Month: June 2007

Well, I thought you were going to offer me the guest bedroom, but if I have to weed, do dishes and clean, I guess I’ll pass. I would definitely do snuggle duty (with the cats), but that wasn’t on your list. Alas. Silly Lo. I’d have to charge EXTRA for the kitty snuggling, of course!

* * * I think that officially you have too many cats because I can no longer tell who is who – I guess Sugarbutt, Miz Poo, and Boog are easy enough, but the rest just become a tumble of fur and fangs. Here’s a quick and easy description of each: Spot (the oldest): Squeaks annoyingly, begs constantly for food, can be a badass when required. Favorite hiding place: Unknown. Spanky (second oldest): Dumb but happy. LOVES to keep you company in the bathroom. Has to be kicked out if you’re going to be spending any real time in there, because he stares at you and makes you all kinds of paranoid. Favorite hiding place: under the nearest bed, or under the couch. Miz Poo: Princess kitty who can be annoyingly friendly. Loves to tromp across your boob whilst searching for snuggles. Favorite hiding place: Why would she hide when she can come demand love from you? (When particularly frightened, she goes flat and assumes you can’t see the big cat lump in the middle of the floor.) Mister Boogers: He het you. Favorite hiding place: In the cat bed, on the Momma’s bed. Sugarbutt: Disturbingly happy. The happiest! Cat! Ever! Favorite hiding place: Under Fred’s comforter. He assumes you can’t see the big cat-shaped lump. Tom Cullen (Tommy): Always willing to shoot you the Sexy Eyes. Favorite hiding place: In the downstairs hall closet. Maxi (who we usually call Momma): Feisty, tiny little spitfire, who doesn’t think twice about kicking the ass of any dog who comes too close. Hiding place: Hell if I know. Newt: Sweet, friendly, happy kitty. The second! Happiest! Cat! Ever! Will let you rub his belleh ’til the cows come home. (Note to myself: Maxi and Newt need their own pages.) Holy crap! Sugarbutt and Tommy are turning two tomorrow! * * * I have mentioned many times, I’m sure, that I love the hell out of the Keith and the Girl podcasts. Last Thursday I listened to the previous Thursday’s podcast – show number 517: Justice – and it involved Patrice, their entertainment person. I think it made me laugh out loud about a hundred times, from the beginning where Patrice tells Keith he pumps his arms when he’s about to be an asshole, to the part where they were talking about “killing off” family members to get time off from work, to the part where they were talking about the woman pulling off her ex-boyfriend’s testicle (“That’s some gorilla strength, right there,” Patrice said.). If you’ve thought about giving Keith and the Girl a try, I highly recommend you start with that one, because it’s definitely an instant favorite of mine. During the discussion about “killing off” family members to get time off work, I laughed. I’ve never actually “killed off” a family member, but back when I was working as a motel maid at the Interstate Oasis in Brunswick* (now the Econo Lodge), I called and claimed that my grandmother was in the hospital because I’d been up way too late the night before. They believed me (or pretended to), I took one day off, and went into work the next reporting that she was much improved. I’ve never actually “killed off” a family member, though. *I’ll discuss more about this horrendous job in a future entry. Someone remind me if I forget to write about it. * * * So, I go to get groceries on Mondays – on my way home from the pet store – and Thursdays. It used to be that Fred would do the big grocery run on Saturdays, but he doesn’t like the “good” grocery store in Nearville, and the drive to our beloved Publix in Madison takes 20 minutes, and going there, getting groceries, and coming home, takes up more time than he’d like to spend in the car on a Saturday morning. For a few weeks he was stopping at Publix on his way home Thursdays, but I decided I’d just suck it up and take care of getting groceries all the time, since he has a job and I don’t. Anyway. Last Thursday I got a slow start and didn’t get around to leaving the house until about 12:30. If I’d been going to Publix in Madison this would have been a nightmare, because anytime after 10:00, that store is packed. I was going to the “good” grocery store in Nearville, though, and at its business time, that grocery store has less than ten other customers in the store. I headed out to my car, and saw that there was a cop parked across the street. There’s a street that comes out almost directly across from the end of our driveway, and he was parked so that no one could pull out of that street onto our street. I called Fred. “You suppose the President’s going to be coming this way to go to the nuclear plant?” I asked. After some discussion, we decided that probably he was, since there were only two ways through Smallville to get to the nuclear plant and our road is the bigger and nicer of the