Bitchypoo

I hope everyone’s Christmas or Kwanzaa or weekend went well – ours went pretty well. We went to Fred’s father’s house for Christmas Eve dinner – we had to wait ’til the chickens were up and didn’t leave here ’til 5:00. He had told his father we’d be there about 5:30, and so apparently his father told everyone else (Fred’s sister and her husband, and Fred’s stepsister and her family) to be there at 5:30.

Now, I’ve done a total of 13 Christmases with Fred’s family, and every single year we’re the first ones to arrive. Everyone else tends to run late, we tend toward being early, and thus – we’re always the first to get there. This year, on the drive to his father’s house, Fred fretted and worried and fretted some more.

“We’re going to be the last ones there!” he said. “They’re going to be all standing around waiting for us! Maybe they’ll have already sat down to eat!”

“We’re going to be the first ones there,” I said.

“I bet everyone’s there, and they’re all annoyed at having to wait for us!” he fretted.

“We’re going to be the first ones there,” I said.

Guess who was right? You don’t even need to guess because IT WAS ME, OF COURSE. We were the first ones there by about fifteen minutes.

Finally, everyone else showed up and we sat down and ate, and talked, and ate and talked some more. Fred’s niece and nephew couldn’t come (they were working), but her husband showed up. He’s joining the Army in a few months, and he decided it was time to lose some weight so basic training didn’t kick his ass, and he looked pretty damn good. Sixty pounds, he’s lost.

(Fred whispered to me, out of Dan’s hearing, “Has he lost weight?” and I said “YES.” Clearly he had, but I guess Fred didn’t want to ask and be rude. That was okay, though, Fred’s father didn’t mind asking. Guess how Dan has lost that sixty pounds? GO AHEAD GUESS, YOU’LL NEVER GUESS, IT’S RIDICULOUS, THE WAY HE DID IT! He stopped eating so much and he started exercising. I know! I told him he oughta write a book.)

Also, Dan has a Hispanic background (I swear to you, Fred said to him, “Dan, you have a Hispanic background, right?” and Dan laughed and said “Yes.”) and so Fred asked him what the deal was with our Hispanic egg-buying customers never ever using the word “docena” (which is Spanish for “dozen”), and as it turns out, it’s because it’s slang.

Interesting, the things you learn.

So, we had a good time at Christmas Eve – we brought dessert, Paula Deen’s banana pudding. DAMN that stuff is good. Fred’s sister’s husband, who is French, showed us up by bringing a lemon tart, and DAMN it was good.

We got home after 9:00, which is super-late for us. I took my makeup off and we went to bed almost as soon as we got home.

We are such partiers.

Christmas morning, we had to leave the house at 8:30, and we did even though I lazed around in bed ’til after 6 (SLACKER!).

Even though we were doing breakfast at Fred’s sister’s house, we brought Paula Deen’s Strawberry Cream Shortcake rather than any kind of breakfast dish. It was, to say the least, a hit. Everyone ate it and loved it, and we got to have leftover lemon tart that Fred’s sister’s husband had made, and I even got to bring a big wedge of the lemon tart home with me, and DAMN THAT STUFF IS GOOD.

So, we ate breakfast and sat around and talked, and then went into the TV room where Fred and his niece and nephew and her husband and his sister’s husband all played Rock Star. Fred sang three or four songs, and his sister sang a few, and Fred tried to get me to sing a song, but HELL TO THE NO, I wouldn’t inflict my singing voice on other people. Fred’s mother and stepfather seemed to enjoy watching, but I strongly suspect that Fred’s mother would have liked to get up and sing a few.

We finally left there close to 12:30, and intended to go to the theater to see Avatar. Unfortunately, when we pulled up to the theater, we found that the listings Fred had seen online were WRONG, and nothing was showing until after 3. We went by the movie store and then went home.

We eventually sat down and watched The Taking of Pelham 123. Well, I should say Fred watched it – I slept through the first 45 minutes of it, then watched the rest and that 45 minutes I missed? I didn’t miss a thing. I’m starting to think movies are MADE so you can snooze through the first 45 minutes and not miss anything.

Around 4:30 or so, we decided to go up into town to see if there was anything open where we could find something for dinner. It didn’t occur to us to think ahead and make sure we had food in the house (that didn’t have to be thawed and cooked), of course. As it turned out, the only place open was Waffle House, which was PACKED. We ended up getting some stuff from a gas station deli, and it wasn’t bad (corn dogs, chicken fingers, and an egg roll, if you must know), but next year we will definitely think ahead. Though I think what threw us off was that most years we bring food home from Fred’s father’s house. This year we had spaghetti and meatballs for Christmas Eve dinner, which doesn’t really lend itself to leftovers, so we had nothin’.

And the weekend was pretty low-key. Saturday, I took Violet and Veruca to the adoption center, then ran over to Target to grab a few things. Later in the day, we went to see Avatar, which I highly recommend because it was fucking AWESOME.

Sunday, Fred processed 10 more chickens. We watched movies, we read, we snuggled kittens.

You know, the usual.

