I’m going to get a gown that will cover your fat ass. She came back with the gown while I was off trying to get a decent urine sample and cursing myself for having peed before I left the house. I stripped, gowned up, and settled on the bed and chatted and giggled with Fred for a while. They came and took blood, then started my IV, and the anesthesiologist stopped by as did various and sundry other people. Some time after 8, Dr. Dang stopped by to let us know she was there and what would be happening. Have I mentioned how incredibly sweet she is? I really like her a lot, and if anyone’s in Huntsville and needs an ENT, I highly recommend her. Too soon, they came to take me to the operating room, and the nurse who came to get me told me to give Fred my glasses and "get some sugar." Fred nervously took my glasses and kissed me, then told me fourteen times that he loved me. Which is funny, because he’d made a point of telling me that he loved me earlier, so he wouldn’t have to in front of other people. Once in the operating room, I shimmied from the table I was on to the operating table, and suddenly at least six people were bustling around me, tucking the blankets in around me and checking my ear and doing various other things. They put an oxygen mask over my face, then gave me something to make me sleepy. Finally, the anesthesiologist told me I’d be out soon, and I could feel my heart pounding and the overwhelming thought in my head was Oh, shit, why am I doing this? Why did I want to be put to sleep?? Is it too late to stop it?! When I woke up, I was coughing and my throat hurt. They intubate you every time they put you under, and usually extubate you before you wake up. I lay in the recovery room for half an hour or so, the nurse asking every five minutes How’re you doing? I don’t remember exactly what she said, but I let her know that the sooner I went home, the better, because if you’re going to feel like crap it’s much more comfortable to feel like crap at home. Finally, they wheeled me into a small post-op room and told me that if I kept down some crackers and soda I could go home. By the time they showed Fred in, two or three minutes later, I was feeling almost as good as I had before the surgery, and was more than ready to go home. So I went home. I took a nap this afternoon, and I’m feeling fine except for a little achiness in my ear, which Tylenol helps a lot. I think I’m going to drag myself away from the computer now and go read for a while. Thanks again for all your emails; I truly appreciate them. ]]>


stuff, and unless we get rid of it all or get a bigger house, I suspect we’ll continue eating at the kitchen table). For years now, he’s talked about how nice it would be if he could work while watching movies with the spud and I. He’s talked off and on about getting a laptop, but he really needs something with more power than a laptop could give him. Finally, he decided to put his computer upstairs behind the couch (the dining area is directly behind the living room), and with the monitor pushed to one side of his desk (which is actually a table), he could work and watch a movie all at the same time. We tried it out last night, he working while I watched Meet Joe Black. It worked fairly well – except for the fact that Meet Joe Black should be a ninety-minute movie and is in actuality three hours long – and then in bed last night he waffled about what he wanted to do. Did he want to leave his computer upstairs or take it back downstairs? Did he want to buy a second computer for downstairs, so he could work downstairs when I’m on my computer downstairs, too? He had decided on taking everything back downstairs, until this morning when he wandered out of his room and the computer was right there, and then he decided it was pretty nice having it that way. I’m going to get a laptop so that he won’t be lonely while working upstairs, and if he wants to work downstairs, he can use my computer. Or something like that. Before we went to bed last night, we started talking about creepy Stephen King stories, and I was getting truly creeped out, so I made him stop talking about creepy things. Stephen King can seriously creep me out sometimes, and I was afraid I’d have nightmares. Fred just laughed, but he’s actually the one who ended up having a nightmare. Which serves him right. While laying in bed last night, we also discussed something that happened about two years ago, when we still lived in the apartment. There’s this handyman-type guy, Mr. Stokes, whom you can pay to run errands or make a delivery or any other kind of errand-type things of which you can think. On one