Month: July 2011

Thursday morning, I was laying in bed thinking about getting up (it was 6:00 which is plenty early for normal people, but I was still feeling like kind of a slacker. This is what happens when you’re married to someone who gets up at 4:00 on the weekend and acts like you’ve become a Bed Person in need of rescuing by Richard Simmons if you stay in bed past 6:23.) and the phone rang. I got up and ran across the room to answer it, dodging cats as I went.

“Well, I finally did it,” Fred said disgustedly. “I always worry when I have a bunch of stuff to get out of the car that I’m going to lock my keys in the car, and now I’ve done it.”

I stifled the urge to helpfully point out that if he used the remote on the key fob to lock his car, he wouldn’t be in this pickle.

I told him I’d look for the other set of keys to his car and call him back. I got dressed, went downstairs to where we keep all our extra keys, and started looking through them. I eventually found the second set of keys to his car, but not until after I’d dug through a pile of useless keys. We haven’t owned a Jeep in five years, but by god we’ve got three Jeep keys anyway.

I called him back and told him I’d found the keys. I don’t have a sticker to get on base, so we decided on an off-base location to meet.

“Can we do it later, to miss the early morning traffic?” he suggested. “Like, 9:00?”

“Sure,” I said. After I’d hung up the phone, I immediately called him back.

“Let’s make it more like 9:30,” I said. “I want to eat breakfast at 9:00.”

“Okay,” he said.

I went out and worked in the garden until 8:45, and then came inside to start making breakfast. While my eggs were cooking, I called Fred.

“Can we make it 10:00 instead?” I asked. “I just got inside and want to eat and then take a shower before I head over.”

“Yeah, that’s fine,” he said.

I ate breakfast, and then called him again. “Can we make it 10:30 instead? I need to give Miz Poo her medicine at 10:00.”

“Yeah, that’s fine,” he said.

I showered and dressed, puttered around the house, and then called him at 10:00. “I’ll be leaving here in about 10 minutes so I’ll probably be there more like 10:40. You want me to call you when I leave?”

He sounded weary. “Just call when you’re crossing Thus-And-Such Road.”

I called when I was crossing Thus-And-Such Road, and made it to our meeting place, and then I sat and waited. And waited. And waited some more. I didn’t know who was bringing him to meet me, or what kind of vehicle they’d be in, so I eyeballed every vehicle that came into the parking lot, and when there were no cars coming in, I checked my email on my phone. Then I played a little Snood. Then I wondered if I was in the right place.

About five minutes after I’d gotten there, a red truck pulled up behind me and honked the horn. I got out and saw that Greg had given Fred a ride.

We call Greg Fred’s “work wife,” which Greg (and, one assumes, Greg’s wife) finds hilarious. Fred and Greg are best friends at work, but never have any contact outside of work.

I handed Fred’s extra keys over to him, and we chatted for a few moments, then Fred thanked me, and he and Greg left.

Fred Anderson, you might not be surprised to hear, does not believe in public displays of affection, even if “public” is only one other person.

That night, I gave him all kinds of shit for not kissing me goodbye. (Not because it really bothered me, you understand. Just because I wanted to give him shit. It’s how he knows I love him.)

“I don’t believe in public displays of affection!” he pointed out.

“Greg was the only one there,” I said.

“Like I said! Besides, I didn’t want to make my work wife jealous by kissing my home wife.” He thought for a moment. “He chews tobacco, though. Kissing him would be gross.”

I said nothing.

“Um. Not that that’s what’s keeping me from kissing him.”

“I know. His mustache would tickle your nose, is the real reason.”

“Shaddup.”

Over the weekend, Macushla was adopted! He was adopted into a home with two young cats (1 and 2 years old), and I expect he’ll be a happy boy, since he gets along so well with other cats.

That leaves Maggie, Fergus Simon, and Declan who are still available for adoption. Ciara’s still here with us for a little while longer, and at this point I think it makes sense to just keep her here ’til the Spice Girls are ready to go. We’ll see.

The Spice Girls are going to be spayed tomorrow, so after that it’s just a matter of waiting until there’s room for them at Petsmart. They’ve moved on from their baby-round stage to their miniature cat stage. They should be hitting their ridiculously long and lanky stage any moment now.

