Author: Robyn

Jonathan Kellerman book, a 20-pack of mechanical pencils for the spud, and 6-pack of film. For the office, I stocked up on Coke, paper towels, napkins, and trash bags, which just isn’t nearly as much fun as buying stuff for myself. I hit McDonald’s on the way back to the office to pick up lunch for Fred and myself, and then supervised the unloading of the aforementioned office supplies from my truck (I figure, I have to load the stuff in the cart, unload it for the cashier to ring up, re-load it in the cart, then move everything from the cart to my truck. Should I have to then help haul all that stuff into the office? I think not.). I discussed the many conference table options with the bosses (laminated vs. veneered, how long ’til they’re available, what kind of chairs, etc), ate lunch, and then hit the road again, this time to go back to the office furniture stores I’d previously visited, to get more prices on different tables, and then to the accountant’s office to drop off a copy of our backup disk (very, very scary neighborhood). By the time I made it back to the office, it was almost two, and after six-thousand more meetings about conference tables, I left around 2:40 because Fred was going to stop by Best Buy, and someone needed to be home when the spud got off the bus. Like I said, a fast, busy day. That’s the way I like ’em, but I have a serious backlog of journals to catch up on. I’m sure I’ll get the chance later this week. My left ear is seriously clogged and everything sounds muffled on that side. I need to go back to the doctor, so they can check me and declare me over the pneumonia, and no doubt prescribe more antibiotics for my ear, because I just can’t get enough of those lovely antibiotic-enduced yeast infections. I feel like I spend half my life sitting in waiting rooms. Warning: the squeamish and the male amongst you may not want to read the following. And now, for your singing pleasure (to the tune of "The Song that Never Ends" (which I personally heard sung by Sherry Lewis and Lambchop back when the spud was a little thang)): It’s the period that never ennnnnnds!
Yes, it goes on and on my friends!
My uterus star-ted bleeding, because that’s what it does!
And now it’ll go on bleeding forever, just becaaaaaause!
It’s the period that never ennnnnnds! I’ve been having my period for a week now. I thought it was over Monday morning, but nooooooo, it sure as hell wasn’t. I thought it was mostly over by Monday evening, but two hours after inserting a super-extra-jumbo-humongo tampon, I was bleeding through it. What the fuck is up with that? I was up wandering around the bathroom at midnight looking for more tampons and pads. I finally snarled at Fred "Fuck this, I’m going back on the pill!" When I’m on the pill, my periods are shorter, and I know when they’re coming. First thing tomorrow morning, I’m calling my gynecologist to make an appointment, damnit. Between the pneumonia and the period, I haven’t had sex in forever. No wonder I’m tense. Too much information, right? Oh, you know that’s why you love me! —–]]>

8:30 this morning. I woke up at 7:15 when Fred went into the bathroom to take his shower, but I was having an excellent sex dream about Ben Affleck and wanted to get back into it. Ben and me, we had sex in the back of a van. Jealous? I would actually have preferred to dream about James Gandolfini – he’s much more my type. Speaking of dreams, I had a dream the night before last that Fred dared me to walk, naked, about a mile down the road to an old gas station. What’s worse is, not only did I do it, but some random guy walked up to me and started messing around with my boobs. I’d like to blame my weird dreams on the drugs I’m taking, but I don’t think antibiotics are supposed to have that sort of effect. I talked to my sister via IRC yesterday, and she said that my nephew is just getting over the flu. Is there anyone who hasn’t been sick in the last month? The flu and bronchitis seems to have run rampant in the on-line journalling community lately.
Here’s a shot of the kitten, "helping" with the laundry.
And here she is, "helping" with the dishes. Not much going on today – it’s Martin Luther King Day, so Fred and I aren’t working, and the spud doesn’t have school, therefore we’re just hanging around the house – so I’ll end this right here and now rather than yammering on about nothing in particular. But then, that would be the norm, wouldn’t it? Have a good day, y’all! —–]]>

got up. What’s up with that? Back in the old days, before the spud was born, I used to sleep until 10, or later. Even after the spud was born, on many mornings I’d get up with her and snooze on the couch for hours (shutup, the apartment was childproofed). On the weekends, the ex would get up with her, and I’d just lay in bed forever. On the other hand, I did take that 2 hour nap yesterday and then went to sleep around 11 last night, so I’m going to guess that I’m still getting plenty of sleep.