 

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I finally got my Kindle version of Under the Dome, but I was in the middle of a Laura Lippman book (the more I read by her, the more I like her). Yesterday morning I finally finished that book, and then had to beg for help from my fellow Twitterers. If there’s a way to go to a certain page in your book, I haven’t discovered it yet, but I knew I had gotten to page 150 before I gave up on the printed version. Then I sold the printed version on half.com, so I didn’t have any way to figure out where the holy hell page 150 was on the Kindle version. I Twittered, asking if someone would tell me what the first sentence on page 150 was, and got several responses.

My fellow Twitterers, you rawk.

 

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We made another attempt at getting a good Christmas card picture for next year. While we were shooting pictures, a Cookie came along, and well, I’m pretty sure she was screaming “I ARE NOT SANTA!!!!” after Fred put the hat on her tiny little head.

Santa make kitty scared.

I don’t know what it is, but something about Mike’s sweet profile just melts me. He is the sweetest cat on earth.

Gus and his floof.

“Ah, zees lahf. Eet ees, how you say? So deefeecoolt to be thees beyootifool.”

I can’t stop taking pictures of the floof. It fascinates me.

Cookie say, “PARDON ME, COMING THROUGH!”

That cat bed (well, really, TWO cat beds) Miz Poo is laying on over there to the right? I had no idea that location was going to be so popular, but there’s ALWAYS at least one cat over there. It’s Hydrox’s favorite place to knead and suck fleece.

 

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Fred put this poor, unsuspecting Cookie (I think it’s Blue) in the cat bed with Sugarbutt. As you can see, it didn’t go so well. Sugarbutt has no use for little kittens.

 

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Previously
2008: No entry.
2007: “Your flight’s been canceled.”
2006: No entry.
2005: No entry.
2004: Let’s see if this puts you in the mood for a nap, huh?
2003: If you’re wandering through the Cincinnati airport around 10 am tomorrow and see someone with a hideous bag, say hi. It’ll be me.
2002: No entry.
2001: No entry.
2000: No entry.
1999: Best laid plans, and all that.

From us and all of ours, to you and all of yours, wishes for a happy, safe, healthy holiday!!!!

 

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Previously
2008: Featherhead keeps an eye on you.
2007: I had no idea 11 years ago that Fred was going to turn into a Handyman.
2006: What a difference a year makes.
2005: No entry.
2004: Fred thought it was funny that his sister had to explain to her boyfriend, who is from France, what “French toast” is.
2003: THE DAY BEFORE CHRISTMAS AND I WAS IN TARGET! HAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
2002: No entry.
2001: No entry.
2000: No entry.
1999: No entry.

Every year right before the holiday, I get a bug up my ass and decide there’s something I absolutely MUST HAVE, cannot WAIT to have it, it MUST be in my possession before the holiday.

One year, I was desperate to find matching serving dishes so that when Fred’s family came for breakfast all the serving dishes would match, even though they truly do not care about the matchiness of my serving dishes, I assure you. I went from store to store to store, looking for decent dishes at a reasonable price, and I think I ended up buying a bunch of plain white bowls and serving platters at Big Lots. We used them that once, and they’ve sat up in the cupboard ever since. But, hey – I’ve got ’em if I need ’em, right?

This year, the bug up my ass is a desire for a dark-green (Christmas green!) blanket. We’re intending to get a good Christmas picture for next year’s cards (I think I mentioned I’m planning to make cards by hand for next year’s card exchange. Me + construction paper + glue + cat pictures = HILARITY ENSUING, I’m sure.), and suddenly I decided that nothing but a dark green blanket as a background would do. NOTHING BUT DARK GREEN DO YOU HEAR ME?!

So yesterday I went to Target and PetSmart and I also went to Michael’s and Bed, Bath and Beyond, and I also went to Big Lots, and guess what? Not a single goddamn dark green blanket to be found ANYWHERE. Apparently dark green is not in fashion this year.

Finally, I snapped to my senses, realized I was being a dumbass, and bought a green blanket that was NOT dark green, but certainly green enough, and seriously, who gives a shit how green the background is? Y’all will be looking at the CAT, believe me.

Target, three days before Christmas? Surprisingly, not too bad. The parking lot was packed and I expected it to be a madhouse inside, but as long as I stayed away from the toy and electronics section, it was fine. I even spent a good long time browsing through the Christmas decorations, and there was hardly anyone there.

Bed, Bath and Beyond, on the other hand, what a fucking nightmare. Some ASSFACE even cut in front of me, but all I did was sputter quietly to myself and roll my eyes at the guy in line behind me.

CLEARLY I am filled with the Christmas spirit.

 

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OH. I almost forgot. You know what? If you’re going walk around Target wearing a sweater that has some sort of flashing light on the front of it, said flashing light located directly between your breasts, guess what? PEOPLE ARE GOING TO GLANCE AT THE FLASHING LIGHT.

Don’t fucking give me A LOOK like I’m trying to get a look at your rack, lady, because guess what? It’s NOT THAT IMPRESSIVE.

