Month: July 2005

here. Edited to add: Or, if you’re not in the mood to make your own, these guys make a mean whoopie pie. Yeah, you have to order a dozen, but whoopie pies freeze nicely.

* * * Is Flickr being a huge goddamn pain in the ass for everyone today, or am I special? * * * Written on July 24, 2005. So, the visit is almost over – the spud and I leave for home tomorrow at 12:45. We have an hour and a half flight to Dulles, a five-hour (ugh) layover at Dulles, and then another hour and a half flight to Alabama. I’m looking forward to getting home, but NOT looking forward to the trip to get there. The day they perfect a teleportation device is the day I’ll be first in line. “Oh, zis lahf. Eet ees juzt too hard. Zee pain. Zee ahnguish. Leaf me alone, so I may wallow in the pain that ees mah lahf.” Everyone showed up for a cookout, and most of them went swimming. Liz came over a little after 4:00 – at my invitation – and we sat around the living room and watched TV and talked, and Debbie and I yawned back and forth at each other. So it’s been a good visit, and these past few days have been pretty low-key and relaxing. I’m looking forward to getting home, but I’m not quite as eager to leave as I’ve been in the past. * * * Written today. So, we got to Portland in plenty of time to catch the plane, and I impressed the guy at Security with the size of my laptop (does that sound pervy?), and we had a discussion about how I’d wanted a small laptop, but my husband had to have the biggest laptop, and he never even uses it! And in retrospect, I probably sounded like a spoiled rotten bitch, who was actually bragging about how we had SO MUCH MONEY that we needed to buy the BIG laptop, so we could get some of that pesky money out of the way, because it was just cluttering up the house. But I swear to y’all – I WANTED A SMALLER LAPTOP. Just like I’d rather have a smaller TV and a smaller camera (it does take good pictures, though, I’ll give it that) and a smaller car (which I got). Anyway. So the spud and I went and sat down near our gate for a while, me reading and she talking on her phone to a friend, and then they started up with the announcements. Independence Air only flies to Dulles from Portland, and it flies there several times a day. When we arrived and checked in, the 10:30ish flight had been delayed to 12:00, but our flight – 12:45 – was deemed still on time. The people who were on the 10:30/ 12:00 flight were in an uproar, because for the most part no one was going to Dulles to stay in the area; Dulles was just a waystation on the way to their final destination. And since their flight was delayed by an hour and a half, chances were good that they were going to miss their connecting flight. The gate agent did her best to reassure everyone that they’d be put on the next possible flight to their destination, but there was much grumbling and unhappy faces among the masses. I got up and looked at the board, and found that our flight was now pushed back to 1:05, and I debated whether the spud and I wanted to go get something to eat, decided we’d just wait ’til we landed in Dulles, and sat back down with my book. At 1:10ish, the gate attendant announced that there was a disabled plane on the runway in Dulles, which meant that all flights that hadn’t taken off to Dulles were now grounded until further notice. Ten minutes later, he announced that there’d be a further update from Dulles at 2:00. It was right about then that I started being grateful for our long layover in Dulles. The longer we waited in Portland, the less time we’d have to spend in Dulles, right? Right. So it was 1:20, and I told the spud we’d go get something to eat, and would be back at 2:00 to hear the update. We went to the one restaurant in the airport, sat down, and ordered lobster rolls. Very good lobster rolls, they were. We ate pretty quickly and then sat and waited for the check, and as we were waiting, someone came running in, yelled “They’re boarding!” to his wife, and they both went running out. “If she comes back, give her this,” I said to the spud, handed her my credit card, and went to see what was going on. There were a line of people at our gate, and they were definitely boarding. I went back into the restaurant, signed the credit card slip, and told the spud to follow me. Really, we could have taken our time. Because we ran to our gate and stood in line, and then the line of people getting on the plane moved like cold molasses in the middle of January. Further delaying the boarding experience, some woman stood and argued with the gate agent about her luggage for the longest fucking time. Finally, someone in line behind me shouted “Could we get a move on? We’re missing our connecting flight in Dulles!”, and the arguing woman shut her trap and got her ass moving. So all in all, we ended up taking off about an hour and a half late, but we landed in Dulles only an hour and ten minutes late. I guess we made up some time in the air. The spud and I stopped at Starbucks and got some fruity-flavored frappucino drinks (the strawberries and creme frappucino, I think) and then settled down at a fairly deserted gate. I tried to call Fred on my cell phone but couldn’t get any kind of decent reception, so I called him from a pay phone. We did our usual “My god, I hate T-Mobile, T-Mobile sucks ass” song-and-dance (seriously, T-Mobile sucks ass sometimes. Fred called me yesterday from the middle of Madison, and lost the signal in the middle of the call. He then called me back and told me that when our T-Mobile contract is up in December he’s going to throw his phone at the T-Mobile guy at the T-Mobile store. He won’t, though – he knows it’s not the guy’s fault. At least, I think he knows that…) and talked for a few minutes. Then the spud and I spent the next few hours reading. I’d forgotten to see about getting some movies from Debbie to watch on the laptop, and the book store in Terminal B didn’t sell movies, so we were pretty much out of luck. The time went by fairly quickly, though. Around six – our flight was scheduled for takeoff at 7:30 – we went to find something for dinner. We bypassed the few food places in Terminal B, because they were packed. We ended up buying a sandwich from the Wolfgang Puck’s cart in the area between Terminals A and B, then settled down near our gate and ate, then read. Naturally, our plane didn’t start boarding until ten minutes before we were supposed to take off, and there was some confusion about seating, but it all worked out, and we settled into our seats, put our tray tables and seat backs in an upright position, and waited for takeoff. And waited and waited and waited. When I’d realized we’d been sitting there for a long time, I turned my phone on to see what time it was, and found that we’d been sitting on the plane for an hour. I text-messaged Fred to tell him I thought we’d be late, and then turned my phone back off. About ten minutes later, we finally took off. You know, the thing I really hate about flying during the summer is how fucking hot and sweaty I get. Because planes might cool off once they’re in the air, but when they’re on the ground, they’re really warm. Not to mention that laptop I thought I should take to Maine with me was FUCKING HEAVY. I had to beg the spud to carry it for me a couple of times, because it was just killing me. You’d better believe I was cursing Fred’s name. Today, four days after we got home, my shoulder is just now getting back to normal. I’ll be purchasing a laptop case with wheels before December, you better believe it. The upside of being on a delayed flight is that we flew by a really pretty sunset, and I took a bunch of pictures. About halfway through the flight, as I was reading, I realized I was being surrounded by the most horrific stench. I gave the spud a dirty look. “Did you fart?” I said accusingly. She stared at me and shook her head. And then we must have been overtired from the day of traveling, because we started laughing, and we COULD NOT STOP. I swear, we were both crying, we were laughing so hard. We must have guffawed for about five minutes straight. I’d just get myself under control, and I’d think about saying “Did you FART?”, and I’d start laughing again. Maybe you had to be there. So anyway, despite the fact that we’d boarded late and sat on the plane waiting for takeoff for at least an hour, we still managed to land only about half an hour late. And that, my friends, concludes this week’s saga of my trip to Maine and home again. Monday, we’ll be back to business as usual. Woohoo! See all the pictures from Maine, here. See all the dog pictures, here. See all the sunset pictures, here.]]>