particular day, Fred had Mr. Stokes pick up a table we’d bought and had stained – it’s the table Fred has his computer on, now that I think of it – and deliver it to the apartment. While there, he decided to have Mr. Stokes take away a few items we were getting rid of. One of these items was a drafting table, which is what Fred previously used as a desk. Mr. Stokes followed Fred into the bedroom and stood there as Fred leaned over to the back of the computer, trying to figure out how to easily move everything off of the table. When he did so, he moved the mouse, which stopped the screensaver. At this time, I was out in the living room, blithely reading a book. From the bedroom, Fred called "Hey, Robyn!" I stopped reading and called back "Yeah?" Silence. "Yeah?" More silence. Then, finally, Fred said "That’s a nice picture you have on the desktop!" My heart stopped, my jaw dropped, and I whispered "Oh, shiiiiiiiiiiit!" You see, earlier that morning – having no idea that anyone would be going near the computer except for Fred and myself – I’d decided it would be funny to make a certain picture the wallpaper. A certain picture I’d recently taken with our then-new digital camera. A certain picture of a completely naked Fred stepping out of the shower. Fred had looked up to see Mr. Stokes grinning and staring at the monitor, and when he glanced over to see what was so funny, to his horror he saw an image of his naked self there, in all it’s glory. He slapped his hand over the monitor and fumbled around before finally getting it turned off. Say it with me, now: "Oh, shiiiiiiit!" I don’t know how the boy ever forgave me for that, though I felt so bad and grovelled with such hearfelt angst that it would have been pointless for him to be mad at me. Since that day, though, I’ve made sure to never be naked around him when he’s got the digital camera in hand. You can never be too careful, you know. Y’all keep your fingers crossed for me tomorrow morning at 8:30 (central time), ’cause that’s when they’re doing my ear. I’ll see ya in a couple of days! ]]>


is nice to have Fred around, even if he’s on his computer and I’m upstairs reading, or I’m on my computer and he’s upstairs watching a movie with the spud. Or when we’re both on our computers and the spud is chattering away at us about her life. I left work at 12:30 for a cut and color. And I mean a serious cut and color. Under the lights at the hair place (I guess "salon" would be the correct term) my hair looked very red. The hairstylist (Bev) pointed out that there were three distinct bands of color in my hair – which is obviously what you get when you make your husband color your hair at home and then never buy the same color twice in a row. We went for a light-medium brown, and it’s nice to see it all one color again. As for the cut, I brought in a picture of Kathryn Erbe from Stir of Echoes, and asked for the same cut, only a tad longer. She chopped off about 6 very damaged-looking ends before she got into the layering and such. I was there for two hours, and by the time I left I knew that Bev’s going to be my stylist for life – or at least until she quits her job. Once I find a stylist I like, I stick with them for as long as I can. When I moved from Maine to Rhode Island, I always waited until I was in Maine for the weekend to get my hair cut. The problem with my hair is that I have a lot of it, but it’s all very fine and flyaway. I’d love to have long, straight hair, but that’s just not a look I can pull off. Once my hair gets to a certain length, it does the triangle-head thing where the top is flat and lank no matter what I do, and the ends are bushy and frizzy-looking. Not to mention that from about the tips of my ears down, my hair is wavy, so it always looks like I’m trying to grow out a perm. Of course, I will never once be able to duplicate this look, because I’m pretty much a wash-and-go kinda gal, but it’s nice that it looks good for a little while. At least until the little hairs she dropped down my shirt start itching and I have to go take a shower. I don’t think Fred likes it, but I hope he’ll get used to it. He’s always said he likes long hair, but it’s not like he plays with it or anything, so it shouldn’t be too much of a difference for him. My parents got a dog a few weeks ago. He’s a cute little thing, judging by the picture my Dad sent: dawgy They got him at the animal shelter, and he was already named Scrappy, but my Mom said they would probably change his name. They ended up naming him Benji. He looks like Benji, doesn’t he? It sounds like he’s spoiled rotten. When I get on the phone with my Mom, she spends as