Category: Fostering

I have for you a birth story.

Before I get on with it, though, a couple of you have asked if it’s possible that Momma Kitty’s got owners who are missing her and heartbroken. Sure, it’s possible – but the impression I got from talking to the shelter manager is that Momma Kitty showed up on this woman’s porch, was pretty much living there, then disappeared for a while and showed back up pregnant. Before any cats are turned over to the shelter, all attempts are made to find their owners. Last year, Fred’s coworker had a cat show up at his house (he lives way out in the country with no one else around and has issues with people dropping cats off near his house) and it was such a sweet and friendly cat that he wanted to know if we could foster it and the shelter could adopt it out. I asked the shelter manager, and before she’d agree to take the cat, the coworker had to do his very best to find the cat’s owners, including asking his closest neighbors and keeping an eye on ads in the paper. (In the end, the coworker ended up keeping the cat himself.) So yeah, it’s possible that Momma Kitty belongs to someone, but all attempts were made to find owners with no success.

Preggo Kitty is now the proud Momma to four little bitty babies. One’s a gray tabby and the other three are, I think, torties. It’s kind of hard to tell at this point, but I know I’ve seen orange on at least two of them, so we’ll see what they look like when they get a little bigger.

So I spent all day in the foster kitty room with Momma Kitty yesterday. She would get up and pace and peer under the door, and if there were other cats out there, she’d growl ’til I ran them off (a blast of compressed air under the door does wonders) then she’d pace some more and then lay down to have her belly rubbed, then she’d nap and get up and pace and start the whole process all over again. She checked out various places in the room – we’d set up a moving box in one corner of the room, covered the top with a towel (with the towel hanging down to make the box darker) and lined the box with towels. She checked that out, she checked out a kitty condo, and she checked out a pyramid bed. She didn’t do any serious nesting, though, just kind of looked around to see what was what.

Poor miserable Momma.

I have never assisted in the birthing of babies in any way shape or form, though when I was seven or eight, I had a cat who had kittens, but my sole contribution was being woken up in the middle of the night to see her laying with her babies on my parents’ comforter, then stumbling back to bed. As you can imagine, I was a little nervous, so I said “Miz Google, I’ve never birthed no babies! Tell me what to do!” And after Googling around for an hour or so, I decided that what I’d do is just stay the hell out of it unless it looked like there was a problem, then I’d run around in circles screaming until Fred did something.

That’s what usually works well for me in an emergency.

Fred got home at 3:30, gave Momma Kitty a belly rub, and then went out to ready the old chicken coop for the little chickens. I stayed in the room with Momma Kitty ’til 4, when I had to go make dinner. Momma Kitty howled sadly a few times at the door then gave up. I made dinner, cleaned up the kitchen, did a few more things, and then after dinner I asked Fred if he’d mind carrying Momma Kitty into my room and staying with her while I vacuumed the foster kitty room. I should have done that Wednesday before I went to get her from the vet, but I was in too much of a rush to get my hands on her. I knew that once Momma Kitty gave birth, I wouldn’t be doing any vacuuming in there for weeks, so I wanted to get it as clean as possible before the birthing began.

We went upstairs around 5:30, maybe a little before. I was plugging the vacuum in and Fred was in the foster room getting Momma Kitty, when he called “Bessie, her water broke!”

“Just now? When you picked her up?” I asked.

“No, her whole back end is wet, it was already broken.” Fred wrapped a towel around her and carried her into my room and shut the door. I vacuumed and vacuumed and vacuumed some more (it had been a little while since I’d vacuumed, so I got a LOT of cat hair up), then I refilled her water dish and made sure she had food, and Fred brought her back in.

I came downstairs and grabbed the camera and my bottle of water, then went back up to wait for it all to begin. I’d read that if contractions don’t start in 2 – 4 hours after the water has broke, it could be a problem. I needn’t have worried. Momma Kitty (who I’ll call MK from here on out) asked for a belly rub, did a little pacing, and then she laid down in the middle of the floor, looked at me, and I wish like hell I could have gotten a picture of her face, because she puckered her lips (I have never seen a cat do that in my LIFE) and pushed. I was worried that she was going to birth those babies right in the middle of the rug (which I don’t care, it’s not like it’s a nice rug or anything, she’s free to stain it up, I just didn’t think it was a particularly comfortable place for baby kittens to lay), but what came out what her mucus plug. Much as you’d imagine from its name, the mucus plug was mucusy and green. I wiped her off, and she paced a little then laid down again.

Fred came in to see what was going on, and she went over to him and purred as he rubbed her belly.

Fred left the room and she went over to the box and settled in, and then she started panting, meowing, and pushing. I called for Fred, who came right back in, and we sat and watched her yowl and push.

Starting to push.

The yowling and the pushing went on for less than a minute, and then she started licking something. She was sitting with her back to us so we couldn’t see anything – DAMNIT – but eventually she turned around, and we got to see the baby, who was squirming and wiggling around.

Chewing through the umbilical cord.

After waiting for a little while, Fred had to go finish what he was doing outside, so he left and I sat with MK and the baby. MK stayed busy, between the licking of the kitten, the chewing through the umbilical cord, and whatever she was doing with the placenta (I have a firm don’t-ask don’t-tell policy when it comes to placentas, thank you.). I think it was less than twenty minutes later that she started pushing and yowling again.

Less than a minute later, she delivered number two.

She did her thing, industriously cleaning and chewing and making sure her babies were okay. About five minutes after number two was born, I had to leave the room because the freakin’ camera battery was dead (ain’t it always the way?) so I came downstairs, switched out my camera battery with Fred’s, got a drink, and by the time I got back to the room (it was less than two minutes, I’d guess) she was yowling and pushing again. A few seconds later, number three popped out.

In about an hour, she’d given birth to three babies, and after number three was out, she made sure all the kittens were clean, all the umbilical cords taken care of, and then she settled down for a nap while the babies nursed.

At my request, Fred felt MK’s abdomen to see if there were any more kittens in there. He said he thought he felt another couple, and we sat in the room with her for a while longer, then decided to leave her alone for a while and watch Survivor.

We watched Survivor, pausing a couple of times so Fred could check on the kitten situation. About fifteen minutes before the end of the show, he reported that she was laying with her back to the opening of the box, licking something, so it was possible that there were four kittens. Once the show was over, we went up into the foster room and did our best to figure out how many kittens there were. After sticking our heads in the boxes (but it was too dark to see anything) and taking a picture, Fred felt around and decided he felt four distinct little heads.

Fred felt MK’s abdomen and said he thought there was another kitten in there, but I reminded him that he thought Miss Momma was pregnant last year (right before we had her fixed) and swore he could feel a kitten’s head, but it turned out she wasn’t, that he’d just felt her liver or something, so he conceded that maybe MK was done.

I thought about going back in and keeping MK company after Fred went to bed, but decided to just leave her alone and check on her through the night. I knew if she started yowling again I’d hear her – since I was just in the next room – and off to sleep I went.