This is my friend Nance. I’ve known Nance for years – three? four? something like that? maybe even longer – and I consider her a good friend. And in the entire time I’ve known her, she’s been the biggest advocate for peoples’ privacy you’ll ever know. There have been times where she’s realized she can figure out where someone works, and she WARNS them, because she’s worried about them. She doesn’t want someone to invade their privacy, worries that some psycho might track them down and cause them harm. She’ll stir shit if she thinks the shit needs stirring, but she will do it straightforwardly and not in some clandestine cloak-and-dagger way that involves cutting and pasting and anonymous email accounts. She’s honest. Honest to a fault, maybe. She and Fred are the two people I would never pose the question “Do these pants make my ass look fat?”, because I’d get the truth. She might try to sugar-coat it a little, but she’d tell it to me straight. NO ONE EVER WANTS A STRAIGHT ANSWER TO THAT QUESTION, NANCE. If I ask Nance a question, I know I’ll get a truthful answer. I know I can count on that. But I didn’t ask her “Nance, did you do this?”, because I already knew in my heart she didn’t. She couldn’t. Anyone who truly knows her, knows that. Because underneath it all, she’s got a heart the size of Texas and it shines through whether she wants it to or not. I’ve been accused in the past of things I didn’t do, and when I said that I hadn’t done what I was accused of, the accusers didn’t believe me. And that’s incredibly frustrating. I can only imagine Nance’s frustration right now. So go give her some love; I think she could use some extra love right about now. And tell her that her brand-spankin’-new design kicks ass. I’m no longer a WordGoddess; I asked to be removed from the group because the way this was handled left a bad taste in my mouth. But I know how much y’all love the “Day in the Life” entries, so I’ll see if I can’t whip one out occasionally, mm’kay? YOU’RE WELCOME.

* * * Written on July 22, 2005. Q: What sucks more than being fat and sweaty? A: Being fat and sweaty and on the rag. * * * You don’t impress him much. A soupcon of The War of the Roses + Prizzi’s Honor + a dash of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid = Mr. and Mrs. Smith. Not a bad movie, though it seemed to bother Brian that Brad Pitt would hit a girl, which is funny, because I read that verysame sentiment online somewhere on someone’s blog – I can’t remember where – and I thought it was funny that with all the violence in that movie, that particular piece of it would bother people (men, I should say) so much. I guess that whole “You don’t hit girls” is strongly ingrained in some boys and men. Too bad it’s not so strongly ingrained in all of them. Though to be fair, I don’t think it’s right that a woman can hit a man to her heart’s content and people are only horrified when the man lashes back. Besides, she was trying to KILL HIM; I think the usual moral values kind of go out the window in that case. Damn, they are a pretty, pretty pair. So, here’s the story. We got up this morning with the idea that the spud and my mother would make whoopie pies. My mother has a recipe for whoopie pies – or, actually, the cookbook calls them whoopsie pies and she’s been saying all week that she and the spud were going to make a batch, because they were so much better than the store-bought whoopie pies. They finally got around to starting them a little before 11:00. Why yes, I DO have chubby little sausage fingers. I picked a lovely pink color for my polish, and managed to smudge one of my nails in less than half an hour, because I haven�t worn nail polish in fifteen years, and I had forgotten that even though it feels dry, you need to give it a few hours before it can withstand digging through your purse to find your phone. So we came home and hung around the house, and ate lobster for dinner, then left a little before 7 to drive through a monsoon to the movie theater. Debbie and Brian were meeting us there, but Debbie got soaked when she went to go in the theater and got pissed off and went home because she couldn’t stand the thought of sitting in a theater in wet clothes for two hours (EXCEPT THAT I THINK WE ALL KNEW YOU WERE JUST MAKING AN EXCUSE TO GO HOME AND PLAY ON YOUR NEWLY DSL’D COMPUTER, MISSY). When we got in the theater, the line was extremely long and I was worried that the movie was going to be sold out, so as I stood in line I scanned the list of movies, trying to figure out what movie we could see instead if we had to, because I was DAMNED if we were going to go home after driving from Lisbon Falls to Brunswick twice in one day to see the damn movie. But the movie wasn’t sold out at all, in fact the theater was only about half full, so all was good. I had my twizzlers and m&ms to keep my mouth occupied, and the pretty, pretty stars of the movie to keep my mind occupied, so it was a pretty damn good evening. I don’t think I mentioned yesterday, did I? Yesterday we went to Kittery, and I shopped my ASS off. I’d been doing pretty well with the shopping this trip, but all that went by the wayside when we hit Kittery. I basically stampeded through Kittery, grabbing things left and right and throwing money all over the place. My favorite acquisitions? A stone gray cat that is actually cat-sized, which I’m going to either put on the front porch or in the front flower bed (or, hm� maybe in front of the fireplace!), and a set of yellow melamine mixing bowls. Yellow sure does make me happy. We left the house at 10:00 yesterday, and didn’t get home until after 9:00. And the day just FLEW by; I have no idea how the time passed so quickly. I think we may have entered a black hole or something. All I know is that we got there at 11:00, did some shopping, and the next thing I knew, it was 2:00 and we were eating lunch at Bo�sun�s Landing (excellent food), and then I blinked and it was 6:00 and we were in the Kittery Trading Post discussing whether my mother should get a shirt for Fred, and then I blinked again and it was after 8:00, and we’d stopped in South Portland on the way home so Debbie and I could run into Macy’s to buy a set of melamine mixing bowls (yes, in addition to the yellow ones I’d bought earlier in the day, shaddup), and then time stretched and my mother went into Macy’s to look for some pants and then into Filene’s, and Debbie was dragging me into the mall to go to Victoria’s Secret (and, hi. If there’s anything less comfortable than being a fat chick in Victoria’s Secret, where the saleschicks give you perfectly sweet smiles that mask the horrified ‘She is NOT OUR PEOPLE. She is FAT. How can we get her OUT of here?’ thoughts that are whirling in their heads, I don’t know what is.) so she could buy some shampoo, and then we were all sitting in the car waiting for Debbie to come out of Macy’s (where she’d gone on a bathroom run, and even though I had to pee I had not the energy to pull down my sweaty pants and deal with tampon issues so I decided to wait until we got home, so I could use the bathroom without worrying that some woman standing in line would be peering through the crack in the stall door and thinking ‘Why is her foot on the stall door, and WHAT THE HELL IS SHE DOING, OH HOLY MOTHER OF GOD, MY EYES! MY EYES!’) and my mother to come out of Filene’s, and then the earth and some planet aligned, and my mother came out of Filene’s in a somewhat timely manner, and we got home. And my feet are still killing me. Two more days ’til I leave for home! I’m looking forward to being home, but I’m also having a good time this go-round, so I’ll be sad to leave. What was I saying? Oh, right. I have a goddamn five-hour layover in Dulles on Monday, and I don’t believe I could be less thrilled if I knew they were going to be pulling my nails out one-by-one and performing an anal probe during my stay in Helles Dulles. And before you even suggest it (because suggesting it would be a little strange, since you won’t be reading this until I’ve arrived home and uploaded entries, so keep that in mind Suggesty McHelpfulPants, mm’kay?), NO I�m not going to go sight-seeing, because I’ll be hauling this goddamn monster of a laptop around with me, and Washington, DC is hot and fucking steamy in the summer and if there’s anything that sucks more than being hot and sweaty, I don’t want to know about it. Oh wait – being hot and sweaty and on the rag. I almost forgot! My thought at this moment is that I�m going to borrow some DVDs from Debbie, find a deserted area of the Independence Air terminal, plug in the laptop, and watch some movies until it’s time to board. I mean, that’s the plan if throwing myself on the mercy of the Independence Air ticket clerk doesn’t work. There’s an earlier flight from Dulles to Huntsville than the one we�re on, but changing our tickets at this point would cost more than $100 apiece; maybe if the earlier flight isn’t packed they’ll do it for me without costing me an arm and a leg, but to be honest I’m not all that hopeful. I guess I know now why our tickets were so cheap, eh? * * *]]>