It’s sad, how tense Ciara is.

So smug.

I adore it when kittens sleep flat on their bellies.

Cori, doin’ the smug thing.

I love her little sleeping face, obviously.

There are 14 cats in this picture, by my count.

Maxi, hanging out in the back yard.

Previously
2010: No entry.
2009: No entry.
2008: I am SO not crazy.
2007: Like mud with a soupcon of cat poop stirred in for good measure.
2006: No entry.
2005: No entry.
2004: No entry.
2003: If I were Jennifer Lopez, I would be VERY frightened at the thought of birthing an Affleck baby, if noggins like that run in the family.
2002: I mean, an online journal. Have you ever heard of such a silly thing?
2001: No entry.
2000: Okay, I just really don’t have anything to say today.

Sweet Miss Clove.

Ciara pretty much always looks appalled by whatever we’re doing. Even if we’re not doing ANYthing.

Ciara and the sparkle ball. Not very sparkly, though – the sparkly threads came off and were scattered from one end of the house to the other.

Declan’s smug little face.

“Soon… soon this will be over…” Poor Maggie, under a pile of kittens.

Cillian and Finnegan on the left, Clove and Cori on the right. Cilantro in the bed behind them.

Cori, sleeping but annoyed.

Cowboy Finnegan.

Cowgirl Cori. They’re exhausted from ridin’ the range and ropin’ cattle.

From her bed atop the kitchen cabinets, Stinkerbelle keeps an eye on things.

Including…

her true love, Tommy, who’s hanging out on top of the fridge.

Previously
2010: No entry.
2009: Not your average light and happy reading.
2008: No entry.
2007: Because then I’d probably poop my guts out, and that just wouldn’t be a pretty sight.
2006: I think I need a nap.
2005: 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. [I find it all cirrrrrrrrcle of life-y that it was about this time four year ago that Mia, from our first batch of foster cats, died.]
2004: She looked simultaneously confused and disgusted. “When do I eat CHICKEN eggs?” She wrinkled her nose.
2003: No entry.
2002: No entry.
2001: Sh’yeah. I’m sure Brad’s reallllly worried.
2000: Could that paragraph have been any more rambly and pointless?

If I had the slightest bit of drawing talent, I’d make a cartoon of myself with cats and kittens hanging off me in every direction, a cottage cheese container containing a stool sample (from a kitten, wiseass) in one hand, and a cat carrier in the other. I made so many trips to the vet last week with stool samples that I’m almost out of the convenient cottage cheese containers I use to carry them in.

Which reminds me – I find it very annoying that you can get single serving containers of nonfat plain yogurt but not regular-fat plain yogurt. I occasionally give cats and kittens dabs of yogurt with Forti-Flora mixed in. I don’t do it often enough to need a big container of yogurt, but I like to have yogurt on hand. What I ought to do, really, is make my own yogurt. But that seems like more work than I want to do, considering we don’t really eat yogurt.

I really need to get my ass to Kohl’s or to the mall and buy some decent bras. I have one that fits well, which I really only wear if I’m going out in public. At home, I almost always wear sports bras, because they’re so comfortable.

Okay, clearly I have nothing to say. Let’s move on to the cats, shall we?

As of last night, I can report that miss Ciara is doing well and should be ready to head off to Petsmart on Friday. I suppose I COULD take her today (adoption hours are held tonight), but I want to make sure she’s okay for real, and not just teasing me.

I can’t get over what a sweet, sweet girl she is. I think she got a little overshadowed by her brothers, and now that they’re gone, I can see what a gem she is. Sweet, friendly, playful, nice to other kitties. She’s the total package!

More pics from last week.

“Ya know, I was just LAYING here taking a snooze, and before I knew it, these little monsters had latched on!”

Cillian, keeping an eye on stuff.

Clove thinks about making a jump at Coriander. (We’ve been calling Coriander “Alice, Jr.” because Fred never learns any of the fosters’ names, so instead of continually calling her “The one that looks like Alice” so he’ll know who I’m talking about, I’ve resorted to “Alice, Jr.”)

