Category: Life

On Saturday, after taking a road trip to Tennessee that took up most of the morning (and somehow, I managed to not take a single picture while I was up there, wtf??), we swung by Egg the Pig Man’s place and got ourselves some little pigs. I took a bunch of pictures around Egg’s place (which I will share with you on Thursday), but for now you can feast your eyes on the three little cuties.

Egg is always having issues with his back, and it hurts me just to see him walk. He’s 78 years old, and it’s been a rough 78 years. His wife’s trying to get him to give up the piggin’ business (and probably the cow business as well), but I think he just loves it too much. The day after the tornadoes went through (he had no damage to his property), he was checking his fence, and got his boots stuck in the mud and couldn’t pull them out, so he was barefooted. He was pulling himself up with his arms and got tangled in his electric fence, and when he got zapped by it, he pulled back and twisted his back which made him fall, and he busted his hand up when he fell.

Last week, he forgot his truck was in park and started to get out, then got his head stuck between the steering wheel and rearview mirror, and got a bruise on his head.

Poor Egg.

In the past, Egg’s always been the one to wrestle the pigs we were buying into the carriers, but this time he let Fred do it. We had told him that we wanted two pigs, but on the way up there we got to talking, and Fred’s got a couple of people at work who want to buy pigs (or rather, half a pig). We decided that if Egg had another pig around the same size as the other two for sale, then we’d buy a third. If not, then the people who want to buy pigs from us would have to wait. (We determined, after the other two pigs went to be processed in February and it was a godawful mess getting them into the truck because it was so wet in the back forty, that we’re only going to have pigs once a year from here on out.)

As it turned out, Egg had five little pigs for sale, so we got that third pig. Then he and Fred talked about how we should buy a sow from him and raise our own pigs, and yeah. I don’t think so. Especially after Egg casually says things like “She had about twelve of them, but she mashed a couple.” I’d rather not have to see any piglets who got mashed by their mama rolling over on them, thanks anyway.

There was a mama pig there with a large number of tiny little piglets (much smaller than the three we ended up getting) and I would have dearly loved to touch a wee piglet, but mama pig was giving me the “I will mess you UP, lady” eyes, so I didn’t even think about trying that.

We got home and then carried the carriers out to the pig yard and set the girls free, and they immediately ran around and ate grass and chased each other. They are certainly cute girls, but we realized that one of them has a bulge in her mid-section and that means one of the following: (1) It’s a boy OR (2) It’s a hernia OR (3) It’s an umbilicus (this is a Fred And3rson theory, and I don’t know what the fuck he could possibly be talking about, the pigs are NOT newborns, but he says it with enough self-assurance that he seems to think it’s a real theory, so I’m going to leave it in) OR (4) It’s a hermaphrodite pig. After much quality time spent staring at Bulgy’s back end, Fred is pretty sure that she’s a she and that the bulge is a hernia because it’s not pointy enough to be, y’know. Male equipment. The last time we dealt with hernia-having pigs, it didn’t work out so well and we ended up taking the pigs back from whence they came, but Fred doesn’t seem inclined to do that with this pig, so I don’t know. Whatever. Pigs are his area of expertise, not mine, so I’m going to let him figure out what he wants to do as far as that goes.

Saturday evening, I was wiped out (I think due to a Zyrtec I’d taken earlier in the day. I felt sleepy all day long, and that’s what I’ve decided to blame it on.) and we put in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part 1 and I watched it when I wasn’t dozing.

Sunday morning I was awakened bright and early (5:45!) by Fred, who came upstairs to tell me that he’d seen the possum who eats out of the food bowl on our side porch, and the poor guy doesn’t have a tail anymore. We discussed what could have happened to it, then Fred told me something else that I don’t recall, and he went downstairs.

Since I was awake, I got up and got dressed, then went into the foster room to give the kittens and Maggie their morning snack and scoop the litter boxes. I found a kitten pee situation that required getting all the McMaos out of the foster room so I could do a thorough cleaning, which took about half an hour. I got all the litter boxes scooped and took a few minutes to relax before I headed out to start working in the garden.

I spent the next couple of hours cutting empty pig and chicken feed bags open and cutting a slit down the middle of each so that I could put a bag around each and every tomato plant so I won’t spend my summer weeding. While I did that, Fred got out the tomato cages and put one over each tomato plant. We took a break to eat breakfast, then he started driving T posts in the tomato row and tying twine along the row of cages, attaching the cages to the T posts.

