ask to go into the room with them. At first, I was like “Oh, right, she wants to eat their Babycat (food)!” But she really seems to enjoy spending time with them, has been letting them nurse for a few minutes at a time, and loves to groom them. She’ll spend half an hour or so with them before she starts sitting at the door waiting to be let out.

Friday night, we put her in the room with them overnight, and then Fred let her out when he got up Saturday morning. She moseyed out the door, went down the stairs, and sat by the guest bedroom waiting to be let in with her babies. If left to her own devices, she’s happy to split her time between the Spice Girls and her babies, so we let her do that.

I’ve let a few of the McMaos in to see the Spice Girls (limited, short visits), and it’s gone okay. Some of the McMaos are hissier than others. Cillian’s pretty laid-back. On the other hand, Clove went right over to Declan and tried to rub against him, and he gave her THE most offended look and hissed at her.

It was seriously cute.

I’m not ready to give the girls the run of the house just yet – maybe another week – if only because I’m afraid they’ll get pushy with one of the McMaos and then get smacked, and I’d prefer to have them just a bit bigger for that.

Speaking of size, the girls are currently weighing in at 1 lb, 4 oz (Clove), 1 lb, 8 oz (Cilantro), and 1 lb, 12 oz (Coriander).

Lita asked how old the Spice Girls are. They were about 5 weeks old when I got them, which makes them about 7 weeks old now. Their eyes still look really blue in the pictures I’m taking, but if you’re able to get a close look, you can see that they’re actually changing color. They still look bluish, but that’s mostly because they’re blue around the edges.

“Wow, these mirrors are nasty.”

“Seriously, you ever clean these things, lady? This is horrifying. I’m afraid I’ll get a disease next time I lick my reflection.”

“Someone hand me the Windex!”

(YES, I clean those – in fact, I cleaned them before the Spice Girls moved into that room! But when they’re always touching the mirrors with their paws and noses and licking them, and sneezing on them, they get gross quickly.)

Cilantro keeping an eye on the feather teaser.

“Hi, Mama! Are you our mama? Will you be our mama? Can we follow you around and harass you like you was our mama?”

Maggie remembers what she so loves about little ones: they can’t leave her tail alone.

Comfy are we, little girl?

Clove, rubbing up against Cilantro. I love it when kittens do that.

Stinkerbelle in the evening sun.

Stinkerbelle pretty much lives on top of the kitchen cabinets (we call her our “house feral”). She comes down to eat, of course, and use the litter box and sometimes to look for her beloved Tommy. Lately, she’s been venturing into other parts of the house instead of spending all her time in the kitchen, because Alice has started hanging out in Stinkerbelle’s cat bed. I like that Stinkerbelle’s not spending ALL her time atop the cabinets, though of course she’s still up there a lot. You can pet Stinkerbelle if she’s in the mood to let you, but she has an extremely low tolerance for petting, and Fred is always getting a smack from her when he tries to pet her more than a couple of times.

Previously
2010: No entry.
2009: They’re adorable; you’ll have to take my word for it.
2008: “This isn’t a bad movie,” Fred said at one point. “Even though Christian Haydensen is the worst actor in the world.”
2007: “It’s four tiny pink featherless baby birds in a nest that fell out of the chimney.”
2006: “I’d like to suggest, in the most non-harassing way possible, that we go for a hike after dinner.”
2005: Gives a whole new meaning to the term of endearment “Shithead”, doesn’t it?
2004: No entry.
2003: Still no Fancypants.
2002: What the FUCK is going on with Meg Ryan’s hair?!
2001: House hunting.
2000: Any way you slice it, it’s going to be one hell of a long drive.

Leonore gave me an ‘Irresistibly Sweet Blogger’ award, and I wrote seven random things about myself (and in turn awarded it to seven other bloggers) over at Love & Hisses.

Cilantro in the cat tree.

Sweet smilin’ Coriander.

“What?”

Coriander and Clove.

Left to right, Cilantro, Coriander, and Clove. They refused to move closer together, the brats.

::thlurrrp::

“WHOA, whoa, wait. Whatchoo MEAN it’s not snack time yet?!”