* * * Written July 20, 2005. So the other night, I went upstairs to brush my teeth and get my book and come downstairs to talk to Fred on the phone, and so I headed down the VERY STEEP fucking stairs into my parents’ basement – the stairs I go up and down fifteen times a day while I’m here, and every single time I head up or down, I think god, I hope I don’t fall down these fucking stairs – and I got down the stairs almost just fine, until I got to the last step and stepped forward to go across the floor, only I WASN’T on the bottom step, I was on the second-to-last step, and so I tumbled onto the floor on my side, smacking the dehumidifier on my way down. I immediately bounced back up, and looked up to see my mother coming to the top of the stairs, and for some unknown reason I felt the need to lie to her. “What happened?” she said. “I dropped my purse!” I lied. “Oh. I thought you fell or something,” she said. “Nope! Just dropped my purse,” I lied again. I went into my room to drop my purse on the bed, and saw that I had a handful of blood. Upon closer examination, I saw that I had a gash on the index finger on my right hand, and as soon as I realized it was there, it started hurting like hell. I went back upstairs, held it under very cold water for a few minutes, and then asked my mother where the band-aids were. She handed me a box, and as I was taking a band-aid out, Brian wandered into the kitchen. “What happened?” he asked. “I dropped my purse and tripped over it,” I said. WHY I felt the need to lie, I have NO idea. It’s not like dropping my purse and tripping over it was any less embarrassing than tripping off the last step and falling on my ass. I reiterated the lie when the spud came into the kitchen, and they examined my finger. “It just looks like a paper cut,” Brian said, and they immediately lost interest. “Except it’s A LOT DEEPER than a paper cut!” I said, almost defensively. “You can almost see bone!” You couldn’t, but these days you have to exaggerate to retain the attention of these world-weary brats. They weren’t interested. So I’ve kept a band-aid on it for the last couple of days, and the cut is healing nicely. I figured it’d get infected, because that is JUST my luck, to go on vacation and get an infection, or possibly even a staph infection (please note that I’m not even sure how you get a staph infection, but I suspect my parents’ humidifier (which I’m fairly certain is where I cut my finger) doesn’t hold the correct germs, though of course I could be wrong), but I’m pleased to announce that as of yet, it appears to be infection- and staph- free. We saw this car on the way home from South Portland, and it cracked me up. Monday evening, the kids went over to Debbie’s for a while, and I hung out with my parents, watching TV and reading and writing out postcards. When Debbie and the kids came over, we all went out in the pool for a little while, until the mosquitoes got to be too much for us, and we fled indoors. At one point, the spud went down to the basement to do her laundry, and called up to me to come down and look at something. I did, and saw the hugest pile of dog barf I’ve ever seen, comprised of more grass than I’ve ever seen an animal eat at one time. I told the spud to go get my mother. She did, and my mother came down and checked it out, then cleaned it up. We decided the dog had eaten too much grass, and it made him sick, and we all went in separate directions. Ten minutes later, the dog did it again. He ended up vomiting until his stomach was empty, and then kept trying to vomit when there was nothing left to throw up. We all started to get worried about him, and that behavior combined with the fact that my father had sprayed some kind of poison on the grass in the yard, got us really worried. My mother debated calling the vet, but decided that Benji wasn’t acting quite sick enough to warrant a call to the vet or a trip to the emergency vet in Portland, and that she’d call and make an appointment the next morning. She’s not a spaz like Fred and I are, I guess. I can’t imagine any of our cats vomiting that much, that often, and not running them to the emergency vet (because, of COURSE, nothing like that would EVER happen during the week, during the day, when a vet is easily reachable). The next morning not only did Benji seem better, he actually seemed just fine. He was all perky and danced around when I came upstairs, and licked my hand and let me scratch him on the head. My mother called the vet anyway – she was thinking that maybe he had a urinary tract infection, because Brian had seen what looked like blood in his urine (Benji’s urine, that is, not Brian’s. Though that would be funny: “My grandson saw blood in his own urine last week, so we think the dog has a urinary tract infection!”) a few days earlier – and made an appointment for that afternoon. She was also given instructions to try to collect a urine sample. After my days of being on Poop Patrol, she definitely had my sympathy. Since the urine sample couldn’t be any more than two hours old, we decided to run some errands and do a little shopping. We got home a little after 1:00 – stopping at The Kitty Corner, maker of the absolute best ham Italian sandwiches in this entire world, to pick up lunch, on the way. My mother took Benji out as soon as we got home and was successful in getting a urine sample. Debbie called to see if I wanted to meet her at Village Candles in Topsham; I did, so I took my mother’s convertible and left. My mother and the kids took Benji to the vet (the diagnosis: nothing wrong with him, but the vet prescribed antibiotics just in case). After Debbie and I looked around Village Candles for half an hour or so (and I found a thousand things I really liked, but didn’t want to deal with getting home safely, so I didn’t buy anything), we went back to my parents’ house and went for a swim until it started raining. I swear, this year I’ve been in my parents’ pool more than in any other year combined. It’s been FUCKING HOT and sticky, let me tell you. How these people survive without central air, I will never ever know. At some point Debbie called Liz to make sure our plans for tonight were still on – we were planning to meet and have dinner at Vinny T’s – and found that Liz had just seen a doctor, who decided that she doesn’t actually have tennis elbow. She has fibromyalgia. She has to follow up with her primary care physician, and can’t get in to see her for two weeks. I can’t imagine not being able to get in to see my doctor for two weeks. In fact, I’d be surprised if I ever had to wait two DAYS. Liz said tonight that she’s going to call back and see if she can’t get in sooner; hopefully she’ll be able to. Brian, taking a break from mowing the lawn. I REALLY like this picture of him. Primrose in my mother’s garden, with bug. We went out for dinner last night, at China Rose in Brunswick. Pretty much every time we visit, we go out to China Rose at least one night and have the buffet. Because it’s DAMN YUMMY. Aaaaaanyway, this morning we got up and got on the road pretty early, because we were headed for the beach; Popham Beach, to be exact. It was SO FUCKING HOT, even down on the ocean, and after a few hours at the beach I was ready to get the hell out of there. See, here’s the thing: I love the ocean, and I like the beach. What I fucking loathe is being hot, and being in the sun. I loathe being attacked by big ugly green flies, and I don’t know if it was where we were sitting, or what, but we were constantly being attacked by the fuckers. We killed plenty, but I’ve got a ton of nasty bites, and I HATE BUG BITES. Also, a family of assholes showed up and set up right in front of us, putting up big tents and taking up a maximum of space. Ugh. If there had been the slightest fucking bit of shade at the beach, I might have been less miserable. But there are no trees on the beach, and the beach umbrella we brought with us wasn’t nearly big enough, even though I spent most of my time huddled underneath it. Some day after I win the lottery, I’m going to rent a house on the ocean with a nice big porch, and I’ll spend my days on the porch looking at the ocean and reading, and my evenings – when it’s COOL – walking on the beach and splashing in the water. I managed to get a little bit sunburned on my face – nothing too bad – and on my feet, but the worst burn is on my back, which as far as I’m aware, wasn’t exposed to the sun at all. Tomorrow, we’ll be going to Kittery to do some shopping. I’ve never been to Kittery before – I think I mentioned that – and I’m looking forward to it. ]]>