two. “Get the camera!” Fred said. “Get some pictures! No, wait! Get the tractor out! The president might want to stop and drive it around! No, wait! Make a sign that says “Free green tomatoes if you’re the president”! No, wait! Make a sign that says “Mister President, come meet Mister Boogers!” No, wait! Make a sign that says “Mister President, come admire our fine garden!”” I laughed. “Yeah, right.” I went inside and got the camera, then stood at the end of the driveway. For the next 45 minutes I stood in the hot, hot sun, talking to Fred. I snapped pictures of the cops up and down the road (crappy pictures, as it turned out), I snapped a picture of the helicopter flying overhead, and I looked down the road and waited and waited and waited some more. (Click on the small pictures to see the full-sized versions) Finally, I noticed that the roads were all blocked off, and a phalanx of vehicles were coming my way. First was a cop car. Then some kind of SUV – maybe staffers? Then a pack – a bevy? – of motorcycle policemen riding in some fancypants triangle formation approached. I snapped a picture of them, and then the one in front – apparently Very Important – angrily waved at me to get back. “Yeah well, fuck you, fuckhead motherfucker, this is MY PROPERTY and if I want to stand at the very goddamn end of my goddamn driveway, I will!” I yelled. Or mumbled under my breath as I stumbled over my own feet to back away from the road. One or the other. I didn’t actually see the president, as I was too busy trying to snap pictures, but I assume he was in one of those limos. And, the excitement over, I went to get groceries. * * * It should be noted that I am no fan of the current President or the current administration. I think they’re all idiots and I don’t know how it is that any Republican thinks they have any chance in hell of winning this election (though that’s probably just the optimist in me). But should the president have seen me standing by the side of the road, laughed out loud and said “Chillin with my gnomies! That’s an excellent t-shirt! Let’s stop and talk to this one!”, I would have fallen over in a dead faint and peed my pants, not necessarily in that order. Like him or not, he’s the President! Of the United States!, you know? And I would have been all respectful and everything. I know how to mind my manners, and telling a lame duck president you think he’s doing it all wrong is the epitome of wasting your breath anyway. * * * So, I went to get groceries. And though this grocery store – the “good one” in Nearville – isn’t that great, it’s good enough for meat, bread, eggs – the staples. I got everything on my list and stood in line, and as the cashier rang up my groceries, the shift manager was bagging them. “You know, I’m sorry John’s Momma died and everything,” the cashier said to the manager. “But he doesn’t have to be such a jerk to everyone!” The manager had clearly only been half paying attention, because her head snapped up and she blinked. “John’s Momma, what?” she said. “John’s Momma died, you know, I mean passed away, and ever since, he’s been a jerk to everyone, and I’m sorry for his loss, but -” “Wait,” said the manager. “John’s Momma? Earline passed? Oh my goodness, when did Earline pass?!” The cashier frowned. “Last week, Wednesday or Thursday I think, remember he was off through the weekend?” The manager stopped and propped her hands on her hips. “John,” she said sternly. “We’re talking about John HisLastName?” “Yes!” the cashier said. To me, she said “Debit or credit?” “Debit, no cash back,” I said. She punched a few buttons. “Angie, John’s Momma did not pass. I saw her last night at church!” The cashier stopped, her mouth hanging open. I’m sure mine was hanging open as well; I know I was leaning forward to catch every word. “But… I sent him flowers! And a card!” the cashier protested. The manager’s mouth tightened up into a tiny pucker. As I walked away as slowly as I could, the manager was telling the cashier how she was going to rip John a new one and then she was either going to write him up or fire him. Oh yeah – and Earline was going to hear ALL about THIS. That’s what he gets for “killing off” his Momma in such a small town, I guess. (I had to wonder whether John was a Keith and the Girl fan, and if he’d gotten the idea from their show.) * * * I got home from getting groceries, put them away, let the cats out into the back yard, and trudged out onto the front porch to put on my shoes for the trek across the yard to check the mail. Which is when I realized that the cops were setting up again, and I was all “D’oh! I guess he has to get back to the airport for his trip to Mobile for his big speech, so I guess he’s going back by here!” And I ran into the house to grab the camcorder, figuring that if I got a decent movie, I could pause and take a picture of any good frames. Except that the camcorder was not charged. So I hauled ass back into the house to grab my camera, and then stood on the front porch and