So last night, Fred and I were sitting in front of our computers, and had Cops on in the background (yes, we are very lame). At one point, something caught my attention and I turned around to watch for a few minutes. The cops had been called out to a house where an 8 year-old kid had locked his mother out. The kid stood in the window and made faces at the cops and stuck his tongue out. I was just fuming, because I was imagining being in that mother’s position. I said to Fred, "That kid is not nearly scared enough of his mother!" I mean, can you imagine? If I’d pulled anything like that when I was a kid, my mom would have beaten the shit out of me, and I would have deserved it. There were two cops there, one older – perhaps in his forties – and one much younger – maybe mid to late twenties. The older cop wasn’t at all amused, while the younger cop thought it was funny. The older cop broke a window to get into the house, and hunted the kid down and dragged him out from under his bed into the living room and tossed his ass down on the couch. He was none-too-gentle with the kid, I’ll tell you that. I was yelling "Cuff him! Cuff him!" at the TV, and told Fred "They should tell him they’re taking him to jail!" But the kid just wiggled around on the couch and kicked his legs. He was a little scared, but not nearly enough. Kids these days just aren’t scared of their parents, and they should be. Everyone wants to be buddies with their kids, and that does no one any kind of favor. Kids don’t need buddies, they need parents, and when their parents try to be their friend, it’s too damn confusing.

Okay, off my soapbox. Y’all have a good day, now, y’hear?

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had to have more. It’s like me and books. I have a bookcase crammed with books I haven’t read yet, and still I asked for books for Christmas, and used my birthday amazon gift certificates to practically wipe out my wish list. I’m a spoiled rotten brat, that’s what I am. Speaking of the spud’s allowance, the reason I was paying her for the last five weeks is because I am absolutely awful about paying her on time. Every Friday, she says "Can I have my allowance?" and I say "I don’t have it right now. I’ll get it to you tomorrow." And she very forgivingly, with no attitude whatsoever, says "Okay." This goes on for weeks and weeks, until I get off my ass and make sure to have enough money to pay her. Her weekly allowance is $12 (I know! When I was 11, I got something like $1.50 a week, and I was happy to have it!), but she’s required to put 1/3 of it in a savings jar for short-term savings, and another 1/3 of it goes into her college fund, and I never seem to have $4 around when it’s allowance time. I am a bad, bad mother. I discovered this week that one of the good things about having digital cable and a zillion channels, is that one of the HBO channels shows old Dennis Miller Live shows every night at 7:30. Have I mentioned how much I adore Dennis Miller? (I also adore Denis Leary, but that’s neither here nor there) The two shows I caught this week were from 1995, and he had Fran Leibowitz on one, and Sharon Stone on the other. I’m not very familiar with Fran Leibowitz, but she was funny as hell. Sharon Stone was more annoying than anything; I suspect great deals of pot usage before she showed up. She giggled at inappropriate times, and Dennis generally sat there looking befuddled. I love that man, from the top of his getting-old head to the tips of his grumpy-old-man toes. We ended up watching Lake Placid last night, rather than Mystery Men. I liked Lake Placid, but Fred was majorly bummed that it was only an hour and 18 minutes long. I guess he would have been happier if they’d tossed in a few more dead guys. It supposedly took place in Aroostook County, Maine, which as I told Fred "is potato country!" I lived in Aroostook County for two years when I was about the spud’s age. We started watchingMystery Men this afternoon, but I got really sleepy, and went to take a nice long nap nap. Sometimes, there’s just nothing better than a nap on a lazy Saturday afternoon. ]]>

seen on the sign outside my vet’s office :

"We are Y2K9 and Meowlinneum Ready"

I was sound asleep, snoozing hard, at 6:15 this morning, with the kitten laying snug on my arm directly in front of my face, warming my nose with her fuzzy little tummy, when the phone rang. The first ring scared the bejesus out of the kitten, and she ran in place for a few seconds, then used her lethal little claws to get some traction, and ran like a bat out of hell across the room and out the door, leaving painful scratches on the tender underside of my upper arm and a very special cat-fart stench in the air. The second ring found me writhing around on the bed, yelling "What the fuck? What the fuck?" at the top of my lungs and trying to untangle myself from the sheets. The third ring found me finally untangling myself, and throwing myself toward the edge of the bed. The fourth ring found me fumbling the phone from it’s base and trying to figure out how to turn it on. Unlike normal cordless phones, the piece of crap in the bedroom neither automatically picks up the call when you remove it from the base, nor does it light up so that you can identify and push the correct button to answer the call. After ring number four, the answering machine picked up, and whoever was thoughtful enough to call me at 6-fucking-15 in the morning hung up without leaving a motherfucking message.