much time talking about him as I do talking about the kitten. Scary, eh? On the way home from the movie store (after I had my hair cut), I realized that traffic had come to a standstill for no apparent reason. Finally, I noticed that there was a funeral procession coming from the opposite direction. Once the procession ended, traffic started up again. What’s up with that? I guess they have a lot more respect for the dead down here in the South, ’cause back home if we saw a funeral procession we’d just keep on going. I don’t know when I’ll next be updating. Perhaps this weekend, perhaps not. I’ll be recovering from my life-threatening 5-minute ear surgery on Monday, so I don’t know if I’ll feel like it then, either. If you don’t want to have to keep checking back, go over there in the left column, and click on the link to join my notify list. Y’all have a good weekend now, y’hear? —–]]>


spoke clearly. I can’t tell you how often I’m in a doctor’s office, and the nurse is over on her chair mumbling away and I’m just sitting there staring off into space minding my own business – ’cause I don’t want to eavesdrop on her talking to herself – and I realize halfway through the second mental verse of "Nine more weeks, nine more weeks, niiiiiiiiiiiine moooooooooooore weeeeeeeeeeeeks" she’s looking at me and politely waiting for my answer. And I jump and raise my eyebrows and say "Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you?", whilst feeling like an idiot. Have you noticed that I feel like an idiot a lot? With good reason, I’m sure you’re thinking. Anyway, after Dr. D checked out my ear ("Hey, there’s fluid back there…" "No shit, really?"), and I took a hearing test ("There’s definitely some hearing loss in that ear" "No shit, really?"), I was given three options – more antibiotics, leave it alone and see what happens, let them slice open my eardrum and suck out the fluid – the third of which there were two sub-options – have it done in the office while awake or have it done at the hospital under anesthesia – and I chose to have my eardrum slit open (okay, it’s a small slit) and have the fluid sucked out while I am blissfully unaware early Monday morning. (Wow, talk about your convoluted run-on sentence) Depending on the amount of fluid they suck out, she may stick a small tube in my eardrum, which will fall out of it’s own accord in a couple of months. Sounds like fun, no? Noooo, but better to be asleep than awake, thanks. I’ve always opted for general anesthesia when given the choice, because I’m a big scaredy chicken and the thought of being awake to hear them SUCKING FLUID OUT OF MY EAR gives me the heebies.Gah. Just thinking about it makes me wanna have nightmares. When they did the ultrasound the day before the spud was born and realized how big she was (10 lbs, 2 oz, thankyewverymuch), they suggested a c-section and gave me the option of local or general anesthesia. I had no desire to be awake while they were fiddling around in my insides, thanks anyway. The recovery was rough (my sister still tells the story about her visiting me in the hospital after I’d had the spud, and I was laying there chatting with her all perky-like, and without giving any clue to her that I was in pain, rang the nurse and asked for morphine) but to this day I’m glad I wasn’t awake for the event. Wasting time on IRC To present the banality of conversations on IRC, I present to you: The Great Eggs on Toast Debate Cbud: Okay, downloading a slow mail anyway. Cbud: And eating scrambled eggs on toast. **Cbud is now known as CbudEGGS
Robyn_: Don’t the eggs fall off the toast? CbudEGGS: I am eating them on a plate, with a knife and fork *DEric is hungry CbudEGGS: Like a civilised person Robyn_: You’re cutting your toast with a knife and fork? That’s like eating a candy bar with a knife and fork. CbudEGGS: Look, your eggs fall off the toast, mine don’t. Robyn_: I didn’t say my eggs fall off my toast. I asked if yours didn’t. CbudEGGS: Well, you asked in a way that suggested that it was a normal thing to happen. CbudEGGS: You American people, you eat doughnuts all day so you aren’t used to using knives and forks. CbudEGGS: or McDonald’s Robyn_: My eggs DO NOT fall off my toast, do you hear me? NEVERNEVERNEVER. DEric: My eggs never fall off my toast either. Awfully touchy, isn’t he? Anyway, the reason my scrambled eggs don’t fall off my toast is ’cause I don’t eat scrambled eggs on toast. So there. I noticed, as I checked my sitemeter stats this morning that someone had followed a referral from their stats back to the bookmarks page I set up for my own personal use. I can’t guarantee it, but I’m pretty sure I know who it was, and now I know where he works. I’d start stalking him but 1. I haven’t the energy to do the stalking thing, and 2. I’m not that kind of gal. Really, I’m not! Hey, he could do worse than to be stalked by me. He could be stoned to death by a group of thirsty monkeys. Tomorrow’s Friday! Woohoo! ]]>