Not only did I not wake up and check on her through the night, I slept like a log the entire night through and only woke up when Fred called to me from the foster room. He’d gone in to check on MK and the kittens, and when he went to leave the room, MK saw one of our cats in the hallway and rushed the door, hissing and growling. I had to shoo our cats off and then Fred was able to come out of the room.

The final report: four kittens, she hadn’t had any more during the night. I went in a little while later with half a can of cat food on a plate for MK and to take a few pictures. She wolfed that plate of cat food down in no time flat, so I went back downstairs to get more cat food and some clean towels. While she made short work of the second plate of cat food, I pulled the towel (with the kittens on it) out of the box, put clean towels in the box, and lifted the kittens onto the clean towels. MK came over to see what I was doing, and she kept an eye on her babies, but she was perfectly fine with me handling them.

I’ve been back in to visit a few more times, bringing canned cat food every time. MK’s voraciously eating everything I give her (and she has dry food available to her at all times, too) and the babies are always either sleeping in a little pile of adorableness, or rooting around trying to nurse.

They are seriously cute, and I worry that I will squish them, because I just want to squeeze and hug them!

Momma Kitty was a champ during this entire process, and she’s a good, protective, sweet mother. I cannot wait to see the kittens’ personalities develop over the next few weeks and months!

(And, no. We’re not keeping them!)

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Previously
2007: I don’t know that I’ll know how to act when I’ve got internet whenever I want it, it’s been so damn long since I’ve had it!
2006: No entry.
2005: Taking the week off.
2004: No entry.
2003: Fred: That was a cowardly yellow-dog liberal DEMOCRAT thing to say.
2002: Things are getting back to normal.
2001: One of these days I’ll get my ass in gear; I just never know when that day will be.
2000: Squooshiness begets squooshiness, you know.

7:50 pm: She pushed out three little ones in the course of about an hour. She’s resting now – Fred thinks there are a couple more in there. We’ll see!

Number 3.

More pictures up later, or tomorrow. I have a ton to go through – and there might be more babies!

Edited to add: 9:08 pm: And now there are four.

She appears to be done, so I’m off to bed. I’m sure I’ll be checking on her through the night!

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Wow, y’all had busy days yesterday, didn’t you? I felt like a great big slug thinking about what I had planned, and then seeing what you were doing!

(Which didn’t make me inclined to be any more active, just so ya know.)

I like reading your plans for the day; thanks for sharing with me!

I made it to my appointment only about five minutes late – I had to stop at the post office on the way to mail something – and settled in for my cut and color. I got a good ways into the newest book I’m reading, and although I didn’t think I’d like the book in the first few pages, it grabbed my interest and dragged me in pretty quickly.

I left there a little after 10:30, went to the fabric store, and spent over an hour browsing through the store. Fred and I are planning something – I’ll take pictures of it as it’s being made, assuming it turns out okay – and I had a list of stuff I needed to buy.

By the way, a month after I ordered and received the sewing machine (maybe even more like 6 weeks), I finally took the damn thing out of the box, set it up in the guest bedroom, and am slowly working my way through the book to make sure I know how everything works, ’cause it’s been damn near 20 years since I used a sewing machine. Maybe this weekend I’ll actually do a few straight stitches! Woo!

The problem with fabric stores is that even someone who has NO sewing skills (that would be me) goes in there to look around, and there’s so much CUTENESS in there that you can’t help but buy a few yards of material just in case you suddenly discover a skill for sewing (not holding my breath).

I ran over to the pet store to use the bathroom (and see if all the cages were filled, because I have scooping-and-feeding duty this morning at the pet store, so I wanted to have some idea of how many cats are around), bought some finch seed, and then went over to Target to grab a few things.

By the time I got home, it was close to 1:00, and I was starving. I had lunch, spent about half an hour with Splash, and then settled on the couch to watch Real Housewives of NYC (more on that in tomorrow’s entry). I finished watching that, and was cleaning up the kitchen when the phone rang.

“Help me Obi-Wan, you’re my only hope!” said the woman who runs the shelter.

“What’s going on?” I asked, figuring that she was going to tell me that there was another semi-feral who needed a home. Not so. Turned out, she knew someone who’d had a cat show up on her front porch – and the cat was very very pregnant.

“So, would you want a pregnant cat?” she asked hopefully.

I will tell you what – I almost did a little happy dance, because it’s been a while since I’ve had any itty bitty babies ’round here, and I’d offered to take the last couple of bottle-fed babies, but had been too slow because other people had snatched them up before I got my butt in gear and offered to take them.

She said that the woman upon whose porch the pregnant cat had appeared would take her to the vet for testing, and she’d let me know when I could pick her up.

Turns out that the woman took the cat to the vet right then, so an hour later the shelter manager called and said I could pick her up anytime.

You know me. I opted to pick her up IMMEDIATELY.

I moved Splash from the foster kitty room to the guest bedroom. I was afraid it was going to be a difficult task because I have yet to get my hands on Splash without her unleashing the Claw o’ Doom, but in the end since Splash spends her days hiding in a kitty condo all I had to do was put a towel across the front of the condo and carry the whole thing downstairs. Splash didn’t try to escape, didn’t move at all, thank god.

I showed up at the vet’s office, and they said that the cat – a pretty brown tabby – was ready to drop those kittens at any time. She was perfectly calm as I drove her home, only meowing once or twice. I put her carrier in the foster kitty room, opened the carrier, and she immediately came out, came over to me, and started purring.

She’s a seriously friendly little thing – though I’ve read that mother cats who are about to give birth get extra-friendly, so part of her super-friendliness might be due to that. She’s definitely ready to pop, and she has a hard time laying down and getting comfortable, so she paces a lot (another sign of being ready to give birth!) and she purrs and kneads, and if you rub her belly she will roll onto her back and give you the Love Eyes.

Last night before bedtime, Fred and I went in and spent some time with her, and we petted and petted and petted her, and rubbed her belly, and I brushed her (she’s shedding a lot, and – yay! – really likes to be brushed), and then we were ready for bed so we said goodnight to her and left the room. She howled for a few minutes and then settled down, so I figured she’d be okay.

A little after midnight, I was awakened by the sound of her meowing softly. As I listened, she got louder, and I was afraid that she’d wake Fred up (you know, the one member of the household who has a job and thus needs his sleep?) so I grabbed a pillow and a quilt and went in to lay down with her. Well, I laid down – she paced back and forth and rubbed up against me and kneaded on my arm and rolled over for a belly rub. Eventually, she dozed off for a few minutes before waking up and beginning the whole rigmarole all over again. When she’d finally calmed down, I went back to bed. She meowed for a few minutes, then quieted down.

I fell back to sleep a little before 2:00 and then she woke me up about 5:15, so I got up. I’d set the alarm for 5:25 anyway, because I had to get up and do my stint at the pet store. I gave her a snack, gave her some love, and scooped out her litter box before I went off to take my shower and get ready for the day. Fred spent a few minutes with her, and she started howling again, so we decided to put a radio in with her, hoping that the sound would soothe her.