waited for the procession. First, this cop came along on his motorcycle and yelled “Y’all, get back from the street!” to the people who were standing, um, by the street (there was quite a crowd at the church next door). And not a minute later the whole stinking procession came along, and this is the only picture I was able to get, STUPID HESITATING CAMERA. And that was the excitement for the week – nay, the month. The year? Whatever. * * * Is it just me, or do these look like weirdly posed scenes, like something you’d see in the JC Penney catalog? I imagine a photographer yelling “Frick! You WANT him, you want him with every feather on your body, but Sugarbutt! You don’t even notice Frick, you’re just standing there being beautiful. Be beautiful, Sugarbutt! Be beautiful and feisty and unattainable, and Frick! Want him! Want him badly, but sadly, knowing that you can never have someone that beautiful. He’s out of your league! PERFECT!” * * * Previously 2006: The meals sucked, but we got t-shirts that were pretty cute, so I guess it all worked out. 2005: Can I sue for emotional distress? 2004: No entry. 2003: I never said I had a long attention span. 2002: You can imagine the zany situations. 2001: No entry. 2000: Beggars can’t be choosers, I suppose.]]>

* * * I completely forgot to mention how my shitty Friday continued with the shittiness. I finally went to the mall and it SUCKED ASS because school is out and OY the teenagers and their wandering through the damn mall. I got home, got the stuff I’d bought out of the car, headed toward the side steps, and from the back yard came running Maxi and Newt. She had something hanging out of her mouth, and I thought “Ugh. Maxi’s killed another mole,” and walked by her. Then I heard squawking. And I looked over to see a baby mockingbird fall out of Maxi’s mouth, and it started hopping and flapping and squawking, and I sighed and said “DAMN IT.” I have a very strict don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy wherein if Maxi or Newt captures a bird or snake or mole or anything, really, and runs off with it, I don’t give chase. I figure it’s the goddamn circle of life and all that. But if they’re going to drop the small animal right the fuck in front of me, I’m not going to watch them kill it (unless it’s at least 78% dead already, of course) if it can be saved from the Jaws of Evil. So I dropped my bags and ran over, waving my arms and yelling “Drop it, Maxi! DROP IT!” (which was idiotic, since she’d ALREADY dropped it, and was just standing over it with glittery eyes, waiting for it to get tired so she could grab it up again), and then I pushed her away from it, and picked it up. It squawked once at me, and then just sat there, blinking at me. I went inside the house, picked up the phone, and called Fred. “I have a baby mockingbird,” I told him when he answered. “I have someone in my office and am in a meeting,” he replied. “Okay, ‘bye,” I said, and hung up. I eyed the pile of empty boxes in the corner of the computer room and considered putting the bird in a box until he either rallied and yelled to be set free, or died. And then Mister Boogers caught wind of the fact that I had in my hands a baby bird. He twined around my ankles, eyes glittering. “Oh Mother,” he said excitedly. “You have brought me a snack. Sweet Baby Jesus, Tommy, she brought me a snack!” Tommy ran from the other end of the house, followed closely by Sugarbutt and Miz Poo. They danced around my feet, meowing and peering upward, eyes glittering. “Cut it out!” I yelled at them. “Go away, you can’t have it!” The baby bird sat in my hand, not complaining, just staring at me the entire time. Finally, I decided to lock the gates to the back yard so Maxi and Newt couldn’t get in (yeah, I know they could TECHNICALLY climb the fence and get in, but so far they haven’t done that, so I’m not sure if they realize they can), put the baby bird under one of the trees, and hope he could either fly, or his Momma could help him find a safe place, or (as long as I didn’t have to see it), something would get him and it’d be the cirrrrrrrcle of liiiiiiiiiiife and all that shit. So I put him under the tree and went around to make sure the gates were locked, and from the other side of the fence Maxi and Newt eyed me with complete disinterest. I walked back over to check on the baby bird, and he was laying there so still that I figured he was dead, and I said with dismay “Awww, godDAMNIT.” and leaned down to look closer at him. Which is when he jumped up, flapped his wings, squawked, and ran away from me. “Good bird!” I said, clapping my hands like a freakin’ dork. “Good bird! Flap those wings!” He flappedsquawkedran again, and I decided to leave him alone. A few hours later when Fred got home from work, the baby bird was nowhere to be seen. Until the next afternoon, when we found it dead under a tree just outside the fence, loaded up with ants. Probably would have been less cruel to just let Maxi kill the damn thing. DAMN IT.

