Oh, let me think… Three years ago from this very moment, I was probably trying my best to convince Fred that we should just wait and get married "sometime next year." That’s right, it’s our third anniversary.

And they said it’d never last.

In honor of our anniversary, I’m going to respond to a question reader Lisa asked back at the end of September. She said: Robyn, it seems like you and Fred have such a wonderful relationship and marriage! I would love to hear some advice, through your journal, on how you maintain your great relationship — and what makes your marriage work. I’m getting married in May, after dating my fiance for over three years, and any advice from ANYONE at this point is helpful. My parents have a lousy marriage, so I’m not asking them!!

That’s an excellent question, Lisa, and at first all I could think was "Well, how the hell should I know what makes it work? It just does!" And then I started to think (ow…), and I came up with a couple of suggestions I think might be helpful.

1. Communication. We talk a LOT, probably spend more time talking than Fred had ever dreamed possible before he met me. We talk during the day several times, email back and forth while he’s at work, when he gets home we usually go upstairs, lay down, and talk about our days. As we sit at our computers, we chat about various things from time to time (and sometimes we sit in his chat room together). After dinner, we always go upstairs to lay down and talk for ten minutes or so, we make snide comments about whatever we’re watching on TV that night, and we lay down once again and talk for half an hour before bed every night. We are talkin’ fools.

2. Space. There are times when all you want is to be alone, y’know? We both pretty much know when to give each other space. Fred will, every now and again, wander off to take an hour-long bath and read. Most nights he goes upstairs to read for an hour before bedtime, leaving me to watch whatever TV show I like and he doesn’t. So, as much time as we spend talking, we also get time to ourselves.

3. Laughter. We make each other laugh like hell. I mean, it’s not a constant yuk-fest around here or anything, but we know the inside jokes, and Fred has been known to make me laugh so hard I’ve come close to inhaling food and dying. Just thinking about the phrase "Your FORK" makes me laugh. And I’ve been known to make him laugh unexpectedly as well, for instance the "teapot?" incident of last week. I don’t think I could ever be with someone who wasn’t more than willing to laugh at stupid things.

4. Interests. We have common interests. We enjoy the same kind of books (well, except that Fred’s on a nonfiction (snorrrrrre) kick), we’re both doing that weight-lifting thang, and we’re cat freaks. A former coworker used to come into work on Monday and talk about how he spent the weekend in the garage working on a car, or hunting with his pals, and his wife would be off doing her own thing. What fun is that? Why marry someone if you don’t want to spend time with them laughing at the cats, making the cats run around after the laser, complaining about people you don’t like, and discussing what you’re going to read next?

5. Admiration. We both adore admiring and basking in the wonder that is Fred.

6. Sex. Well, duh. Of course sex is important – there was sex before we started losing weight, a LOT of sex, and there’s even more sex now. Sex, sex, sex. Daytime sex, nighttime sex, mid-afternoon sex, sex all the livelong day. We’re lucky in that our sex drives match up pretty well. That could change if we ever have a kid, of course, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.

7. Most importantly, we put up with each other. I put up with his annoying (FARTING) habits, he puts up with (BITCHING) mine. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

8. Friendship. Actually, putting up with each other isn’t the most important thing. Our friendship is. He’s my best friend, and if something interesting or funny or even slightly noteworthy happens, he’s the one I want to tell, immediately. I can tell him absolutely everything, and (I think) I have, and I know that he’ll continue to love me unconditionally, no matter what. In return, he’s told me all his dark, dirty secrets, and I only love him more.

Happy anniversary, babe. I love you!



God, I was about to go on break, and here she came. I could set my damn watch by her – every Tuesday morning like clockwork between 11:30 and 11:45, she comes walking through the door with that air of cluelessness and in the midst of an obvious bad-hair day. I predict she has to go back to get something she forgot at least twice. No, let’s make it interesting – at least three times. Her little post-it list is covered pretty heavily with scrawlings, so I’d say either they ran out of a bunch of stuff between Saturday and today, or they only made a half-assed list for Saturday’s run, when her husband comes.