Written on July 17, 2005. So here I am in Maine. I got here Friday afternoon about ten minutes late, and met the spud and Brian outside security. We got my bag – the Portland airport has finally (THANK GOD) increased the size of their bag claim area so that more than three people can fit around the baggage carousel. My bag arrived, finally, and we went out to the parking lot where my mother was waiting in the car. We gossiped our way to Freeport – or maybe it was Yarmouth; I’m not sure where one ends and the other begins – and had lunch at a little roadside stand named Cindy’s. I had an excellent lobster roll, but the PRICE. My god, there was for sure not enough lobster to justify $12, those lobster must have dined on gold nuggets before they became lobster rolls, that’s all I can guess. Then we went to my parents’ house, where we all went swimming for a while. I haven’t been swimming for quite a while, probably not since last summer when we were in Hawaii, so it was nice to lay on a boogie board and float around the pool. I was tired from traveling and thought I’d go to bed early, but Liz called and we talked for a few minutes, then decided that she’d come pick me up and we’d go to Friendly’s (similar to Denny’s, for those of you not in the know) so she could eat dinner and I could eat ice cream. Then we stopped by her apartment for a few minutes. She moved from Portland to Lewiston a few months ago and I hadn’t seen her new apartment yet. It’s a cute little apartment, but my lord, her living room is TINY and hot despite the fact that she has an air conditioner. How these crazy people survive the summer without central air, I don’t know. I got home a little later than I’d expected, talked to Fred for a few minutes, and then went to bed where I slept like a rock. I always sleep like a rock in my parents’ basement. They’ve hardwooded the floors in the bedroom where I always sleep, and they’ve completely redone their bathroom so that it’s starting to look like a house different than the one I grew up in. (Their shower has always driven me crazy, because the bathtub was so narrow that when I stood in the shower, it always felt like the shower curtain was attacking me. I’d have to peel it away from my ass to rinse, and I HATED IT. I could never have attempted to take a bath in that bathtub, ’cause I can guarantee my ass would have gotten stuck in it, and wouldn’t THAT have been fun to deal with. Now, it’s wide enough that I remain unmolested by the shower curtain, and I’m sure that if I wanted to, I could wedge my ass in the tub and back out again without requiring the assistance of the fire department.) Saturday morning I woke up at 8, went upstairs to take a shower, and found my mother already up. “I didn’t wake you up, did I?” she asked. “I don’t think so,” I said. But then, I didn’t know what had woken me; just that I was awake. “Well, I kind of stepped heavy in my bedroom, because I wanted you to get up, but didn’t want to come down and wake you up,” she said. So I took my shower, got dressed, and we left to go pick up Debbie, and went to Cape Elizabeth. I’ve never been there – the reaction from everyone I’ve said that to, has been a shocked “Never? Really?”, like they think I’m a great big liar (like there aren’t better things to lie about) – to see the Portland Head Light and Fort whatsitcalled. We were walking around part of the fort, and the sun was so bright and hot that I started sweating, and then my face starting itching and I got hives on the lower part of my face, and I got so red that I think Debbie thought I was having a heart attack. While we were walking around, we saw a woman with two very interesting looking dogs. Debbie asked what kind of dogs they were, and she told us they were wire-haired dachshunds. At some point, people cross-bred dachshunds with terriers so that they’d have the wiry terrier hair – and they ended up with the great big terrier heads as well. They had these tiny little bodies and great big heads, and I was surprised they could walk at all without tipping over. And it must have been a day o’ dogs for us, because we also saw a big German Shepard over by the lighthouse with her owner. Her name was Bella, and she was a retired bomb sniffer who got back from Iraq last year, after she’d spent a year or two over there. Bella wasn’t friendly at ALL, and in fact if anyone got too close to her, she barked deep, scary barks at them. I’m not sure hanging out by a lighthouse where a lot of people pass by during the day is where she needed to be. When we were done at the lighthouse, we got into the car and drove over to where there’s another part of the fort, and a small cove – that really made me want to go swimming – and an old mansion. See all the pictures from Cape Elizabeth, here. We left Cape Elizabeth and went to South Portland, where we had lunch at Olive Garden – the soup, salad, bread sticks, and mozzarella fonduda – and I don’t know about anyone else, but I drank two or three glasses of soda, because I was dying of thirst. We left Olive Garden and went over to Fabulous Footwear, where I spent about an hour wandering around looking at shoes. I needed to get a pair of sandals to replace the ones I’ve been wearing for the last several years – ones I got from Land’s End and fell in love with, then they promptly stopped carrying – because they’ve gotten old and are kind of starting to fall apart. I have very picky feet and I need sandals with straps that won’t rub the top of my feet and make painful blisters. And I can’t wear sandals with straps on the back because they annoy me. And I can’t stand sandals with things between the toes, because that annoys me as well. So my mother and the spud were showing me sandals, and I was saying “No, those straps are too stiff” and “No, those have straps on the back” and so forth. And my mother started saying “I don’t knoooooooow how it iiiiiiis that I raised such piiiiiicky children”, and I said “I should buy shoes I won’t wear? Because I have PLENTY of those.”, and she conceded that perhaps I was right, but she wasn’t happy to admit it. I ended up buying two pairs of sandals, and getting myself talked into signing up for the fucking Fabulous Footwear Rewards Card, even though I tried to get out of it by saying “I’m not from Maine, I’m from Alabama”, but the guy said “Oh, we have stores in Alabama!” and so I went ahead and signed up for the stupid-ass program, and you know where the Fabulous Footwear in Alabama is located? Fucking Boaz. Where I’ve been exactly twice in the almost 9 years I’ve lived in Alabama, and I for sure am NOT so full of love for the store that I’ll drive that fucking far to get shoes. We went from Fabulous Footwear to AC Moore (which was right next door) and I talked to Fred for a few minutes while I looked at cross-stitching stuff and bought a few more cross-stitch kits that I probably won’t get to anytime in the next ten years. After swimming and dinner at my parents� house, Debbie and the spud and I went to Auburn to go to K-Mart. I wandered around for twenty minutes or so, bought a big cup (my parents only have small glasses at their house), a pack of tampons, the latest PEOPLE magazine, and went out to the car to wait for Debbie and the spud. I was very interested to find, while I was reading PEOPLE, that Stephen King’s son Owen has a novel out. Also that he apparently has father issues. I can’t wait to check it out. (Other side note: When I said to Debbie “There’s a new book out, by Owen King. Guess who he might be the son of?”, she said “Angus?” Hee!) When we got home from K-Mart, Debbie and the kids went swimming in the dark, and I talked to Fred for a while, read for a short while, and went to bed. This morning I slept until 8:00 and we hung around the house until 11:30. Debbie came over around 11:30, and we headed for Freeport. There are a few stores in Freeport I like to hit every time I come – Cool as a Moose, Mangy Moose, and Crabtree & Evelyn – and we hoped that Freeport wouldn’t be too crowded. Ha! We finally hit Freeport, which was packed as could be. We talked about going to LL Bean, but decided to wait for another day, hit a few stores, decided we were hungry and thirsty, and went to The Muddy Rudder, where I had a damn fine lobster cobb salad, and piece of blueberry pie. After an afternoon of hanging out in the pool, I went out with Liz for thai food tonight. I’ve never had thai food before and Liz has been talking about it for ages, so I finally got a chance to check it out. We had chicken pad thai, pork fried rice, and crispy rolls (?), and it was really pretty damn good. I like Chinese food a lot, so I figured I’d like thai as well. And I was right! After we ate, we took a drive down Lisbon Street, our old stomping grounds, and I was amazed at how different it looks. They seem to have cleaned it up a lot and it looks pretty good. Liz told me that there’s a growing population of Somalians, which kind of amuses me. Because you travel across the world and end up in Lewiston, Maine? How does that happen? She also told me that for a while there was a massage parlor in Lisbon Falls, that was a FULL-SERVICE massage parlor, if you will, and the girls working there were illegal Asians. And I said “They traveled from their homes in whichever part of Asia they were from, to end up in Lisbon Falls, Maine?” I don’t know – how many people dream of living in Lisbon Falls, Maine, you’ve gotta wonder. Not that there’s anything wrong with Lisbon Falls, Maine, but you wouldn’t think it’s the sort of place where people dream of one day ending up. But then, it’s kind of quintessential small-town America, so I guess I can see where the attraction might lie. Our plans for tomorrow are to do some shopping. We had originally planned to spend the morning at the beach, but it’s supposed to rain, so I guess we’ll put off the beach until later this week. Now it’s time to talk to Fred and get ready for bed. Night! PS: I checked the shelter web page last night and found that everyone but Snoopy and Edgar have been adopted. I said to Fred, “You go get Edgar and bring him home! No one will adopt him, because he’s not cute! He should come live with us!”, but he wouldn’t do it. Bastard. He also said that if Oy got adopted, Edgar will too, but Edgar doesn’t have the crazy kitten eyes that Oy has, and just because he’s black and white like Oy doesn’t mean he looks just like him. I don’t get how Fred thinks that Oy and Edgar look exactly alike. Clearly the man is blind.]]>