Clove stole that toy from Cillian. He’s too gentle for his own good!

Oh, that little face. Couldn’t you just kiss her?

Snoozin’ Spicies.

Finnegan, watching birds.

If you’re going to look like a pouty princess all the time, you might end up with the nickname Pouty Princess, brat.

Fergus Simon, on the platform in the kitchen. Yeah, I’d say they made themselves at home while they were here.

Sugarbutt, always comfy.

Previously
2010: Random pics.
2009: No entry.
2008: No entry.
2007: Nest = empty.
2006: If you could possibly NOT lay three inches from me and spend 63 hours slurping on your asshole so that I am driven into a homicidal rage and forced to run you out of the room, I would very much appreciate it.
2005: They’ll be fine, they’ll be fine, they’ll be fine, they’ll be fine…
2004: And I’m not even a George Michael fan. Though “Faith” rocks the casbah.
2003: No entry.
2002: Fred: “It’s dick in your mouth good!”
2001: No entry.
2000: You know, life would just be so much simpler if I were already queen of the world and in charge of punishments and such.

I think I mentioned last week that as a direct result of my finding a Brown Recluse, we ordered a large number of glue traps to put in the closets and behind furniture?

Well, over the weekend Fred spent quite some time putting the glue trap boxes together (they come in a sheet of three, you separate them, and then fold each one into a two-sided box) and putting them in various places. Then he proceeded to check them every twenty minutes, all weekend long. He claimed to be relieved that we didn’t catch a single spider.

Which leads me to the question: where can I get tiny, realistic-looking plastic spiders? Like, a lot of them. A LOT. And if they look like Brown Recluses or Black Widows, so much the better.

We did some furniture moving on Sunday. I’d actually intended to move one piece of furniture (the desk in the guest bedroom) on Saturday, then the second piece of furniture (the bookcase in the guest bedroom) on Sunday so as not to do too much heavy lifting in one day. But I forgot about moving the desk on Saturday until it was late in the day, and similar to how I refuse to work out in the garden past 9:00, Fred refuses to do any heavy lifting that will make him sweat past the time he’s taken a shower.

So Sunday after I got up, I told Fred to let me know when he was ready to start moving stuff. The desk was pretty easy, because it’s really not that heavy. We carried it out to the garage and up the stairs to the top floor where we throw all our crap.

(When I am 90 years old and that desk’s drawers is loaded down with evil mutant spiders, the spud will thank me for tossing so much crap up there as she carts me out the door to the nursing home.)

Then I pulled all the books, DVDs, and CDs off the bookcase, and we moved it out into the front room. I dusted it, and put everything back. I was afraid that putting the bookcase out into the front room might make it look too crowded, but it doesn’t. It’s a big front room, and both bookcases fit on that wall quite nicely, with plenty of room for the cat tree between them. Now it’s set up so that the cats can jump onto the top of either bookcase from the cat tree, if they so desire.

(I think the dude from My Cat from Hell would approve at how much vertical space our cats have to roam. Speaking of, are you watching that show? Did you SEE the man DIG IN THE LITTER BOX WITH HIS OWN HAND? As someone who spends far too much time digging in the litter boxes my own self, I have this to say: he was going for the shock value with that move. You can see what’s going on in a litter box without having to DIG IN IT WITH YOUR OWN HAND. I don’t know – LITTER BOX SCOOP, perhaps? Ya think? Gah.)

The guest bedroom looks a lot more roomy now – there’s the bed, the dresser, and various and sundry cat furniture in there and not much else. I told Fred recently that since we’re housing cats in there more often than people, it was time to make more space so that if one of the little fuckers goes on, say, a pooping spree, I won’t have to move so much furniture to clean it up. (“One of the little fuckers” meaning one of the foster kittens. Not one of the occasional human guests who sleeps in there.)

I did have to take down the pictures that were hanging on that wall in the front room, though, so I need to figure out where to hang them instead. Maybe the hallway – those picture-hanging strips should work well for that, as for some reason unknown to me, those walls are apparently made of steel and I cannot hammer a nail into the hallway wall to save my life.