Like always, she eyeballs the bakery, and the single slices of cake, takes a big, deep breath of the sugar-laden air, then practically has to force herself to head for the produce section.

These people eat more salad than anyone I’ve ever seen, swear to god. What’s worse is she always digs back to the back of the bags of salad so she’ll get the bags that have the later expiration date. I ask, what the hell’s the point of that? Her husband will be back in here on Saturday, buying several more bags. Produce Joe has tried sticking the about-to-expire bags of salad way in the back first thing Tuesday mornings, but she always looks at the expiration dates, I guess, ’cause it hasn’t worked yet.


Damn, no fruit for her today – that’s a first. She stops to eyeball the plants, checks the prices, thinks about it, and buys an elephant ear plant in an overpriced ceramic pumpkin planter. If she waited two days, it’d be marked down to half-price. Not that she cares, I guess. Damn yuppies with their damn big-ass SUVs.

Shit, she looked at me; I better pretend I’m dusting the shelf.

Down she goes, Aisle 1. She grabs a couple of cans and tosses them in the cart, then heads down Aisle 2, and 3.

Oh, wait, she’s gone back to Aisle 1. I don’t know what she’s looking for, but she’s not finding it, even though she stared down every damn can in the aisle. Is she going to ask me? Nope, big surprise. She never asks anyone where anything is. Maybe we just don’t carry what she wants, but I find that hard to believe. We’re the best damn grocery store in the area, if I may say so myself.

Back to Aisle 3, quick walks down Aisles 4 and 5, and there she goes! She’s going back to the front of the store to load up on Diet Coke. 2 12-packs for $5, ya just can’t beat that. She loads 4 12-packs into her cart and heads to the shampoo aisle.


She picks up three different bottles of shampoo and puts them back before deciding on the Suave Strawberry. Smells good, and it’s only 79 cents, can’t beat that, either.

She goes by the seafood department, and just like every week, she slows down to stare at the sushi, like she can’t decide whether to buy some or not. Then, with a glance at the sushi chefs, she heads for the frozen-foods section.

Man, I guess I’m going to lose that bet. She’s only gone back twice so far…

Boca burgers and waffles go into her cart, and she stops to stare longingly at the Sara Lee cakes, but she doesn’t even take out a box and check the nutritional information this week. She doesn’t even glance at the ice cream, either – what’s up with that?

She heads for the checkout line – lucky for her, there aren’t any lines – and checks out her list one last time.

Yes! She heads back to Aisle 1 and grabs four cans of mushrooms!

I win again.

And off she goes, back to wherever she lives, to do whatever it is she does, until next Tuesday between 11:30 and 11:45.

Who tells stories about you?



Friday night, Fred and the spud were watching some Jean-Claude Van Doofus movie, and apparently (I’m not completely clear on this point, because I was sitting in front of the computer, surprise surprise!) some model-looking chickypoo who was supposed to be a prostitute came on the screen, and Fred jeered and guffawed at the thought that such a clean, pretty thing would actually be a hooker, and so of course what do you suppose the spud asked?

"Well, what DO hookers look like?"

So Fred went to the St. Paul, Minnesota’s Prostitution page and printed out their Wanted! list so that the spud might see what real prostitutes really look like. You know, when you think about educating your children, that’s just not the sort of thing that immediately comes to mind.

(For the record, her verdict was that the real-life prostitutes were "creepy".)

I get to take Fancypants to the vet today since, we decided, if he’s going to be out roaming the damn neighborhood, he needs to be current on his shots. (Hee! I almost typed "shits" instead of "shots". Trust me, if the pile NEXT to the litter box this morning can be any indication, he’s QUITE current on his shits) I also bought him a collar and tag at PetSmart on Friday, but when the time came to put it on him, we found that it was way too big for him. Fancypants, being a rather skinny cat, has a corresponding skinny neck, and though we tried putting the collar on him on the last hole, it was still way too big for him. My fancy cat, the pencil-neck geek… Anyway, I guess it’s back to PetSmart for me, which is fine with me, ’cause I can get another bag of their ultra-potent organic catnip. I bought a bag Friday, and we emptied about half the bag into an old sock, and the cats have been going nuts over it ever since, taking turns wildly licking the sock and then falling into drug-induced dazes whereupon they use the sock as a pillow. Very fond of the sock, they are. When I visit PetSmart again, I’ll buy another bag of the stuff, put it in a tupperware container, and put their 98,249 toy mice in with the catnip, and let them marinate for a few weeks.