It was all very exciting, as I’m sure you can imagine.

Then I put drip hoses along each of my rows of tomatoes and one along my row of onions and cucumbers, mowed the grass around my raised beds, planted two tomato plants in my straw bale (it’s an experiment), and declared that I was done working outside for the day. I went inside, took a shower, and then proceeded to putter around the house for a few hours. Fred’s father and stepmother stopped by and we spent about an hour chatting with them before they headed home.

It was a fairly productive weekend (well, Sunday) for me, but I have so much more on my to-do list that all I want to do is lay in front of the TV and do nothin’.

Sounds like a plan!

As the oldest cat, Spanky thinks that what to watch should be HIS decision.

“But *I* wanna watch those wacky Real Housewives!” says Dorothy.
Jake: ::facepalm::

(Dorothy won. She always does.)

Seven weeks old! Can you believe it?

Ciara goes for the butt bite as Cillian attempts to flee up the cat tree.

Declan (left) and Fergus Simon (right) in my lap. They’re looking all wild-eyed because the camera strap is hanging down, tempting them.

Their little faces crack me up (please note the foot-sniffer in the background).

Macushla and his fangs.

Finnegan at play (note to self: someone really needs to paint those baseboards.)

“I feel skeered, but I don’t know WHY.”

Ciara, hanging on the cat tree while Cillian’s over there all “I don’t know why you’re taking HER picture, she’s not doing anything all THAT impressive. I can hang there like that. I can hang there from only ONE paw. She’s nothin’ special. Hmph.”

“But soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It is the Bat signal, and I am BatCat!”

“::sigh:: Picking that up would be SO much easier if I had opposable thumbs.”

Are we comfy, Suggie? (Sugarbutt and Tommy love to lay like this on the back of Fred’s chair.)

Previously
2010: No entry.
2009: No entry.
2008: Home! Will post when I can, don’t know when that will be.
2007: No entry.
2006: No entry.
2005: Yes, a child’s dose of Benadryl on an empty stomach, and I’m about ready to dance on the bars and twirl my bra over my head.
2004: No entry.
2003: He’s a badass motherfucker, that’s right.
2002: Little baby piglets!
2001: “This is our song, Robbie,” she said.
2000: I can’t believe I’ve been doing this journalling thing for over 7 months now.

Last week, Val said:

OK – I’m getting sweet Dorothy and Alice confused. Can you please post comparison pictures so I can get them straight in my head!!

Sure, twist my arm why don’tcha? 🙂

Dorothy: discovered in our neighbor’s driveway the day after the tornado swept through our area. Sweet little torbie, about 10 weeks old.

Alice: discovered eating from the food bowl on our side porch a few days before Christmas. Evil little calitabby, will be a year old on June 6th.

Dorothy: likes to watch the birds through the side door.

Alice: ditto.

Dorothy: sweet little handful who loves everyone.

Alice: more than a handful (I really think she’s going to be close to normal sized rather than the tiny little morsel we originally thought she’d be), and loves her daddy with a passion. If Daddy isn’t around, I’ll do. But really she prefers Fred. O HOW SHE LOVES HIM.

Dorothy: Not a permanent resident.

Alice: Permanent resident, because no one shall ever tear her away from her beloved Daddy.

Dorothy: Inside only.

Alice: Recently figured out the cat door to the back yard.

I had to put this one in here, because I can’t believe Spanky’s putting up with this. They slept together all afternoon!

If I were quick enough with the camera, I’d have a picture here of Dorothy smacking Elwood on the head and then chasing him down the hall. She puts those boys through their paces, and has no fear at all.

Actually, that’s another way Dorothy and Alice are alike: they’re small, but they have NO fear when it comes to the other cats.

And yesterday, Alice asked: Robyn, I don’t think you ever gave us the full story on Jake and Elwood (or maybe you did and I just can’t remember!). How did those two ever come to you, anyway? They’re so full of character, I just love them. 😀

In 2009, about six weeks after Mister Boogers died, we spent a Saturday on a road trip up into Tennessee. We were gone until early in the afternoon, and when we got home, we found two gray kittens playing around our side stoop, and a Cool Whip container full of cat food sitting on the steps. We brought them inside, and we got permission from the shelter manager to make them Challenger’s House cats, but it was probably less than 48 hours after we met them that we decided they were staying.

They looked so much like Mister Boogers that Fred was sure they were little troublemakers sent by him from the afterlife to wreak havoc, and of course one cannot look gift demons in the mouth as the fire and brimstone of their breath would singe your eyebrows right off your face.

