Category: Life

Guess who’s 22 today?!

Seriously. Do I look like the mother of a 22 year-old? I DIDN’T THINK SO.

The update on the spud for y’all: she’s happy, she’s undergoing training to be a manager at McDonald’s, and she has a boyfriend (though she has a cold at the moment, which is a sucky way to spend your birthday). At one point she was talking about starting college after Christmas, but I’m not sure if that’s still in the plans or not.

22. Good god. How is that POSSIBLE? This is how I still think of her:

And in case you ever wondered what I looked like on the morning I became a mother (sh’yeah, like you don’t sit around and wonder exactly that every moment of your life!), here you go:

I’d been admitted to the hospital (she was a c-section; I was 4 days past my due date and went to my gyn/ob. They did an ultrasound and guesstimated her weight to be 10 pounds, 6 ounces. The doctor recommended a c-section, and I went along with it. I had a strong feeling from the very beginning that I would end up having a c-section.) and this was probably my 4th trip back from the bathroom. Nice glasses, eh? THE BETTER TO SEE YOU WITH.

Happy birthday, Danielle! I love you! (You don’t look a day over 3, as far as I’m concerned.)

This is a shameless beg from a longtime lurker.

Check us out: www.gbhs.org vote for us at: www.votetosavelives.org

Yesterday I left the house to run errands. First I went to my doctor’s office. I’m almost out of Synthroid, and my doctor won’t give me another prescription unless I have my thyroid levels tested (well, she would if it was an emergency I guess, but it would only be for a month and I’d have to go in and have blood drawn before the month was up to get another prescription for it.). Until now, what I’ve been doing is going in and asking for a lab slip, they give me one, and then I go next door to the LabC0rp office to have my blood drawn. Only this time, when I asked for a lab slip, they told me that they’ve got their own lab now. She told me to sign in and have a seat, and I did so.

I pulled out my iPod and played a couple of games of Snood, then I thought “Huh. I wonder if they have wireless for their patients here?” and clicked over to check. The doctor’s office didn’t have wireless, but the dentist next door did, so I hopped on, checked my email, checked my Twitter and Facebook stuff, and then started playing another game of Snood. As I played, I happened to glance down at the front of my shirt, and I was instantly mortified.

I had a layer of white cat fur an inch thick on my left shoulder and going down my left sleeve.

You will likely find this difficult to believe, but I don’t ordinarily leave the house with much cat hair on me. I usually wear clothing that cat hair doesn’t stick to (t-shirts and sweatshirts, for the most part), but this shirt was apparently made of material more attractive to cat hair. I tried to casually brush the cat hair away, but it wouldn’t be brushed. Then I tried plucking the cat hair off my shirt, but that was pretty pointless, and so I gave up and decided that if I’m going to have SIXTEEN cats in my damn house (PLUS Starsky and Hutch) (though really it’s 15 plus S&H, because Coltrane doesn’t come in the house, which… damn. That’s still a lot of fucking cats. ARGH.) I might as well look the crazy cat lady part.

I spent about 15 minutes in the waiting room before they called me back to the lab, and another 30 seconds after that I was on my way.

I went to Kohl’s to return four pair of jeans that I bought the other day. I tell you what, I’m about to give up on this goddamn jean hunt. Last year I bought a bunch of jeans from Fashion Bug that fit me well. But apparently my body has readjusted itself, and now they look funny when I put them on. I have one single goddamn pair of Levi’s 550 jeans that fit okay, two pair of men’s Levi’s 550 jeans that fit okay enough to wear around the house*, and other than that I’m shit out of luck. I thought I found some jeans at Kohl’s last week, but when I got home and attempted to actually wear them, I realized that they weren’t just a “little” too long for me, they were WAY too long for me. So back they went.