Ah, drug fun in the Anderson household.

How’s that time change treating you? I love the fact that it’s light earlier in the morning, but hate that it’s dark earlier in the evening. I mean, full-on dark at 5:00 just isn’t something I look forward to. Regardless of the temperature outside, the early darkness makes it seem wintry and cold. If it were light outside from, say, 5:30 am to 7 pm year-round, that’d be aces with me. And when I’m queen of the world, I’ll make it so. I don’t know HOW – maybe make the hours shorter, or less hours in the day? – but it’ll happen.

Never doubt Queen Bitchypoo.




So, I don’t know that I’ve mentioned it before, but you know that big, expensive fence we had put around the backyard SPECIFICALLY so that the cats could go outside every day, and we wouldn’t have to worry about them running away? Well, everything was just fine until a few weeks ago when a neighborhood cat happened to hop over the fence and run across the yard to the back section of fence, which he also hopped over and took off for parts unknown. Seeing the cat hop over the fence like that apparently took the blinders from Fancypants’ eyes and it occurred to him that perhaps HE TOO could do something really awesome like hop the fence, and then the world would be his fancy little oyster. So he started hopping up on top of the fence, and when he’d hear the door shut, or see one of us come outside, he’d hop down like the BAD BAD BAD kitty he was, and he’d swish around and do his girly, high-pitched meow and we’d all get over it.

Then he progressed from sitting atop the fence to jumping over into the neighbors’ backyard, but again – if he heard us calling or heard the door shut, he’d come running, because I believe in the very back of his tiny, fancy mind he knows how good he’s got it here. And then it started taking longer for him to mosey his ass home. Sometimes it would be a good half hour or so before we could see his face at the window, or hear him meowing. But he always showed up.

It occurred to us to just stop opening the door in the morning, to make all the cats stay inside but first off, the entire REASON we got the damn fence is so the cats could go outside, and secondly, ALL the cats like going out to bask in the sunshine and pee in the grass, and should the others be punished because of one fancy little bastard? I think not.

Last night, Fred went out at dusk to wrangle all the cats inside. There was no one out there but Miz Poo, whom he picked up and carried inside. It was an hour or so before we realized that Fancypants wasn’t inside – you know, with five cats, you tend not to notice at first if one isn’t around – and Fred said "You know, I don’t remember seeing him when I got home this afternoon, either." I thought about it and realized that I hadn’t seen him since I shut the door that morning around 10. And I was home all day except for about a 20 minute period, so if he’d been wanting inside, I would have seen or heard him.

We started watching Survivor, and took turns going outside and calling for him during commercials. By the end of Survivor, we were starting to get concerned. We went out and drove along the road on the other side of the back part of our fence (we can’t get to the other side of the fence without going around the neighborhood, because there’s a fence around the entire perimeter of the subdivision). We were happy to see no dead black cats by the side of the road, and so we came home again to call for him. Fred even got out the big guns – the treat container – and shook it loudly, but still no Fancypants.

We discussed the various and sundry things that could be keeping him from home, and then decided to not worry about it, sure that he’d eventually make his way back home.

The problem, at least in my mind, is that he’s a fairly aggressive cat, and when there’s a cat fight in the house, he’s involved 99.873% of the time. If he was out prowling the neighborhood and ran into another cat, chances were good that he’d attack, and since he’s a fairly skinny cat and has no front claws, that could be a problem. I was also worried that he’d been hit by a car and taken to a vet, and since he wasn’t wearing a collar (shaddup) they wouldn’t know who to call. And then, of course, there was always the possibility that someone had called Animal Control on him.

