* * * First of all Ace – that really cute guy on American Idol – looks JUST like the bastard child of Jake Gyllenhaal and Heath Ledger. Second of all, would someone PLEASE do SOMETHING about Simon Cowell’s hair? I know I’m no great arbiter of popular fashion or anything, but every time I see Simon’s hair, it makes me cringe. It wouldn’t be so bad if there wasn’t a freakin’ PART in the middle of what appears to be an attempt at a flat-top or semi-spiked hair, but the part makes it awful. Third of all, we were thrilled to see Gray Man, Cute Little Geek with Glasses and Bald Man with Facial Hair make it through to the final 12 men, and as for the women we were glad to see Little ‘n Squeaky get through – though there was no doubt she would; the judges loved her the first time they set eyes on her. (Can you tell we didn’t catch anyone’s name?)

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So I went for a walk yesterday morning; I’m up to 2.08 miles in around 40 minutes, which is good for someone with short ‘n stubby legs, I think. Anyway, near the end of my walk as I approached the turn to my street, I noticed that there were a couple of women walking about 50 feet ahead of me, each walking a small and yappy (but cute!) dog. I hoped they’d go straight instead of turning left, because if they turned left on to my street, they’d get to the end before me, and then turn and walk back up the street, and I would pass them, and I would smile and say good morning to them, and they’d look me up and down and smirk at each other and NOT SAY ANYTHING BACK. Don’t call me paranoid – it happens to me ALL THE TIME. Because I’m a fat chick dressed in a shlubby manner, and the instant I start to sweat when I’m exercising, I get bright red and no doubt look like a heart attack about to happen, or in the process of happening. And don’t tell me it’s because they don’t hear me say “Good morning!”, because I say it with a great big smile, and say it loud enough for anyone to hear. They’re just snobs in their spandex and cute little t-shirts with their tiny little dogs. Well, to be fair, not ALL of them, but the majority of them. I’m sure YOU are not a snob in your spandex and cute little t-shirt with their tiny little dogs. You’d say “Good Morning” or “Hi” back to me, wouldn’t you? Of course you would. Anyway. So these women turned onto my street, and I sighed a big martyred sigh of martyrdom, and prepared to smile and say “Good morning!” and be ignored. Only, halfway down the street they stopped, and the little white dog belonging to one of the women trotted over into someone’s yard and proceeded to “use the facilities.” In a big way. Almost as big as the dog itself, that’s how big. And the women looked at each other, and they stood there while the dog did its business, and I grew closer and closer. And then they turned around and they saw me, and they looked at each other again. As if they were mimes, they made big gestures at each other that clearly conveyed “Whatever shall we do now?” One of them pointed out a newspaper (laying in a plastic bag) in the driveway across the street, and the other one made a production of dragging her dog across the street to the newspaper, then gestured to the poopin’-dog-owner about how she was going to carry it up to the house of the person it belonged to, and ask if it was okay to use the plastic bag. At this point, I passed them, not bothering to look at either of them, and just barely restrained myself from rolling my eyes at them. Because I think it’s pretty clear that if no one else had been around, that pile of dog shit would have sat there until the END OF TIME. I mean, who the hell takes their dog for a long walk and doesn’t bring something to pick up the poop with? Is it a complete shock and mystery to these women that their dogs are going to want to stop and poop at some point during a walk longer than three minutes? And how do they USUALLY pick up dog poop? That’s right. THEY DON’T. At least they picked it up this time, because I had prepared a scathing statement* to say to them if they’d just walked off and left it there. *Instead of smiling and saying “Good morning”, I was going to say “Seriously? You’re going to leave that pile of dog shit on a stranger’s lawn? SERIOUSLY?” and scowl. That, or “I’m glad that’s not MY lawn, ’cause I’d kick your skinny ass to hell and back. And your little dog, too!” And those women would have SOBBED like big BABIES, because my mean face is a scary one.
I’ve gotten back into cross-stitching in the last week or so; I think I stopped cross-stitching when we had Rambo and Jodie, because it was just too much of a pain to keep them from playing with the threads, and I just never started again. At the moment I’m concentrating on getting through all the ornament kits I have before I start anything big. Anyway, I think that many times a picture looks better when it’s not outlined. I kind of like the abstract-ness of it, I guess. For instance:
I guess the “after” isn’t too bad – but I really kind of preferred the “before”. Oh, and while I’m sharing pictures (non-cat pictures, I should say), my brother and sister-in-law sent me flowers after the other flowers I’d gotten had pretty much died. When I talked to my brother, he indicated that there was something different about these flowers. And he was right – there was. It was a bunch of yellow and white flowers – daisies, maybe? I’m not good with flower identification – but once I opened the box the whole way, I realized there was something else in the box.
It cracks me up, every time I walk into my bedroom and see it there, smiling beatifically at me. You might not be able to tell, but when the stem isn’t wrapped around the bookcase, the whole thing is about four feet tall. And the “flower” is huge – maybe close to two feet across? I haven’t named her (obviously it’s a “her”) yet. Suggestions?
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Tommy in motion. Spot warily checks out the situation. “Torties are NOT BITCHY! And if you say it again, I’ll CUT YOU, you understand me?” Daffodils are starting to bloom! Woot!
There are a buttload of outside kitty pictures up over at Flickr, here.
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Previously 2005: I feel like every time I run an errand in the Jeep I’m tempting Fate. 2004: I am blogrolling’s bitch. 2003: We figured if nothing else, we’d just start killing and eating cats. 2002: No entry. 2001: No entry. 2000: ***Warning! Adult language and situations ahead! Skip the first three paragraphs if you’re easily offended***]]>