6/13/11 – Monday

You know, I’m sitting here thinking, and for the life of me I cannot remember what on earth I did on Saturday. I’m sure there was housework and lots of snuggling with kittens, but other than that do you think I can remember a single thing I did? Not a one. Actually, that’s not true … Continue reading “6/13/11 – Monday”

You know, I’m sitting here thinking, and for the life of me I cannot remember what on earth I did on Saturday. I’m sure there was housework and lots of snuggling with kittens, but other than that do you think I can remember a single thing I did? Not a one.

Actually, that’s not true – I know that Saturday afternoon I could no longer keep my eyes open, so I lay on the couch and looked through magazines for a few minutes. I decided it was time for napping, so I turned onto my side and that was the signal to all 300 cats in the house that it was time to GET WILD. I had one behind my knees and one in front of my knees, and they were snaking their sharp little monkey claws between my knees to bat at each other. I put them on the floor, and one bounded up onto the back of the couch and the other settled on my hip, and they batted at each other and rolled around biting each other and occasionally me. I put them on the floor again, and they bounded up from the floor, did a half-gainer across my face, to the back of the couch, and back down to the floor. Over. And over. And over again.

Little fuckers.

So when they were taking THEIR naps at 5 pm (seriously, naps at 5 pm. Have you ever heard anything so ridiculous?) I went in and poked them and said “Are ya sleepin’, huh? Are ya sleepin’? Wake up, it’s TIME TO PLAY!” It was no fun, though, they just blinked at me and went back to sleep.

We watched the Coen Brothers’ remake of True Grit Saturday night, and it was really good. I could only understand about every third word Jeff Bridges (as Rooster Cogburn) said, but that didn’t affect my understanding or enjoyment of the movie. I recommend it.

Sunday morning I slept in ’til 6:15 (horrors!), and when I got up, I had to clean up a pile of cold cat barf in the computer room not two feet from Fred, who SWORE he hadn’t seen it. LIKELY STORY.

After an early morning cup of Diet Coke, I pulled on my gardening gloves and went out to work in the garden. We put down weed fabric between the rows of tomatoes, and then Fred hooked the sweeper up to the lawnmower, and I drove around and swept up the dried grass from when he mowed Thursday. As the sweeper filled up, I went over to the garden and filled up a bucket, and carried it into the garden and dumped it. When I was done, the weed fabric was covered in a thick layer of dried grass (and leaves, and god knows what else the sweeper picked up).

I know, I know. You’re all “But why did you bother to put the weed fabric down if you were going to just cover it with dead grass, which would effectively block weeds from growing? Why? Why, Robyn, why? And did you wear those damn BOOTS with shorts and a tank top, did you really?”

I say to you, YES I wore a tank top and shorts and BOOTS, because sneakers would have been filled with grass in ten seconds flat and also those boots are comfy and furthermore shaddup.

I say to you also that Fred erroneously told me that as grass decomposes it leeches nitrogen out of the ground which would make my tomatoes unhappy. HOWEVER. Last night I was questioning him further about this made-up sounding horseshit and GUESS THE MOTHERFUCK WHAT. He made it up in his own mind, and we didn’t need to put that weed fabric down, I could have just tossed that grass down on the bare ground and not have to pull the weed fabric up this Fall, and I tell you what, I will be CURSING HIS ASS when I’m pulling that shit up. Is what I’m saying. That fucker.

So it took me the better part of the morning to drag the sweeper in a most random fashion around our property, then dump it on the garden. I only got one row covered in grass clippings, but Fred mowed the back forty on Sunday. After the clippings out there has (have?) dried for the better part of the week, I’ll take the sweeper out there and I’m sure by the time I’m done gathering all the clippings from the back forty, I’ll have enough clippings (clippings clippings clippings) to cover the garden six feet deep in, y’know. Clippings.

Who won’t be weeding the garden this summer? That’s right, it’s us who won’t be weeding, WOOT.

(I hate weeding.)

Then I transplanted all my catnip from the pots they were growing in, to the empty raised bed I pulled the spinach and romaine from last week. I stood over my garlic chives and despaired about how they are spindly and useless and stupid and not growing worth a shit for some reason (fuckers). Then I went into the house, and by the time I’d showered and put dishes away, it was lunch time.

I didn’t do anything noteworthy (or that I can really even remember) for the rest of Sunday. I should probably go out and do something in the garden today but, eh. I don’t wanna. I suppose I’ll vacuum.

OH. I know what I did Saturday afternoon – I cleaned the piles of crap off the top of the dresser in my bedroom, and straightened out the two bookcases in my room. It makes a huge difference, at least to me. Seriously, I’ve been piling crap on top of my dresser for months now, and it’s nice to have it all put away and mostly organized.