I was a tad peeved.

I just knew it had to be Fred calling, wanting me to pick something up for him on my way into work, or bring something in, or something else he could have waited another half hour to call and request. Swearing up a storm – and making up a few new swear words in the process – I dialled his number at work.

His voicemail picked right up, which meant he was on the phone. I dialled again, and this time his answering machine -which meant he’d stepped away from his desk – answered. I left him a snotty "Please call me!" message, and hung up. I waited a few minutes, then decided to hit *69, to make sure it was he who had called.

It wasn’t.

In fact, it was his partner calling from home. He later told Fred that he’d accidentally hit "redial" on his phone, and the last number he’d dialled was our home number. He later apologized profusely for waking me up, but I could see he didn’t mean it.

The bastard.

Perhaps because of the burst of adrenalin caused by such an awakening, I felt – and continue to feel – great. I’m coughing up big globs of plegm – aren’t you jealous? – which is a good thing, since they’re productive coughs. Soon, I won’t be coughing at all, and my left ear will be completely unclogged!

A girl can dream …

While I was cleaning out the litter box this morning before my shower, I was overcome by the stench and reeled around the hallway gagging loudly and coughing. So much for that "long-lasting odor control for multiple cats", eh? And I just changed the litter a month ago…

Just kidding! It was the week before last, I think, and the cats create so many clumps every day that I’ve added an entire new container of litter to the box over the last week. You’d think that would help. You would be wrong. So I stopped by the grocery store on the way home to purchase three more jugs of multiple-cat litter. The expensive kind, even.

Speaking of the cats, we’ve noticed that Spot has been limping, so Fred took him to the vet today. The vet checked out his paw and took some x-rays, and decided the problem was a ligament or tendon, so he gave Spot a cortisone shot. Spot responded by peeing all over the exam-room table.

That’s our boy!

What kind of dog are you?

I’m a basset hound.

You are one laid-back individual! You cherish your "down time" and treasure the moments that you have no responsibility to anyone but your couch and TV set. You are easy to get along with and are extremely low maintenance. You probably love to hang out with your friends, as long as it is in a low-key environment. Although some might consider you lazy, you prefer to think of yourself as "relaxed." Your no-frills approach to life makes you a refreshing friend to all.

They’ve got the "relaxed" right, that’s for sure. The "no-frills approach to life" sounds like me, too.

Perhaps not coincidentally, my celebrity dream-man is Danny DeVito. Rhea Perlman, watch out!

Based on your responses, we sense the desire for strong-willed man, perhaps even a little gruff, who’s really just cute and cuddly on this inside. Your choices reflect an appreciation for someone who doesn’t take things too seriously, and knows how to just have a good time. We think you’re perfect for someone just like Danny DeVito! This pint-sized man will surprise you with his big, strong demeanor and his burly ways. His strength and masculinity is hidden beneath his compact physique, but his talent, sarcasm, and humor will knock your socks off. This once-accomplished hairdresser turned actor will woo you with his raspy voice, and the silky black underwear he likes to wear to bed. And take note – in the case of Mr. DeVito, size does not matter.

I think I’m going to go order pizza for dinner. Y’all have a good night/day/whatever, now, y’hear?

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thank you to the sleep gods, who allowed me to get a halfway decent night of sleep last night. ‘Til I woke up at 4 am and had a major coughing fit, coughing and spitting all over the kitten for two or three minutes. Oh, don’t feel sorry for her; she loved it. I’ve never heard her purr louder. I didn’t want to get out of bed this morning at 5:40, when my alarm clock woke me with the gentle sound of the ocean. So I turned it off and went back to sleep until 6:45, and dreamed that I was working in a hospital, and got hit with a major dose of radiation, so the security guards silkwooded me.

No, I’m not on any drugs, why do you ask?

The spud got her report card yesterday. One C, and the rest Bs. That’s an improvement over her last report card, because she got a D in History on that one, but overall, she actually went down in three subjects. Today, she decided she didn’t want to study, because she didn’t "feel like it". Boy, didn’t that annoy the Hell out of Fred. She brought home two papers yesterday, one with a score of 65, and one with a score of 35, so obviously she needs to study. But we told her, after she got the D that if she brought her grade up and didn’t get any Ds on her next report card, it would be her choice whether or not to study every day.