Friday, in case you missed it.) ]]>

* * * I put up the very last of the fosterkitties pictures yesterday. You can see them all here, or start here and move foward.

* * * I have this really sore spot on the inner part of my lower lip where I was chewing gum yesterday, and for some reason my lower lip decided to shoot directly in between my teeth, and I clamped down really hard – apparently I chew pretty hard when I’m chewing gum – and it hurt A LOT, and now the spot that got chomped hurts a lot. Also, I have a canker sore on the very end of my tongue, and it’s bugging the shit out of me. ALSO, my period decided yesterday would be a good time to up and start, which is always a fun thing to happen. Especially when you’re about to go on vacation. Especially when you’re about to go on vacation where it’s HOT and no one believes in air conditioning. Oh, this is going to be fuuuuuuuuuun. * * * So yeah, I have to say that I’m starting to consider Seasonale a bit of a flop. For most of last year it worked just fine for me, but this year about three weeks before I finish my pack of pills, I start spotting and it’s just a huge pain in the ass. I guess I’ll just go back to the regular period-once-a-month pill. Or hey, I guess I could try taking the Seasonale for two months, then going off it for a week, then starting back up for another two months, and see how that goes. Maybe I should just have them rip my fucking uterus out and be done with it. This being-a-woman thing is a huge pain, ain’t it? Stupid uterus. It’s not like I NEED it. * * * We watched Hide and Seek the other night, and it wasn’t bad, though the explanation for what was going on was LAME. Here’s my two-word description for the movie (skip to the next section if you don’t want to be spoilered): “Heeeeeeere’s Johnny!” I do love that little Dakota Fanning, though. * * * I forgot to bring the camera with me to the pet store on Monday, but last week’s pet store kitty pics are here. Also, when Fred and I dropped the kittens off at the pet store on Tuesday, a little howling kitten caught his eye, and he opened the cage and took her out to give her some love. She purred and purred and purred, and Fred looked at the description card on the front of her cage, and said “This is supposed to be shy?” “Well,” I said, “She was shy when she was in a cage with her siblings and mother. Now that she’s in a cage by herself, I’m sure she’s lonely and inclined to be less shy.” And she turned and gave Fred a look o’ love, so I had to snap a picture. * * * When Liz was visiting, we went to Cracker Barrel a few times, and if you’ve never been to Cracker Barrel, you just don’t know what you’re missing, you really don’t. Anyway, Cracker Barrel has a gift shop inside, and I spotted this really cute little whisk: and I looked around to see if there was a matching salt and pepper set, and to my chagrin there was not. So I bought the whisk and brought it home with the express idea of look under the company’s name online to see if they make a matching salt and pepper shaker. And they do not. Damnit. Because I NEED an egg salt and pepper set! I do, because I’ve got a small collection of salt and pepper shakers, and an egg salt and pepper shaker set would round out the collection nicely, don’t you think? * * * Currently reading: The World According to Mimi Smartypants. By Mimi Smartypants, of course. I’m liking the book a lot, of course, though at one point she used the word “bedrunken” and misread it as “bed-drunken”, and was swept away by wondering whether there was a certain kind of drunkenness that you could attain by drinking in bed. Then I re-read the sentence a realized my mistake. * * * For weeks, Fred has been telling me that there was cat poop under the bed. “Don’t be silly,” I said. “That’s not cat poop, that’s actually the kitty treats you tried to give Spot, that he didn’t like and left there, and it’s been sitting there ever since.” Because the last time I got down on the floor and looked under the bed, that was the truth. Every time Fred needed to look under the bed, he’d say it again “That’s cat poop.” “No it’s not.” “It is!” “Then clean it up!” “I can’t reach it.” The end. Because if you can’t reach something, you can’t reach it. It’s not like you could reach for something with, say, a stick or a broom or a vacuum cleaner hose and reach it, after all. That would be lunacy. Last night, Fred threw a toy on the bed for Mister Boogers, and Mister Boogers went after it, only it had gone down behind the headboard, so Mister Boogers jumped off the bed to go after it. “Did it actually do down on the floor?” Fred asked me, then pulled the pillows off the bed to look for the toy. There was a gap between the mattress and the wall, and Fred looked down. “Bessie,” he said. “That is CAT POOP, not kitty treats!” “Oh, it is not.” “Come look!” he said. And because it wouldn’t require me to get down on the floor and back up again I put down my book and walked over to the bed and looked through the gap, and sure enough. Cat shit. “‘Night,” Fred said. “Love you!” “Hey!” I squawked. “Get back here and clean this up!” We have a very strict he who spots it cleans it up policy in our house. Which often leads to selective blindness as one or the other of us steps directly over piles of cat vomit on our journeys through the house. “I can’t reach it!” he said. “TRY.” So he got on the floor and reached for it. And couldn’t reach it. “I’ll clean it up later,” he said. “I don’t want to spend the night sleeping above a pile of cat shit!” “Bessie, it’s been there for weeks. The smell is long gone!” “I don’t care, that’s nasty!” “Why is it suddenly nasty? It’s been there for weeks, and you’ve been fine.” “But now I KNOW ABOUT IT, so it’s nasty!” And instead of cleaning it up, the fucker went off to bed. Hell will freeze over before I clean up that pile of cat shit, believe you me. Because if we start messing with the he who spots it cleans it up policy, all will be anarchy. And we can’t have that. * * * “See ya, Mom!” * * * I’m off to Maine. I’ll catch you in ten days or so. I’ll be back on the 25th, but give me a day or so to catch my breath, ‘k? Behave yourselves.]]>

I was amazed and delighted when Robyn presented me with the donations you wonderful people sent her in Mia’s memory. My thanks are not enough to describe the gratitude I feel for all of you animal lovers all over the world. Actions like this help restore my faith in the human family – not only of giving, but giving so unselfishly to a little cat rescue in Alabama. We are indeed blessed and consider all of you friends of our shelter. As of this morning we’ve raised $1832.74 (I turned over just under $1500 today, and will take the rest to the shelter when I get back from Maine). Hopefully when I get back from Maine on the 25th, there’ll be even more donations waiting!

