I I love kitties. All kitties. Old kitties, baby kitties, cranky kitties, standoffish kitties, cuddlesome kitties, hissing kitties, smacking kitties, fighting kitties, biting kitties, I love them all. I wish I lived in Maine. I wish I could convince my husband that you get used to the cold. Then I remember that when I was in Maine earlier this month and the temperature was a relatively balmy 75 degrees, I was FREEZING. I haven’t been sleeping well lately, tossing and turning and sweating so I kick off the covers, then a stumpy little bastard tromps across my legs with his freezing-cold toes and wakes me up, and I realize I’m freezing and pull the covers over me, only to wake a while later to find that I’m hot again. I feel like we end up making the same 6 recipes for dinner over and over again. I think you should leave me a link to a recipe, or the recipe itself, in my comments. I don’t like any kind of peppers, ground turkey, or big chunks of tomatoes – you might want to keep that in mind. The easier, the better. I prefer not to spend much more than half an hour fixing dinner. I wish I was a clean freak, but sadly I am not. The dust has to be an inch thick before I’m sufficiently horrified enough to dust. I hate dusting. I vacuum regularly, and I clean the bathroom (at least the master bathroom) somewhat regularly, but I loathe dusting. I know that’s idiotic, because it takes like five minutes with a rag and furniture polish to dust the entire upstairs; less time than that if I choose to use a Swiffer Duster. I am amazed at how quickly cobwebs develop in the corners of rooms in this house. I’ve never seen anything like it before; I suspect it has something to do with the large amount of traffic that drives by every day down the road behind our back yard. I worry about the fact that I enjoy not working. I always thought that some day I’d want to go back to work, if even part-time, but it’s been four years and I’m still pretty happy staying home. I do get bored sometimes, though. I spend way too much time on my ass in front of the computer. I have Miz Poo draped over my arm at this very moment. She’s keeping me warm, but she’s a wee bit ticked that my arms are moving while I type, and she keeps reaching her paw out to touch my hand as if to say “Okay, goddamnit, knock it the hell off, will you?” I know I tell too many cat stories in my journal, but I can’t seem to help myself. I am a worrywart. If I know you, I worry about you. I worry the most about Fred and the spud. If I could lock them in a room to keep them safe from harm… well, I probably wouldn’t do it, because what kind of life would THAT be? But I’m be sorely tempted. I lie awake at night and worry sometimes, but I’m trying to stop from doing that, because what the hell is the point of frittering away your life worrying about things that will probably never happen? I talk to myself all the time. Especially in the car. Yesterday I had a five-minute discussion with myself about the correct way to pronounce Iam’s (the lady on the radio pronounced it I’ms, and I thought it was pronounced more like I-ams, so I had to pronounce it out loud several times and then launch a discussion on the likelihood of the woman on the radio – doing an advertisement for Iam’s – mispronouncing it when she was surely paid to know how it’s pronounced). I also inform the other drivers on the road that they’re a great big pain in my ass. “You are SUCH a pain in the ass,” I muttered at the guy trying to turn left in front of me, and blocking me so that I couldn’t turn left onto the road he was on. “God. What a pain in the ass,” I said to the guy going 30 down a road with a 55 MPH speed limit. “Does your mother know what a great big pain in the ass you are?” I asked the guy in front of me who sat at the green light for a good long time before realizing it was green. I always say this stuff in a conversational tone, to myself. I’m a freak. I love and adore Stephen King, but I suspect he might be just the tiniest bit crazy. I also love and adore Tabitha King, and I wish she’d publish another book. I think The Dark Tower ended the only way it could. I still have a wee crush on Roland. I’m reading a chick lit book to kind of lighten things up before I start another serious book. I’m hungry. I think I’m going to have oatmeal for breakfast. I think this entry is done.

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The sun. He loves it. Have I mentioned?