Not so much.

So I’m hoping that she drops these babies soon, because I’m prepared to spend the night in the room with her tonight (I need to find something semi-comfortable to sleep on, though – this “floor” shit is for the birds) but I don’t know that I’ll be able to handle more than one night of it.

She doesn’t have a name yet, and Fred wants to wait ’til she births those babies before we name her, so we’re calling her Momma Kitty for now. Original, no?

I suggested naming her “Miss Scarlett” ’cause I don’t know nothin’ ’bout birthin’ no babies, but it was actually Melanie who was giving birth when Prissy said that. And we could go with a whole Gone With the Wind naming theme, but I’m fairly certain that all those names have already been used. We’ll see.

She’s ALL belly.

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So for dinner last night we had Kahlua Pork. I think I’ve mentioned that I’m trying out new recipes lately, because I tend to see a recipe I like, stick it in the “try out these recipes” folder, and forget about them.

Fred didn’t think he was going to like the Kahlua Pork because he said it smelled like something was burning. I tried to convince him that it was due to the liquid smoke, but he disagreed. I went ahead and made stir-fried cabbage as suggested with the recipe, and I have to say: two thumbs up to the pork AND the cabbage. It was very good – Fred agreed completely – and so we’re having it again tonight for dinner. The only thing I would change is that I would maybe use a less fatty cut of meat (I used a Boston Butt) next time, but otherwise, I highly recommend it. And it’s a seriously easy meal to make!

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Okay, the Momma Kitty is howling again. I’m going to go settle in with her and see if I can’t convince her to just go ahead and birth those babies already.

HG, by the way, is completely at home with the Crooked Acres gang. He absolutely LOVES all the older cats, and I have actually seen him rub up against Miz Poo and she did NOT have a hissy fit. Will wonders never cease? He’s also big-time into Snackin’! Time! It never takes the new ones very long to get the hang of Snackin’! Time!, not surprisingly.

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Stinkerbelle in motion.

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Previously
2007: It can’t happen soon enough, if you ask me.
2006: Taking the week off.
2005: No entry.
2004: No entry.
2003: “Helloooooo, Fancypants! Hey, buddy, whatchoo doin’?” I said in my special Fancypants voice.
2002: Know what I’m thinking? Psycho stalker, desperate to come into the house, rape and rob us and leave us for dead, stealing the computers and the big-screen TV on the way out.
2001: I should have stayed in bed this morning.
2000: No entry.

On Saturday, my nephew won an award (I won’t say exactly what it was to forestall you STALKERS) and I am SO proud of him. Also, I’d like to know how the holy hell he got old enough to get an award like that, since this was him just yesterday:

Yesterday or 11 years ago, same difference.

Congratulations, Brian! You make your old Auntie Rah-Bah proud!

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It’s been five years since we humiliated ourselves on national television!

Seems like just yesterday.

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I tell you what, Friday was a total shithole of a day. It was ugly and gray and just kind of blah out, and I would like to see some sunshine at SOME POINT IN MY LIFE IF THAT’S A POSSIBILITY, and I knew I had ten thousand errands to run, so I got out of bed a little after 6:00, already feeling like I was running behind.

I did all my usual morning stuff – litter boxes, kitten snack, clean up the kitchen, make the bed, shower and dress, posted an entry – and was just checking my email before I walked out the door to get my errand-running under way when Fred called.

“The [local charitable organization] will be there between 10 and 2!” he announced.

We’d needed to find a new home for the old couches as well as a bunch of other stuff (a 27″ TV, a TV stand, a chair, some baskets – stuff that couldn’t easily be given away on the giveaway page) and Fred had joined the local Freecycle group the night before and tried to send out a message. But the Freecycle group is moderated and we waited and waited and waited, and when it had been more than 12 hours and the message hadn’t gone through, we shrugged and decided “Fuck it” and that we’d see if a local charity could come get everything.

I hadn’t expected they’d be able to come so soon, though, which threw a wrench into my shopping plans. Also, I’d wanted to go get a few groceries to make a cake I’d found in Cooking Light magazine, but I couldn’t leave because it was after 9:00 when Fred called to tell me they would be here between 10 and 2, and I didn’t want to run the risk of being gone when they showed up.

And also, I couldn’t – didn’t want to – bake the cake after they left, because the casserole we were having for dinner had to cook for three hours, so I couldn’t make the cake until after 5, and by that point in the day I don’t like to bake.

Yes, they’re lame excuses but you know what? SHUT UP.

So I went from a dreading-the-shopping mood to a OH-GREAT-NOW-I-CAN’T-GO-SHOPPING-AS-I’D-PLANNED-THE-MAN-IS-ALWAYS-HOLDING-ME-BACK mood, and after I hung up the phone (Fred: “Are you in a bad mood now?” Me: “NO. SHUT UP. I HATE YOU.”) I slammed around the house and tried to decide what to do, and what I decided to do was spend some time with the foster kittens (yes, kittenS, more on that in a later section) and HG rubbed up against me and purred and rolled around on his back and told me he loved me and butted his head against mine, and that put me in a better mood. At least until I left the guest bedroom, when I was immediately back in my bad mood.

I did some cleaning, which did not involve vacuuming up the furball dust bunnies floating around the house (I love Spring; I hate the Spring shedding of the winter coat because with 9 cats that adds up to a lot of goddamn fur) and sat in front of my computer surfing the web and sat and glared out at the ugly, rainy day. Finally, I decided I needed to go out and check on the little chickens and check to see if there were any eggs waiting to be gathered in the chicken coop and I needed to take the compost bucket out to the compost heap, so I put on my boots (I finally got my new ones from LL Bean. They’re comfortable but tight around my calves THANKS FOR MAKING ME FEEL FAT, LL BEAN.) and my rain coat and headed out to the compost heap.

The pigs had been in their shelter, but they heard me sloshing across the ditch so came running out to see if I was bringing them food. I had a white chocolate candy bar for them – rumor has it they really like chocolate – so after I dumped the compost, I took the candy bar to them. The little one was a big fan of the white chocolate, he ran around in circles with melted white chocolate drooling from his mouth as he begged for more. The big one was kind of “Eh” on the white chocolate front.

I went from the pig yard to the garage, where the little chickens are still being kept in the brooder, and I stood and talked to them, and they walked around and looked curiously up at me. I’ll have to get another movie of them – they’re no longer scared by “Hellooooooo, little chickies!”, just curious. I left the garage and headed for the chicken yard and realized I didn’t have anything for the chickens. I almost always bring them a cup of cracked corn, but this time around I’d forgotten. Fred keeps chicken scratch in his workshop though, so I went in there to grab a cupful.