* * * Comments: Are you using canning salt or are you doing the salt-free thing? Until I got this comment, I had never heard of canning salt. I did a quick search and found that regular table salt has something added to it so it’ll flow freely without clumping up, whereas canning salt is pure salt. I used table salt in the batch of green beans I did the other day, but I’ll be buying some canning salt for future canning. I don’t believe in salt-free (and it’s such a small amount of salt added that I don’t think it’ll harm us). * * * what kind of canner did you get? We’re thinking about it, if’n it’s easy enough for us lazy types I got the All-American 10.5 quart canner. It’s a small one, because we have a ceramic-top stove and I was afraid to try anything heavier. I got the All-American because the gardening guru Fred consulted recommended that brand, and so far, so good! * * * Pressure cookers could — I’m *positive* — blow the roof right off of the house. There’ll be no pressure cooking in my kitchen. And canning… well, in my hands, canning would be a healthy serving of botulism just waiting to happen. Either that, or else the contents would expand and then the jars would explode and there’d go the roof right off of the house. Nope, no canning done in my kitchen either. That’s my concern, too, to be honest. I don’t particularly care for the idea of this monster pressure cooker (the thing is HEAVY) blowing its top, but I was careful to follow directions closely and didn’t feel like my life was in any danger at any point. And as far as botulism, that’s my fear, too. But I’m told that as long as the lid is down tight on top of the jar instead of bulging, it’s a pretty safe bet it’s not full of botulism. However, just to be safe, I think Fred should be the canned-food guinea pig. * * * Is that orange fur on Tina Louise’s belly (if so… CUTE!) or… something else?!? When we first got the kittens, they’d just been spayed and neutered a few days before. I thought that that orange patch was the stuff they put on you to kill germs before they cut you open in surgery (though whether they use that stuff on kittens, I have no idea), but it’s been almost three weeks, and the orange is still there. Either Tina Louise isn’t much of a cleaner, or it’s permanent. I’m hoping for the latter. * * * So the fact that you mentioned your laptop as a favorite toy, does that mean you got a new one? I was actually thinking about the old laptop when I said that, but yeah – I got a new laptop. It’s a ZT Affinity, but it may have to go back. We can’t get it online (Fred’ll be calling customer support this afternoon when he gets home), and what use is a laptop without being able to get online, I ask you? It’s got a 14″ screen, and it’s light as hell. It’s cute, but I’m not terribly crazy about Windows Vista at this point; I just may need to get used to it, though. * * * I can’t help but notice all the posts now ending with Sugarbutt – I imagine that Miz Poo must be insulted by this turn of events. Hate, even! Miz Poo is a luvah, not a hater. She understands that sometimes Sugarbutt is more of a camera hog than she is, and she also knows that she’s the special Princess Kitty and no one else can replace her. * * * I am looking for a cat tree myself and was wondering if you could/would recommend the person you bought your tree from? Think you could hook a sistah up with the name? I got my cat tree from Armakat, and I couldn’t be happier with it. I highly recommend the seller – I got exactly what I expected to get, it came quickly, and it was in great shape. Two thumbs up! * * * Question – The cat litter that you use, do the cats track the stuff all over the room? I have only one cat and and she tracks litter all over the floor when she pops out of the litterbox. I would like something that isn’t so messy and trackable. I’ve used a couple different kinds, but not the kind you recommend – yet. Please tell me it’s not just wishful thinking that they make something to eliminate this. I use Fresh Step cat litter (I also recommend the Arm & Hammer cat litter, but use the Fresh Step because it offers “Paw Points” wherein you can “earn” crap your cats don’t particularly