The day we met them, August 15th, 2009.

I think keeping them was a really good choice on our part, because they make us laugh just about every day.

“Hallo. I am Macushla. I am not, as That Lady likes to call me, ‘Koosh ball.’ I don’t know what a Koosh ball is, but given the way she snickers at her own wit, I suspect it’s not a compliment.”

“I am very talented, and so I would like to show you my talented tongue. First, the simple slurp move.” ::thlurrrp::

“And then, I can make my tongue very very long. See?”

“Also, wide. Isn’t that a wide tongue? How do I fit it in my mouth? It’s a mystery!”

“Now, NOT wide. It’s like magic, first wide then not wide!”

“Now NO tongue! Where’d it go? I don’t know!”

“Snake tongue!”

::thlurrp:: “Thank you very much. That was my tongue. And I am Macushla. Good day.”

I lub my Corbie. (Yesterday, Fred was about to leave for work, and Corbie was sitting in the back yard by the fence, and Fred said “Corbie’s very pretty. Look at him, sitting in the sun. No, look! He’s really striking, isn’t he?” and I was like “Have I not been TELLING you this?” Like, DUH. I KNOW how beautiful he is, I’ve been saying it and saying it, right?)

Previously
2010: I DO NOT LIKE it when they talk shit about each others’ kids.
2009: Joe Bob just kept smiling.
2008: No entry.
2007: Ten.
2006: I walked over to them and threw Cheerios at them, and they looked at me as if I were mentally disturbed.
2005: Which he proved by dancing lightly about the room once I’d said we should just stay home.
2004: He asked questions, he really listened to the answers, and he was just really a nice guy.
2003: No entry.
2002: No entry.
2001: She’s obviously picked up her mother’s bad attitude.
2000: My day in pictures.

After almost two months of owning it, I have to confess: my smartphone is not working for me. I was so excited to get it, so excited to use it, and it’s a neat phone and all, but honestly? Half the time I don’t get a signal, and even when I do get a signal, it takes forever to connect to whatever I’m trying to connect to. Also, I’m hardly ever more than half an hour from home, and it’s just more phone than I need.

(Also, I continue to be bitter that I cannot play Snood on it. I have perused and tried all the games I can download onto the Optimus, but none of them have captured me the way Snood immediately did.)

All I really and truly need to keep me happy, cell phone wise, is a phone that makes calls and sends and receives texts. So I’ve ordered a less intelligent phone – dumbphone! – from Virgin Mobile, and will be selling my Optimus on eBay.

Of course, in a perfect world I’d be able to get an iPhone and only pay $25 a month for service, which would remove the necessity for an iPod Touch, but I guess you can’t have everything, can you?

(I may be replacing my iPod Touch with an iPad pretty soon, though. WOOT.)

Speaking of my iPod Touch, I have to tell y’all that during the first 6 weeks after I had my plastic surgery*, I had my iPod Touch within reach at all times. In fact, when I started sleeping in my bed rather than downstairs in the recliner, I would sleep all propped up with my arms on pillows and a pillow under my back, and always had my iPod Touch laying on my chest. I wasn’t sleeping the whole night through, so I’d snooze for a while, then wake up and pick up my iPod to check Twitter and Facebook and my email, then go back to sleep.

Speaking of surgery, I finally saw my plastic surgeon again yesterday. I originally had a follow-up appointment scheduled for three weeks ago, but I rescheduled because I was SO not in the mood for the drive. That rescheduled appointment ended up being two days after the tornadoes came through, and since the office didn’t have any power, they called and rescheduled me again for yesterday. I still wasn’t in the mood for the drive, but sucked it up and went anyway.

I will tell y’all this – I am pleased with the results of the breast lift, though directly after surgery I said to Fred “Do you suppose they’re actually supposed to be located in my armpits?” With time, though, I’m more pleased with the results. They look pretty normal to me, I think. Whyn’t y’all send me pictures of your boobs so I can compare whether mine look normal? (I KID. Please don’t.)

I’m mostly pleased with the results of my upper arm lift, though around my left elbow is, as the plastic surgeon said, “full.” In other words, I’ve got chubby arms. I know that if I was really bothered by it, he’d do a revision, but I will tell you this: I am never ever ever going to have elective surgery done on my upper arms ever again, ever. That was the worst part of the whole recovery, and while I like the results, I don’t want to have to go through that again. Though my arms look chubby, the surgery has taken away all the damn extra skin that was hanging there, and if the sleeves of a short-sleeved t-shirt don’t come all the way to my elbows, it doesn’t bother me. I haven’t actually worn a tank top while working outside yet, but I’d be mostly comfortable wearing one, I think.