Coriander. Don’t you want to just kiss her on her little nose? She’d bite your face off, though. Don’t be fooled by the sweet face.

Coriander in motion, and Cilantro’s all “What just happened here?”

Over the weekend, we started giving Maggie and her babies some time to explore. We were worried at first that Maggie would see one of our cats growling or hissing at one of her kittens, and would rip them apart, so we kept a careful eye on her. And it’s been perfectly fine. At one point, Alice did hiss at one of the kittens, and Maggie went over and got in her face, and Alice backed right down. It’s been pretty calm, all in all.

Macushla saw Elwood and went ::FLOOF::

“HI MISTER, WHAT YOU DOIN’?” (Spanky’s sorry he ventured in to see what was going on, that’s for sure.)

One thing I like about having the McMaos in the guest bedroom is that there’s a bed where I can lay down and pet them, and they can climb all over me.

“HI MAMA WHEN YOU COMIN’ DOWN?”
“Not any time soon, child.”

So for the past few days what I do is let them out of the guest bedroom around 9 and let them run and play for a couple of hours. Between 11 and noon, they all tend to naturally wander back to the guest bedroom and curl up to sleep, so I shut the door so they can have some time away from our cats, and vice versa. Then, mid-afternoon, I open the door again, and they run around and play ’til 9:00, when we gather them up, put them back in the guest bedroom, and then shut them in for the night. It’s working out well, so far.

Loony Jake sure does love his Tommy.

Previously
2010: No entry.
2009: You know how it is when you have ten million errands to run, but all you want to do is get home?
2008: No entry.
2007: Today, no weeding for me.
2006: Apparently I’m high. And in desperate need of makeup.
2005: By this time the investigator’s eyes had glazed over, and he was clearly thinking “This has WHAT to do with reliability?”
2004: When I was on the pier, the bream darted forward to partake of my delicious thighs, and I stomped across the pier as fast as I could, saying “STOP IT, YOU FUCKERS!” and I stomped up the steps to the top part of the pier, and waited for Fred to take his face out of the water.
2003: No entry.
2002: No entry.
2001: But. It. Was. Too. Far. From. Huntsville.
2000: Oh look, it’s Robyn, bitching. How unusual.

Okay, I have a football related question, but if you’re not caught up on the latest episode of Friday Night Lights, you need to skip down to the next section.

My question is this: a few episodes ago, TMU had Luke come to their campus for a visit, and told him to bring friends. He brought Vince, among others, and it was revealed that TMU was using Luke to get to Vince.

In last week’s episode, Vince and his father made a hush-hush visit to another campus (Oklahoma, I think?) and they had to make a big deal about how it was “unofficial” and hide the visit from Coach Taylor.

So why was the visit to TMU okay, but the other visit wasn’t? What am I missing?

Also, the casting of that kid as Buddy Jr. is possibly the best casting job I’ve ever seen in my entire life. He is a DEAD RINGER for Buddy Garrity. Some casting director needs a bonus.

Also also, if Vince doesn’t stop starting sentences with “I mean” (ie, “How are you today, Vince?” “I mean, okay, you know.”), I will fly through the TV and throttle him. SO FUCKING ANNOYING.

This whole internet thing is awesome and all, but there are times when I’m trying to do stuff, and I wish it had never been invented. Specifically, yesterday I was trying to order a new digital scale for weighing kittens on (the one I have is really just not working for me), and so I went to a site where I’ve ordered stuff before, and added the scale to my “cart” and went to check out.

The site was all “Oh, do pardon us, your street address is too long, could you please shorten it?”

So I changed my mailing address to something shorter* and hit the “submit” key, and the fucking program changed it back to the longer version. After two or three times, I let loose a stream of obscenities and stomped off to make lunch. Then I got back to my computer and tried again. Finally, after actually considering calling the company’s stupid 1-800 number and talking to a real live person (THE HORROR), I finally logged out of my account, pretended I was someone else who had never shopped there before, and entered the shorter mailing address. That went through.

BUT.

When I got the confirmation that my order had shipped? It was shipping to the too-long address. They figured out my wily scheme and knew what the correct address was.