need, and I am ALL about that), and I wish it wasn’t trackable, but it totally is. Half the reason I have to vacuum, at minimum, every other day is because the cats track litter from the laundry room into the kitchen, and then to all points. I’m not aware of any litter that won’t track as much, but my readers are awesome – I suspect someone out there has a suggestion on how to stop the damn cats from tracking litter everywhere. Readers? * * * The Spud? Has she moved out yet? I’m a stalker or anything, I was just wondering if maybe I could have her room. Hee! The spud is leaving in a little more than two weeks – her father is flying down here, and they’re driving to Rhode Island together (which is much better than her driving alone, believe you me!). You can’t have her room, because that’s going to become Fred’s room, and his room is going to become the guest bedroom. However, I’m suddenly struck with the idea of offering to let people pay to come stay with us in the guest room, feed the chickens, weed the garden, do the dishes and canning and blanching and freezing. I bet some city slickers out there would LOVE to pay for having to work their ass off, wouldn’t they? * * * Hey Robyn, I thought you and Fred would get a kick out of this: The Journal of Beatrix Potter from 1881-1897 “Sun, Jan.27, 1884: There was another story in the paper a week or so since. A gentleman had a favourite cat whom he taught to sit at the dinner-table where it behaved very well. He was in the habit of putting any scraps he left onto the cat’s plate. One day puss did not take his place punctually, but presently appeared with two mice, one of which it placed on its master’s plate, the other on its own.” That is the SWEETEST thing EVER. Gross, but seriously sweet. * * * Love the color in the laundry room. What is the color? This is the label on the can. It reads: Valspar One Gallon Signature Base 2 LA718 [Laura Ashley] Just Peachy Interior Matte 105-8 114-1X16 115-26. * * * Do your cats (not the fosters) let you pick them up and hold them? I have three cats and they love for us to pet them and they will sometimes grant us the honor of sitting on or next to us, but if we try to pick them up and hold them, they cry like we are killing them and wiggle and squirm and try to get away!(I still do it ’cause they are cute little squishy balls of fur who must be kissed and snuggled, but they don’t much care for it!) It depends on the cat. Spot would go immediately stiff and freeze in fear if you picked him up, so we avoid doing that – but he likes to be petted when he’s laying in a cat bed or sitting on the floor. Spanky doesn’t like being picked up at ALL. Miz Poo loves to be picked up and snuggled and kissed and will let you do it as long as you want, as long as she doesn’t have something better to do. Mister Boogers enjoys the occasional holding and snuggling and MY GOD does that cat adore being kissed on top of his head. He’ll let you hold him for a good long time, too. Sugarbutt doesn’t much care for being held – though he’ll tolerate it for a few minutes – but prefers to rub up against you and purr and be petted. I like to pick him up so that he’s in a standing position with his rear legs on the floor and kiss him on top of his head (which he likes). Tommy is very easily overwhelmed and doesn’t much care for being picked up. When he wants love, he’ll let you know (and then after you pet him twice, he gets overwhelmed and bites your hand, the bastard). Maxi likes to be picked up for a limited amount of time – usually when we walk around the back forty, Fred will pick her up and carry her for a while, and she likes that for a few minutes, then demands to be put down. Newt doesn’t like to be picked up at all, but he will let you rub his belly for sixteen hours straight if you’ve got the stamina to do so. * * * Which of your cats is the eldest? How old? Our two boys are now 17 and 15 … Candy, the 17-yr-old, is just beginning to show his age. It’s hard, like watching a beloved family member start to slow down – I’m not looking forward to the inevitable eventual decline. Have been googling “old age cats” and it sounds a bit grim. Spot (13ish) and Spanky (almost 11) are