My neck lift, though? I am displeased. There’s still too much of a wattle there, and the surgeon agreed. He said that it’s a loose skin issue rather than underlying fat or loose muscles, and his nurse should be calling in the next day or so to talk about a revision. Unless he can do it very soon, I’ll likely put it off ’til the Fall. I want it done, but I don’t want recovery to interfere with all the shit I need to do in the next little while (not least of which is GARDENING), even though the recovery from this won’t be nearly as long or involved.

Perhaps one day I’ll actually get around to taking some (clothed) after pictures so y’all can see that, well, I probably don’t look any different to anyone else, but I look different to me. And honestly? That’s what matters.

*GET AWAY FROM THAT SEARCH BOX, I had plastic surgery on February 10th whereupon I had my breasts, upper arms, and neck lifted, you damn skimmers. (Or newbies.) No, there are no before and after pictures for you to stare judgmentally at. I haven’t gotten around to doing that yet. I’ll do it some day.

I got home from running errands on Saturday, and as I walked from the driver’s side of the car to the trunk, Fred opened a window in the front room.

“I need your help!” he called. I ran toward the house, wondering what the hell could possibly be going on. When I walked into the front room, Fred was standing near the subwoofer, holding a trash can.

“There’s a squirrel under here,” he said, pointing to the subwoofer. The subwoofer is a square about 20 inches by 20 inches, that has legs about 2 inches tall.

“Of course there is,” I said. Turns out, Fred had been walking down the hall toward the kitchen when he heard the distinctive squeal of an angry squirrel, and a moment later Elwood came in through the cat door with a young squirrel in his mouth.

Who ever expected Elwood to be fast enough to catch a squirrel? Not me.

After some discussion, Fred lifted the subwoofer enough to spur the squirrel into action. He feinted left, eyeballed me, and then ran straight ahead instead. Directly into the trash can Fred had set down on the floor.

Someone needs to clean that nasty-ass trash can.

We took the trash can outside, Fred turned it over on its side, and off the squirrel went.

It certainly could have gone worse!

Rufus has not been adopted yet. However, I went by to see him at Petsmart over the weekend, and not only was he NOT hiding in his litter box, he was in fact flopped out on his bed, sound asleep. I went in to see him and pet him, and he just lay there and purred like mad. I snapped a few pictures with my phone.

Somehow, I’d forgotten just how silky smooth his fur is.

“HI MAMA!”

::CHOMP::

Oh, his little face just kills me DEAD.

Don’t give ME that look, young lady. It’s not MY fault they’re such little ruffians!

When we brought Maggie home, I stuffed a pillow in that kitty condo so that Maggie wouldn’t go in there and give birth. Then I left it in there so the babies wouldn’t go in there and pee in it. But being cats, of course they figured out that they can get in there anyway, and they do it often. I’d take the pillow out, but I suspect that that would ruin the fun for them.

“MY toy. You hear me?”

Macushla in my lap. All the McMaos are snuggly, but he’s particularly so.

Fergus Simon, sneaking up on his brothers. “Be vewwy vewwy quiet!”

Elwood in the window.

Jake, enjoying the sun if it kills him.

Jake in the guest bedroom, Elwood at the bottom of the stairs.

Jake on the platform in the kitchen. I love his loony little face.

Previously
2010: I always pee and progesterone at the same time. It makes me feel efficient.
2009: No entry.
2008: No entry.
2007: “Goddamn!” I said. “I’m going to have them haul your ass away to the nursing home! YOU WERE THERE WITH ME AND PICKED OUT THE GODDAMN SKIRT FOR ME!”
2006: Sorry, no real entry today.
2005: Fucking cats. They sure are a money pit.
2004: Oh, look. It must be a day that ends in “y.”
2003: No entry.
2002: You know, this whole band shit drives me nuts.
2001: The spud’s band is having another concert tonight.
2000: I would put a sign announcing the name of the house: Horseshit Alley.

Last week, I got an email from… Robyn Anderson. Seems that Robyn Anderson was sending herself pictures from work. You’d think she’d know her own email address, wouldn’t you? She works at Target, by the way. I’d post the pictures here and mock them, but there was nothing particularly mockworthy about them, so I’ll refrain.