Fuckers.

*I fucking HATE our address, it’s a huge fucking pain in the ass. Every time someone asks for it, I have to be all “3018 Southern – yes, Southern. No, we’re not done yet, that’s not the entire street name, because every time I move somewhere in this ridiculous godforsaken 100-degrees-at-the-beginning-of-June state, I end up moving to somewhere with a street name more complicated and convoluted than where we lived previously. So, 3018 Southern Smithenheimer** – S-M-I-T-H-E-N-H-E-I-M – no, just one word. S-M-I-T-H-E-N-H-E-I-M – oh, that’s too long for your program? Try it with “So.” instead of Southern. It doesn’t always work, but it usually does. Right, 3018. You know what? Never mind. CANCEL THE FUCKING ORDER I’LL MAKE MY OWN GODDAMN PIZZA.”

**Probably it goes without saying, but that’s not my real address. Though my house number DOES have four numbers in it. The second one might even be a zero.

Maggie and the babies, at snack time.

Trapped! (Would you look at the size of those paws?)

::thlurrp::

“What doin’, lady? You layin’ down? You gonna take a nap? You want me to lay down with you, huh?”

I find it best not to ask any questions in cases like this.

Ciara and Cillian headed up the stairs to the bed.

I have the hardest time not squeezing the stuffing out of her.

Hello, trouble.

“Stop lookin’ at me. I need some quiet time alone in my giant teacup.”

::thlurrp::

Always in my lap, this one.

It’s a Newtie.

Previously
2010: RIP, Roscoe and Charlie.
2009: No entry.
2008: No entry.
2007: Hey look, it’s been three years since we first met Stinkerbelle! (She was Maryann then.)
2006: Pictures.
2005: She’s a bad influence, that one.
2004: I have faith in you!
2003: Things that sucked.
2002: Here’s the thing. If you get yourself involved with a man you know full well is married, a man who doesn’t file for divorce until 6 months after he’s met and started dating you, then you don’t get to play the victim.
2001: My very first House Anxiety dream!
2000: Ah, world traveler, me.

New month, new banner!

Thank you once again to the awesome Christine!!!

Man, I don’t know about my gardening skillz. Actually, I guess it’s not my gardening skillz that are in question but WHY THE HOLY HELL is it hovering around 100 degrees at the beginning of June for the LOVE OF GOD. I ended up harvesting what was left of the romaine in my raised bed, yanked up the spinach (which was never happy to begin with), cut the purslane to the ground, and harvested a handful of radishes. I was able to get a couple of small cucumbers out of the big garden, and last night we had a baby romaine/ purslane/ radish/ cucumber salad with dinner, and a side of stir-fried purslane. It was good, but I don’t know that I’m too tempted to grow purslane again next year. We’ll see.

So now I have a raised bed of cauliflower and brussels sprouts growing (I don’t honestly expect much from them at this point), a bed of carrots (which will be harvestable in another month, assuming they make it that long), half a bed of radishes, and a bed and a half is empty. I’m thinking of transplanting the catnip and dill to one of the empty beds. Except for the catnip, none of my herbs look too happy, and I’m wondering if they’re getting too much sun and if I might want to move the pots to a spot where they’ll get some afternoon shade. I wish my garlic chives would PERK THE HELL UP.

On the up side, most of my tomato plants in the big garden look happy and have flowers (I even have some small tomatoes!). On the down side, the early blight has hit a few of the plants, so I spent Sunday spraying fungicide on all the tomatoes in hopes that the blight will go the fuck away.

Gardening, man. It’s harrrrrrrd.

I’ve been craving Applebee’s (don’t judge me!) for ages now. We got an Applebee’s gift card for Christmas, and lately when Fred has asked, Saturday morning, what I want for lunch, I’ve suggested we go to Applebee’s. He’s no great fan of the restaurant, though, so we’ve always ended up going elsewhere.

The middle of last week, I decided I’d just call in a lunch order (the Oriental Chicken Salad is what I’ve been craving, specifically) and go pick it up, and thus my craving would be satisfied and I could move on with my life.