I looked carefully into the bag of scratch before I put my hand in there, because there are mice living in Fred’s workshop and they like to eat the scratch and I didn’t particularly want one of them climbing up my arm because I didn’t have the energy to dance around screaming. There were no mice, so I dipped the glass jar he keeps out there into the bag, filled it halfway with scratch and headed for the door.

I took one step out the workshop door, and the next thing I knew, I was half-laying on the ground.

“What the fuck?” I asked the chickens, who were standing and staring hopefully at me. There was a patch of mud right outside the door I hadn’t noticed – washed there by the rain – and I’d stepped directly into it and hadn’t even had time to think “Are you fucking kidding me, I’m FALLING?!” the way I usually do on the way down. Just, ZOOP!, down I went. Into the mud. And I hurt my knee and pulled a little muscle in my back and got mud all over everything I was wearing.

“Jesus goddamn motherfucking christ on a jumped up motherfucking sidebar I do not believe this fucking SHIT!” I informed Frick as I tossed chicken scratch into the chicken yard. I had actually managed to hold the jar of chicken scratch aloft as I fell, and I’m sure that when I’m an 80 year-old woman hobbling around with a bad back, I will greatly appreciate the unbroken jar, of which we have ten thousand or so.

Frick gave me a sympathetic look and then was all “Oh, food!” and ran off to peck at the ground with her sisters and McLovin.

I checked for eggs, then went inside, threw everything I was wearing into the washer, and put on clean clothes.

I talked to Fred briefly (and when I told him I’d fallen, he LAUGHED and THEN asked if I was okay, because he’s a bastard. It matters not that I would have done the same damn thing, he’s still a bastard.) and decided to put dinner in the oven so it could cook, and then it would be done by 2:00, and I could go get the ingredients for my cake and bake it, and we could just warm up the casserole for dinner and we would have yummy, yummy cake.

The guys from the local charity showed up a few minutes after 1:00. They loaded the small stuff first, and then when they lifted the first couch to carry it out the door, Joe Bob – who had inexplicably decided that it was time to take a nap up inside the couch – FLEW out of the bottom of the couch and somehow levitated across the room, bounced off one wall, bounced off another wall, and flew down the hallway, without ever once touching the floor.

“He seemed a little scared,” commented one of the men.

“Yeah, he’s not fond of people,” I said.

They got the couches loaded onto the truck with no issues, handed me a receipt, and left.

I called Fred to tell him they’d come and gone and Fred said “Have you done a cat count?” and so I spent the next ten minutes walking around the house and locating cats. I couldn’t find Miss Stank anywhere, and I started to worry that she’d been up inside one of the couches and when she’s really scared she tends to freeze, and I walked around the house and said to Fred “I don’t really want to pull out the big gun, but I will!” and Fred knew that “The big gun” equals bellowing “WHO READY FOR A SNACKIN’?” and if I bellowed that, I was going to have to come through with snackin’ time and I didn’t want to mess with that in the middle of the day.

I turned to go down the hallway to go upstairs and check under Fred’s bed for the third time, and Miss Stank was sauntering down the hallway from wherever she’d been hiding. She turned and glared her “FUCK YOU” glare at me, and went along her way.

All the cats having been located, I grabbed my purse and headed out to the grocery store for the cake ingredients I needed, which were as follows: chunky applesauce, almonds, light whipped cream.

I drove to the grocery store and I got my almonds. And I got my whipped cream. But do you suppose – DO YOU SUPPOSE – they’d have chunky applesauce? Would they, huh? OF COURSE NOT. So I put my goddamn almonds back and I put my goddamn whipped cream back and I said in a conversational voice “Why would they ever fucking have what I ever fucking need at this fucking piece of shit store?” (relax – there was no one around), and I left.

It was lunch time and I was hungry and all I wanted on this entire earth was a grilled chicken sandwich from Burger King, and so I did NOT go to the Burger King that’s always busy because if I have to wait longer than two or three minutes in a fast food drive-thru, I will start thinking to myself “Why should I pay this money for a crappy grilled chicken sandwich when I can go home and have a salad and grilled cheese sandwich?”, and I will pull out of line and I will drive home and eat a salad and grilled cheese sandwich and I will wish that I’d had that crappy grilled chicken sandwich. I drove, instead, to the Burger King that is always less busy, and I pulled up in the drive-thru and then I realized that there were at least 15 cars in line, and I said “OH FUCK YOU” and I pulled out of the parking lot and drove home.

I called Fred on the way home and I said “I am done with this goddamn shitty rainy piece of shit day. I AM THROUGH WITH IT. I AM FILING FOR DIVORCE FROM IT,” and I told Fred about my day and he told me about his day and then I said “Oh, and Crackhead Bob was walking by when the guys were loading up the couches, and he could barely take his eyes off of them, all loading couches on the truck, so I am SURE that in the time that I’ve been gone he’s broken into the house, killed all the cats, eaten all the cheese I’m going to make my grilled cheese sandwich out of, peed on my bed, and if I’m LUCKY he stole that big goddamn monstrosity of a TV while he was at it.”

I hung up and went home and I did not make the cake and I DO NOT CARE that it probably could have been made with regular applesauce, THAT IS NOT THE POINT. And I spent some time with the foster kittens, and I snuggled with Sugarbutt and I read some, and cleaned some, and I don’t remember what the hell else I did, but I’m sure it pissed me off.

After dinner (which was not, in fact, the casserole I’d made, but was instead a sub Fred brought home – someone at work gave it to him – and it was pretty good) we settled down to watch TV, and I threw all the pillows off the couch we don’t usually use and I laid down on the couch and covered up with some blankets, and Fred put Sweeney Todd in the DVD player.

“Did you see his hand twitch?” Fred said at some point, and I shifted around and tried to pretend like I hadn’t been sleeping.

“Um, no,” I said. A few minutes later I looked at the clock and realized I’d been dozing for at least half an hour. “I think I might have dozed off for a minute,” I said. “Who’s in the box?”

Fred wasn’t fooled, and he gave me a hard time about falling asleep, but I just really wasn’t that into the movie. I apparently am not a fan of Stephen Sondheim’s music, although there were one or two songs I kind of liked.

We stayed up a little later than usual, played with the foster kittens, and then Robyn And3rson’s terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day came to an end.

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I had Big Planz for Saturday, but it was dismal and crappy and rainy out, so after Fred and I moved the hell out of some very heavy furniture – more about that later in the week, when I have pictures to share – I spent a lot of time with the foster kittens, read some, cleaned some (very little cleaning, though), and we sat down in front of the TV mid-afternoon and whiled away the afternoon watching things we’d recorded.

Sunday morning I got up, got my morning stuff done, went and got groceries, and then was thwarted in doing what I’d planned to spend the rest of the day doing, because I didn’t have a crucial piece of equipment (more on that later in the week, too), so I cleaned the house. I finally got all those damn cat hair dust bunnies vacuumed up – and when I was done with that, I was walking down the hall to put the vacuum cleaner away, and there were already two new huge tufts of cat hair in the hallway. Bastards.