I spent an hour and a half trying on a pair of every single kind of jeans at Kohl’s in size 8 and size 10 (depends on the brand as to which size I wear – I actually have a pair of capri jeans in size 6 that fit really well, which seems utterly ridiculous to me) and ended up with some that’ll work for now. The problem is twofold: 1. I have no waist at all. There’s no indentation at ALL between my chest and my hips, and I’m not even kidding. 2. My thighs are, well, there’s loose skin there. And I’m not willing to have surgery on them because the madness has to stop somewhere (still hoping for a boob lift early next year, if you’re wondering). Maybe I should invest in some Spanx and shut the fuck up about it. I keep telling Fred I’m going to just start wearing skirts, but ugh. I don’t wanna.

I stopped by the bank to deposit a couple of checks, went by TJ Maxx to browse (and didn’t buy a single thing, which must be a first for me), swung by Publix to pick up a few things, and got home just in time for lunch.

Today, I think I’m going to be spending the day boiling and deboning chickens so that I can can chicken tomorrow. Remember a few weeks ago when I said I’d discovered there were something like 30 chickens in the freezer out in the garage? Well, that week I boiled, deboned, and canned 12 of them (giving me 8 quarts and 7 pints of chicken). I STILL HAVE 18 CHICKENS LEFT.

And while I was in Myrtle Beach, Fred processed 7 more chickens, young roosters. At least THIS time when I put them in the freezer I wrote the date and “roasters” on the outside of the bag. I’m sure next time he processes chickens, though, I’ll fail to label them in any way.

*They’re size 34 waist, 30 inseam. The waist is too big for me, like A LOT too big for me, but size 32 waist? Can barely get it closed. What the fuck, I ask you?

Good news: Moxie was adopted over the weekend! Martin was adopted a few weeks ago (I think I told y’all that already), which means that Melodie and Dodger are left at Petsmart to wait for their forever homes. I hope they go together.

We got to see Moxie, Melodie and Dodger when we went to Petsmart to visit (and ended up bringing home) Buster and Rhyme. They’re doing well – they’ve grown so much in the few weeks they’ve been there, it’s amazing! I don’t know why I was surprised that they’ve grown since they’re still young and have some growing to do, but surprised I was.

Because we’re suckers for punishment, not only did we bring Buster and Rhyme home over the weekend, we also started allowing Starsky and Hutch the run of the house. It went pretty well, really – even when Buster was at his yowliest and smacked at Starsky and Hutch (he never made contact, just smacked in their general direction if they got in his space), all they did was fall over submissively, which seemed to satisfy his need to be the Mancat in Charge.

We’re beginning their training early, making them help with dishwasher duty.

(Slurping bacon grease off the rack.)

Then Hutch wandered off and Starsky ran into the front room and shimmied up the scratching post like he’s part monkey.

When he got to the top, Reacher sniffed at him then smacked him on the head. Hutch hung there and thought about it for a moment, then shimmied back down and ran off in search of friendlier places.

They don’t get the run of the house all day – usually I put them back in their room for an hour or so mid-morning, and then again when I’m eating lunch (they’re pretty sure that my lunch should be their lunch, too). If I’m leaving the house for any length of time, I put them in their room, too – I don’t think the big cats would hurt them, but I certainly wouldn’t want to come home and find that one of the babies is missing an ear or something.

Reacher and Corbie, before the Busta Rhyme duo descended.

Miz Poo is pretty sure there are too many cats in this house and she’s willing to decide who stays and who goes. (All cats who are not Miz Poo should GO, is her highly considered opinion.)

Previously
2009: Happy 21st birthday, Danielle!
2008: No entry.
2007: I hope that the days come easy and the moments pass slow, And each road leads you where you want to go
2006: My little girl.
2005: The spud is 17 today!
2004: I hope you dance.
2003: No entry.
2002: “You want to buy STUFF faster than we get rid of it!” he accused shrilly.
2001: Well, the little bastard is home again.
2000: No entry.
1999: Boring work-related shit.

A couple of weeks ago, I had to make a trip to the bank to deposit a check. I walked into the bank and there was this really long-ass line, and I was all “Oh hellz no”, so I went out into the lobby to see if you could make a deposit at the ATM. You could, so I filled out the envelope and was in the process of making the deposit, when a man walked in and stood at a respectful distance while he waited for me to finish.