Also, fuck you.

(Like I said, imbued with the Christmas spirit am I.)

 

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Oh, Elayyyyyyyyne….

Refer to your comment from Saturday the 12th if you don’t remember this request – you said I think we should come up with song lyrics that you (AND FRED) have to act out photographically with cat props. It could be a fundraising thing for the shelter – I’ll donate $10 for you to post a picture of “Wonk’s* to the left of me, Cookies to the right/Here I am, stuck in the middle with Poo.”

Your wish, my command. Kinda. Fred’s not in the picture, but he TOOK the picture, so I’m proclaiming your wish fulfilled. 🙂

Wonk’s to the left of me
Cookies to the right
Here I am, stuck in the middle with Poo.

(Plus, a bonus Blues Brother thrown in there!)

Click here to see the large version to verify that, indeed, all four Wonkas are to my left, all five Cookies are to the right, and Miz Poo is, indeed, stuck in the middle with me. Or I with her. Whichever.

You may make your donation at your leisure. 😀

 

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Yesterday, CatFancy asked if I put up Christmas decorations. I have put up Christmas decorations in the past, but when it became clear that we were going to have 20 (!) cats running around the house this holiday season, I opted not to put up decorations at all. I love Christmas trees and Christmas lights, but I couldn’t stand the idea of having to continually right the tree or chase down ornament the cats had knocked off the tree and kicked to the other end of the house, so no. No decorations this year.

However, I’ve come to realize that they make a “half” tree that you can hang on the wall and put lights and ornaments on, so I’m thinking that that’s going to be the way I go as far as decorating next year!

 

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Pardon the HORRIBLE lighting on these pictures. Some day I’m actually going to read (and put into practice) those “how to use your digital camera” books that are sitting on the bookcase.

You can’t see the feather toy, but rest assured that that’s what they were all looking at, and what Gus was jumping for.

I love this one because it looks like Veruca’s riding on Jake’s back, doing circus tricks.

GOT IT!

So close!

She’s walking on sunshine!

My absolute favorite shot. Not only because of Gus and the outstretched paw, but also look in the lower right of the picture. See that deranged grin on Jake’s face? It cracks me UP.

 

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“Whatchoo MEAN ‘stuck in the middle with Poo’?! I THOUGHT YOU LIKED HAVING ME HERE, BLOCKING YOUR VIEW OF THE MONITOR!”

 

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Previously
2008: It’s nice to have a clean house. I should probably try it more often!
2007: The eyes of a lover, the heart of a monster the world has never seen before.
2006: No entry.
2005: I have the best readers EVAH!
2004: Gotta love that Jack Bauer.
2003: When it’s such a noteworthy event that my child stops and stares in wonder, it’s possible I’m just not cleaning often enough, ya think?
2002: No entry.
2001: No entry.
2000: No entry.
1999: That’s my girl!

Last week, Katherine asked if I’d ever heard of Pineapple Casserole. I hadn’t, so she sent me the link, told me she’d made it, and it was a HIT. It certainly sounded interesting, so I printed out the recipe and decided to give it a try soon. Last night, we had pork chops, Pineapple Casserole, and green beans.

Pineapple Casserole? REALLY FREAKIN’ GOOD. I certainly would never have thought of putting pineapple and sharp cheddar in the same dish, but somehow it works out. Well, of course it works out – it’s a Paula Deen recipe! I have only ever made one Paula Deen recipe that I didn’t really care for (the Crunchy Butter Cake, I think it was? Something like that.).

I made some modifications to it (halved the recipe, since it’s just the two of us, for one), and the recipe is here.

What new recipe have you tried that you weren’t sure about, and which became an instant favorite? You know I’m always on the lookout for new recipes!

 

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Mike & Gus: Brudderly…. love?

 

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I bought this cat basket a few years ago in Gatlinburg. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a cat using it the way it’s meant to be used. They all prefer to turn it upside down and then smush the top down and sleep on it that way. (That’s Jake in the picture.)

 

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Previously
2008: It was kind of a cooking-themed weekend for me.
2007: I expected to read “And after we had fabulous chocolate crepes for dessert, we moved on to Bob’s house for the key party to end the night on a high note.”
2006: It burns, Jane! The applique, IT BURRRRRRRRNS!
2005: I’m a creature of habit, what can I say?
2004: No shit, Matt. Ya think? Ya think she might like to eat?
2003: “You are NOT allowed in Maine!” I informed him.
2002: No entry.
2001: No entry.
2000: Except for world peace and all that. Yadda, yadda.
1999: No entry.

I expect posting will be sporadic this week, what with the holiday coming up and all. Not that I have a whole lot to do, but hey, I’ll take the excuse to slack, thank you!

 

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I was a baking motherfucker this weekend.