* * * I caught up on my email last night – I don’t like to go on vacation with a bunch of email in my inbox, because I’m a dork – and I’ve started closing emails with “As ever, Robyn”, because of, well, because of this. I’ve been closing my notify emails that way pretty much since last Fall, but I’ve started closing other emails that way, too, ’cause you have to have some sort of closing. You can’t just say “Okay, um, ‘bye, now!” and I don’t like to sign “love” to everyone even though I do love each and every one of you, and “xo” is not really me (though I do sometimes use it, sparingly), and “have a great day!” isn’t really a closing, so “as ever” it is. But anyway, as I was closing an email last night, I thought to myself “I should find out how they close letters in, like, Russian and start using that.” and then I thought “No! I should translate some phrase like ‘live long and prosper’ into Russian and use that!” And then brilliance (actually, it was late and I was tired and perhaps a little giddy) struck, and I thought “I should just make up a fucking word, and use THAT.” and I thought some more, and my favorite made-up word that always comes to mind is “floopy”, and so I said “Self, let’s just start closing email “floopy, Robyn.”, but then I thought maybe I’d want something a little longer, and I added to the word a little, and ended up with “floupelle”, so if you got an email from me signed “floupelle, Robyn” last night, that would be what was going on THERE. I don’t know, though. I don’t like “floupelle” all that much. It doesn’t have that ring of finality to it, that “I’m ending this goddamn email, see?” air. So here’s your assignment: make up a word I can use. And if I like it, I’ll adopt it as my own. But it better not be a word in another language that means something derogatory or embarrassing, or I will send my badass boys after you. * * * Speaking of that, Fred and I have a word that we always use at the end of our emails to each other (and no, you don’t get to know what it is, Nosey Parkers) that indicates “I love and adore you madly” (and NO, it isn’t “I love and adore you madly” or even ILAAYM. Hee! I-LAAY-M! I’m far too amused by that!). We use it at the end of every single email, it’s a requirement, and the one time I got pissed off and sent a pissy email to him and deliberately didn’t include that word, I caught hell for it, believe you me. So every now and then I slip and come very close to typing that to someone I’m emailing who isn’t Fred (random people, I mean, not any one person in particular), and I get all embarrassed as I’m erasing it, thinking that if I’d accidentally sent it I’d get an email back from the person saying “What the fuck does that mean???” and I’d have to explain. Thus far I’ve always caught myself, but if you ever get an email from me with a strange word at the end, be kind and pretend you didn’t, okay? Because I don’t want to have to explain it. * * * Last night I was glancing at one of my old entries and came across this: Saturday night at 7, Fred was wandering around in the kitchen making his evening snack. The spud walked into the room, grabbed a bag of microwaveable popcorn, and put it in the (can you guess??) microwave. I was sitting on the couch reading a magazine while waiting for them both to get the hell out of my way. “Did you know that muttermuttermutter died?” the spud said to Fred. “Yeah,” Fred replied. “Who?” I said, turning around to look at them. “Who died?” “Morrie,” they chorused. “Oh my god!” I gasped. “Maury Povich is DEAD?” “No,” Fred said. “Morrie, from Tuesdays with Morrie.” The spud’s been reading that book, and had apparently come to the end. “Oh. Yeah, I knew he was dead.” And I wonder why I have a reputation for being ditzy… and I laughed until I cried. Which is when I knew it was way past my bedtime, and time to go to bed. * * * So ever since we got my car back in March, it seems that they – the general “they”, not a particular “they” – send me surveys at least once a week. Now, I fucking hate filling out surveys, so usually I toss them in the trash, but one day last week I got a survey in the mail, and opened it up to see what it was, and there was a crisp one dollar bill enclosed. I left the survey on my desk and yesterday as I was cleaning off my desk I came across the survey and tossed it in the trash, but then realized that I’d actually spent the lovely, crisp one dollar bill, and so I was probably legally bound to fill out the stinkin’ survey. One of the first questions the survey asked was this one: How do you feel about your new vehicle? I feel a definite emotional attachment to my new vehicle. I feel some emotional attachment to my new vehicle. I feel no emotional attachment to my new vehicle. and I seriously considered choosing the third answer, and then writing “It’s a fucking CAR, dumbasses. A CAR. Who gets EMOTIONALLY attached to their CAR?”, but I thought about it for a moment, and I realized that I am, in fact, quite attached to my car. I’m so lame. It ended up taking me twenty minutes to fill out the fucking thing, and if you figure that I only got a dollar for twenty minutes of filling out the stupid little circles, that adds up to an hourly wage of $3, and THAT isn’t even minimum wage, damnit. So next time I’m going to spend the freakin’ dollar and toss the survey in the trash, and I will not feel guilty. Okay, I probably will feel guilty, but it’s a guilt I can live with. * * * A reintroduction of the And3rson kitties, since there are no kittens around to suck up the attention: “Hiiii. I’m Miz Poo. I’m the only girl cat in the house, and I rule the boy cats with an iron paw. My interests are having strange things wrong with me that no vet can seem to cure – for a while I had eye problems, and now I’m having lip issues – and waiting until the Momma is busy and in the middle of doing something important, and howling pitifully until she picks me up and gives me love while telling me that I’m a pain in the ass. I KNOW I’m a pain in the ass, it’s my specialty!” “Duhr. I’m Spanky. I’m pretty, but dumb. That’s okay, though, because I have soft, silky fur, and you cannot resist petting me. I like to roll around in spots of sunlight. Also, I like to wait until the Momma and the Daddy are in bed talking, then I crawl up on top of the Momma, rest my entire weight on my two front paws, and see how long I can lay there before the Momma yells “GodDAMN, Spanky, that HURTS!” My personal record is three minutes and ten seconds.” “Spot here. I like to look up at you with an expression of abject terror on my face, and run away from you if you so much as glance at me, as if you’ve spent my entire lifetime beating me with rubber hoses. Lately, I’ve developed the special skill of going practically bald in one section of my body – first it was the backs of my legs, now it’s a patch in the middle of my back that I can’t reach – for no reason that the vet can discern (no, it’s not ringworm). The best part about losing a bunch of fur is that I can wait until the Momma has cleaned the house, then wander about dropping great tufts of hair all over the place.” “I’m Mister Boogers. My greatest joy in life is standing in front of my mother with my stub of a tail straight up in the air so that my mother is forced to see my asshole. I can tell by the way she grimaces and turns away that it impresses her greatly.” “Also, when changes are afoot anywhere in the house, I like to be right there and make sure that things are being done correctly. Because these humans, they’re not so smart, and without my interference help, things might be done shoddily. When I’m not showing off my asshole or inspecting changes being made to the house, I like to follow Miz Poo around until she loses her mind, hissing and growling. Also, I like to lick the top of Spot’s head until he starts to like it, then bite him on the back of the neck.”]]>