I also emptied out the drawers of Fred’s dresser, made him go through everything to decide if anything could be gotten rid of, and then folded the clothes that he was keeping, and neatly put them away. Then I cleared out the guest bedroom closet, and moved a bunch of stuff out to the garage. Friday night, I did the same to the hall closet. Fred’s been positive that we’re harboring at least 73 Brown Recluses in each closet, but I have yet to see another one.

I still have a lot more clearing and organizing to do. I’ve got empty boxes in one of my closets that can be broken down and recycled. If I’m a hoarder of anything other than cats, it’s cardboard boxes. I do a lot of online shopping, and stuff arrives in these awesome, sturdy boxes and I think “This is a GREAT box! I can totally use this box!”, toss it in my closet, and then never use it. I don’t mail out nearly as much stuff these days as I used to – haven’t sold any jam or hot sauce in months and months – so I think it’s time for the boxes to go. Joe Bob has his box in the dining room, there are a couple of boxes in the front room, and Spanky’s taken a shine to the box I put in the computer room for him, so I think we’re all set as far as boxes go, at least for the time being.

The great thing about using the cardboard boxes I get in the mail is that when they do get peed on or vomited on or whatever horrors the cats like to visit upon the nearest surface, I can toss them and replace them with another awesome box.

So I guess the theme for my weekend was organizing and cleaning. Maybe the theme for my week should be getting out the sewing machine and using up some of that cat material I bought a few weeks ago?

(Probably not, though.)

I delivered Maggie and her boys to Petsmart Friday morning. They were fine – they were a little confused about what was going on, but they didn’t howl all the way to the store as I’d expected. When I was getting their cages set up, they explored the cat room a little, and then settled back in their carriers and watched me work.

I ended up putting Cillian and Finnegan in one cage, Maggie in a cage by herself, and Macushla, Fergus Simon, and Declan in another. (Don’t feel too sad for them – they all get to see each other in the morning and evening when their cages are cleaned.) I gave everyone a last snuggle and kiss, and put them in their cages. Then I stopped to pat Maggie and thank her for trusting me enough to let me help her raise her babies, and ohhhhh how the tears came tumblin’ down.

None of the McMaos were adopted Friday, but I got the word Saturday evening that Cillian and Finnegan were adopted – TOGETHER! That makes me really, really happy. I told Fred of the adoptions, and then I started thinking about how I saw them every day of their little lives, and now I’ll probably never see them again, and got teary-eyed. But then I got over it, because those boys will have each other, and no doubt they’ll be loved to death by their new family.

I had originally thought that Ciara would be able to go to Petsmart tomorrow, but it’s been one step forward two steps back with her, so now I’m thinking she’ll be here ’til at least Friday. I hope she doesn’t forget her brothers and Maggie before she gets to see them again!

Like I posted over at Facebook, Ciara turned from a slightly standoffish kitten into a puppy overnight. She wants to follow me around, and when I sit down, she sits at my feet. She wants to be petted, and if I’m not paying enough attention to her, she howwwwwwls like nobody’s business. I wish she’d get over whatever it is she’s got (the vet was unable to find anything at all wrong with her) so I can take her to Petsmart and she can lovebug her way into a new home!

The Spice Girls don’t seem to notice that Maggie is gone. I’m sure they’d be happy to see her come back, but they’re pretty happy without her here – I’ve made a point of spending time just hanging out and petting them. They are such sweet little monkeys – and now that they’re all over two pounds, it’s just about time for them to be spayed!

Clove, nuzzling at Maggie. Maggie’s all “Please, is it time to GO yet?”

Snoozin’ Macushla.

Fergus Simon and his catnip cigar.

Cillian’s a quiet little observer.

That’s quite the little pile of kittens, no? Maggie’s under there somewhere.

I love how, over there to the right, Fergus Simon is straddling Declan. And in the middle, Clove is all “This bed of kittens is lumpy. I am displeased.”

Maggie’s all “I HAVE HAD ENOUGH.” The look on Clove’s face, there, in the middle, is cracking me UP.

It’s a Newtie in a box!

Maggie says “You about done in there? I’d like a turn.”
Newt says “You go ‘way. This are MY box.”