I puttered around the house for the remainder of the day, and when the sun FINALLY showed up, Fred did a little dance of happiness, and we took a turn around the back forty (after stopping to feed the pigs some chocolate) to celebrate.

I love weekends, but this one certainly could have started off a lot better – or maybe the weekend was so nice BECAUSE it started off so crappily?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

So, about a week and a half ago, right after we’d gotten Smudgie and HG, I got an email from the shelter manager. One of her other foster parents had two semi-feral cats in her house, they’d been there for a while, had been spayed and had all their shots, but she wasn’t having any luck taming them. The shelter manager asked if I wanted to give it a try. I said yes, and talked to the woman who had them, and we decided that she’d capture the kittens (who were about 6 months old) and bring them over when she could. That was last Saturday, and she wasn’t able to get her hands on them (she said they’d follow her from room to room, but if she tried to touch them, they’d run away) and said she’d keep trying and would let me know when she had them.

Meanwhile, Smudgie went to the pet store on Tuesday (she was adopted on Saturday, by the way) and HG was by himself and he was getting marginally friendlier, just a tiny bit more each day. This past Thursday, the woman called and said she’d gotten one of the kittens, and was it okay if she brought it over? I said yes, of course, and she showed up with this little black and white kitten and we put the carrier in the room with HG (who was very curious and like “Oh, did you bring me a friend?!” – he really likes other cats a lot) and opened the carrier and just left them alone.

Ten or fifteen minutes after the woman left, I went upstairs and the kitten – whose name is Splash – had come out of the carrier and moved into a padded pyramid, burrowed under the cushion on the bottom, and wanted me to leave her alone, which she communicated by looking at me in terror if I lifted the cushion to look at her.

I was worried that HG would take on her unfriendly manner, so I moved him into the guest bedroom Thursday evening, and mid-day Friday, he broke and gave up his scaredy-cat ways. He’s turned into a total lovebug – a little wary at first, then once you pet him once or twice he paces back and forth and demands to be petted and “talks” and flops against my leg and kneads and lets me pick him up.

When I went into the foster kitten room (where Splash was) Friday morning, she was hiding behind the closet door. I touched her on the head once or twice, and she stared at me and shook. I put a little plate of soft cat food on the floor and left her alone. I went back later in the morning, and she had moved to hide in the litter box. I’ll let the scared kitties do just about anything they want to do except hide in the litter box. There are plenty of other places to hide, so I lifted her out, and she ran under the dresser and hid there. I spent a couple of hours in the foster kitten room talking to her, looking at her, and reading aloud to her so she’d get used to the sound of my voice. The entire time, she stayed under the dresser. Later that day she was hiding in the litter box again, so again I took her out. I tried holding her and she allowed it, but she shook the entire time.

Pretty much since Friday afternoon, she’s been hiding under the dresser. I finally put a cat bed under there for her, because I didn’t like the idea of her lying on the cold floor. After ignoring it for a day, she climbed in, so maybe that’s progress. I know she’s been out of the bed, because she used the litter box and finally ate some of the soft food I left for her (there’s dry food available all the time) and at one point I heard the sound of a cat toy jingling. Any time I go in there, though, she’s under the dresser.

HG continued being perfectly friendly toward me (a little less friendly toward Fred, but I suspect that’s because Fred hasn’t spent as much time with him) and mid-day Saturday I thought that maybe if I put him back in the foster kitten room with Splash, he’d kind of lead by example. I did that, and she continues to hide under the dresser. I got her to eat a kitty treat, and she hissed at me, which I consider a step forward, because at least she’s not just sitting there looking terrified.

At this point, all I can do is spend lots of time in there and try to get her used to being around me and hope she comes around.

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The mighty hunter Sugs hunts down a place to nap.

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Previously
2007: No entry.
2006: You WISH you were me.
2005: Off to Gatlinburg.
2004: Our palates are too immature, I suppose.
2003: Now I know why, when the camera and sound guy were setting up and I chirped “Oh, is this the camera that’s going to make me look like Ashley Judd?”, everyone laughed so hard.
2002: No entry.
2001: No entry.
2000: Then he and the spud went swimming yesterday, since the pool’s up to a sultry 66.

So, in cleaning my room the other day, I found my old journals from high school and beyond. I decided I’d read through them one last time and then burn them, because believe me, there’s nothing in there that needs to be left to posterity.

Last night I was reading the last one, the one that ended sometime in 1994, and there’s a lot of crap in there, but there were a few decent bits of writing that interested, at least, me. Since I have nothing else to babble about, here’s a blast from the past for y’all.

July 25, 1994.
Not much going on here. I finished the latest John Grisham book, which probably should have been shortened by about 200 pages. But I liked the ending. It, basically, was about this lawyer’s last-ditch efforts to save a man on Death Row, who by the way was his grandfather. It’s funny: I consider myself to be an intense liberal, but when it comes to the Death Penalty, I’m all for it. I think Charles Manson should die, as well as his flunkies who performed the murders, and I think Jeffrey Dahmer should die, and basically anyone who, with malice aforethought (if that’s the term) killed someone. In fact, I think people who are legally insane should still be sentenced to death, because what are we going to do? Medicate them and send them out on the streets to stop taking their medication and go psycho again? If I were Jeffrey Dahmer, I’d want to die. In fact, I’d kill myself.

If I were ever sentenced to life in prison (and this is harmless speculation, because I’d never do anything to get myself that kind of sentence, unless it was kill Linda Gray [I do not know why I wanted Linda Gray dead.]), I would, one way or the other, kill myself. I can’t believe people can even make it through a couple of years, let alone decades, in prison. I’m given to introspection, but even I don’t want to know myself that well.

I finished reading Dave Barry’s latest book. The guy cracks me up, although I don’t think his books are the kind you should concentrate on reading all at one time, because the utter silliness of some of his stuff tends to overwhelm you. It’s the kind of book you should leave next to your bed and read one chapter at night, to make you laugh before you drift off to sleep. The thing that kills me, though, is that he’s as good at writing serious stuff as funny.

One of the last columns in the book dealt with the time his son was hit by a car, and how from the time your child is born, you’re overwhelmed with love for him or her. And it’s true. Sometimes when I look at Danielle – and she’s only five – I think, who are you? Where did you learn this and this? I’m your mother, and I’m supposed to know you, but there are times, kid, when you take me so much by surprise that it scares me. I don’t ever want to make Dani feel worthless. I don’t ever want to make her feel like her sense of worth in my eyes is tied to her appearance or how she performs. I want her to feel unconditional love from me, always. I want her never to feel less-than.

