My sister emailed me this morning, asking me to gather all my Puffkins in one place, take a picture of them, and send it to her. Like the obedient bitchypoo I am, I did so. I’m not sure why she wanted me to do such a thing, and I’m a little scared to ask. Aren’t they creepy all together like that, with their non-armed bodies and malevolent smiles? Like they’re going to wait until I’m asleep and advance upon me to rip my throat out with the sharp teeth they have hidden behind those fakey smiles.

I’ve spent a good part of the day making cds, so that I can delete the wavs taking up a huge amount of disk space. I’ve made 10 cds so far, and I’m only halfway through the "l"s. The most recent cd contained the following songs: lead me on, least complicated, leaving on a jet plane, mrs. robinson (the lemonheads version), let’s get it on (from high fidelity), letting go, life is a highway, life’s gonna suck (love that denis leary), life’s a dance, lightning crashes, linger, listen to your heart, little rock, long december, looks like we made it, loser, lotta love, and love of my life.

With a bit of persuading from me, Fred reluctantly agreed to let the spud keep two of the baby hamsters. My reasoning is that we can stick a female in with the mother and a male in with the father, and they’ll all have someone to play with.

I know what you’re thinking, people. Don’t ever doubt the bitchypoo, I always know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking If you had a clue how to tell which hamsters are girls and which are boys, you wouldn’t have this problem in the first place!

To which I, of course, must respond Bite me! No, actually what I’d like to say in my defense is that I was young and innocent and stupid and far FAR too trusting of the pet store guy who swore on his mother’s grave that both hamsters were boys. Now that we know what to look for – ie, a bulge by the tail (you’d think we’d’ve figured that out ourselves earlier, wouldn’t you?) – I’m a little more confident that we’ll have better luck.

Of course, how pissed am I going to be if I fuck it up royally and we end up with two more litters of baby hamsters in a couple of months, do ya think?




should do is memorize the phone number of a local escort agency and give that out when someone asks for my phone number. Or the number to the police station. You think they’d notice anything was amiss if I gave my home phone number as "911"? —–]]>


Wonder. What I heard was Fate smiled at Destiny, and it felt like that was about us. So many things came together, and we met. I got a computer, I (eventually) got online, I wandered into Fred’s IRC channel, at the perfect time for us both. What if I hadn’t figured out how to get my incredibly crappy computer – bought for $50 from a friend’s husband – onto the local bbs? What if, after fooling around, I hadn’t discovered how to get on IRC? What if the default network hadn’t been Undernet, but rather Dalnet or Efnet? What if, what if, what if? I can actually strike fear into my heart by thinking of the what ifs, so I don’t very often let myself think of them. I like to think that Fate did, in fact, smile at Destiny and brought us together. That’s why today, our fifth anniversary, is such a big deal to me, that we need to celebrate the occasion of our meeting, which led to our falling in love, which led to our marriage, which will lead a long happy life together. If we’d never met, brought together by Fate and Destiny or not, all the rest would have been dust in the wind. Happy anniversary, baby. I love you. —–]]>


silent but deadly? Well, the first several "explosions" were completely silent and completely smell-less, so I thought we were okay. We were not. Without warning and to my horror, the atmosphere in the car went from unscented to absolutely GAG-INDUCING, though I offered up a silent prayer of thanks that there were no accompanying noises. Fred was quietly watching the road, singing along to the soundtrack from "Miss Saigon", when suddenly he yelled "Dad, are you FARTING back there?"(his parents were sitting in the back). His Dad paused for a second and then defensively said "NO!" Sounded rather guilty, he did. And Fred said "It MUST have been you, ’cause you’re sitting back there acting like you can’t smell it! I know it’s not ME, and I don’t think it’s ROBYN -" to which I reponded by shaking my head back and forth and mumbling "Nopenopenope, wuddn’t ME!" And he went on and ON about how gross his Dad was, farting like that. Suddenly, his father sniffsniffsniffed wildly and opined, "It smells kinda… chemical. I think there are paper factories around here…" Fred said, skeptically, "I don’t think so, I think it’s YOU back there, FARTING!" Beside him, I kept silent. That’s right. I kept my mouth shut and let Fred’s dad take the blame for every last bit of it.