On the other hand, I suggested, perhaps someone saw him, thought he was a pretty cat (instead of the shitting-outside-the-litter-box bastard he really is) and taken him inside their house to love and adore him.

Anyway, Fred went upstairs to harass the spud and read at 8:00, and I stayed downstairs surfing the web, and getting up every twenty minutes or so to see if the wayward son had returned. He hadn’t by 9:00, and so I went upstairs to lay down and talk with Fred until he went off to bed NO LATER THAN 9:42, and then I came back downstairs to watch the episodes of Friends and ER I’d taped. (Side note on ER: Not sure if I much care for Susan Lewis this time ’round, but it’s too early to be sure. And did you see the previews for next week? Are Lewis and Carter going to get together? I just think of her as being way too old for him, though I don’t suppose she really is).

And then, let me quote from my email to Moira, which I sent off before I went to bed around 11:30:

Well, the little bastard is home again. I was on the couch watching Friends, and I glanced over at the door, and Miz Poo was staring out the window, and there on the other side was Mr. Fancypants, untouched and unharmed. I opened the door and said “NICE TO SEE YOU, Fancypants!”, and he swished in, his big fancy tail a-fluttering.

I think I’m going to get his ass a collar with a nametag on it just in case this happens again. I’d hate it if something happened to him and no one knew he has a home.

And so I did. I stopped at the brand-spanking-new Petco (which they built near the brand-spanking-new Target) and got him a collar and tag, along with a nice bag of organic catnip for all the kitties. Tonight, after cake and ice cream and presents, perhaps we’ll gather all the kitties around, sprinkle catnip on the floor, and laugh our asses off.



I’ve been spending a little too much time admiring Nance’s cutie pie lately, it appears, for he’s entered my dreams. Last night I dreamed that Fred went out and adopted a puppy looking very much like that one, and then promptly went on a business trip, leaving me alone to house train and clean up after the little guy.

I was not pleased.

I was telling someone to back off – or thinking of telling someone to back off, I don’t remember exactly – earlier today, which made me think of Darin from Love Cruise, and when he said "If I want to give my feelings to someone, you just back off!" The term "give my feelings" cracks me up for some unknown reason.

Also cracking me up today is the Kids Say the Darnedest Things thread at Three Way Action.

I’m so hating Team Guido on The Amazing Race (how sweeeet the sooooound). Why can’t they screw up in a big way just once, so I don’t have to look at their SMUG FUCKING FACES every show? I know I’ve said that I wish Karyn and Lenny would get their asses disqualified and put them out of their misery, but I would have been happier to see Team Guido go. I think everyone in the race with them would have been happy, too. Emily was a horrid brat last night, and I would have smacked her upside her little head if I had been her mother. I’m fairly certain that the reason all those people were crowding around the taxi is because they thought there was being a movie filmed – in fact, I HEARD someone say "movie" – and Emily’s little temper tantrum just made her look like the spoiled bitch she is. She was reminding me an awful lot of Amie on the first show, when Amie was screaming "You LIVE here! How can you NOT know where it is?!"

But the thing that left me nearly speechless was when Karyn broke up with Lenny at the end of the show. I was sitting there with my mouth hanging open and yelling "What a bitch!" For the entire run of the show until now, all we’ve heard is her screaming "LENNYYYY!" and haranguing him to move faster, to do something (everything) better, how everything he does is wrong, and by the end of the show, as they were approaching the finish line, I said to Fred, "If he doesn’t break up with her the second they hit the states, I’m going to hunt him down", and not ten seconds later she’s breaking up with him in front of the cameras. Why do people act like such assholes on national TV, I’d like to know? She couldn’t have waited until they were alone? Jeezus.

Maybe someone’ll get eaten by that lion on Survivor tonight. I wouldn’t mind that, at all… But you know as much of a fuss as they’re making over the lion, showing it in every preview and everything, it probably only appears for ten seconds as it moseys on by.