He was talking on his cell phone, and I didn’t pay much attention until he suddenly said – in an “oh shit” voice – “What? Now? Okay, I’ll call you right back!” I glanced over my shoulder to see him frowning down at his cell phone. He punched in a phone number, put the phone to his ear, and as he hauled ass out the door he bellowed “THE ALPACA IS SCREAMING!”

Is it just me, or does that sound like a code phrase?

At the intersection of our road and a busyish highway, the highway I take to go into Closeville when I need to get groceries or go to Walmart or the bank or whatever, is land that used to belong to a nursery. I guess the nursery fell on hard times, because this spring there was a sign up that they were auctioning off the land and everything on the land. The auction took place, and then… nothing. All the plants that were in the greenhouses were sold off and weeds grew up into the (uncovered) greenhouses. There were some houses on the nursery land that were knocked down.

The nursery land goes behind our property, and we lived in dread because we were absolutely certain that the land had been sold to a company that would put a subdivision right behind us. There’s nothing wrong with subdivisions – hell, we lived in two subdivisions, and they were right nice – but I didn’t particularly want people living back there and bitching about how the dogs bark or the pigs stink or the chickens squawk like hysterical ninnies if you look at them sideways.

As it turned out, a nursery company bought that land, so hopefully there’ll continue to be nothing back there but trees.

But anyway, on this nursery land has been this trailer. And in this trailer has lived this man who, I’m pretty sure, worked as a caretaker of the property. Now, I have NO PROBLEM with trailers, I know there are people who live in perfectly nice trailers. Hell, my best friend lived in a trailer for about a year, and it was a cute little place.

This trailer, however, was not one of the nice ones. It was a ratty piece of shit trailer, and judging by the pile of 500+ beer bottles that appeared in the middle of his lawn one morning, I guessed that the guy who lived there might like a drink every now and then (I assume they’d been piled up inside the trailer and he’d decided to do some house cleaning). I also guessed that he might have a problem with anger, given the time I drove by and there was a recliner and couch laying near the door as if he’d thrown open the front door and pushed both pieces of furniture out the door and onto the lawn. At a later point when I drove by, the recliner was set upright and he was reclined in it, sound asleep.

He always had a dog, sometimes two. You’d see him one day walking along with a puppy at his heels, and then the puppy would get a little older, and then the puppy would start wandering across our land, and then the puppy would end up dead by the side of the road. Then a few weeks later, another puppy. I guess someone had a talk with him (I don’t for one minute doubt that animal control got a myriad of calls about him and his dog-neglecting ways), because a ramshackle dog shelter of sorts showed up beside the trailer, one made out of chain link fence panels kind of leaned against each other, with a dog bed inside. Eventually, a board was placed across the top to prevent the dog from getting completely soaked when it rained. We’d see the dog walking with him, and sometimes we’d see the dog locked in the dog “house”, but of course the dog still showed up on our property from time to time to taunt George and Gracie. After the dog was fully grown, another puppy showed up to keep him company, and as far as I know, they’re still alive.

Because I am the nosiest woman on the face of the planet, every time I drove by the trailer, I’d go slow and get all bug-eyed and stare at the windows, hoping to see inside that trailer. I was dying to see what it looked like inside, because I assumed it was a huge mess with stuff piled everywhere. But the shades were always drawn, and the door was never open (except for the middle of the summer – but then he had a fan sitting in the doorway blocking my view of the inside. Hmph.)

And THEN.

One day I was driving by the trailer on the way home from getting groceries, and I looked over as usual, and saw that there were men pulling siding off the trailer. And the front door was not only open, it was COMPLETELY REMOVED. I had a clear view to the inside of the trailer and it was every bit the nightmare I’d imagined, garbage piled everywhere, beer and soda bottles all over the place, piles and piles of Hoarders-esque junk.

Because I’m an asshole, I was delighted to find that it was exactly as I’d imagined. I drove by that trailer at least four times that day, and at the end of the day as I drove by for the last time, they were in the process of knocking the whole thing down. I had stupidly thought that they were taking the siding off the trailer so they could re-side it, but apparently they were doing it with the goal of knocking the whole thing down. Which they did.