How purty is my pet? Purty darn purty, in my opinion. As of this moment, Miz Poo has gotten 24 votes and is standing tall at 9.1 points. Personally, I think she deserves a 10, don’t you? Go vote for her! And check out Jamie’s Leon and Itty Bitty, while you’re at it, and thanks to Jamie for cluing me in to that particular site. God knows I don’t spend enough time surfing as it is… Oh, speaking of cats, you MUST check out Becca’s most recent entry. Now who else do we know who would leave their paralyzed cat in an ungainly and undignified position so they could take picture after picture? Who could it be? Who else besides Becca would do such a thing? That’s right, I’d be on it in a New York minute. I was planning to watch Oprah this afternoon, but to my dismay, some basketball game was on instead. So I turned the sound off and went about my business making chicken gumbo for dinner. About ten ’til five, I glanced up and saw that they were showing the last few minutes of Oprah, so I turned the TV on. What do you suppose I’d missed? That’s right, the book club discussion of that loathesome Mulvaneys book. Which, being me, I’d wanted to see, because I thought to myself (rather charitably, if I may say so) "Maybe I just missed something in the book and I’ll understand what a work of ART it really is if I watch the book club show!" See how I am, still willing to give the damn thing a chance? Doesn’t it just make you want to be my best friend, huh? I haven’t learned my lesson, though. Oprah made Icy Sparks, her book for March, sound really damn good. God knows I’ll probably snatch it up next time I go to Sam’s, and then spend an entire entry bitching about how much it sucked. It’s a comfortable pattern for me. Don’t get me wrong, though, I’ve read Oprah books that I really liked. Gap Creek was an Oprah book, wasn’t it? I liked it a lot. I read Where the Heart Is long before Oprah picked it; I owned White Oleander before she picked it, same goes for Black and Blue and While I Was Gone. So I’m not the lemming I sound like, really I’m not! Ah, hell, I guess it’s obvious that my reading tastes are neither cutting-edge nor offbeat. I do like a wide range of fiction, though, from romance (no, NOT the Harlequins!) to mystery and suspense, and everything in between. In fact, I just read the first of the Kat Colorado series, which my beloved Moira sent me for my birthday. I just love me some female kick-ass detectives, and when the hell is Sue Grafton going to put the next one out? (oh, apparently P is for Peril is coming out in June) She’s got some nerve, not putting out a book every six months to suit me… I actually meant to make this entry all about my fart story, but it seems that I forgot and then went on and on about books. Oh well, I guess I’ll save the fart story for tomorrow, because it’s truly spectacular and deserves it’s own entry. We’re all about the high-brow entertainment, here in BitchyLand. —–]]>


lookatmeain’ticute smirk on her face. I wanted to slap her, and I think Dr. Phil did, too. I had ten million errands to run today, including mailing out packages to the people who entered the drawing for the free stuff. Speaking of the Post Office, I checked my box today while I was there, and found the most gorgeous sketch of Miz Poo, done by the lovely and very talented Lis, who is smart enough to recognize the coolest cat in the world when she sees her. I’m going to frame the sketch and hang it over my desk ’cause I love it! Thanks, Lis! You know that cleaning schedule I mentioned? Where I have a specific task or two that needs to be done each day? Y’all think that worked at all? The schedule’s been printed out and taped handily on my monitor for two or three weeks, and I have yet to clean the kitchen (Thursday) even once so far. The one task I accomplish when I’m supposed to is to change the sheets every Wednesday, and that’s because I love the feel of nice clean sheets on my (hairy) legs. And god knows if I waited too long to change them, I’d end up with a single piece of cat litter irritating me all night long. Despite my non-adherence to the schedule, the house doesn’t really look all that bad, amazingly enough. Sure, the bathroom counters are dustier than they should be, and I don’t recall the last time I dusted the furniture, but the floors get vacuumed from time to time, and there are no three-foot dust bunnies living on the stairs, so I’m calling it good enough. If you’ve sent me email in the last several days and I haven’t responded, rest assured that I’m not ignoring you or anything; I’m just incredibly behind in my email, and I hope to get to the majority of it tomorrow morning, since there are no pressing errands or housework to be done. —–]]>