July 27, 1994.
I just finished reading Shot in the Heart by Mikal Gilmore [Gary Gilmore’s brother; you may remember the book/ movie about Gary Gilmore, The Executioner’s Song], which I bought because I read an excerpt in Rolling Stone, and a couple of really good reviews. When I finished The Chamber, I was still staunchly in favor of the death penalty. Now I’m not so sure. I’m the same age Mikal Gilmore was when they executed his brother Gary, and I just can’t imagine it. His book touched me in a way very few books ever have, and by the time I finished reading it, I was in tears. I’m even tearing up just thinking about it. It’s so sad.

Mikal seems to hold so much guilt over the whole thing, like the responsibility lies in his lap. I hate it that even though he couldn’t have stopped what happened, he still suffers for it every day. He believes ghosts haunt his bloodline, and that the Gilmore bloodline stops, and that’s how it should be. I wonder if everything he does and feels will always be overshadowed by the fact that Gary Gilmore is his brother. He said that people wrote to him and walked up to him and told him he should have been killed along with Gary. Forget about the sins of the fathers… what about the sins of the brothers?

According to Mikal, Gary felt there were several points in his life when his headlong rush toward self-destruction could have been stopped if only someone had tried a little harder to help him. But could anyone really have stopped him? What if he’d been loved, been adored, been cherished the way Mikal was by his father? And the most horrible aspect about the whole thing, I found out at the end of the book is, Gary ended up earning his father’s enmity for someone else’s sin. How many future Gary Gilmores are being formed right now, under our noses?

Sometimes I feel like I have not suffered enough in my life. I’ve been in the hospital several times for several different reasons, but overall, I feel as though my life has been strikingly lucky. I have siblings and parents who are all still alive. Nothing horrible has happened to them, the only grandparent I’ve shared some semblance of closeness with is still alive, and my nephews, niece, and child all live with no life-threats. I worried when [my brother’s first ex-wife] became pregnant again, my thinking being that with every grandchild brought into the family, the chances of something horrible happening to one of them increases.

I sometimes get this sense of foreboding. Like, because my life has had no real suffering, it’s still in the future. When I hear about children dying of Leukemia, I feel almost a sense of recognition. I have almost a knowledge that Danielle will be stricken with Leukemia, and it scares the shit out of me. Every time she starts to look pale and gets sick I think, this is it. This is the time they run a hundred tests and tell me she’s got it. This is when I start to lose her. But the truth is, I’m already losing her. She’s growing up and away with every breath, and I wonder if I’m numbing myself against the pain of losing her to the world by worrying about her death by a disease taking her life. Something I heard on TV a few weeks ago hit a chord with me:

“It sounds like you covet the struggle.”

Do I? Am I wishing for a struggle to come along and strengthen my weaknesses? God, that sounds horrible.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

I want to climb into my wayback machine and pat myself on the head and tell me to shut UP, Robyn, GOD.

I find my complete lack of understanding about mental illness kind of funny. Like I thought that Jeffrey Dahmer was totally normal, with just this weird urge to kill and eat men, and if I were just – like – sitting at my desk one day and I was overpowered with the urge to kill and eat people, I’d just kill myself instead. God! So simple! Like, duh! Kill ’em all! Load up Death Row and charge up Ol’ Sparky and let’s get the bad guys gone!

Good lord.

I don’t remember a whole lot about Shot in the Heart, but reading my journal entry about it makes me want to re-read it. That whole thing about Gary Gilmore feeling like his rush toward self-destruction could have been stopped if someone had tried harder pisses me off. What a goddamn useless load of guilt to lay on someone else. I have no fucking patience for people who blame everyone around them for everything that goes wrong and take no responsibility at all for the shitty road their life has gone down.

I might just have personal issues with whiny little bitches who can’t bother to shoulder the responsibility for their own actions, though.

I don’t, for the record, covet the struggle anymore. I don’t think I really ever did. I do still have that sense of foreboding, though. It’s a low buzz in the back of my brain; I’m waiting for the second shoe to drop, and I suspect that I believe at some level if I expect the shoe to drop, it never really will.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

HG’s improving little by little. He actually let Fred pick him up a couple of times last night and hold him before jumping down and running off. He hadn’t done that before (unless you forcibly grabbed him and picked him up, and even then he just went still and frozen in terror), so that’s a step. When we went up to visit at bedtime, I picked him up for a minute and he didn’t fight me. He hasn’t purred for us yet, but hopefully that’s not too far away.

This morning when I took his morning snack in to him I sat down with him, and he let me pet him. He wasn’t crazy about it, but he put up with it.

I wasn’t able to spend much time with him yesterday because I had an appointment and then ran errands and then the refrigerator repairman showed up and then Fred’s parents were here and then we went out to dinner and then it was TV time. Today, I’ve got plenty of time, so I’m going to go up and hang out with him a lot and maybe he’ll warm up to me and flop over and let me rub his belly and promise to be my BFF for always.

A girl can dream, no?

CHOMP.

Such a sweet boy.

Poser.

Foxfire Firefox tabs open: 9.

Gmail, Google Reader (those two are always open), Bitchypoo WordPress edit page, Sideswipe Mixer Blade, this picture of Newt, Chickens in the Road, Facebook Scrabulous, Sparklit poll results from 2002, Hulu.

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Newt has a slurrrp.

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Previously
2007: At least the floors are clean.
2006: Fred was no help, because he was standing there laughing his ass off.
2005: No entry.
2004: No entry.
2003: Nothing, by the way, pisses me off more than the crap that gets installed with the program you really want – Office 2000, I’m looking at you and your crappy Outlook friend.
2002: Mother Nature is getting ON MY NERVES.
2001: No entry.
2000: So if rainy days and Mondays always got me down, I guess I’d have been suicidal today.

I’m glad to know that I’m not the only freak who worries, upon spotting money laying on the street, that when I pick it up a Dateline NBC crew will spring out from behind the bushes and Chris Hansen will tell me to take a seat and have a cookie.

Dateline would never set up a trap for mere pennies or nickels or EVEN quarters, though. And I also doubt that they’d just leave money lying there. No, what Dateline would do is send a doddering old lady out to dodder up the street, spilling money all over the place and then film what people did when it happened. Chris Hansen would be all “You saw her drop that twenty, but you picked it up and kept on going!” and the thief would be all “I didn’t know where it came from! I just saw it sitting there!” and Chris Hansen would be all “You SAW it fall out of her pocket! Does she or does she not look like a woman on a fixed income who can barely afford to feed herself, let alone easily lose twenty dollars? She might have to eat CAT FOOD to make it through the month because she lost that money!”, and then we’d find out that the doddering old lady is actually a teenager who looks particularly old for her age.

Years and years and years ago – I was living in Rhode Island and the spud was a baby – I was down to two dollars in cash, it was a week ’til payday, and I just HAD to have a bottle of Coke, because of course you’ve got to have priorities, don’t you? I went to the nearest convenience store and grabbed my bottle of Coke, and I was standing in line to pay, and the old man standing in front of me was shedding dollar bills all over the place and I could SORELY have used a little extra cash and no one else seemed to be noticing what was going on and I’ll admit, I hesitated for a moment, but then I came to my senses (and also, I suspected I had a hidden camera pointed at me) and I said “Sir, you’re dropping money all over the place!” and he thanked me and I helped him pick up the money he dropped, and he went along his way.

