So, I’m taking time lately to read through my pile of magazines – they pile up pretty quickly – and last night I was reading "Ladies’ Home Journal" or "Rosie", I don’t remember which, and there was an article written by this woman who has lupus, about how people can’t see her disability, so they think she’s a big faker when she parks in the handicapped zone and so forth.

At the end of the article, she mentions that she doesn’t know how to respond when people ask "How are you?", whether she should say "I’d have to feel a lot better to feel rotten!", or "Hanging in there!", or what. Here’s the thing, and correct me if I’m wrong, y’all – when people say "How are you?", they don’t really want to know. It’s just a way of acknowledging that they see you and being polite. When someone says "How are you?", the correct response is always going to be "Good! How are you?", and never "Well, my hemorrhoids are really bothering me, and I haven’t had sex in a week, and I had onions for lunch, and I keep burping them up. What about you?" Not unless it’s someone you’re very close to, like your husband or best friend.

Also in "Rosie" is this column where people write in with questions to "The Mom Squad" – three mothers who give their own answer. This month’s Mom Squad (I’m pretty sure they rotate the moms) consisted of Judge Glenda Hatchett, Deborah Norville, and Joanna Kerns. The question that got me was (paraphrased) this one: "I need to lose 30 pounds, and my 9 year-old son continually tells me I’m fat. I want him to be able to express himself, but he’s hurting my feelings. What do I do?"

Gee, mom. I don’t know. Ever hear of "Shut up, Junior, that’s rude, and the next time you say it, you’re going to your room for the rest of the day"? Why is this woman even asking for advice on this – is she completely clueless? How is telling someone she’s fat repeatedly expressing oneself? Don’t people teach their kids that it’s not necessary to say whatever they think, whenever they think it anymore?

Ah well.

I was snoozing peacefully this morning some time after 6, when I heard the crash-bang sound of two cats running into a door or something. When Fred woke me up before he left for work, he told me the story of what had happened.

It appears that Fred was in the bathroom, and Tubby was sitting on front of the food dish (which you’ll recall is a few feet in front of the toilet), eating. Spot was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, which he apparently does every morning while Fred’s getting ready for work. Next to the toilet sits a magazine (yeah, yeah – pretend like YOU don’t read on the toilet, ya big liar), and as Tubby was happily eating, the magazine fell over. Which Tubby saw out of the corner of his eye, and to which he responded by jumping up in the air in what we call his "popcorn jump" – because he looks like a big, fat popcorn kernel popping. For a fat cat, he can get some serious height on his jumps. Spot then ran directly into the cupboards at the end of the tub, recovered after a second, and then hauled ass out the bathroom door. When Tubby landed back on the ground, he ran in place on one of the bathroom rugs, as it bunched up behind him, and then he got enough traction to run onto the OTHER bathroom rug, which did the same thing, finally got traction and ran toward the bathroom door, hitting his ass on the frame as he ran through it.

There’s just nothing funnier in this world than a startled cat. Unless it’s several startled cats.

Speaking of cats, I opened the back door briefly (thanks to everyone who suggested putting in a cat door – I’m trying to talk Himself into it) last night, and the cats went out and wandered about for a while. When it started to get cold inside, I went to the door. Fancypants and Spanky will come running when they see me at the door because they know I’m usually about to shut it. Miz Poo, on the other hand, runs away from the door, because she wants to stay outside. Fred tried calling her in, until I said "Just let her stay out there and she’ll be ready to come in after we eat dinner."

Two hours later, as I moseyed from the computer room to the living room, I heard the most pitiful-sounding meow, and I remembered that I’d never let poor Miz Poo in after dinner.


So I let her in, and believe you me – she told me how it was for the next fifteen minutes, following me around, howling her fool head off, and insisting that I give her some ear-scratching love.

Poor Poo.

So, I took a bunch of pictures yesterday with the new camera, but here’s the sucky thing. It doesn’t come with a rechargeable battery, only a couple of wimpy-ass AA batteries, and in the course of trying out the camera yesterday I wore out three – yes, THREE – sets of batteries. I headed for Ebay and bid (and won!) a rechargeable battery for the camera, which should be winging it’s way here as I type. Therefore, I leave you with the best picture I took yesterday, which will hopefully tide you over until I get my long-lasting battery.

You see, the camera has a self-timer on it, which I find prettydamncool. So I set it, and then yelled at Fred to come hurry up and stand next to me and have his picture taken. In his haste, he ran head-first into the light hanging from the ceiling of the library.


Is it just me, or does he look like he’s not quite there?

Speaking of looking not quite there, I took this picture today just before the batteries died – and keep in mind that a) I didn’t style my hair in the slightest, and b) I used the flash, so I’m usually not quite that white. I present to you, Freakypoo:

Bitchypoo? Or is it Witchypoo?

A tad freakish, no? Frizzy hair, wickedly white hair, and a big ol’ hook nose. Not the most flattering picture, ya think?