Friday, I made (at Fred’s request) a batch of Sweet Potato-Pecan Cupcakes with Cream Cheese Frosting. What I forgot about this particular recipe until I was halfway through making it is that it doesn’t just make a dozen cupcakes, like any reasonable recipe. What it makes is at LEAST 24 cupcakes, and probably more like 30 (but after I got to 24 muffin tins filled, I tossed the rest of the batter. There are two of us. Who the hell needs that many cupcakes in the house, especially since I don’t particularly care for the damn things?) Fred said that they were good, but they weren’t as good as he remembered (he remembered them being really REALLY good, apparently), and after he’d had his fill of them, he wrapped up the rest to take to his mother’s this morning*.

Saturday, I didn’t make a damn thing (we’ll cover Saturday later).

Sunday was my super bakin’ day. Once I rolled my ass out of bed (at SEVEN O’ CLOCK! But only because Veruca and Violet are prone to waking me at 1:30 am by rubbing their cold, wet noses on my face. I suppose WHEN YOU NEED PETTIN’, YOU NEED PETTIN’ NOW DAMNIT), I did my usual morning stuff, ran to Publix for a few things, and then got started on everything I wanted to get baked.

I started a batch of Chocolate Mint Cookies (a recipe I stumbled across last week and decided I needed to try), and then when the dough was sitting in the fridge, I whipped up a Honeybun Cake. The Honeybun Cake was a trial run – we’re supposed to bring something sweet to breakfast at Fred’s sister’s house on Christmas morning, and I had considered trying Pioneer Woman’s Cinnamon Rolls, but they look like a huge pain in the ass, to be honest, so I thought I’d give the Honeybun Cake a try.

In short, I don’t really care for the Honeybun Cake. Fred said it was okay, but you only get Christmas breakfast once a year and I don’t want to bring something that’s “okay.” I also don’t want to make the super-fabulous Easy Sticky Buns, because they’re best when they’re warm.

Any suggestions? I’m listening!

The Honeybun Cake came out of the oven at the perfect time, so I could start messing with the Chocolate Mint Cookies and getting them ready for the oven. By the time I scooped out 40 cookies’ worth of dough, I realized that the recipe makes a LOT of cookies. And I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to have enough mints for all the cookies I was going to end up with (you melt a chocolate Andes mint on top of the cookie while it’s still warm). I ended up making 80 cookies, and only had enough mints for about 55 cookies.

Fred and I discussed it, and he thought maybe we should use the extra mint-less cookies to make peanut butter sandwiches. In the end, once the cookies were cool, I talked him into making the chocolate frosting, and he did an excellent job of it. I had to taste-test one of the chocolate-peanut butter sandwiches, and it was really damn good.

The Chocolate Mint Cookies are pretty good, too – they remind me a lot of Thin Mints.

Chocolate Mint Cookies and Chocolate PB Cookies recipe here.

I took a break from baking to make Sunday dinner (spaghetti, salad, garlic bread, YUM), then puttered around the house for a few hours.

Then I made a batch of Cooking Light Chocolate Chip Cookies, only instead of chocolate chips, I used the red and green M&Ms, just to be different.

Cooking Light Chocolate Chip Cookies recipe, here. (I don’t know how “light” they are, given that there’s a stick of butter and ten tons of sugar in them, but they are the BEST chocolate chip cookies ever, light or not!)

And almost all of those cookies are going in the mail tomorrow, so they won’t be sitting around here suggesting that I have cookies for breakfast, lunch and dinner! Stupid tempting cookies.

*Fred’s dropping off not only leftover cupcakes at his mother’s, but also a bag of various pork products and a turkey. Oh, and a jar of Splenda Strawberry-Habanero jam for his stepfather. Every time we have pigs, his mother saves their food garbage for our pigs. I swear, the woman must give us 50 pounds of food for the pigs. Only fair to pay her back in pork, right? But every time Fred gives her some meat, she tries to give him money for it, which is very sweet, but they’re on a fixed income and for god’s sake WE’RE NOT TAKING MONEY FROM THEM FOR THE PORK THEY CONTRIBUTED TO. She still tries, though, bless her heart.

 

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Saturday, I got up and emptied and scrubbed out the litter boxes and refilled them with clean litter. I swear to you, I had no sooner gotten the last litter box scrubbed and refilled, and there were kittens in every single litter box, stinking up the joint.

Stupid poopin’ kittens.

Did you know I currently have TEN litter boxes in my house right now? Three in the laundry room, three in the Cookies’ room, one in the upstairs bathroom, and two in the foster kitten room.

Huh.

Did you know I currently have NINE litter boxes in my house right now?

I scoop them all once in the morning and once at night, but I’m thinking that I need to go to scooping in the middle of the day, too, at least as long as I have 20 cats in residence. These cats can FILL UP those damn litter boxes in no time flat.

Anyway.

I got the litter boxes scrubbed and started a load of laundry, and then Fred and I started talking about how we both kind of wanted to get out of the house, but didn’t know where the hell we wanted to go. I would have liked to make a run to Petsmart, but asking Fred to go into a store on a weekend day that ISN’T the weekend before Christmas is hard enough. There was no way I was going to get him anywhere near any damn stores.

We finally ended up going to the Limestone Flea Market. There’s always lots of junk on display there, and we invariably end up finding books to buy, and sometimes a movie or two. This is why the Kindle will never completely replace real live books: you can’t go to the flea market and buy a Kindle book for $1.50.