It’s been, I don’t know, two weeks maybe? And every time I drive by, I see the pile of trailer where the trailer used to be (I assume that one day they’ll haul it all away), and I’m sad that now I don’t have anything to be nosy about.

I’m even sadder that I didn’t stop and take a picture of the inside of the trailer while the demolition was going on.

I wonder where the caretaker and his dogs went. I need to find out, so I can continue to stalk them like a weird, nosy, creepy stalkery stalker.

“I’m da baybee.”

“You hear me?”

I love the way the sun is shining through his fur, showing his little pink splayed “fingers”.

Starsky’s pretty sure he’s the alpha male in the foster room.

One day last week I said to Fred, “Perhaps we could just keep Reacher and Corbie here as fosters until they’re adopted by someone.”

Given how they reacted to being in the cage at Petsmart last time, I was not looking forward to the idea of taking them to Petsmart again. I mean, I never like taking the babies to Petsmart, but for the most part they adapt pretty well and don’t spend a huge amount of time there before they’re adopted. But things are so slow adoption-wise right now, that I was afraid they’d languish for months.

“Maybe we should think about bringing Buster and Rhyme home and just keeping all four here ’til they’re adopted,” Fred said.

“Yeah. But we should wait a few more weeks and see if they aren’t adopted before we bring them home,” I said. “Maybe they’ll get lucky.”

“Okay,” he said.

BUT THEN.

We were out running errands Saturday morning, and I opened my big stupid mouth and suggested that we stop by Petsmart just to visit with Buster and Rhyme and Melodie, Moxie, and Dodger. And we did visit with them, and Fred started giving me THE LOOK, and before I knew it…

When we left the house that morning, I had no idea we’d be coming back with Buster and Rhyme, and so instead of doing it the right way – putting them in a room for a few hours, at least, so they’d adjust to being here before letting them out to explore a little – we just let them out of the carriers into the house. I don’t have any doubt that they knew exactly where they were. But Buster is a bit of a drama queen and seemed a little overwhelmed, and he walked around growling and smacking at everyone.

He smacked Miz Poo, who was minding her own business, and I said “OH NO YOU DID NOT JUST DO THAT, BUSTER JONES*!” and made Fred hold him while I trimmed his front claws. He spent the rest of the day walking around in a state of high dudgeon. We were going to put them in the guest bedroom overnight (Rhyme was a little hissy, but mostly behaving himself, we were just going to put him in to keep Buster company), but as the evening wore on Buster calmed down a little. So we left them out overnight and everything was fine. Buster was still a little growly and yowly yesterday, but not nearly as bad as he’d been on Saturday, so hopefully given a few more days, he’ll calm down completely.

Reacher, hiding from the yowly Buster.

So, please, y’all. For the love of god – if you know anyone in the Alabama/ Tennessee area who’s looking to adopt some great, gorgeous, sweet 8-9 month-old kittens, feel free to steer them in our direction. Our house is about bursting at the seams with cats. We need to find these Bookworms homes of their own!

(I will box the ears of every person who suggests we keep them permanently. Or maybe I’ll just send them their very own Bookworm! Mwahahaha!)

*His other nicknames: Buster Brown (I very often say “Buster Brown, he’s a clown. He gets around!”, because I’m a dork) and Busties. In fact, most of the cats in this house have their names shortened and then an “ies” added to the end. Reacher’s nicknames are Reacher-Creature, Creature, Creatchies, and Reachies. Corbett is almost always Corbies, unless he’s Hello, Gorgeous. Sometimes Corbie McGee, too, now that I think about it. Rhyme hasn’t really picked up a nickname other than Rhymies and sometimes Rhymebones. I don’t think there’s a single cat in this house who doesn’t have, at minimum, two nicknames.

Kara, Reacher, Corbett, Tommy, and Jake. That’s a lot of cats for one picture!