There was much wildlife action in the bedroom early this morning. (Wait – that sounds perverted, doesn’t it? Get your mind out of the gutter!) I woke at 4 to the sound of Spot‘s squeakily pissed-off meow, and looked over to see him slapping at something – a spider, I assume – on the floor, which he eventually ate. At 6, I was awakened again by Miz Poo‘s whiny, chatty meow. I thought she wanted to lay down with me, so I repeatedly called to her and patted the bed (why I thought she’d whine if she wanted to lay down with me, I don’t know – she always just flops down where ever she wishes, and kicks her hind leg up in the air so that I might rub her belly), and finally I rolled over and looked down at her, and saw her smacking at something that was rather large. I put my nightgown on, fumbled for my glasses, and turned on the light, to find a huge-ass moth fluttering brokenly around on the floor. I grabbed a wad of toilet paper and put it out of it’s misery, which I think rather pissed Miz Poo off, ’cause she never came looking for her morning dose of love.

Fred is a freak. I know that shouldn’t surprise me, and yet sometimes it still does. Why is Fred a freak? Because the spud’s birthday is on Friday, and "all" we’re giving her for her birthday is a subscription to YM and Cosmo Girl magazines (too bad Sassy isn’t still around), a Mudd purse, and a watch. Fred’s under the impression that that’s not ENOUGH to be giving the spud, that we must go out and buy a pile of shit she neither wants nor needs, so that she can cram more STUFF in her already-stuffed room. When told to come up with a birthday list, the child couldn’t come UP with anything she friggin’ wanted, so what does that tell you? That’s right – that she already HAS too much stuff.

Speaking of the spud’s birthday, when we went to Maine this summer, she played with her cousin’s Playstation 2, and decided she wanted one for her birthday or Christmas. Then her father came up from Rhode Island to visit with her for a week, and according to the spud, he told her that HE would buy the Playstation 2 for her birthday or for Christmas (she wasn’t clear on which). Last week (or maybe the week before), I emailed him and asked what he was getting her for her birthday, hoping that if he was buying her the PS2, we could coordinate, and Fred and I could get some games as presents. The ex emailed me back and told me that he’s getting her a color Gameboy and games to go with it.

Now I’m wondering – did he get confused and think she wanted a color Gameboy, or is he getting her that for her birthday and the PS2 for Christmas, or what? I guess I’ll wait ’til a week or so after her birthday and ask him what he’s getting her for Christmas, or tell him we’re getting her a PS2, or something in between.

Damn those things are expensive, though.

You know, sometimes I’m a bit of a ditz. Other times, I’m a LOT of a ditz. This morning I was sitting on the loveseat reading, and I glanced out the door where Fancypants was sitting on the patio. He was surrounded by a nice-sized pile of leaves, and I thought to myself I wonder where all the leaves came from? I guess maybe the neighbors have trees, and their leaves are falling into our yard… To see whether I was correct, I put down my book and went out the door to look into the neighbors’ back yards, and as I walked through the door, I realized that we actually HAVE two trees in OUR backyard, and duhhhh, that’s where the leaves are coming from.

Okay, that’s it for today. I pulled some muscle in my shoulder while lifting weights this morning, so I’m going to go wait for Dr. Fred to come home and determine whether I’m going to live.



No, that entry yesterday was not to indicate that I’d had a flat tire recently; I haven’t had a flat tire in many, many years. If I were to write an entry about how to change a flat tire these days, it would read: "Retrieve cellphone from purse; call AAA." Though of course that could bring up a slew up fuckedupness when I discovered that my cellphone was uncharged, or I’d left it at home, or our AAA membership had lapsed. Here in BitchyLand, there’s always some small detail to fuck everything up.

In the mail today, I received a huge catalog from Pallotta Teamworks detailing their events for next year. I haven’t looked through it yet, because I know once I do, I’ll want to sign up to crew every single event, and Himself wouldn’t much be liking that. If JournalCon’s going to be taking place in the fall, chances are good I’ll pick an event in the spring or summer to crew, so they won’t conflict.

Other things I’ve received in the mail recently include Pain Management, the newest Burke book by Andrew Vachss, which the wonderful Athena bought for me off my wish list, because she’s awesome (I’m almost done with that book, and just let me say – I love me some Burke!). I’ve also received several cool homemade stamped cards from women on one of Teresa‘s mailing lists, which was a nice surprise. Have I mentioned how much I love surprises, both giving and receiving?