know I’ll let y’all know how it goes. So, Mrs. Multi-Millionaire was on Good Morning America today, and it appears they’re splitting up. Shocker, eh? I believe I mentioned how unhappy she looked to be marrying the guy, and she confirmed that on GMA. I feel sorry for her, but Fred doesn’t, and said "Ya play with fire…" Heartless bastard. —–]]>


really short work week, and you sure don’t hear me complaining. My ear’s still bugging me, with that whole constant-static sound still going on, not to mention the unable to hear much out of that ear thing, so I have a doctor’s appointment at 11:15. The kitten has a vet’s appointment at 2:30, because her eye has been bothering her, but Fred kindly consented to deal with that appointment. Aside from that, I have to register my Jeep and Fred’s Jeep (which was supposed to be registered in January, but I obviously dropped the ball on that one), stop by Petco to pick up a bag of cat food, and rent Double Jeopardy at the movie store. There was one other thing, but I can’t remember what it was. Oh, well, can’t have been too important, eh? Remember when I talked about Richard Grieco being a dead ringer for the Grinch? (I’d link to the entry, but I’m too lazy to go look for it) Well, for your viewing pleasure, the photo comparison: griencho That’s still not the Grinchiest Greico’s ever looked, but I definitely see the resemblance. Don’t you? So Sunday night I had to drive a fair distance to return the movies we’d rented for the weekend, and since I was going to be passing the Dairy Queen on the way home, it was decided that I would stop and pick up dessert. Things were going well – drove to the movie store, dropped off the movies, headed back for home – and so it was with a happy heart that I pulled up to the Dairy Queen drive-thru. When the person on the other end of the drive-thru speaker asked if she could take my order, I spoke clearly "I would like a banana pudding blizzard-" "What size?" drive-thru-chick demanded before I could finish my order. "Size medium," I said, and had opened my mouth to complete my order, when drive-thru chick decided that I was done. "A dollar four, drive up." As Fred would say, that just flew all over me (ie: really pissed me off). I fumed for a few seconds, then said "Fuckthis," and drove off. Would it have killed the bitch to make sure I was done with my order before giving me the total? I wasn’t doing the dumbass thing that far too many people do, which is to hesitate for a full minute before continuing on with their order. She didn’t give me half a second to finish, fer godssake. And yes, I know she was probably really busy, but I worked the drive-thru at McDonald’s for three years (ask me about my horror stories), and I never cut off a customer. Sure, I made faces at the drive-thru speaker, and muttered "Come ON already, it’s the same freakin’ menu that’s always there," but cutting them off? Never ever. The manager of the moment would have kicked my ass. Speaking of drive-thru idiots, I hit McDonald’s this morning (and with the horror stories I have, it’s incredible I ever eat from any fast food place ever) for a sausage mcmuffin with egg, hash brown, and large coke. Simple order, right? Well, apparently "coke" sounded like "coffee" to the Einstein taking my order. How is that possible? They’re two completely different words, the only similarity being the "c" at the beginning. Cohk and cawfee. Idiots. The worst part is that I didn’t realize it was coffee until halfway back to the office. Grrr. I finally got off my butt this weekend and paid the bills. While I was paying the phone bill ($130 this month, and that’s for three separate lines and only four short long-distance calls. Am I wrong, or is that an incredible amount of money to pay for three basic phone lines?) I noticed that we pay $3 a month for the privilege of being unlisted. Isn’t that odd? Instead of charging people to be listed, they charge people to not be listed. It’s like if you went into a clothing store and they said "Okay, you don’t want that shirt? That’ll be $50 to not buy it." I hate talking on the phone, have I ever mentioned that? I’m a blithering idiot on the phone, and it amazes me that I’ve held so many jobs where the main responsibility was taking calls. At home when it rings, it’s always up to Fred to answer it, because I let the answering machine pick up. When he’s not home at all, I check the caller id before picking up the phone, and if it’s anyone other than him (he?) or the spud’s school, I don’t bother to pick up the phone. That’s just the kind of anti-social gal I am. —–]]>