* * * So, it is done. We took the kittens to the pet store yesterday afternoon around 3:00 – I made Fred go with me – and left. I was crying before we even got out of the store. Hey. What’s worse than not being able to stop yourself from crying? WHEN A MOTHERFUCKER KEEPS LOOKING AT YOU TO SEE IF YOU’RE CRYING. It’s especially fun when you’re making the ugly cry face and your chin is wobbling, and SAID MOTHERFUCKER keep looking at you and smirking. Fucker. He took care of setting up the cage for the cats – food, water, litter box – while I filled out the cards that go on the front of the cage with the cat’s name, date of birth, and description. I felt rushed (FUCKER) because Fred wanted to go hiking – or perhaps wanted to rush me out of there before I started sobbing and begging to keep Snoopy (no, Flossie! No, Edgar! No, Oy! No, Peanut!) – and I just didn’t know what to write to describe the kittens’ personalities, so I ended up writing, on the card that described Edgar and Oy, “Oy likes to climb! Edgar is a big purrer!” I am the dorkiest dork on earth, I swear to god. Also, apparently not good when rushed. I was okay once we got home, because I had a lot to do – dinner, cleaning out the cat room – but after dinner when Fred went upstairs to take a bath, I had a good cry. It was hard at bedtime when we went upstairs, because we always both went into the room to play with the kittens, and there was no kitten love to be had. This morning, I manufactured an excuse had to go in the vicinity of the pet store to pick up something I didn’t need at all I desperately needed, and figured since I was right THERE I’d stop and see how many had been adopted the night before. So I went inside and snuck up the aisle toward the cat room, and basically peeked around the corner so they wouldn’t see me – because if they’d spotted me and started meowing sadly at me, “Whyyy? Why would you put us in a cage? Whyyyy?” it would have been all over – and saw that, in fact, none of them had been adopted. I suspect that adoptions during the week are kind of few and far between. But what was heartening was that the kittens were calmly hanging out in the cage, one of them napping, a couple of them playing, and Snoopy in the litter box. They were not, as I’d feared, laying around crying sad little kitten tears, and pining for me. Ingrates. It’s funny, but seeing that they weren’t all quivering in fear made me feel better, and I didn’t even tear up, though I did want to run into the cat room and say “Who’s peepin’ at me?” (which is what I’d say when I’d go into the cat room here and they were all just waking up, and Oy and Edgar and Flossie would stumble toward me, sounding exactly like little baby chicks.) and give them all hugs and kisses, but I refrained. They’ll be okay. I mean, they’re the cutest damn kittens in the world. People will no doubt be arm wrestling each other to adopt them this weekend. I do miss them, but knowing that they’re okay helps a lot. Oh, and on a funny side note, the lady who runs the shelter called not an hour before I took the kittens to the pet store and said “I hate to ask this on such short notice…” and my heart leapt with joy, and I thought she’s going to say they can’t go to the store today because there’s not enough room or something! and the thought did not make me sad at ALL. But then she went on to explain that there was a guy who’d found a mother cat and her kittens, and he and his wife were going to keep a couple of the kittens, but could I keep the rest of the kittens – who’d already been neutered – until room opened up at the pet store? And you KNOW I would have jumped at the chance, but I had to say no, because I’m going out of town on Friday – and I was careful to add “Otherwise, I totally would!” – and Fred wasn’t going to be up for taking care of kittens. Last night we discussed ways to move things around in the house so that we could still have a guest bedroom, but also have a room for foster cats. We’re going to move everything out of the study so that it’ll be empty and we can have foster cats to our heart’s content. The study is smaller than the room we used for Mia and the babies, but it’ll definitely do. It’s bigger than a cage, anyway! You know, even if I’d known beforehand that Mia was going to end up dying, I wouldn’t have hesitated to take she and her babies, because this experience has been incredible. And now, I have a TON of pictures to share with y’all, and then that’ll be it for kitten pictures. At least ’til the next batch! Ha! Oh, and by the way, when I get around to it – probably when I get back from Maine – I’ll make up some swag with the laughing picture of Flossie. I know I’m going to want a t-shirt with that picture on it, and I’m probably going to get some notecards with it, too. Because that remains one of my favorite cat pictures ever. Anyway, on to the pictures! Miss Flossie checks for aliens. Or perhaps flying toys. Miss Flossie, from above. “What?” “Okay, man, be cool. There’s a gallon-sized baggie of primo catnip under the cat bed. Just take it and go, okay?” “Who, me? No, I don’t look guilty. I didn’t do anything wrong. Okay! Okay, I ate the catnip! And it was AWESOME!” “Dude, I’m not kidding. SHUT UP.” Flossie checking out the birds. Peanut likes to make sure everyone stays clean. He’s