And last but not least, I received something I ordered last week, and for which I’ve been waiting impatiently. This:

That particular purchase would be the fault of the Bitter one, who linked last week to High Cotton‘s webpage, and once I saw that doormat, it was all over. It cracks me up to no end, between the sentiment – "the cat don’t"! Hee! – and the font it’s written in.

Oh, and while I’m a linking fool, I don’t want to forget to link Melissa, who’s leaving in a day and a half for Dublin to run a marathon to benefit the AIDS Foundation. Go, Melissa! God knows you’d never catch ME running, unless it was to catch the ice cream truck…

I woke up this morning feeling rather crappy – in fact, I didn’t even get out of bed until 8:15, and that only because Fred called to tell me something and said, all judgemental-like "Oh, you’re still in BED, you lazy bitch?!" (or something like that)*, and so I started feeling guilty and forced myself out of bed, head aching and reeling, and forced myself into my yellow shirt and black spandex/ coolmax shorts (you understand that no one ever actually SEES me in the shorts, right? Wouldn’t want anyone to pass out from the horror of it all), and toddled downstairs, climbed onto the bike to do my 20 minutes of ass-kicking cardio…

And crapped out after 5 minutes.

Then took a shower and went back to bed and watched TV until 11:30, when I needed to go run errands, after which I came home and laid about the house, napping and just generally feeling like crap.

At some point I looked up the signs of Anthrax inhalation (or whatever the hell it’s called), and discovered that I’m too phlegmy for it to be that, so perhaps I’m merely coming down with the flu.

I actually feel a little better tonight, maybe because I woke up right before the spud got home and saw a big-ass spider on the ceiling directly over my head, glaring down at me and rubbing two of his 60 legs together, with a look in his eyes that clearly conveyed "I wonder if I could get her wrapped up before she wakes up?", and so I rolled off the couch like the hounds of hell were after me, and the adrenalin forced the blood through my veins, waking me up and making that blah feeling go away.

But just in case, I think I’ll go sit on my ass and read some more. ‘Cause, y’know, I never get enough of sitting on my ass…

*Okay, so maybe he didn’t actually SAY the "lazy bitch" part, and maybe he only sounded slightly surprised instead of judgemental, but it’s MY journal and I’ll exaggerate if I want to.



How to Change a Tire

Though it may look fairly difficult, changing a tire can be accomplished in a few simple steps. First and most important, you must be driving down a deserted, rarely-travelled road between the hours of midnight and three a.m. when your tire blows. Pull over to the side of the road and hit the steering wheel with your fist. Address the dashboard, as though that is where God is currently residing, asking questions such as "Why me, God?" and "Why now?" When the dashboard makes no reply, step out of the car. Slam the door as hard as you possibly can. Repeat this step until your arm starts to hurt.

Next, stalk indignantly to the flat tire. Eye it as though you are regarding a rare and contagious disease. Kick it, hard. When you bruise your foot, swear loudly. Once you are certain that the tire is truly flat, choose your favorite four-letter word. Say it. Repeat it at least ten times, making sure to say it louder with each repetition. Sigh heavily, giving in to the inevitable, and walk to the back of the car. Open the trunk and locate the jack. Walking back to the flat tire, place the jack underneath the correct bumper (if the flat tire is in the front of the car, place the jack underneath the front bumper, and vice versa). Take approximately half an hour to figure out how to operate the jack. When you finally figure it out, tell yourself what an idiot you are. Ask yourself why you bought this stupid car. Tell yourself that you are never going to drive anywhere again, ever, ever, ever. You are going to lock yourself in your apartment and become a soap opera addict. Make sure that you are operating the jack during this entire tirade. When the car is almost at the correct height (ie, the flat tire is almost off the ground), it will roll three or four feet down the road.