the two oldest cats. Miz Poo’s going to be eight in November, and the others are quite a bit younger. Spot is definitely showing his age; I’m fairly certain he’s got some arthritis going on, because after he’s been napping he moves so stiffly that it hurts to look at him. He’s still feisty and able to take care of himself, though – Maxi was in the house yesterday and got a little too close to him. He hissed and smacked her and she ran off because she knows better than to mess with Spot. He can be a badass if he needs to. * * * I love the paint color of the front room. Would you mind sharing what color it is and what brand? Thanks! The label reads: Valspar One Gallon Signature Base 2/ EB33-4 Celadon Interior Matte/ 103-20 105-2Y 114-24 * * * “Shocking Mr. Boogers” would be an awesome name for a band. AWESOME. I am tempted to go buy a musical instrument and learn how to play it, just so I can recruit a few other people and name ourselves Shocking Mr. Boogers. And now, ladies and gentlemen, what you’ve all been waiting for – SHOCKING MR. BOOGERS! [crowd goes wild] Awesome. I look forward to Shocking Mr. Boogers’ (though to be honest, it really should be “Shocking Mister Boogers”) first hit in the vein of Shock the Monkey – Shock the Boog. Shock the Boogie? Whatever, I’m sure it will RAWK. * * * Fred came in last evening after he’d spent an hour picking stuff in the garden. I had just spent an hour blanching and freezing five pounds of summer squash and was washing up the 63,000 dishes I’d used. “Do you like being a farmer’s wife?” he asked with a grin. I shot him a look that should have caused his brain to fry. “NO,” I said. “I probably would, if we could hire someone to wash dishes fourteen fucking hours a day so I didn’t have to!” Honest to god, I spend an amazing amount of time washing dishes, even on days I don’t freeze or can. The problem is that the dishwasher in the kitchen is tiny and doesn’t work all that well, so I could toss dishes in the dishwasher and run a load when it’s full, but then I’d be running the goddamn thing twice a day, and still have to wash some of the dishes by hand. I do not adore washing dishes, in case you were wondering. “Well,” Fred said. “At least it should only be for the next few months, ’til the garden stops producing so much!” And then I shot him another look that should have caused his brain to fry. Except that he’s got the thickest noggin this side of Ben Affleck, so my hate rays were deflected and singed some fur off Sugarbutt’s ass instead. * * * Pretty Toms. We call this his “sexy look.” It’s his default expression. Maxi and the Boogs, hanging out on the air conditioner unit. * * * Previously 2006: No entry. 2005: No entry. 2004: No entry. 2003: I know I did the same lazy-ass, stupid-ass shit, and in retrospect she didn’t beat me nearly enough. 2002: Fred: Hey. You’re married to an old white man. 2001: No entry. 2000: I’m having a klutzy day.]]>

Saturday was the maiden voyage of my pressure canner, and it appears to have been successful. “Appears” I say, because we haven’t actually eaten anything I’ve canned, because that would be kind of beside the point. We’re going to wait a week before we do that. I canned four pints of green beans (the fourth pint wasn’t all that full, but it was close), and found it easier than I expected, once the beans were all snapped and washed and ready to go. Which brings me to a question – what’s the difference between canning beans raw and canning them cooked? Doesn’t the processing actually cook the beans? Is it that you can fit more cooked beans in a jar, or is there some other reason? I know someone out there knows the answer to this – tell me what the deal is, would you, please? Also, while I’m asking, can you or can you not (har!) can summer squash? The Ball Blue Book doesn’t offer any information at all about canning it, only freezing it. And lastly, thank you to those of you who recommended the Ball Blue Book. When I got the pressure canner, I eagerly looked through the manual, and I got seriously worried, because it made NO SENSE to me at all. One look through the Blue Ball Ball Blue Book, and I knew exactly what I was supposed to be doing. It’s awesome!