the Sheriff in charge of cleanliness. Respect his authoritah! “Woman, I gotta ask. What’s up with the friggin’ flashy thing all the damn time?” Edgar’s Saturday Night Fever imitation. He’s stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive. One last smile from Smilin’ Oy. “Hmm… okay, yeah, I don’t see any cavities this time around, Miz And3rson. That’ll be fifty dollars, please!” The kissingest kitten. Look. They heard what you said about me, and they’re going to kick your ass. You better hide, ’cause THEY AIN’T FOOLIN’. Peanut looks like he’s laughing dorkily. Fred got out the toy that is, basically, a bunch of fuzzy strings on the end of a stick, and Peanut started jumping for it. Look at his unusual position in this picture. Here’s a closeup: He’s all kinds of twisted around, the little dork. Look at the spotted belly! Leap little Peanut, leap! Peanut, mid-air. Oy was, for some reason, freaked out by my hand, and was getting into position to put the smack down. Kitty porn. Peanut waits patiently for the killing blow. Or the kiss. “Hey! Get off! I’m clean enough already, damnit!” Peanut smiles. Oy, up close. Checking out the toy. Flossie leaping for the toy, under Snoopy’s supervision. All this playing has exhausted him. “Gimme a kiss, woman.” The first thing they do upon waking – after getting some love, that is – is drink water. This is a rare picture of all five of them. Bright-eyed Oy. He likes to climb! SO. CUTE.

* * * I also have kitten footage on the video camera. If I get a chance today, I’ll make short movies out of them. Otherwise, it’ll have to wait ’til I get back from Maine. ]]>

it’s not too late to donate if you haven’t!)

* * * I’ll be taking the babies to the pet store this afternoon. They do adoptions on Tuesday and Wednesday evenings starting at 6, so I’m going to take the kittens over there mid-afternoon so they’ll have a few hours to acclimate to their new surroundings before adoptions start. In a perfect world they’ll all be adopted tonight, but I doubt that will happen. Kittens go fast, though, so I bet they’ll all be adopted in less than a week. Maybe not, but I prefer to think they will be. This is hard, but I know they’ll go to good homes. The adoption counselors are very careful about who they adopt the cats out to; not just any yahoo can waltz in and adopt a cat, you know, which is very comforting. Yesterday afternoon I was hanging out with the babies in their room, and I was baby-talking them – oh please, you KNOW I talk baby talk to those cats constantly – and Flossie was sitting across the room playing with a straw, and she sat up and looked at me. I said “You’re the one I worry most about, Prissy Pants.”, and she WALKED over to me, and she stood up and put her paws on my stomach, and she was purring to beat the band. I like to think she was telling me she was going to be okay. That, or she was begging me to keep her, one or the other. They’ll be fine, they’ll be fine, they’ll be fine, they’ll be fine… Ugh. This is going to SUCK. I just need to keep in mind that they might have to spend a little time in a small cage, but then they’ll go home with someone who will love and adore them nearly as much as I do (heh), and they’ll have the run of the house, and be spoiled rotten. This is probably the best way to do this, actually. Because I leave for Maine on Friday and so won’t be at the petstore to clean-n-feed next Monday, or the Monday after. So it’ll be almost three weeks before I’m back at the petstore, and I am SURE they’ll all be adopted by then. They’re so damn cute, how could anyone resist? As I told Fred last night, though, if I walk into the petstore at the beginning of August and see any of them sitting there in a cage, all bets will be off. * * * In lieu of a real entry, I’m going to toss up a bunch of pictures of the kittens and then go spend some time snuggling with them. I’m sure tomorrow’s entry will consist of nothing but a ton of kitten pictures, so I can clear off my memory stick, so we should be back to business as usual Thursday. And then Friday I leave for Maine, so you’ll have to do without me for ten days! This toy drives the kittens nuts. They get hold of it, and run around the room with it in their mouths, and if anyone gets too close, they growl. It’s hilarious – I actually got some of it on tape; I’ll have to make a little movie for y’all to see. This is possibly the best picture I’ve ever taken of Flossie. She’s so damn pretty. Chewing on one straw, but keeping his eye on the other. He’s no dummy, that one. Straws are the best cat toys EVER. Except that they keep knocking them under the closet door and can’t get them out again. “It drives the wimmins wild when I sit like this.” “Ya puts your paws in the ay-er like you just don’t cay-er!” (part two) The hokey-pokey. It IS what it’s all about! Don’t dangle a tail in front of the Flossie-Monster, unless you want it bitten. Edgar happily cleans the end of his tail. Smilin’ Oy with water on his chin. Shaddup. Yes, he’s licking my lips, but he’d just spent five minutes drinking water, so his mouth was clean. Also, it makes him so damn happy. Also, did I mention shaddup? Snoopy’s watching Fred mow the lawn. It was quite fascinating, apparently. “NO SHE DI’INT!” “Hello, my baby Hello, my honey Hello, my ragtime gaaaaaaal!”]]>