(Well. Not YET, anyway.)

At the last section of the flea market, there was a vendor who had t-shirts and sweatshirts hanging up. I can always use another oversized hooded sweatshirt, so I picked out a gray one and a blue one (they were $8 each, or $15 for two), and Fred came over to mock me for picking out such “bland” colors.

“I can’t get dark colors because it shows the cat hair, and I can’t wear white because I’m apt to spill shit down the front of me!” I protested.

“You always wear gray!” he said. “Gray sweatshirts, gray pants!”

People. I have been wearing jeans EVERY DAY for at least the last year. I have worn the gray pants perhaps twice in that time. My husband, Mr. Observant.

In the end I gave in and got a purple sweatshirt and a pink one. It remains to be seen just how much I’ll be wearing them. I’m wearing the pink one today, and it’s awfully cozy and warm. Hopefully it doesn’t fall apart the first time I wash it.

The vendor came over and asked if we needed help, and Fred told him that we wanted the two hooded sweatshirts, but that we wanted to look at the books too, before we paid.

“I’ll put these in a bag for you,” said the vendor.

“Oh, we have a bag,” Fred and I chorused. Fred held up the bag that we’d put our earlier purchases (books) in.

“Well, I have a bigger bag,” the vendor countered.

“We have more bags if we need them,” I said.

“She’s – she doesn’t like to bring home plastic bags,” Fred said by way of explanation. The guy shrugged and turned away to put the sweatshirts on a nearby table.

We looked at the books, each picked out a few, and went back to pay. The guy took the books, looked them over, and before we knew what was happening, stuffed them into a plastic bag.

“We have a bag,” Fred and I chorused.

“Okay!” the guy said with a smile, and put the plastic bag of books into our bag.

SIGH.

I suppose I could have dug the plastic bag out of our bag and given it back to him, but I didn’t. I just let it go. Fred and I grinned and shook our heads at each other, paid for the books and sweatshirts, and left.

On a side note, I carry in my purse at least five reusable bags at all times – four Baggu bags (for the love of god, don’t pay full price for them – wait ’til they go on sale, or look for them at eBay) and a small Dollar General bag the manager of the dollar store across the street gave me (all the regular dollar store employees know that Fred and I never want them to put anything in plastic bags). When I get groceries, I carry several of my beloved Hannaford bags in with me. I do my very best to make it so that I never have to bring any plastic bags into my house. Like I’ve recently told several people in the past few months, every time I accept a plastic bag at a store, I swear I can feel the entire planet gasping for air, and I feel guilty.

I think 2010 is going to be the year I get super-vigilant about not accepting plastic bags.

ANYWAY.

We left there, and headed toward home. On highway 72, there’s this little thrift store that popped up in the last few months – the Hard Times Thrift store, I think it’s called. I always glance over at it as I drive by, and think about stopping. Fred apparently does the same.

On Saturday, we stopped. The guy who (I assume) owns and runs the place was working, and greeted us. He said that he was wiring the building, and so things were a mess because he needed to move them out of the way. Things were, indeed, a mess. The building was cool, though, and we took our time looking around the front room before we moved toward the back of the building.

“This is very much like the beginning of a horror movie,” I murmured to Fred. Things were piled every which way, and it was dark and deserted, and if someone in a mask had rushed out and grabbed me by the throat, I don’t know that I would have been so very surprised.

In the end, we bought a couple more books, thanked the guy, and left. I’d like to maybe go back in the Spring, when it’s not so cold (it was VERY cold in that building) and when hopefully the guy has things arranged a little better and poke around again.

 

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Our boy Keebler has NO fear. He’ll flop down next to any cat, anywhere. Actually, now that I think about it, he may have a thing for torties. He’s always flopping down next to Miz Poo (no matter how much she hisses and growls at him), and he can often be found next to Violet or Veruca.

I’m sorry, HOW CUTE is Miss Orange over there in the back, all flirty and adorable?

Violet and Mike, snuggled up against the cold weather.

Hydrox just cracks me up more and more every day. He’s such a character!

I’m starting to think that maybe the floof is in the Kudzu family and we’ll wake up one morning to find it wrapped around the entire house.

“Hellewwwwwwwww, laydeez!”

Good lord, does it kill me when they groom each other. Kills me DEAD.

 

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If you were wondering, that is not so much a look o’ love Stinkerbelle‘s got on her face.

 

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Previously
2008: No entry.
2007: Kismet! Match made in heaven! Fate!
2006: I said to Fred, “I know you think we have too many cats, but -”
2005: I imagine that when all three of our phones are in the same vicinity, we’ll get them confused and hijinx will ensue.
2004: Reader questions, answered.
2003: “Um, no,” I told Fred when he asked. “And not only no, but HELL no, and I’ll be out of the house whenever they come to interview you and tape you exercising and all that goofy-ass shit.”
2002: No entry.
2001: I guess he defines “tension” as “getting drunk and pawing every female in sight.”
2000: I practically woke up screaming, I tell you.
1999: Suddenly, it occurs to me that nestled next to my underwear is not the best place to put a bag of very potent catnip.