These Robyn Andersons, I tell you what. Who doesn’t know their own email address? She’s not even the first Robyn Anderson to send herself an email and sent it to me instead!

Thus far, we’ve got Irish Robyn Anderson, Illinois Robyn Anderson, Mormon Robyn Anderson (whose annoying goddamn family keeps trying to add me to their relatives on “We’re Related”, whatever the fuck that is), and now Target Robyn Anderson, who all are either giving out the wrong email address, or sending email to themselves at my email address. Oh, there was Canadian Robyn Anderson, too.

(I’m sure when they talk about me, I’m Cat Lady Robyn Anderson.)

Last year when Illinois Robyn Anderson signed up for frequent flyer miles and used my email address, I was so annoyed that I logged in and changed the password to the account. O YES I DID. She doesn’t apparently fly all that often, though, because there weren’t many frequent flyer miles and she hasn’t used the account since.

(Well, maybe because she doesn’t have the password? Duh.)

Fucking Robyn Andersons. They’re all pains in the ass, if you ask me.

Oh, lord. I just went and looked at my sent mail for that email address, and found this exchange from April, which I had forgotten about:

Robyn Anderson,

Warren
Sent on the TELUS Mobility network with BlackBerry

Warren –

Robyn Anderson

Robyn,

Sent on the TELUS Mobility network with BlackBerry

Warren –

Robyn Anderson

And then, back in March:

Hi Robyn:
Congratulations on becoming a grandma. That is so exciting. It’s a shame they live on the other side of the country!!! But I’m glad you got to go see the new baby and your daughter and son-in-law.

Bro. Hickey the Stake financial clerk has been nagging me about getting some sort of closure on the checks that were sent out for camp. I doubt you still have receipts, but if you could possibly send me a short written statement of expenses, signed and dated, that will do. It can be very general. This needs to be done in case of auditing, so they know where the money went.
Thanks so much and Happy Thanksgiving
Suzanne

(I simply emailed her back and told her she had the wrong email address. But then I forwarded it to Fred and said “You think she knows something I don’t?”)

And then this from last September:

Our records show the following for ROBYN ANDERSON:

Notes: Just a friendly reminder that you have a cleaning appointment coming up in our office. If the time listed is not convenient please call us as soon as possible to reschedule.

To which I responded: Please cancel this appointment. I’ll need to call and reschedule at a later date. Thanks.

(I’m an asshole, but I’m snickering about it all these months later.)

About a year ago, Robyn Anderson sent me (I assume intending to send it to herself) :

email and print calendar
do expenses
vegas selling day
order gwps
az travel update

Robyn Anderson
Southwest Regional Coordinator

I said: Don’t wanna. How come *I* have to do all the work?

(But never heard back from her. Robyn Anderson, Southwest Regional Coordinator is humorless, I think. Or embarrassed. I should have said “The GWPS is backordered. Should I order something else instead?”)

This reminds of when, several years ago, Fred sent a picture of the spud sleeping with her eyes open to what he thought was her email address. As it turned out, he got a very polite email back from the person he actually sent it to, letting him know he had the wrong email address.

I guess Robyn Andersons aren’t the only dumbass Andersons.

PS: My favorite wrong-email that I’ve gotten at that address is below. I responded to it with “You have the wrong email address” because I didn’t even know where to start even though I’m curious as shit to know why the front desk kept issuing key cards to people who weren’t booked for the room. I’d certainly like to know what “supposed wife of Edgar” means, and why that would afford her the privilege of having a card to a room that isn’t hers. But I decided to play it safe and not even try to get involved in that mess.

Ind/Robyn

Carla

Miss Dorothy in the sun. (Current nicknames: Fred calls her Dottie and Dortsy. I called her Dorfy and when I was looking for her Saturday evening, I called her KittyDorfin’ and then EnDorfin’. Oh, we amuse ourselves so very much.)

She is such a sweet and well-adjusted girl. I love to see her chasing Jake down the hallway, and she even got Miz Poo to chase her a little on Sunday!

“Am… under… attack… SAVE YOURSELF!”

“Who, ME? Climbing the cat tree? NO. What a ridiculous question!”

“HI MAMA!” (Please ignore the scattered litter in the background. I hadn’t swept yet.)

“I find that simply amazing, my good woman.”

“I… did not touch the Kong Wubba. Why? Did someone say I did? Pay no attention to that paw.”

“Cowabunga!”

“Dude, it’s okay. I’ve got it covered.”

“HI MAMAAAAAAAAA!”