So around noon, I picked up the phone and dialed the number for their curbside service (or whatever the hell it’s called) and the person on the other end answered the phone and mumbled something. I could not understand one single solitary word she said, and I hesitated and opened my mouth to say “Pardon me?”, but then I was overcome with a wave of don’t-want-to-fucking-deal-with-this-itis, and I hung up the phone, cursed a blue streak, and had scrambled eggs for lunch instead.

This past Saturday, Fred started the what-do-you-want-for-lunch thing, and I wasn’t hungry so I didn’t care what we got one way or the other. He tried to get suggestions from me, but I am no fool because I knew that if I was like “I’d kind of like a chicken sandwich from McDonald’s”, he’d immediately want ANYTHING on earth that was NOT McDonald’s, because that’s the kind of pain in the ass he is.

So I was shocked when he said “Let’s just go to Applebee’s. You can get your chicken salad and we can use the gift card.”

We did go to Applebee’s and OF COURSE, because I am annoying to myself like that, I ended up getting the provolone stuffed meatballs instead of the chicken salad. But, I mean, come ON. You can’t show me a picture of cheese-stuffed meat and expect me to go for a salad.

I sure am craving a salad today, though…

Hangin’ in the pile o’ beds by the back door.

Smilin’.

Such a sweet girl.

A few minutes before I unceremoniously stuffed her into a carrier. She was suspicious.

Miss Dorfy has gone to her forever home in… (drumroll) St. Louis! Andrea (who comments at Love & Hisses as Luanne) saw Dorothy and fell in love and emailed me to see if it was a possibility. St. Louis is – we were both surprised to discover – six hours or so from Alabama, which is a long drive but not insanely so. We met at the shelter Saturday afternoon, and Dorothy was all “What the what now?” as she met her new Mom, and then when she went into her fancy new carrier she was all “Um, what?”, but she is such a sweet girl that she didn’t howl all the way to St. Louis (which was what I feared), instead she was quiet most of the way and curious about what was going on.

She joins her new brothers Oliver and Teen Baby and her sister Luanne, and I suspect that it won’t be long before they’re all thick as thieves. It was really nice to be able to meet her new Mom (you know I don’t get to meet the adopters very often), and I have no doubt that she’s going to be one happy, spoiled girl! You can see pictures of Dorothy as time goes by over at Facebook or on Flickr. (There’s not a lot at Flickr, but Andrea promises that once things are settled down (she recently moved) she’ll do her best to live up to her New Mom obligations!)

(©andrea) Stopping in Paducah on the way home.

(©andrea) She’s a St. Louis girl now!

The Spice Girls are doing well. They are three bright-eyed little monkeys, and every time I walk into the room, all three of them rush the door. Then they stop at the barrier (which is there specifically to stop the flow of kittens) and sniff around wildly. Luckily, there are only three of them and they’re small and easy to pick up at the same time.

They kill me with how cute they are!

Coriander snugglepants.

“Welcome to my home! Would you like a tour?” The girls like to sleep in the carrier most of the time – though sometimes they conk out in the middle of the floor.

(Cilantro) I find it endlessly fascinating to see the way their eyes change color, from the pupil outward.

“Do you SEE what I have to put up with?!”

Sweet Miss Clove.

The McMaos got their vaccinations Friday afternoon, and they were sleepy for the rest of the day.

That Fergus Simon, he always gives me such attitude.

“GOD, Mom, I DID my homework! Stop buggin’ me!”

“I said I WILL CLEAN MY ROOM! LEAVE ME ALONE! GOD!”

“How RUDE.”

Have I told you how beautiful you are, Corbie McGee?
“Not in the last ten minutes.”
SO beautiful.
“I know.”

Previously
2010: No entry.
2009: No entry.
2008: For the record, Fred continues to like cheese, just not on a salad. Or burger.
2007: Mister Boogers wiggled frantically, slid through the hole, and ran off across the yard.
2006: HOW ABOUT SOME MOURNING, PAUL?
2005: Dumbass things I have done today.
2004: No entry.
2003: No entry.
2002: No entry.
2001: Ass in the Past will be the name of my 14th novel.
2000: Ah, the heart warms.