Last night I was on Amazon browsing around (I check the Kindle store just about every day to see if there’s anything new I can download for free BECAUSE I AM FRUGAL (ha ha HA)) and I came across Pioneer Woman’s book, and I went to see if it was available in the Kindle version mostly because I was just curious.

It’s not, in case you were wondering.

“That’s kind of odd,” I said out loud to Fred. “Pioneer Woman’s book isn’t available in the Kindle version.”

“Huh,” he said. There was a silence. “Does she have a Kindle?”

I turned and stared at him. “I don’t KNOW,” I said. He was already laughing. “Does PAULA DEEN have a Kindle? How would I know? What kind of fucked-up question is THAT?”

Apparently when I’d said that it was odd that it’s not available in the Kindle version, he’d gotten the impression I thought it was odd because she’s a big fan of the Kindle or something. I only thought it was odd because I thought ALL books are available in the Kindle version these days.

I guess not.

 

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So, my gynecologist called me on Monday to let me know she’d gotten the copies of the lab results from my hematologist, the ones she requested after my appointment with her last week. As it turns out, the lab results don’t show any reason for my NEVER-ENDING GODDAMN MOTHERFUCKING SPOTTING.

I’m pretty sure that that’s a no-shitter, right there. I could have TOLD her she wasn’t going to find anything in the lab tests to explain the bleeding that never ends, yes it goes on and ON my friends. So she told me my lab tests were normal.

And I thought to myself “Well, no shit, Sherlock.”

Then she went on to say “So did you want to just wait for a while and see what happens, or….?”

I got a little snappish. “I’m on my third day of heavy spotting, so I think I’d like to DO SOMETHING.”

“Would you like to come into the office and discuss your options?” she offered.

“God YES,” I said. “Please, can we drag this fucking shit on and on as long as humanly possible? Maybe we could discuss my goddamn EVER-BLEEDING UTERUS for the next year and a half before we do anything, you think? Oh, I know, let’s just see if, after a year and a half of spotting that wasn’t stopped by pumping useless hormones into my body in the form of birth control pills, let’s just see if maybe my uterus will stop for a moment and think ‘You know, I’m tired of this bleeding shit. Maybe I’ll just stop for a while!’, because that has worked SO VERY WELL thus far! Uterii are known for being ultra-reasonable, after all. Maybe I should take my uterus to a uterus therapist and it can discuss its childhood trauma! HOW ABOUT YOU CHECK THE RECORDS WHERE YOU WROTE DOWN THAT I AM SICK AND TIRED OF THIS FUCKING SHIT AND READY TO GET THIS SHOW ON THE ROAD.”

Or maybe I just sighed and said “Okay.”

She put me on the phone with her secretary or receptionist or some stranger passing by, who the fuck knows WHO she passed the phone to, and I made an appointment for “after the holidays” of course, I’m only shocked the secretary/ receptionist/ random stranger didn’t suggest waiting until March, just for shits and giggles. So I have an appointment very early on the 30th.

If at this appointment that nurse tries to get me to pee in a jar YET AGAIN, I will refuse. Did I mention that, that when I went in for my ultrasound last week, the nurse was all “go pee in a jar!” and when I came out the other nurse was all “Oh, you didn’t need to do that for an ULTRASOUND”, as if I should have known?

The gynecologist will come in and say “So, what would you like to do?”, I guarantee it, and I will say “Is a hysterectomy out of the question at this point?” and if she says it is, I will say “Then let’s schedule an endometrial ablation and CAN WE FUCKING GET MOVING ON THIS?!”

Dear Uterus:

I am tired of your shit. Hit the road, Jack.

Sincerely,

Me.

Last night Fred and I were getting ready for bed, and I said “We should have a baby.”

He said “I had a vasectomy.”

I said “No shit. We could just get it reversed!”

He said “Can you imagine how much that would cost?”

I said “If I were pregnant, THE GODDAMN BLEEDING WOULD STOP FOR 9 MONTHS.”

He said “And then you’d give birth, and the bleeding would start again.”

I said “Then we just get pregnant again, DUH.”

He said “Wow, you’d really be emotional and annoyed with me all the time if you were pregnant!” He paused. “‘Emotional’ isn’t really the word I want. What word is it that I’m thinking of….”

“Volatile?” I suggested.

He laughed and said that that was a good descriptive word.

Ultimately, we decided not to have a baby. I know you’re shocked (and no, I wasn’t serious about it.)

Speaking of, I recently ran across the entry I wrote in 1999 wherein I said that the night before, Fred and I had decided I’d go off the pill “in March” and begin trying to have a baby.

Hahahahaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.

I reminded him of that, and then said “Just think! We could have a NINE YEAR OLD right now!”

We both shuddered and thanked our lucky stars that we do not.

Which is not to insult YOUR nine year-old, I’m sure s/he is a brilliant and charming child who everyone gazes upon with great affection. In fact, nine is about the age when they start to really get interesting, if I recall correctly, but man. I am really, really glad that I don’t have a nine year old.