Previously
2009: No entry.
2008: No entry.
2007: I’m sure it’s eyeball cancer and we’ll have to put a pirate patch on him and it will cost one million dollars to cure him.
2006: No entry.
2005: I feel so worldly and sophisticated now.
2004: “Bessie,” Fred said. “We used to watch TV without being able to rewind it. We can do it again!”
2003: No entry.
2002: It seems like yesterday.
2001: The term “give my feelings” cracks me up for some unknown reason.
2000: Mark my words, it’ll be back to looking crappy in three days flat.
1999: “Take credit card. Buy computer. Big monitor. Go fast. Go buy. Now.”

Last day of vacation pics, I promise!

(Click on any picture to see the larger version.)

Early morning, just-cleaned beach.

Early morning sun over the water.

Early morning fisherman.

If you go up the path, the condo where we stayed was in the back building on the right. Not directly on the water, but I could lay on the love seat in the living room and see the ocean, so not terribly far from the water, either.

The morning we left, the sun was coming up as we headed out. My father stopped long enough so that I could snap a couple of pictures. Too bad I didn’t roll my ass out of bed before 7 on the other mornings – I might have ended up with a fantastic series of sunrise pictures!

This is a basket similar to the basket Laurie’s cuties over at Itty Bitty Kitty Committee sleep in. However, in the four years since I bought this basket (at the Smoky Mountain Cat House in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee), numerous fosters have flipped it over and slept in it that way. I used to insist on flipping it right-side up, but they always ALWAYS flipped it upside down, so I gave up. Laurie probably beats her kittens to make them behave. (Oh, stop. You KNOW I’m kidding!)

“What?”

“It’s COMFY this way!”

::CHOMP::

I love the way Hutch’s paws are neatly stacked one atop the other, and Starsky is staring off into space. I haven’t quite decided yet if their little heads are stuffed with cotton or something more substantial, like marshmallow fluff.

Sweet Joe Bob. Don’t you love his dramatic eye makeup?

Previously
2009: No entry.
2008: Let Me Out? No, Wait. Let Me In. IN, I MEANT.
2007: No entry.
2006: No entry.
2005: This is the month that makes the hell of summer in Alabama more than worth it.
2004: I need to win the lottery so I can hire someone to come to my house every day and style my hair while I read.
2003: Which is when Stanley thought “Hey! I shouldn’t just skulk back! I should run and leap! Into the air! Like a big mexican jumping Stanley-bean!”
2002: As if he was going to say to himself “By god, she’s RIGHT! I do not, in fact, reside here. What on earth was I thinking?” and run off.
2001: No entry.
2000: No entry.
1999: “Well, she took that well,” I commented.

Yesterday, Lisa posted about Fran and Ollie, two sweet siblings with eye issues. Fran has a condition called distichiasis (excessive eyelashes curving in to the eye) and Ollie has eyelid agenesis, which is the same condition the True Blood 6 had to deal with.

They both had surgery, and Fran just needs to heal. Ollie needs to have a second surgery, but unfortunately their shelter spent their entire medical fund to pay for surgeries and they need help.

If you can spare it, I know that your help would be greatly appreciated. Go here to read about Fran and Ollie, see pictures of them, and find out how to donate!

When I got home from Myrtle Beach…

Starsky and Hutch were so excited, they climbed my leg. Then we snuggled for a few minutes in my room.

Hutch climbed into the cat bed and went to sleep.

So Starsky climbed into my lap and bit the camera strap for a while.

Then he sniffed Miz Poo.

Miz Poo sniffed him back. Feeling that they had a rapport and were becoming friends, Starsky made the fatal mistake of getting just a little too familiar…

And Miz Poo smacked him with the Paw o’ Doom.

Then she glared at him.

Then she stuck her tongue out at him and called him a BABY.

So he bit the camera.

And pondered whether his feelings were hurt.

And took a bath.

And bit the camera some more!

Maxi loves dust baths. I think she might be part chicken.

I dug my Flip video camera out of my desk drawer yesterday and found that I had made some movies in the past few months that I’d never looked at.