She chose not to. Obviously she’s her mother’s daughter!

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Oh boy am I blue. I’ve got the post-holiday, post-birthday, I hate my job, I hate my body, I wish this freakin’ cough would go away, blues. Just one night of decent sleep, that’s all I ask. One solid night of no tossing and turning. Is that so much to want? I haven’t gotten a good night of sleep since we got the kitten. She’s grown past the stage of climbing all over me all night long, and will sleep quietly in the crook of my arm, so now I wake at all hours coughing and coughing and gagging and coughing some more. One solid night of sleep would improve my outlook drastically, I swear to god it would.

Please, sleep gods?

Okay, I’m outta here. Sorry for the shortness of today’s entry, but I’m lame. That’s why you love me! Right? Uh, right?

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did take today off. What the heck’s the use of working for your husband if you can’t take advantage of it every now and then? Tomorrow, though, I’ll be back at work bright-eyed and bushy-tailed (and coughing up lungmeat).

Thanks to everyone who made my birthday special with the thoughtful e-cards. You know who you are. For my birthday, I received an amazon.com gift certificate from my parents, an amazon.com gift certificate from my grandmother (with help from my dad, I’m sure), and a kick-ass alarm clock from Fred. "Alarm clock?!" you’re bellowing in horror. "He gave you an alarm clock?" Hush up, now. It was an expensive alarm clock, and one that I asked for specifically. It plays cds, and at the touch of a button, you can listen to the soothing sounds of the ocean, a forest stream, or wind (which coincidentally sounds like static). I intend to set it 15 minutes early tomorrow morning and wake slowly to the sounds of the ocean. Ahhhhh.

For dinner, we ordered from Allen’s, which is one of the fine establishments from which The Restaurant Connection delivers. Neither of us was in any shape to cook, so I took a raincheck on my very favorite meal – steak, shrimp and oysters a la Fred – and we ordered out. I got the shrimp po’ boy, which was pretty good despite the fact that it fell apart every time I picked it up. Oh, I just hate that. "Why do they make a sandwich that falls apart like that?" I whined to Fred. In his narcotic cough syrup-induced haze, he nodded sympathetically and hacked a big green chunk of lung onto his plate.

Just kidding!

After dinner, Fred and the spud brought out the cupcakes they’d bought at the grocery store the day before, and stuck a candle in one of them. It was pretty cute. I made my wish and blew out the candle. And whattaya know, my wish came true: I awoke this morning feeling so much better! The spud presented me with a card – all about farts, it was, and pretty damn funny. I loves me a good fart joke.

Ah, well. Y’all have a good night now, y’hear?

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When last I wrote, I was under the impression that my bronchitis was improving. I was wrong. When, after 4 full days of antibiotics, I was feeling no better – and in fact, was running a temp of 100.6 to 101.2 – I dragged my ass back to the doctor’s office. Yesterday morning, this was. It was my intent to get to the office directly at 8, which is when they open, so I wouldn’t have to wait for very long.

Ha.

Although the office doesn’t open until 8, they’ll apparently let people in to sign in ten minutes prior. When I waltzed in at two minutes before 8, there were no fewer than 13 people signed in ahead of me (in fact, there were exactly 13 people. I counted), and the waiting room was crammed full. I only had to sit in the waiting room for an hour (and had expected to wait much longer) before they led me back to make my co-payment and have my blood pressure and temperature taken. The nice nurse was working, and she didn’t try to weigh me, thankyajesus. Then she led me back to exam room #3, which seems to be the very exam room I always end up in. I settled in with my book, ready for a good, long wait. Imagine my surprise when nice Dr. Webster showed up less than two minutes later. He listened to my lungs, listened to my heart, and listened to my tales of woe, then proclaimed I needed stronger drugs and told me he’d be right back.

A man after my own heart.

Instead of nice Dr. Webster, though, the next person to come through the door was the nurse who’d taken my blood pressure and temperature. She was there to take blood, she told me, and then they were going to do a chest x-ray. As I sat down in the chair next to the counter upon which she was laying her blood-taking tools, she inquired if I was "hard to stick."