(Now watch. Who wants to bet I come up pregnant in the next week? I’m warning you, uterus: DON’T TEST ME. I have a rusty fork and I know how to use it!)

 

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

 

Yesterday afternoon I had the occasion to say to Fred, “There appears to be an eyeball on the floor*.”

And immediately I was reminded of when I was young – maybe 7 or 8 – and we lived in Guam. My father went deep-sea fishing with a bunch of other guys, and they caught a lot of big fish, and brought them home to clean them in someone’s driveway (or so I recall), and my sister was for some reason struck with the desire to have an eyeball from one of the fish.

I can’t tell you what kind of fish these were, but they were BIG, that’s all I know.

So after Debbie said about 100 times that she wanted a fish eyeball, one of the guys dug the eyeball out of one of the fish and flipped it at her, and she ran off screaming.

I guess she didn’t want that fish eyeball as much as she thought!

*Not a REAL eyeball, freak. What goes ON in your house, anyway? It was a googly eye from a cat toy.

 

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This is the little bathroom off the computer room. Every single kitten adores hanging out in there (in part, I suspect, because it’s very warm in there most of the time), and Veruca and Violet especially love to go in there, push the trash basket over, and play in an on it. Needless to say, I don’t use it for trash.

“Lady, it has not escaped my notice that when you’re around, chickens fall from the sky. I’ve got my eye on you.”

One thing about the Wonkas, I don’t think I’ve mentioned, is that they all have very long tails to go along with their very big ears. I should measure their overall length and then the length of their tails and then measure all the other cats in the house the same way so I can back up my long-tail assertion with cold, hard facts.

Tell me she can’t flap those things and fly away.
“What big ears you have, Veruca!”
“The better to ignore you with, my dear.”

Gussy McFlooferton, at your service.

Is that not the smuggest little face? Like “I KNOW Miz Poo hates kittens, ask me if I care.”

A spray o’ Cookie whiskers.

 

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

 

Sheriff Mama (aka “Kara”) keeps an eye out in case someone needs a butt-kicking.

 

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Previously
2008: It is NOT raining!
2007: I would never condone entering a grocery store and opening fire with a machine gun, but I certainly understand the impulse.
2006: I think that we all know that it’s more likely that Sugarbutt will whisk Miz Poo into a perky waltz about the living room before I actually get off my dead ass and sand down the trim so that I don’t have to look at the drippy bits.
2005: No entry.
2004: He yawned his ears right off his head.
2003: “Well,” he said, all smug and certain of his facts. “If you didn’t have DIARRHEA, then it was NOT the flu! It’s just a cold!”
2002: But is Christmas shopping ever really done?
2001: The usual excitement
2000: Grandma’s other concerns were whether the fire was going out (it wasn’t) and how much Fred and Becky were eating.
1999: When did Toronto become part of the United States, again?

Challenger’s House is having a raffle! Check out the great prizes above. The drawing will be on Sun December 20th. Tickets are $5 for 1 or $10 for 3 – you can call Challenger’s House (256.420.5995) and buy your raffle tickets that way.

The money, of course, goes to a very good cause!

 

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Much in the way all the food blogs were annoying me by featuring pumpkin-based recipes in November, they seem to be featuring gingerbread-based recipes this month and GUESS WHO DOESN’T LIKE GINGERBREAD?

(I swear to you, I am NOT a picky eater!)

At least I’m slowly catching up on my blog reading – if I click on a food blog entry and see that the title involves gingerbread, I just click “mark as read” and keep on rollin’.

 

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I think I’ve mentioned before that I have a large number of Gmail addresses. One of them, which I thought to sign up for back when Gmail first came around, is robyn.anderson at Gmail.

(You may certainly feel free to email me there, but I check that email perhaps once a month, so don’t expect a speedy reply, if I ever send one.)

Every once in a while, some other Robyn Anderson has a moment of dumbassery and gives out my email address as hers. I had a flurry of emails last Fall from the classmates of a Robyn Anderson in Canada who was apparently a college student majoring in early education. I got copies of their projects, I got copied on discussions about study groups. It took about a month before it got through to all her classmates that I was not the Robyn Anderson they sought.

I have gotten statements from American Airlines regarding some Robyn Anderson in Texas and her frequent flier miles. I was able to LOG ON as her, but there was nothing very interesting going on, and I marked those emails as spam so I don’t see them any longer.

A couple of weeks ago, I got the following email:

Hi, sweetie–here is the phone number in our room: (deleted), room 1005. Hope you have a great week! Love you. Mom

If I didn’t LOATHE talking on the phone so very much, I might have called her, this other Robyn Anderson’s mother, and asked her to convey to her daughter that if she’s going to give out her email address, she needs to DOUBLE CHECK the fucking email address and make sure it’s the right one she’s giving out.

(Or maybe I’d call and say “Mom? It’s Robyn. I’m PREGNANT!” or “Mom? It’s Robyn. I just won the lottery!” or “Mom? It’s Robyn. I have 20 cats in my house right now!”)