So I looked at them, found a couple of cute ones, and am sharing them with you. Let’s call this A Blast from the Past! (Even though one’s from June and one’s from September – I didn’t say they were from the FAR past, did I?)

Remember Sheila and Lieu from The Rescuees? Here they are, snuggling on my desk back in June.

And remember Martin? (Of course you do! It was only last month!) Well, here he is showing again that he’s both a lover and a fighter. He’s so unbearably smug looking at the beginning of the video that every time I watch it, I have to pick up the nearest cat and give him a squeeze.

Previously
2009: Awww. Da Cookies!
2008: King Suggie snoozes in his pile o’ cat beds.
2007: No entry.
2006: Biscuits for everyone!
2005: Your fascinating tidbit for the day.
2004: More Myrtle Beach.
2003: It’s got to be early-onset Alzheimer’s, y’all.
2002: No entry.
2001: No entry.
2000: I think back on the shit I pulled as a senior in high school, and I’m flat-out amazed that I managed to graduate.
1999: Just an all-around relaxing day.

(There’s an entry up for yesterday, too.)

It’s probably for the best that Buster went back to Petsmart last week.

While he was here, he was clearly COMPLETELY miserable.

In case you ever wondered what it’s like trying to walk through the house with a cat – Buster – who loves you so much he wants to be in constant contact with you, who rubs against first one leg and then the other, here you go:

What can I say? Buster lurves me. Well. Buster lurves EVERYONE.

Remember how I said that our cats are fans of the BOLT laser cat toy? Here’s your proof:

Previously
2009: Ah, douchebags. What fun would life be if they weren’t there for us to mock?
2008: Like I was having a temper tantrum, so I grabbed his list and took off so he couldn’t check it twice.
2007: No entry.
2006: I sure do wish I was going to see Callie Torres and not some old guy.
2005: Does this mean I’m getting old?
2004: No entry.
2003: Bringing home Mister Boogers.
2002: No entry.
2001: No entry.
2000: All about the cats.
1999: I certainly am bitching a lot today, aren’t I?

Home again, home again!

I meant to post this entry from Myrtle Beach, but I had to sit out on the steps to get my netbook to connect to the internet, and it wasn’t comfortable, so I only occasionally checked my email and did nothin’ else. There’ll be another entry up on Sunday, then probably normal posting (or at least vacation picture recaps!) on Monday!

Newt and the Squirrel.

“Come on down here, Mister Squirrel. I won’t hurt you!”

“NO.”

“Come on, Mister Squirrel, you know you wanna play!”

“NO. You’ll bite my head off and play with my body, and I’m rather fond of having my head remain attached to my body.”

“Come closer, Mister Squirrel…”

“That tree is certainly far away. Did someone move that thing?”

::pondering::

::preparing to leap::

In the end, though I didn’t catch it with the camera, the squirrel leapt over Newt’s head and ran for the tree. Newt was so surprised that it took him a few seconds to catch on what was going on, and by then it was too late. No squirrel for the Newtles. Not that day, anyway.

“OH BOY A FEATHER TEASER! MY FAVORITE!”

“What’s he doing over there?”

“SIGH. I love my feather teaser!”

“How come HE gets all the good toys?”

“I’m kind of bored with my feather teaser.”

“OH BOY! Starsky toes! My favorite!”

“This feather teaser isn’t nearly as cool as he made it look.”

Starsky and Hutch are, shall we say, a little PROTECTIVE of their food bowls.

And here’s some footage of them playing.

Previously
2009: He cracks me up, that boy.
2008: He’s not usually pink, for the record.
2007: No entry.
2006: No entry.
2005: “M-O-O-N!” Fred said. “That spells Tom Cullen!”
2004: No entry.
2003: I’m pretty certain “Never going to fucking go hiking with him EVER A-FUCKING-GAIN” crossed my mind at least once.
2002: Hotel room so big/ roomy, spacious, perfect. Butt/ is what it smells like.
2001: No entry.
2000: No entry.
1999: Don’t get your bippies in an uproar, though; we’re not trying to get pregnant.