someone is always insisting upon laying in your arms so she can gaze lovingly up at you. Okay, the rest of this entry is going to be about the most recent Survivor, the season finale of Temptation Island, and Oprah’s book pick for February, We Were the Mulvaneys. If you haven’t seen one or both of the shows, be warned that there are spoilers. Same goes for the book. As far as Oprah goes, sometimes she picks really good books, and sometimes she just misses "good" by a country mile. This would be one of the ones she missed on. By page three, I was ready to throw the book across the room and gouge my eyes out. By page five, I was ready to send hate mail to Joyce Carol Oates. By page seven, Miz Poo was beginning an interpretive dance to indicate to the world at large that WE FUCKING GET IT. You Mulvaneys think you’re hot shit, the non-Mulvaneys in this book indicate many times. Now, why on earth would they be under the impression that the Mulvaneys think they’re such hot shit? Maybe because we’re told over and over AND FUCKING OVER AGAIN how incredible it was to be a Mulvaney, how SPECIAL it was to be a Mulvaney, how every Mulvaney shat gold upon command three times a day. By chapter three, I’d started skimming the story, and I ended up skimming 9/10 of the book. I came thisclose to putting the book down and not picking it back up, but as always, the thought Maybe something interesting will happen in the next chapter – the last chapter – the last paragraph – the last sentence went through my mind, and I was sorely disappointed. I was in Sam’s Club today, and in the book section, they had a pile of We Were the Mulvaneys. As I perused the other books, I kept my eye on that pile, ready to warn away any other customers fool enough to try to buy the damn thing. No one else was that much of a fool, at least not in the five minutes I was around. I can’t remember the last time I disliked a book this much.

* * *
Okay, I was wrong, I’m woman enough to admit it. It, in fact, was not Nick in the water with the crocodile, but rather Michael in the fire with the burning hands. Ouch. I will say that I started to like Elisabeth – doofy Immunity Headdress aside – more than I had when she got in the water with Michael while everyone else was standing around scratching their collective ass. As a side note, his hands, with the nasty skin dangling off of them, looked very much like my right foot did when Fred spilled boiling oil on it 3 1/2 years ago. I was cringing in sympathy when he was in the water, moaning in pain. My favorite Survivors recently are Rodger, Alicia, and Keith. (I said I started to like Elisabeth more, not that she’d gotten to favorite status with me). Temptation Island What. a fucking. gyp. MAN. I was SO SURE Valerie and Kaya were going to break up; that’s why I thought they were doing them last! Valerie got all over my nerves in that last show. I mean, I understand that she was worried about what was going to happen with Kaya the next day, but did she need to be such a dishwater dull date for Dano? Poor guy! And Valerie and Kaya were the couple with zip, zero, zilch personality whatsoever. I mean, how fun must they be to hang out with? You’d have to sit there and watch Valerie do her zombie imitation, and Kaya look all shiny with his closeted self. No one broke up. NO ONE BROKE UP. I want all those hours back, damnitall, I was SO SURE there was going to be a payoff wherein one of the couples broke up. GRRRRRR. You’d think at least one of them would have been kind enough to fake a breakup, wouldn’t you? Okay, that’s all I have to yammer about today, y’all. Until tomorrow, BitchyLand… ]]>