I didn’t, though. I simply said I’m glad you made it, but you’re not my mother. 🙂

I think what I’m saying is that we Robyn Andersons? We’re a ditzy bunch.

 

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Yesterday, between making more crates for storage (I am a crate-making fool, indeed I am), I cleaned the garage (or rather, organized the piles of crap out there) and boiled chickens.

We are trying to get a handle on the chicken population – which is to say, we’re trying to reduce the number of chickens we have, and I personally would like it if we only had one chicken yard rather than the two we currently have. Fred, on the other hand, seems determined to make shutting up the chickens at night a 2-hour job. He was set on building another (small) coop and putting it in the back yard for the, as we call them, “misfits.” The “misfits” included Charlie with her crippled-up feet, the Crested Polish chickens, and the Silkies. Then he wanted to turn the blue coop (which is the smaller coop, if you’ve lost track) into the Black Copper Marans yard, to keep them separate from the other chickens, so we could sell their eggs since their fertile eggs sell for more than plain old mutt chicken eggs do.

Then, of course, we have the big-ass coop out in the back forty.

Currently, we have something like 40 chickens out in the back forty and another…20? Maybe? in the blue coop. We’re eventually going to go to an all Light Brahmas flock, because they get to be pretty big birds, and they are fairly tasty as well as pretty good layers (from what we can tell).

All this babbling is just to tell you that Fred processed 13 chickens on Sunday and I decided to can them. Of course, before I can can the meat, I have to cook it and then debone the chicken, and I prefer to cook the meat by boiling them, and 13 chickens is a lot to boil, so I spent all day boiling two chickens at a time in the kitchen. It took about two hours for each set of chickens (one in my huge pot, one in the dutch oven) to be done, so I’d take them out of the boiling water, put them in a bowl, and set the bowl in the fridge to cool so I could eventually debone them. Today, I’ll doing the actual canning.

My god, am I completely fascinating you, or what?

So mid-afternoon, I was standing in the kitchen, about to fish a chicken out of one of the pots, and Hydrox came lumbering in. The kittens like to come into the kitchen when I’m in there to howl at me because MY GOD THEY ARE ALWAYS STARVING WHY MUST I STARVE THEM TO DEATH? I circumvent the howling most mornings by giving them a bowl of chicken broth, and it generally takes them all day to finish off half a pint of chicken broth. They come in, start to howl, get sidetracked by the bowl of broth, and by the time they think to howl again, I’m out of the kitchen and there’s no one to howl at.

(This is my own homemade and canned chicken broth – it is literally water that a chicken has been boiled in, no salt added, no veggies added, just chickeny-tasting water. Except for Miz Poo, every cat in the house enjoys a slurp or two as the day goes on.)

Anyway, Hydrox came in to see if howling at me would net him any kind of food, and as he walked toward me, already howling, I fished the chicken out of the pot with two big serving spoons, and then I lost my grip on the chicken, and that damn chicken landed on the floor.

Hydrox stopped and stared, and I swear to you, I have never before seen a kitten’s face light up like that. It was as though every dream he’d ever had was suddenly coming true, and his stubby little legs were a BLUR as he tried his hardest to get to that chicken before I could grab it.

Luckily, I was faster than he was, but he was still kind of lucky because a few small pieces of chicken fell off as I lifted the carcass off the floor, and I let him have them.

And if you don’t think he spent the rest of the day following me around hoping that another chicken would magically fall from the sky, you know nothin’ about nothin’.

 

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

 

The Cookies have recovered from their traumatic night at the vet’s and are alternately running around like their tails are on fire, and collapsing in heaps of sleepy cuteness.

I bought this toy, which you hang from a door, at Petsmart last weekend. It’s hanging on the closet door in the Cookie room (during the day, all the cats wander in and out of that room), and every once in a while I hear the sound of leaping kittens as they rediscover the toy hanging there.

Pouty Miss Pink.

This “being cute” business is exhausting work.

Violet and Gus.

Veruca and the hugest ears in the house.

Gus finds it important for all household members to be clean. Except those stinky little kittens; he figures they can take care of themselves.

 

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Ring ring ring ring ring ring ring
Banana phone
Ring ring ring ring ring ring ring
Banana phone
I’ve got this feeling, so appealing,
for us to get together and sing. Sing!

 

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

 

Previously
2008: Yes, we only currently have about three beds for each cat. What’s your point?
2007: He really is a pretty chicken, and I look forward to seeing what his babies look like.
2006: No entry.
2005: No entry.
2004: Fred leaned down and SNIFFED MEESTER BOOGERS’ ASS AGAIN.
2003: And then we got to stand around while the woman, clearly not the sort who can walk and chew gum at the same time, fumbled with her credit card, NEVER ONCE PAUSING IN HER INCREDIBLY IMPORTANT CONVERSATION.
2002: Tell me, for I am clueless when it comes to these things.
2001: Like I said, if you’re going to mix lights, go all the way, people.
2000: No entry.