A few months ago I bought a plastic drawer unit thingy at Lowe’s so I could keep all my kitten supplies in one place. Once I got it all organized how I wanted, I put the unit in my closet. Unfortunately, it gets really hot in my closets in the summer (and cold in the winter) and I was afraid that wasn’t good for the medication, so I moved it out into my room. It’s not the prettiest thing, but it’s behind the door and no one will see it but me (and Fred, though I highly suspect he doesn’t even notice it), and I’d rather be safe than wondering why the holy hell the dewormer (or whatever) I’m giving the kittens isn’t working.

So I’ve got it sitting next to the small bookcase that used to live in the bathroom, behind the door, and I also got all my cat beds and blankets straightened out into neat piles.

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“What doin’, lady?” (Declan, with Ciara and Fergus Simon behind him.)

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Declan, up close.

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Macushla, sleeping on the guest bed. Even though they have the run of the house during the day, they tend to return to the guest bedroom for naps, and of course they’re locked in there for the night.

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Pretty Ciara, giving me some sass.

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Cat bed under the human bed. What better place to sleep, right?

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Just checking in.

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So, Maggie has been doing more visiting with the Spice Girls. In fact, if I go upstairs during the day, she’s apt to follow me up and ask to go into the room with them. At first, I was like “Oh, right, she wants to eat their Babycat (food)!” But she really seems to enjoy spending time with them, has been letting them nurse for a few minutes at a time, and loves to groom them. She’ll spend half an hour or so with them before she starts sitting at the door waiting to be let out.

Friday night, we put her in the room with them overnight, and then Fred let her out when he got up Saturday morning. She moseyed out the door, went down the stairs, and sat by the guest bedroom waiting to be let in with her babies. If left to her own devices, she’s happy to split her time between the Spice Girls and her babies, so we let her do that.

I’ve let a few of the McMaos in to see the Spice Girls (limited, short visits), and it’s gone okay. Some of the McMaos are hissier than others. Cillian’s pretty laid-back. On the other hand, Clove went right over to Declan and tried to rub against him, and he gave her THE most offended look and hissed at her.

It was seriously cute.

I’m not ready to give the girls the run of the house just yet – maybe another week – if only because I’m afraid they’ll get pushy with one of the McMaos and then get smacked, and I’d prefer to have them just a bit bigger for that.

Speaking of size, the girls are currently weighing in at 1 lb, 4 oz (Clove), 1 lb, 8 oz (Cilantro), and 1 lb, 12 oz (Coriander).

Lita asked how old the Spice Girls are. They were about 5 weeks old when I got them, which makes them about 7 weeks old now. Their eyes still look really blue in the pictures I’m taking, but if you’re able to get a close look, you can see that they’re actually changing color. They still look bluish, but that’s mostly because they’re blue around the edges.

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“Wow, these mirrors are nasty.”

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“Seriously, you ever clean these things, lady? This is horrifying. I’m afraid I’ll get a disease next time I lick my reflection.”

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“Someone hand me the Windex!”

(YES, I clean those – in fact, I cleaned them before the Spice Girls moved into that room! But when they’re always touching the mirrors with their paws and noses and licking them, and sneezing on them, they get gross quickly.)

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Cilantro keeping an eye on the feather teaser.

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“Hi, Mama! Are you our mama? Will you be our mama? Can we follow you around and harass you like you was our mama?”

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Maggie remembers what she so loves about little ones: they can’t leave her tail alone.

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Comfy are we, little girl?

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Clove, rubbing up against Cilantro. I love it when kittens do that.

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Stinkerbelle in the evening sun.

Stinkerbelle pretty much lives on top of the kitchen cabinets (we call her our “house feral”). She comes down to eat, of course, and use the litter box and sometimes to look for her beloved Tommy. Lately, she’s been venturing into other parts of the house instead of spending all her time in the kitchen, because Alice has started hanging out in Stinkerbelle’s cat bed. I like that Stinkerbelle’s not spending ALL her time atop the cabinets, though of course she’s still up there a lot. You can pet Stinkerbelle if she’s in the mood to let you, but she has an extremely low tolerance for petting, and Fred is always getting a smack from her when he tries to pet her more than a couple of times.

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2010: No entry.
2009: They’re adorable; you’ll have to take my word for it.
2008: “This isn’t a bad movie,” Fred said at one point. “Even though Christian Haydensen is the worst actor in the world.”
2007: “It’s four tiny pink featherless baby birds in a nest that fell out of the chimney.”
2006: “I’d like to suggest, in the most non-harassing way possible, that we go for a hike after dinner.”
2005: Gives a whole new meaning to the term of endearment “Shithead”, doesn’t it?
2004: No entry.
2003: Still no Fancypants.
2002: What the FUCK is going on with Meg Ryan’s hair?!
2001: House hunting.
2000: Any way you slice it, it’s going to be one hell of a long drive.