Ohhhhhhh, yes, am I hard to stick. I’ve had tons of blood taken in my life, and after about the age of 18, if I’ve needed blood taken, they’ve had to get the "expert" to do it. And sometimes it’s taken the "expert" two or three sticks to get the job done. As you can imagine, having blood taken is just a thrill a minute for me, as I generally attempt to lend a hand. "Usually, they get blood from here…"

In any case, after trying the back of my left hand, the nurse gave up ("I don’t want to stick you more than once," she told me. "And I’m sure you don’t want me to keep sticking you!" Indeed) and got the "expert" to do it. The "expert" in this case happened to be nice Dr. Webster. He managed to find a vein in my right arm, and stuck the needle in then stuck it in some more and some more (godalmighty doesn’t it hurt when they have to do that) and got enough blood for the lab to do a CBC. Then it was off to the x-ray room where I was posed in weird ways – mostly for the x-ray guy’s amusement, I suspect – and then back to exam room #3 to wait.

The upshot: I have pneumonia. They popped me in the ass with an antibiotic shot, observed me for 20 minutes to make sure I’d had no reaction to the shot, gave me more prescriptions, and I arrived back home around 10:30. Where a frantic Fred opened the garage door and all but threw himself at my feet sobbing "Where have you been?" I gave him my usual annoyed look. "At the doctors. Where else would I be?" He told me that he’d gotten so concerned that 20 minutes earlier he’d called the doctor’s office, whereupon the front desk guy (instead of the sweet, size negative four girl who runs the front desk with an iron fist during the week and always calls me "ma’am") looked at the sign-in sheet, told Fred I’d signed in at 8, so I must be gone by now.

In any case, I sent Fred to the grocery store to get my prescriptions filled and buy me some junk food (he only has bronchitis, you know. Nothing like the real illness I’m suffering from), and then spent the rest of the day napping and watching The Thomas Crown Affair. I really like Rene Russo, but she was incredibly annoying in that movie. The big, loud Julia-Roberts-type braying laugh was just getting all over my nerves.

I’m 32 today. In fact, I think I turned 32 somewhere around 5 this morning. 32 years ago, it was the coldest day of the year in Bangor, Maine, my mother would be more than happy to point out.

I intend to celebrate my birthday by hacking up a lung and doing some long-overdue laundry. The spud has been reduced to wearing too-small dresses, since it’s been a week and a half since I’ve done her laundry. Maybe I’ll even pay some bills! Oh, the excitement…

How the fuck did I get to be 32, that’s all I’d like to know. I swear to god, just yesterday I was cruising around with Liz and her not-yet-husband, Herman, blasting Whitesnake and driving all over hell and creation looking for trouble. *sigh* The years go fast, don’t they?

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Fred still felt pretty crappy this morning, and so we both stayed home from work. As usual when Fred stays home from work, Tex called a thousand times with questions or comments. It simply doesn’t occur to him that Fred might not want to spend all the live-long day dealing with work stuff when he’s not feeling well.

The spud started back at school today. Finally. She was as relieved to be going back as we were to see her go, I think. She didn’t have to be dragged out of bed this morning at 6:15, not even after two and a half weeks of sleeping until 8 or later. I helped her change her earrings, reminded her to put the dishes in the dishwasher away, and at 7:00 sharp, she was out the door to catch the bus.

However, I suspect she misplaced some brain cells over christmas vacation. She got home from school, had a snack, and began studying math. She’s been having problems in math this year – the whole long division thing is completely baffling her – and every day she’s required to sit and study for half an hour. Today, she brought some problems downstairs for Fred to help her with. I didn’t listen to the whole conversation, but what I did hear went something like:

Fred: Well, what’s 8 times 1?

Spud: 10?

Yikes! That can’t be good… Maybe we let her watch too much TV over vacation. That I Love Lucy sure can rot the brain cells.

I caught Monica Lewinsky on Larry King Monday night, and I have to say this: I like her. She seems very nice, and who among us hasn’t made mistakes with men in the past? I mean, sure, we didn’t do it to quite that extent, but really. I’ve dated an ass or two for whom I wouldn’t want the whole world judging me. She made mistakes, and she’s dealing with it and trying to move on. She told Larry that she doesn’t get asked out, which led Fred to say "I don’t believe that! Do you?" I said "Yeah. Would you want to tell your Mom you were going out with Monica Lewinsky? I bet she hardly ever gets asked out." In the end, mostly what I feel is sorry for her. I’m sure she never thought things would turn out the way they did.

And that’s all I have to say ’bout that.

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