So, you must be wondering, what did you do this weekend, Robyn? Oh, this and that. I got groceries, did some laundry, watched a movie or two with Fred, and drove my new vehicle around a bit. Drove your new vehicle around? Bitch. Yes, Fred got a bonus at work Friday, and went car-shopping for many many hours Saturday morning, before coming home with this, my new (used) ’97 Jeep Grand Cherokee. I had talked about wanting a Camry, but he proclaimed that it was like a tin can, and I’d be crushed in an instant by all the SUVs in the area, so he selfishly bought me the much more expensive Jeep. And compared to the damn truck I was previously driving, I like it a lot. Am I a spoiled rotten wife, or what? Speaking of his spoiling me rotten, Fred did get enough emails to convince him to make the Do you see what I see? wav, and decided he needed a Singalodeon to help him make it. He found one on Ebay, and it’s on the way, so the .wav should be up in the next week or so. I read Heather’s latest entry, about her talking in her sleep to her husband. It made me guffaw. Loudly. Situations where people talk in their sleep has always amused the hell out of me. Once, a couple of years ago, Fred and I were laying in bed drifting off to sleep, and he said "Oh, guess what?" in a semi-excited I can’t believe I forgot to tell you this voice. I perked right up and turned over to look at him. "What?" I said, because good gossip is, to me, like nectar from the gods. In response, he snored loudly. Another time, we were laying in bed (yes we do that a lot, have you noticed?) talking about his friends, a couple who lived in the apartment above him. He had just found out that the wife had had a miscarriage, and he was worried about what to say when next he saw them. "That’s going to be an awkward situation," he said, and in the next instant let out a loud snore. Obviously, the awkwardness of the situation was troubling him deeply. When I was a kid, my cousin Craig woke up in the middle of the night, went out to the kitchen, sat down at the table, and started banging his hand on the table, declaring loudly that he wanted something to eat. When told about it the next morning, he didn’t believe it had happened. I could go on, but I won’t bore you with any more anecdotes from the Life O’ Bitchypoo this time. The house is looking particularly good this week. I don’t think I mentioned it, but the lady who used to clean our house, Summer, quit because she has two small kids at home, and wasn’t making enough money cleaning houses for it to be worth it. They replaced Summer with Kim, who just didn’t do as good a job. Little things, like not cleaning around the litter box, and not cleaning the inside of the microwave. This past Thursday, Kim’s kid was sick, so they sent Carolyn instead, and let me just say hallelujah, brothers and sisters! It was like having Summer back again. Fred promptly called the lady who owns the cleaning service and asked if Carolyn could be our permanent cleaner. Do you see, people? Do you see why I love that man so? In an instance where I would have just kept quiet and let Kim come week after week and do less-than-stellar job, he stepped up to the plate and made that crucial call (because he knows I don’t like talking to people on the phone, and I would worry about Kim’s feelings getting hurt), without even hesitating. He’s mine, y’all. Keep your mitts off. —–]]>


ER last night? I knew Lucy was going to die – I heard it on the radio a couple of weeks ago – but that didn’t stop me from tearing up like a big baby when she actually did. It was great to see Dr. Romano’s somewhat-human side. Have I mentioned that I really, really, really like Dr. Romano? I’m always drawn to the asses, it would appear. Fred and I always refer to him as "Bulldog", originally because he resembled Bulldog on Frasier, and then because he really is a little bulldog. I’d do him in a heartbeat, I would. Well, except he’d probably be bossy in bed. Or maybe he’s one of those guys who’s bossy in life, but wants to be tied up and whipped when it comes to sex. Ooh. Or maybe, just maybe, he’s a fictional fucking character, Robyn you fucking freak. That right there could lessen my chances of having sex with him, I s’pose. So this morning, whilst not fending off calls from clueless telemarketers, I spent a goodly amount of time adding a page to my