* * * A few weeks ago I realized that I’d earned enough Fresh Step “Paw Points” to get a “snuggle sack” for the cats. So I ordered it, it came a lot faster than I expected, I took it out of the package, and left it on the floor near Fred’s desk until I could decide where to put it (probably the kitten room, I’m thinking). Now, the Snuggle Sack has some of that crinkly stuff in it so that when a cat climbs in, it crinkles. It sounds exactly – EXACTLY – like someone opening a bag of chips, and without fail when I first hear the noise I perk up and think “Who is eating yummy yummy chips, and why is no one sharing with me, and OH I hope they’re sour cream and onion!”, and then it is with great disappointment when I realize what I’m really hearing. “I are not a bag o’ chips, muthah.” * * * If that bit above isn’t enough to convince you that I have the memory of a goldfish (the joke being that they have such tiny brains and short memory that they spend their life swimming around their bowl going “Oh! A castle!… Oh! A castle!”, etc.), I had the following discussion with myself no less than three times in the course of one hour. “Oh, GROSS. What the hell is that, did Maxi kill a mole and leave it on the side step? I wish they wouldn’t DO THAT, now I have to go out the front door when I leave. Oh, it’s a leaf from the magnolia tree. Much better.” Three times in the course of an hour, the same conversation, word-for-word, I swear it. Finally I went out and kicked the leaf off the side of the stoop so it’d stop catching my eye. * * * The universe, it seems, does not want to let me get a single night’s sleep. If the spud isn’t calling me at 1 am to double-check her work schedule (AHEM, SPUD), the cats decide the middle of the night is an A-OK time for screeching and fighting and racing around and across my bed, or complete strangers are text messaging me. Last night (this morning) at 12:50, my cell phone beeped to let me know I’d gotten a text message. I checked to see what it was, knowing it wasn’t the spud, because she was at home, sound asleep. It was a text message from a number that was completely unfamiliar to me (though it was local), and the message read im so pissed off right now I texted back a succinct and to-the-point ? and pretty quickly got back sorry i texted the wrong number. As I fell back to sleep, I amused myself with the thought that I could probably have carried on a complete conversation with this person (teenager, I assumed) using only symbols. Such as: Them: im so pissed right now Me: ? Them: my parents are being ridiculous they dont trust me they always make me check in with them and they always make me run errands for them while they sit on their asses and do nothing Me: ! Them: i hate it here, this place sucks, i should just run away Me: 🙁 And so forth. * * * Spanky giggles evilly about his thievery of Sugarbutt’s favorite place to sleep. * * * Previously 2006: No entry. 2005: I’d say this country is going to hell, but that handbasket sailed a loooooong time ago. 2004: Yes. Robyn DID recently learn how to do popup windows. Why do you ask? 2003: Do I LOOK like an outside kinda gal? 2002: Which is when I realized that I’d actually dreamed the conversation and hug and kiss. 2001: No entry. 2000: No entry.]]>

It cracks me up every time I watch it.

* * * It’s 7:20, and my day hasn’t started out terribly well. First Fred left for work, then woke me up five minutes later with a phone call. “How rescue-y are you feeling today?” he asked. “I don’t know, why? What happened?” “There’s this little black dog at the corner of ThisRoad and ThatRoad (a four-way stop), and he’s been here for the past few days at least. I think he might be a dropoff.” “You don’t think he belongs to one of the houses around there?” I suggested. “There really aren’t any houses around there,” he said. “There are houses on the other sides of those big fields.” “Oh yeah. Well, he’s been right around the intersection the past few days, looking really confused.” “Well, what the fuck would we do with him?” “I don’t know, but he’s awfully cute. He’s little, but not a puppy.” I pondered for a moment. “Well, I’ll tell you what. I’m going to the mall later. I’ll bring some dog food and water with me, and if he’s there, I’ll stop and see if I can get him.” “Sounds good,” he said. I hung up, knowing that if it had been a cat, I would have been out the door before he could have finished telling me about it. But damn – it’s one thing to rescue a dog that shows up on your front doorstep. It’s another thing altogether to go five miles down the road to rescue a dog. (But you know I will if he’s still there later.) Since I was now wide awake, I got up and went around the house opening blinds. Sugarbutt and Tommy followed me around, eyes wide with anticipation, hoping I’d open the back door. I collared the two of them, plus Mister Boogers, and opened the back door, then