::chomp:: Her eyes are so neat right now – I love the way the permanent color is moving outward from her pupils.

Miss Maggie doesn’t miss a thing.

Newt, thinkin’ deep thoughts.

Previously
2010: No entry.
2009: No entry.
2008: Getting ready for surgery.
2007: They’d surely have fabulous gay parties and invite their fabulous gay friends and give my inner Mrs. Kravitz something to spy on.
2006: I’m READY FOR SUMMER, THANK YOU.
2005: I like cats. They’re good to eat.
2004: No entry.
2003: We’re some calendar-loving motherfuckers, that’s right.
2002: Kitty meeting.
2001: So… I guess we could probably sell your shithole…
2000: It sounds like there’s a lot to do in Gatlinburg, so it should be fun.

Yesterday was another of those really busy days where one minute it’s 9 am and the next it’s 1:00 and you don’t know what you’re going to have for lunch. I got the recycling taken to the recycling center, went to Publix to stock up on a few things, got home, ate breakfast, and then headed outside to get some more mowing done. Fred got all the mowing except the back yard done over the weekend, so I told him I’d do that part. I imagine it would have gone a lot faster if I’d used the riding lawnmower, but that thing annoys me, with all the backing up and going around stuff I have to do, so I used the push mower. It took me about 45 minutes to get that done, I took a break, and then headed back out. Fred did the side yard (in front of the garage) last week, but he wasn’t able to do the whole thing because it was terribly soggy. It was looking shaggy and kind of annoying me, so I wanted to get it cut. It was another pain in the ass, not as bad as the swamps in the pig yard or blue coop yard, but a pain just the same.

Once that was done, I glanced behind the garage and decided that that area was annoying me, too. It doesn’t get cut very often because it doesn’t usually need it very often, but I figured since I was out with the mower, I might as well get it done.

Let me tell you, a gum ball (from a sweet gum tree, not the kind that you chew)(though I guess you could chew it if you really wanted to) that flies out from under a lawnmower, hits the back of the garage, and then hits your calf at approximately 73 miles per hour STINGS LIKE A MOTHERFUCKER.

But I persevered and got it done.

Then I came inside to cool off, went back out to hang my laundry on the line, and then went upstairs to take a shower. I was in the shower when I was pretty sure I heard a knock at the door. I finished showering as quickly as I could, threw on some clothes, and went downstairs to find… nothing. I don’t know if someone knocked and got tired of waiting, or if I was just hearing the cats running around, or what.

I went in and hung out with the McMaos for about an hour, cleaning the room while I was in there (I’ve almost got all the litter boxes in the closet, yay!), and then had lunch. Then I made dinner (Fred likes to eat dinner at, like, 4:00 and I prefer to wait ’til a more normal hour. If I make dinner ahead, then he can eat when he wants, and so can I.) and put it in the fridge.

(Chicken and dumplings. But I didn’t have to cook the chicken first; I used chicken that I canned last Fall.)

I went out and got the hose I bought at Walmart the other day out of my car, and stretched it from the spigot to my little enclosed garden behind the back yard. Then I watered my raised beds, the herbs I planted last weekend, and the bale of straw we bought Tuesday.

(Katherine sent me this link about bale gardening, and I decided on the spur of the moment to give it a try with one bale. Why not, right?)

And then (can you contain your excitement? Is this not the most fascinating glimpse of my day? I should totally do a picture version of this thrilling step-by-step description of my day.) I went in and vacuumed the house. I brought in my laundry off the line and put it away (god knows how many wasps were in that laundry and are now angrily waiting for me to come along.), and at some point in there the air conditioner guy came.

As seems to happen about this time every year, the air conditioning unit for the upstairs went on the fritz. Luckily we haven’t hit the truly hot part of summer – not by far – so with my ceiling fan turned on high, it wasn’t too terribly hot during the night. The air conditioning repairman came, looked at it, put freon in, and left.

Fred got home and ate dinner. I got all the garbage together (Thursday being trash day), Fred took it out to the street. I planted the catnip I bought at Walmart the other day and put mulch down around the blueberry bushes in the back yard. I snuggled kittens and kissed Maggie and held Dorothy like a baby and kissed her on her nose.

Today, I tell you what, I’m laying my lazy ass on the couch and getting caught up on TV. I’ve got like 20 episodes of House on the DVR calling to me, and an episode of Sister Wives, and I have no desire to do anything but veg.

Still recovering from the tornado, I think.