site listing all my bookmarks. My Netscape is acting freaky as shit, and I’m tired of transferring my bookmarks from Internet Explorer to Netscape and back again once I realize how much Netscape sucks. Therefore, I created a page I can open, and follow links to my favorite sites. I’d put the url here, but I’m not all that keen on y’all checking out my bookmarks page and laughing at the erotica sites I surf to upon occasion. Yes, I am a bad, bad girl. Spank me? JUST KIDDING. Calm yourselves, people. Since Fred is out of the office today and the people in the channel we hang out on on IRC noticed he wasn’t around. Someone, who’s been looking for him for a week or so, asked me to pass on a message. I agreed, and the guy started discussing programming issues with me, talking (or typing) as if I had the slightest clue what he was talking about. Fred and I hang out in a programming channel, but I’m not a programmer, and all the programming chat goes right over my head. Everyone knows this, including the guy who wanted me to pass on his message, and yet he would say something geeky and then wait for an equally geeky reply from me. Perhaps he thinks I’ve absorbed programming knowledge through sex with Fred. In any case, the conversation on my end consisted of "Yeah." "Okay." "Uh-huh." I’m going to try to stay away from the computer this weekend, but I am rarely successful when I make such attempts. Therefore, I may or may not be updating this weekend. If you don’t want to keep checking back, go join my notify list, ‘k? Have a great weekend! Have I mentioned that 3-day weekends rock? They sure do. —–]]>


Stop saying that! It’s so unladylike!, he said. Now, I’m really not sure how I come across in my journal, but I’m going to guess that ladylike is not the primary word that pops into your mind when you think of me. And why? Because I’m about as far from ladylike as you can possibly be and still be female. I’ve a total potty-mouth. Fuck and shit and crap and hell and damn fly out of my mouth at the slightest provocation. I’ve been known to tell my computer that it’s the biggest fucking piece of fucking crap I’ve ever fucking seen in my entire fucking life, and you’d better shape the fuck up, motherfucker, before I put my foot through your fucking monitor. I belch upon occasion. I fart, sometimes loudly, and delight in the horror on the faces of my loved ones. I wear makeup maybe twice a year, I keep my fingernails clipped short and unpolished, I shave my legs only when they start to itch, I wait to color my hair until my roots are about three inches long. On the other hand, I do color my hair, instead of chopping it all off and letting my natural gray show through, and I keep it long, because that’s how Fred prefers it. I pluck my eyebrows and facial hairs at regular intervals, I have little flowers on my underwear, and I have enough perfume and fruity body sprays to stock a third-world country. I like to hug and kiss my kitties whenever I can, and I will sit and baby-talk the kitten for hours on end. I’m addicted to The Bold and the Beautiful, and tape it every day so I won’t miss Brooke’s moments of happiness when they come along. I guess I was simply not born with the ladylike gene. I could never sit with my ankles crossed, delicately eating finger sandwiches and smiling politely at other ladylike ladies as they chatter about ladylike things. Ladylike. The very notion makes me yawn loudly without politely covering my mouth. Who the fuck wants to be a lady? You’d think he’d have realized this by now. *Okay, adult situations and disgusting language have ended* Last night, Fred and I watched the Who wants to be a millionaire? we taped Sunday night, mostly because we wanted to see where they called Rosie O’Donnell as the contestant’s phone-a-friend. We noticed almost immediately that Regis kept calling the male contestants big boy. What the hell’s up with that? It was more than a little weird, to say the least. So, what’s the deal with Jim Carrey starring as the Grinch? He looks nothing like the Grinch. Richard Grieco, on the other hand, is a dead ringer for the Grinch. The eyebrows, the smile, everything. If you’ve seen him in Night at the Roxbury, you’ve seen him at his Grinchiest. How it is that he missed out on that role is a giant mystery. Oh, wait. They probably wanted someone who could act. I always forget that part. Don’t you hate it when you’re talking to someone, and you make a joke – lame or otherwise – and they just continue to stare at you with no expression whatsoever and you’re left standing there with a big, goony grin on your face, laughing alone at your own joke? ]]>