These days I doubt I’d even hesitate before I told him he was dropping money, but these days I’m very rarely down to my last two dollars with a week ’til payday.

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Last night Fred and I were laying in bed talking, and we heard the sound of a cat meowing.

“Is that Miz Poo?” Fred said.

“No, it’s coming from outside,” I said, and got out of bed. “That’s that cat I’ve been telling you about!”

Some nights when I’m lying in bed reading or trying to go to sleep, I can hear a cat outside my bedroom window meowing. I never get up and see what’s going on when I hear the meowing, because Fred sets the alarm before he goes to bed and I don’t know the code and I’m usually too lazy to dig for the remote. Also, it sounds like a cat talking just to hear himself talk rather than one in distress.

So I got out of bed and went to see if I could see the cat. It wasn’t Maxi or Newt because they were inside for the night. When I went onto the front porch, I could hear it off to the side of the house meowing. I called and called and it would meow back, but wouldn’t come close. All I could see were little white paws. Fred saw a gray tabby with white feet the other night, so I’m assuming it was the same cat.

When I looked at the food bowl on the front porch I saw that it was empty, so perhaps this was the cat’s way of letting me know. I filled up the food bowl and opened the front door to go inside.

Tommy was right inside the door, and before I could grab him, he went shooting by me. I yelled “STOP!”, shut the door, and went after him. He went off the porch to the left, and I went into the yard to grab him, then he disappeared. Luckily, Fred came out a moment later and could see where he was. Naturally, as soon as I went after him, he squirted by me and headed off to the yard on the other side of the house. With Fred and I both in hot pursuit, Tommy ran across the side lawn of our next door neighbors, headed for the road. I had visions of him running out into traffic, so I pulled out the big guns.

“Who ready for the snackin’!” I called in a loud whisper. “Who ready for the snackin’!”

I try not to do the snackin’ time call unless it’s really snackin’ time, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Tommy paused and looked thoughtfully at me, then headed back in my general direction. Fred went inside to grab a flashlight, and I tried the snackin’ time call again.

I cannot imagine what our neighbors would have thought if they’d heard us and glanced out their window. I was standing there in my red Big Dogs nightie, blue Crocs on my feet, bellowing (quietly) about snackin’.

Fred came out with the flashlight, I yelled about it being snackin’ time a few more times, and Tommy ran over to the bush outside my bedroom window and touched noses with Newt, who’d run outside when Fred came out. Tommy ran toward the yard next door, but this time Fred caught him and picked him up, handed the flashlight to me, and we went back inside.

And I never did get a good look at the cat who’d been meowing.

*****************

Smudgie has gone to the pet store. I set up the guest bedroom and put her in there yesterday morning and left HG in the foster kitten room. I left them alone for a couple of hours and then went to check on them. HG was like “Oh, it’s you. Whatever. DON’T TOUCH ME. Okay, maybe a little. Now let me nibble on your finger. Now go away. BYE.” Smudgie, on the other hand, ran over to me, meowing, purred, rubbed up on me, climbed up in my lap, and was just a big love slut. Since there was room at the pet store, I took her last night, because I don’t think they necessarily need to be adopted together. I think his reliance on Smudgie is keeping HG shy and skittish and if he gets lonely I’ll let Tommy or Newt in to keep him company (or Mister Boogers can go in and act like an ass – HG doesn’t seem particular about which cat he follows around and flirts with).

When I put Smudgie in her cage at the pet store, she sniffed around and went right into the litter box to hide, as the shyer ones always do – but in no time flat people were looking at her and exclaiming over how beautiful she is. She’ll be fine.

Last night there were small inroads with HG. He let Fred pet him several times and didn’t run away at the very idea. This morning, he greeted me with a meow when I came in with his morning snack and to clean out his litter box. He didn’t want me to pet him, but he also didn’t run and hide from me when I walked by, either.

Baby steps.

She’s not sleeping. She’s considering the best way to kill that mouse.

*****************

I found this picture of Tommy from last summer. He’s such a sweet boy.

*****************

Previously
2007: When one mows the lawn on a windy day when it hasn’t rained in a long time, one gets a lot of dust on one’s face.
2006: No entry.
2005: I am not pregnant, and I’m especially not pregnant with twins. I’m sorry to disappoint – some of you got REALLY excited, didn’t you?
2004: I can totally see the Bean clinging frantically to the top of the Jeep while I cluelessly drive around.
2003: But you’d better believe that if I had a penis, it’d be a big swingin’ one.
2002: “Walmart eating ass” will be the name of my seventh novel, in case you were curious.
2001: No entry.
2000: Well, I’ve got magazines to read, and naps to take.

* * * When I was in Maine, I saw this card, and it made me laugh out loud, so I bought it: Front: Inside:

* * * The last several nights, after Fred goes off to bed, I’ve been settling down in my own bed with BobPod for a little quality one-on-one time. I finished the last half of Weeds Season 2, and it ended on such a cliffhanger that I got my laptop and watched the first episode of the new season. Might I say that it is utterly ridiculous that they bleeped all the bad language? For the love of god, they’re okay with people watching a show about a suburban mother who sells pot, but horrors! God forbid they hear the “f” the “s” the “gd” the “a” or the “p” words! Also, I object. I OBJECT. I strenuously OBJECT the fact that each episode is NOT available on iTunes after it’s been broadcast on Showtime. There’s just no way on earth I’m going to convince Fred that we need to subscribe to Showtime for one (okay, if you include Dexter, two) shows. I could probably badger him into it, but I don’t particularly want to subscribe to Showtime for one (two!) shows. We already have a thousand fucking channels we never watch; I don’t need another one. So I suppose I’ll have to wait ’til Season 3 comes out on DVD. Fuckers. Speaking of Dexter, Fred and I started watching it last week (we got the first disc of Season 1 from Netflix) and we’re enjoying it (I think the actress who plays Deb is annoying, though). Fred might be relating a little too much to it, though – halfway through the second episode, he said “Do you think they write it deliberately so that people will start to worry that they might be psychopaths, too?” I think the show is better than the books. I don’t much care for the way the books are written, but I keep buying and reading them because the premise is so interesting. (And I just discovered the third book is released today.) Speaking of watching things, we watched some movie with Halle Berry and Bruce Willis (Perfect Stranger, IMDB reminds me), and it was pretty boring. It had a nice little twist at the end, but even the most interesting twist doesn’t make up for a movie that spends 90 minutes boring the shit out of you. I wasn’t really even paying attention after the first half hour, and I’m pretty sure I didn’t miss a damn thing. Has Halle Berry always looked so much like Sandra Bullock, or is that new? * * * When I go into the foster kitten room, I am surrounded by the most adorable little monkeys, and my tongue – I believe I’ve mentioned – is constantly sore because I bite it so I won’t squeeze the stuffing out of the kittens. Whether it’s Jake and Eddie Dean climbing into my lap and flopping over, or Billy Bumbler batting at my face when I pick him up, or Susannah fighting wildly on the other side of the room, I am bathed in the glow of the cute. I end up spending at least 45 minutes in there every time I go in, and when I walk out, I’m as relaxed as if I’d had a massage. This bonding-with-the-kittens thing could totally turn into a business. People would pay $20 for half an hour of kitten bonding, wouldn’t they? The three orange kittens (Callahan, Susannah, Billy Bumbler) will be going to the pet store today (but there’ll be pictures of them for the rest of the week, because I have so many in the queue on my memory stick) and the three brown tabbies will be going on Friday. Think happy adoption thoughts, y’all! I’ve developed a little crush on Billy Bumbler, because y’all KNOW how I love the orange kittens, and also, when I pick him up and look at him, he does this little swiping-at-my-face thing like “I are a badass! Le grrrr!”, and it’s severely cute. Also, he’s a porky little thing, and who doesn’t love a porky little kitten? *************************************** “Please, can we have the snuggles now?” “NO.” “So…no snuggles? At all? Not a little bitty snuggle?” “NO.” “No snuggles… ever? Or just not right now? Because if I have to be patient for the snuggles, I can be. I’m a patient little girl, and if I know that there will eventually be snuggles, I can chill out and back off. You just say the word, boyfriend.” “Oh lord, how much more must a poor kitteh suffer? How much longer, lord?” * * * Previously 2006: *Of course I want my daughter to be in a relationship with someone who treats her well, isn’t a criminal, and is carrying no communicable diseases. But I flat-out do not care whether that person has a penis or a vagina. 2005: No entry. 2004: No entry. 2003: Dirk is a happy, happy man. Dirk is very close to orange. 2002: Instead of finding it cute and amusing, I am, instead, bitter that I’ll never get that 94 minutes of my life back. 2001: (he’s a dumbass, she’s a dumbass, they’re dumbasses, wouldn’t you like to BE a dumbass too?!) 2000: No entry.]]>

We have chickens. Here’s why.

* * * As of today, I have lived in Alabama for 11 years! That’s 28.2051282051282051282051282051282051 (etc) percent of my life, but it doesn’t feel like a day over 27 percent. I’ve lived in Alabama longer than I’ve ever lived anywhere else. I still think of Maine as home, though. * * * Friday night, I was thisclose to jettisoning cats left and right, tossing all of them out the door so they could fend for themselves in the great wild. At 9:00, we got up to make our usual trek from the front room to the computer room to check our email before brushing our teeth and going on to bed, when Fred stopped in the dining room and turned on the light. I am in the process of making cinnamon pickles, and one of the steps is to cover them with a syrup then let them sit for 24 hours. So I’d covered them with the syrup and put the bowl on the table and covered it with a cloth so nothing would get into it, and I left it there, secure in the knowledge that it would remain there, safe and unharmed. Except that one bastardly Booger had decided to jump up on the table, and when he did, he landed with his back paw in the bowl, and when he did that, the cloth went downward into the bowl, and his big stupid foot got all covered with sticky red syrup, and he thought to himself “Hmm. My back foot is covered in sticky red syrup. How ever shall I deal with this dilemma? I know! I’ll shake my big stupid foot so that sticky red syrup will go everywhere! And then I’ll jump down and I’ll run around in random directions, shaking my big stupid foot, until I have covered as much of the dining room, kitchen, and computer room with red sticky syrup as possible!” And then he did. So instead of quietly checking our email and then going to bed, we spent the next half hour wiping sticky red syrup off the floor, the table, the chairs. It is only by the grace of god that my laptop – sitting right there on the table not a foot away from the bowl – didn’t get a single drop of red, sticky syrup on it. I was ENRAGED. Wiping up all that sticky fucking syrup from the table, the chairs, the floor, I swore the entire time, and I’m pretty sure the words “WHY CAN’T WE EVER HAVE ANYTHING NICE?!” came out of my mouth. And what’s worse is that we got it all cleaned up, went to bed, and I realized I needed to get something out of the computer room. Walking across the dining room to the computer room, I discovered three more sticky spots we’d missed when we were cleaning. And then all day Saturday I’d find yet another random spot of stickiness, and I’d swear loudly and then have to go get the rag and the cleaner, and clean it up. I was so ready to send that fucking bastard out to live with the chickens. Ah hets him. “Ah hets you, too.” * * * Thursday I called Fred at work. “I think I have a brain tumor,” I said. “It’s not a tumah,” he said, as is standard. “Or I’m going blind.” “What makes you say that?” he asked. “I’m having a hard time focusing, my eyes feel strained and achy by the end of the day, and I’ve had mild headaches lately.” “Maybe you need reading glasses.” “Shut up. I don’t need reading glasses. I have a brain tumor.” “Maybe you should go see the optometrist.” “I have an appointment tomorrow at 9:15.” So Friday morning I got up, ran around the house to get shit done, made breakfast: It appears we have a chicken who consistently lays double-yolkers. and left for my appointment (note to self: find optometrist closer than Huntsville. There’s gotta be one.). I got to the eye place a little early, popped out my contacts, put on my glasses, and walked in. Since I was early, I had to wait even longer than the usual fifteen minutes, so I watched people pick out glasses, and read magazines. Turns out that I don’t necessarily have a brain tumor. Instead, it seems that my vision has improved since last time I was there. If I recall correctly, at my last visit my vision had improved since the time before. At this rate, I’ll have perfect 20/20 vision right around the time I turn 100. I just won’t be alive to enjoy it. I bought boxes of contacts in the new prescription and tried on several frames before I found ones that I liked. I ordered them, and will be picking them up later today. * * * Maryanne continues to make herself at home. Using the Litter Robot (I think she actually likes to get in there and just kick the litter around sometimes) Hanging out atop the cat tree. Working on the Look o’ Het. She’s so purty. (Not documented in pictures: this morning she picked a fight with Miz Poo, and Miz Poo slapped her but good, then she picked another fight with Miz Poo, and Miz Poo slapped her even harder, and THEN she picked a fight with Miz Poo, and Miz Poo smacked her so hard she went rolling across the bed. Not a fast learner, this one.) * * * The boy cats, knowing what a bitchy little spaz Miz Poo is, love to tease her. They circle her, staying just out of reach of the Paw o’ Doom. Circle some more… Get a leeeeeettle closer… And then run off to nap, leaving Miz Poo to sadly ponder why no one will play with her. * * * Previously 2006: No entry. 2005: No entry. 2004: Give me time, I’ll have fifteen different versions of “Xanadu” in my music folder. 2003: MY ARM HURTS. 2002: I think no one ever told Billy Bob that if you ANNOUNCE you’re taking the high road, then you aren’t taking it. 2001: No entry. 2000: No entry.]]>