A volunteer maple tree-in-the-making amongst my purslane.

A last shot of Rufus.

Rufus was fine on the drive to Petsmart the other day. I had a bit of a struggle getting him into the carrier (he fought me and got away, but all I had to do to recapture him was call to him, and he flopped right over on his side to be petted. Didn’t I feel evil, snatching him up to put him in the carrier!) He settled right down in the carrier and didn’t make a peep on the ride to Petsmart.

He was a little scared when I let him out of the carrier into the kitten room, and ran off to hide while I got his cage ready. I put some of his favorite toys in the cage, and then snuggled with him for a long while before I put him in the cage and left.

He, of course, because he wanted to break my heart, went right into the litter box to hide. They always do that at first – in fact, I don’t think Reacher ever came out of the litter box during his stay at Petsmart. Usually, though, it only takes a day or so before they adjust to their surroundings.

Adoption hours weren’t held Tuesday night because the power at Petsmart went out. I’m hoping that by the time adoption hours take place on Friday, he’ll be more relaxed.

You know I’ll let y’all know as soon as he’s adopted!

Cillian swipes! He misses! (And that’s an odd angle, so it looks like he has long ape arms.)

Practicing the song and dance for the big show!

“Hi! What? Nothin’.”

They sure do like this little cat tree. It makes me want to get a big one for them.

Maggie gets a moment to herself so she can relax. But only a moment…

“HI MAMA! HI!”

“Make room, Mama!”

“Mama, your armpit smells good. You’re so pretty! I love you.”

A loud car went by on the road outside, sending all the kittens running to the safety of the closet. Finnegan and Ciara were in charge of checking stuff out to make sure it was safe for everyone else to come out.

“Is it time to eat yet?”

“Mama is HUNGRY.”

Pretty Macushla.

No, Alice, it’s okay. Go right ahead and hang over the side like you’re going to jump to the floor from there. You won’t give me a heart attack or anything.

Previously
2010: It’s a Jakeapalooza!
2009: And when the wily snugglicious runt has determined that no smackdown is coming her way, what does she do?
2008: And… that was my weekend!
2007: No entry.
2006: Where the hell did the year GO?
2005: If my nose is cold, the rest of me is cold.
2004: I guess this is what we get for living in the Bible Belt, isn’t it?
2003: No entry.
2002: No entry.
2001: No entry.
2000: Ah well. Maybe next life.

Tom asked yesterday if we’d considered building a structure in our yard so we could handle more cats. We did, last summer, decide that we were going to convert the (now unused) blue coop into a “kitten coop” so we could have more fosters, but that hasn’t happened yet, and I don’t think it’s going to. I really prefer to have the cats and kittens in the house with us, and after our tornado scare from a couple of weeks ago, I worry that if we had some kittens upstairs in the foster room and some out in the coop and maybe one or two in the guest bedroom, there’s no way on earth that I’d be able to get all of them in the closet under the stairs (or in the storm shelter, once we have it put in) and our own cats as well. That might change – the only consistency around here is me declaring one thing one day and then suddenly declaring the opposite the next – and of course if it does, y’all will be the first to know!

Dorothy would like to say “hi” to her adoring public.

Note that it’s not until I compliment her dramatic eye makeup that she starts kneading and purring. Clearly her affections can be bought with flattery!

Sweet miss Dorothy.

Sleepy, sleepy McMaos.

::chomp::

::chomp::

“Hey, guys, c’mere! This foot taste funny to you?

“I can sit in your lap please?”

::sniff::

::sniffffffff::

::slurrrp:: (The little smile KILLS ME DEAD.)

“Close your eeeeeeyes and goodniiiiiiight…”

“Go to sleeeeeep little brudderrrrrrr…”

::thlurrp::

“What?”

“That’s right, I ate all the Tender Turkey Feast. You’ve gotta learn to move faster next time. I ate it all and I’m NOT SORRY!”

“So there.”

Rufus enjoyed a little outside time before he went off to Petsmart yesterday.

Loony Jake in the sun.

Previously
2010: Life with Fred.
2009: Blessed are the pure in het, for they shall see Dog.
2008: No entry.
2007: Mister Boogers doesn’t have opposable thumbs and finds it too difficult to text anyone – he gives up and stomps off in a huff after texting a few LOLs.
2006: Which to ME means “I’m not interested,” but to the operator apparently was code for “I might be interested. Try harder!”
2005: Now, I don’t know. I think that if your life is SO BUSY that taking the time to put a little pill in your mouth throws your entire schedule off, then perhaps it’s time to reorganize your life.
2004: You can’t have genius every day, y’know.
2003: No entry.
2002: No entry.
2001: SHE WAS FIXIN’ TO GO DOWN THE HILL.
2000: Poor overworked, abused child…

The temperatures around here have gone from in the 50s last week to in the 80s this week.