went around the back yard, closing gates. I did a few more small things around the house and then checked on the cats one last time before I went off to take my shower. Took my shower, blow-dried my hair, took my vitamins, and then pulled the dirty sheets off my bed. I went into the laundry room to put the sheets in the washer, glanced out the back door, and could only see Sugarbutt and Tommy. I left the sheets on top of the washer, and stepped out back, calling for Mister Boogers. No Mister Boogers. I slid my feet into my garden clogs (still wearing my nightgown) and went outside, calling again for Mister Boogers. No Mister Boogers. I let myself out of the back yard (still wearing the nightgown and garden clogs, for I am a fashion icon) and walked over toward the house next door. In the past, when Mister Boogers has jumped the fence, that’s the direction he tends to go. I called and called and called in my special high-pitched Mister Boogers voice. No Mister Boogers. I considered going inside and getting dressed before continuing the search, said “Oh, fuck it. No one cares.” and walked around the front of the house. No Mister Boogers. I checked the garden, the wood shed, the ditch bordering our property and the church’s property, the front of the house, the side of the house, under the cars. No Mister Boogers. I came inside, got dressed, and grabbed my cell phone. “I lost Mister Boogers,” I told Fred. We talked while I walked around the house, around the house next door, around the garden again, checked in the chicken yard, checked the ditch and under the cars. No Mister Boogers. “Goddamn I hate his stumpy little ass,” I fumed to Fred. “I am NOT staying home and waiting for his stupid ass to show up! I have plans!” “Okay,” he said. “WHO READY FOR THE SNACKIN’!!!!” I bellowed, pulling out the big guns. In the back yard, Tommy ran full-speed toward me, eyes bright. No Mister Boogers. I walked into the back yard and Sugarbutt and Tommy ran around like their asses were on fire. Sugarbutt ran up the tree a few feet, then jumped down when I yelled at him. After some discussion, I decided to put Sugarbutt and Tommy in the house, close the back door, open a couple of gate doors, and unplug the electric fence so Mister Boogers could get in the back yard. “What if he doesn’t come home?” I said, teary-eyed at the thought. “If he doesn’t, he doesn’t,” Fred said. “If he wants that badly to be free, nothing we do is going to contain him.” “Fucker,” I said. “Maybe he’s off with Maxi and Newt.” “Well, if he runs across Maxi and Newt, he’ll be okay. They’ll take care of him.” Maxi does love her some Booger. “Let me know if he shows up,” Fred said. I hung up the phone, took one look in the back yard, and then sat down at my desk. I paid some bills, did a little surfing, downloaded some KATG. About ten minutes after I’d sat down, I heard a banging noise at the back door. The sound of a cat trying to come through a cat door and being denied, is what that sound was. I ran to the back door, opened it, and Mister Boogers came casually strolling through the cat door. “You,” I informed him. “Are a fuckhead.” Sugarbutt is desperate to get back outside, but that’s not happening again anytime soon. I think we’re going to let them outside tomorrow morning and set up the camcorder to see just exactly how Mister Boogers is getting over the fence. Once we know how he’s doing it, we can figure out how to stop him from doing so. I called Fred to let him know that That Boogery Bastard was home safe, then went into my bedroom to make the bed. I got the clean sheets out of the closet and started to put the fitted sheet on the bed. And there, in the middle of the sheet, was a great big birdshit. How I missed it when I was folding the sheets, I do not know. I have a feeling the universe is trying to send me a message, but I’m not exactly sure what it is. No doubt I’ll go to see if that dog is still at the corner of ThisRoad and ThatRoad, and I’ll either run it over, it’ll be dead in the road, or I’ll somehow manage to chase it out into traffic and get it killed. * * * The bastard sleeps the sleep of the bastardly. * * * (9:46 am) Edited to add: I drove to the intersection where Fred saw the dog, and saw no dogs anywhere. I went up the road a little, turned around, and still no dog. I went through the intersection several times and didn’t see the dog. There’s a construction crew nearby, so either the dog got scared and ran off, or ran home (I hope) or maybe they’re feeding and watering him. I’m going to the mall in a bit and will go through that intersection both ways, so I’ll keep my eyes peeled for him. Previously 2006: No entry. 2005: Oh, the hilarity that ensues when your car and foster kitten have the same name! I could almost hear the laugh track in the background. 2004: PMS, anyone? 2003: No entry. 2002: No entry. 2001:No entry. 2000: Charmed life, have I mentioned?]]>