Fred’s entry Saturday. I’m just as glad I had no idea it was going on. Later Saturday morning, Fred and the spud went off to Wal-Mart, and I settled my lazy ass down in the chair in my bedroom to read. After about an hour, I heard the distinctive thumping of a cat running his fat ass as fast as his stubby legs could carry him. It didn’t sound like he was running for the sheer joy of running, or like he was chasing another cat. No, it sounded like he was CHASING something, probably something scary that would cause me to scream and run around in circles. I saw a big white blur as he pounded into the bedroom and was hidden from my view on the other side of the bed. “Oh, fuck,” I muttered and got up to investigate. A large dark blur – something frog sized – was running under the bedside table. Tubby blocked it’s passage on one side, whereupon it ran in the other direction, only to be blocked again, and then it disappeared under the bed. “TUBBY!” I bellowed, and he turned to look up at me. He meowed bitchily. I stomped my foot at him. He meowed bitchily again. “TUBBY GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!” I ordered, and grudgingly he did. My heart in my throat, I reluctantly got on my stomach and peered under the bed. There was a lot of cat hair, several earplugs, a Puffkins magnet, and on the far side sat Spot, who blinked sleepily at me. No frog. No nothing. I sat up and puzzled over it. Maybe the dark thing I’d seen had been Spot’s hindquarters? I could have sworn that Tubby had been the only cat running, but Spot is fairly light and maybe the pounding sound of Tubby’s stubby legs hitting the floor drowned out any sound Spot had made. It was possible, maybe. I looked under the bed again, searching for anything frog-shaped. I looked at Tubby, who was sitting right outside the bedroom door. I looked at Miz Poo, who was sniffing wildly along the path from the door to the bed. I looked under the bedside table, the other bedside table, the chair, in the bathroom, made Spot move so I could look where he was sitting, and nothing. Not a thing. I shrugged and determined that Tubby had been chasing Spot. I decided to go eat lunch, keeping an ear cocked for the sounds of running cats. When Fred and the spud got home, I told her to go upstairs and see what the cats were doing. She reported back that they were just laying around (I don’t know what I was expecting her to tell me – that they were rehearsing for their rendition of Cabaret?), so I decided there was nothing to worry about, and forgot about it. We spent the afternoon watching Clockstoppers. Actually, Fred put the movie in and I asked him to turn on the light (it’s closer to where he sits), because I was going to check out a magazine while the movie was on, and he got a disappointed look on his face. “You’re not going to watch the movie?” he said sadly. I felt so bad that I put my magazine down. TEN FUCKING MINUTES into the movie, he disappeared into the computer room and came back out exactly twice during the main part of the movie, for maybe two minutes each time, and then watched the last five minutes of the movie with us. “I was flooping the flibberty-flap,” he said, throwing technical terms at me so I wouldn’t suspect he’d been downloading porn. After dinner, we went upstairs to lay down and talk for a few minutes, and I walked into the bedroom to see Tubby laying and staring at the stuffed animals I have gathered on the floor next to the cedar chest sitting under the window next to the bathroom. Follow? “Tubby’s trying to seduce my stuffed animals again,” I said. Fred went over and patted Tubby. “I wonder if there’s a frog amongst your animals,” he said jokingly. A second later he said “These kind of look like droppings…” And yet another second later, he said “Hey. There’s a mouse behind the trunk!” Sure enough, there was a cute little brown mouse sitting there. We blocked off one side of the trunk, Fred held a Steak-Out cup on the other side, and I used a stick to push the mouse into the cup. He very much did NOT want to go in that cup, either, but he was no match for the stick. Fred covered the cup with a book, and we took him out back to let him free. Fred pushed him through a hole in the fence, and I’m hoping like hell he doesn’t get dragged back into the house again. He sure was cute, though. It was a very productive day for the hunters in the house, apparently. I just hope like hell they don’t bring a skunk into the damn house, because I really WILL ship Tubby’s ass off to you, Nance! * * * Recently, Fred was checking the stats for his site, and followed a link to someone’s links page. They had me listed first, and said something along the lines of “Robyn is hilarious.” They had Fred listed second, and said something like “Fred is Robyn’s husband. He’s just as funny if not funnier than she is!” Fred reported this to me with a self-satisfied gleam in his eye. I just smiled and went about my business. Because I know that Fred thinks he’s funnier than I am. He thinks he’s not only funnier than I am, but WAY funnier than I am. He’s wrong, of course, but it’s always nice to let him have his delusions. * * * I was watching Sex and the City last night, and – this was during Carrie’s party – a man came on the screen next to Candice Bergen. “Hey,” I muttered out loud, since there was no one else around. “That’s Isaac Mizrahi.” A second later, someone mentioned him by name. My question to you is this: Why the fuck do I know Isaac Mizrahi’s name? I know he’s a designer, but since I only buy from my own personal designer – Cheap ‘n Crappy Clothing Iz Us – why would I know the name of Isaac Mizrahi? What does he design, and WHY DO I KNOW WHAT HE LOOKS LIKE? Why is his name and face taking up valuable brain space that could be better served by retaining something useful, like math stuff (of course, let’s not be silly – my brain ain’t made to retain math stuff)? What the chances that I’ll ever ever buy anything from him? I’ll tell you what the chances are – zip, nada, zilch. If I were to win 45 million dollars in the lottery, I MIGHT go from shopping at Wal-Mart to shopping at JC Penney’s for my clothes, but Isaac Mizrahi? I don’t think so. Other designer names that are taking up brain space: Dolce and Gabbana. Vera Wang (probably because every Hollywood starlet who gets married has her do their wedding gown. Plus, I wear Vera Wang perfume sometimes). Donna Karan. Todd Oldham. There are more, but those are the main ones who come to mind. I wish I could go through my brain files and delete willy-nilly the way I do with files on my computer. Of course with my luck, I wouldn’t be paying attention and would accidentally delete something important, like my name, or those pesky “Fred” files. * * * Poor Miz Poo. It appears that she may have developed herself some chin acne. If it’s not one thing – her eyes – it’s another, ain’t it? Fred’s taking her to the vet tomorrow. I hope it’s acne, and not something nasty and highly infectious that she’s passed on to me. Poor Miz Poo. Poor portly, evil Miz Poo. ]]>