(I’m not complaining.)

We’ve had several partly sunny days in a row, and there’s no chance of rain for the foreseeable future. I’m beginning to have real hope that our property will actually dry up, at least the swamp in the blue coop yard and the swamp in the pig yard and the swamp in the side yard in front of the garage.

Since the weather’s been so nice, I’ve been hanging our laundry on the line to dry. One day last week, Fred took a t-shirt out of his drawer – a t-shirt I’d washed at least 5 days prior – and put it on. Then he was promptly stung by a motherfucking wasp.

Hardy creatures, those motherfucking wasps. Needless to say, it didn’t last long after it had stung him and dropped to the floor; he stomped on it and tossed it in the trash.

So I’ve been particularly careful when I get dressed in the morning. I shake out the shirt of the day and look inside the sleeves before I pull it over my head.

Yesterday I did just that, pulled the shirt over my head, and then levitated about three feet off the floor when something dropped onto my foot. It turned out to be a piece of straw. How it got inside my shirt, I have no idea. I was stung by a wasp last year for the first time in my life, and it hurt like a motherfucker. I’d prefer not to repeat the experience.

Tammy asked if Fergus Simon (heh, I almost called him “Rufus Simon”!) allows belly rubs. Indeed he does – but if there’s too much of it, he’ll eventually sink his teeth and claws into your hand and he’s got a strong little bunny kick that could probably tear your hand to shreds if you’re not quick enough to pull away.

Rebekah asked if the kittens ever squeal when they’re in the litter box. Some of them cry a little when they first get into the litter box. They cry, dig a little, get into position, cry, dig a little more, get into position, cry, and so on. Once they’re actually doing their business, though, they’re usually completely silent. I like to imagine they’re thinking about what good boys (or girl) they are, using the litter box like they’re supposed to!

Thus far I’ve only seen one litter box accident when, I imagine, the kitten couldn’t get to the litter box on time. At this point in time, I am slowly moving the litter boxes toward the closet, a few inches every day. My ultimate goal is to get all the litter boxes in the closet and (I hope) confine the litter scatter to the closet.

Someone – a couple of someones, maybe – asked if Dorothy could/ would become a permanent resident. She will not and can not, because have I mentioned we have 14 cats? Dorothy will go up for adoption after she’s been spayed in a few weeks. Rufus is also not going to become a permanent resident, as space has opened up at Petsmart and I’ll be leaving here in a little while to drop him off.

I’m going to miss Rufus (well, and Dorothy when she goes, of course). Can you believe we’ve had Rufus here for two months now? This is the part I always hate, because I’m pretty sure that in his mind Rufus believes he’s home already; he doesn’t know (and we can’t explain to him) that it was just a stop on the way to his forever home.

Such the pretty boy.

So tense, though. I wish you’d relax, Rufus!

“I’m borrrrrred. When can I bust out of this clambake?” Soon, pretty girl.

Declan, in the process of catching and killing a North American Gray Hoodie. What a smart boy!

Macushla, waiting patiently for the belly rub.

Declan and his fancy white bathing suit.

“Pardon me. You has a snuggle for me?” (Finnegan)

I love how, at this age, when you rub their bellies, they think about it for a moment, then begin vigorously grooming themselves.

“I KEEL YOU!”

“Okay, I’ll let you snuggle me. BUT I WON’T LIKE IT ONE LITTLE BIT.”

Miz Poo, taking a snooze in the sun.

Previously
2010: Why do I bother buying cat toys, again? (Oh, right. It’s an illness!)
2009: No entry.
2008: No entry.
2007: I call you people SKIMMERS, because we have SOLD the house, fools.
2006: I NEED MY VEGGING TIME, PEOPLE!
2005: We call him… FANG!
2004: Who has more fun that me, kids? That’s right, NO ONE!
2003: No entry.
2002: I think I’ll call him Fredriq, and make him talk in a French accent and squeal with excitement while he’s doing it.
2001: Your shoes are not lined up exactly, and what’s this?? A PIECE OF GRASS ON THE BOTTOM OF YOUR SHOE??? TO THE DUNGEON WITH YOU!”
2000: Exhausting!