Pick up the jack and throw it down as hard as you possibly can. Repeat this step several times. Scream a few four letter words, making up a couple if need be. Perform the "flat tire dance." This consists of dancing around your car, waving your arms wildly about your head, and yelling every swear word you’ve ever heard. When you have exhausted yourself, take a deep breath and lean against the car. Prepare to repeat this entire sequence of steps.

At this time, a car will be speeding down the road in your direction. Jump up and down, waving your arms; at this point, you would welcome even the sight of Jeffrey Dahmer, dead or not. When the car does not stop, throw a major hissy fit. Scream at the top of your lungs, yelling to no one in particular about the assholes on the road these days.

When you are reasonably calm, reach inside the car and set the emergency brake, telling yourself again what an idiot you are. This time when the car is at the correct height, it will not roll. Breathe a sigh of relief, telling yourself that this really isn’t all that difficult. Get the spare tire and the lug nut wrench out of the trunk. Return to the flat tire and assure yourself that this will only take a few more minutes.

When the lug nut wrench does not fit the lug nuts on the tire (the lug nuts are too large for the wrench), punch the flat tire, then scream, sure that you have broken one finger and possibly two. If you have correctly executed this step, you should also have the added bonus of watching the car roll another three or four feet. Scream every four-letter word you know, as many times as you desire.

Grab your coat – it has begun to rain – and walk to the nearest payphone, which is a ten-mile walk up some very steep hills.

Call a tow truck.



Did y’all see Survivor last night? Was that just the NASTIEST friggin’ thing? I couldn’t watch, ‘causing I was afraid I’d gag. GAH.

I haven’t been to Wal-mart in days, y’all. DAYS. I’m afraid the stock price may have plumetted from the very shock of it.

Man. I just have NOTHING to write about. Would you be interested to hear that I set up a sweater-dryer in the bedroom specifically for the kitties to lay on, and every time I go into the bedroom, there’s a different cat laying there? And to increase their comfort, I put a towel on the dryer so that they’d have something warm to snuggle up in?

How about the fact that I have a clothes basket in the corner of the room with old clothes in it (which are waiting to be given to the needy), and which I left there specifically because Spot likes to sleep there at night.

I’ve turned into a crazy cat lady for real, haven’t I? What next – will I start sleeping in a corner huddled on a sleeping bag so the cats can have the whole bed to themselves? Lordy.

Okay, that’s it for me. I’m going to go watch Friends and ER, which I taped last night, while Fred and the spud watch their Friday night crappy movie.

Y’all have a good weekend!

PS – If you hadn’t noticed, you can now get to the journal by just going to bitchypoo.com, without adding /bitchypoo.html on the end. I accidentally uploaded the calendar to that page sometime in August, recently discovered it, and figured I’d just keep on doing that. Anyone who wants to find me isn’t going to have much difficulty – try doing a google search for "Robyn Anderson" sometime – so why hide? Besides, it’ll make it easier for y’all. And I’m all about making life easy for my readers ’cause I loooooove you.



I have only this to say about The Amazing Race (aside from the fact that I always think “How sweet the sound” after I hear or type the name):

Team Guido? ASS. HOLES. Oh my god, how I loathe them, from the tips of their bitchy little heads to the bottom of their too-cute-for-words matching outfits.

Oh yeah – and I wish Lenny and Karyn would get disqualified and be put out of their misery. Have you ever seen a less happy-looking couple?


Bigtime congratulations to Amy, who had her own little sprig of parsley. Welcome to the world, Quinn!

Y’know, there just ain’t a damn thing going on today, aside from the laundry and little housecleaning (wanna help?), so I think I’ll put some pictures up and call it good enough.

Yes. They’re cat pictures. As you were.

I swear the damn cats have a water bowl. Perhaps Miz Poo didn’t want to go alllll the way upstairs? Note the evil green glow emanating from her eyes. (PS: I swear, the sink isn’t usually that dirty. Really!)

Fancypants dozing in the sun.

I think this picture came out pretty well. It’s obvious, but just in case, I’ll tell you that Spot was out back, and Miz Poo was watching him from the library. And Spot was licking something off of his nose, as well. That Spot, quite the talented kitty.

Ya gotta love the Poo.