Previously
2010: No entry.
2009: No entry.
2008: I hate the fucking SHIT out of pattypan squash.
2007: “It tastes awful… chickeny,” he said.
2006: I thought I was going to die from the sheer annoyance factor.
2005: But really, is there anything less threatening than giving someone the FINGER?
2004: No entry.
2003: Ever have one of those days, or is it just me?
2002: He can’t close a drawer all the way to save his life.
2001: What next, I ask you?
2000: Surely y’all know me better by now?

Remember that kitten in the Bronx who needed a home? She’s got one now!!! Longtime reader Debra has adopted her, and has named her Lilith, and she will have five brothers and sisters to terrorize!

That is FABULOUS news, don’t you think? Yay!!!

So. The McMaos got a stay of execution. Or a stay of… adoptacution? In any case, they’re still here. Fred told me at bedtime Monday that he’d seen Cillian in the litter box and things were not as they should be. Then there was evidence yesterday morning that that was true of at least two or three cats. I told the shelter manager that I’d keep them here ’til Friday (I was heartbroken to have them for a few days longer, of course), and we’d see if it cleared up.

I was able to get a stool sample, and took it up to the vet’s office for testing. Word came back that there were no parasites, but they did ask if we’d recently changed their food, because there was some oiliness in the sample. Which is when I decided that it was Fred’s fault, because he’d had a tuna sandwich for lunch on Monday, and gave the liquid from the can to the cats. So I blamed him – and he blamed me for letting them have a couple of egg yolks. “They’re nothing but fat!” he said. (In my defense, there were no kittens around when I put the bowl on the floor; I meant for Maggie to have them because she’s always hungry!)

In any case, the fact that there were no parasites present was a good sign, and by the end of yesterday things seemed to be improving. We’ll see how things proceed, but I expect that Friday morning they’ll be going to Petsmart for real.

All the McMaos (and Maggie!) and all the Spice Girls, present and accounted for!

You see how one of the McMaos is stretched across the top of Maggie? Well, she was laying there letting them all nurse, and Sugarbutt came in. For some reason, he got too close to Maggie, and she hissed at him, and he hissed back. Maggie STOOD UP with that McMao on her back like she was a burro and he was her blanket, and she faced off with Sugarbutt. Sugarbutt backed down (you don’t mess with an angry mama), and she walked about halfway across the room before she shrugged that kitten off her.

OF COURSE I didn’t get any pictures of it.

Clove loves that Macushla.

I actually originally thought that both Finnegan and Ciara had perfectly pink noses, but as it turns out, Ciara has a bit of a freckle on her nostril. Too cute!

Note that her eyes have almost completely changed color. There’s just a rim of blue around the outside.

Vampire kitteh is HONGRY.

Cilantro (left) and Coriander (right), hanging out in the sunshine.

Newt loves the cat tree in the guest bedroom. And the cat tree in the foster room. Wherever there’s a cat tree, Newt loves it!

“Go ‘way, lady. Newt’s nappin’.”

Previously
2010: No entry.
2009: New peegs.
2008: No entry.
2007: What can I say? I’m a freak.
2006: If the vet tells me that Tommy’s overweight, I’m going to say, with great dignity, “We prefer to call him ‘portly’.”
2005: Mia.
2004: There were a couple of parts that had me laughing so hard I could barely breathe – especially the line “I see you have a little swimming mouse”.
2003: No entry.
2002: No entry.
2001: No entry.
2000: Have I ever mentioned that I’m kind of a dork?

Kitten in the Bronx still looking for a home!

Saturday morning I got up a little after 6, showered and dressed, and then started my usual morning routine, which consists of scooping litter boxes and giving kittens snacks. After I’d given the Spice Girls their morning snack, I start scooping their litter boxes, and found a spider running around in one of them. I scooped it into the bag I was scooping everything else into, and continued on to the other litter boxes.

When I was done scooping, I handed the bag to Fred and told him there was a spider in there. And that I was 99% sure it was a Brown Recluse. He took the bag outside, and looked, and then he scooped (with a litter scoop, not his bare hand, we’re not ANIMALS) it out onto the driveway, and we snapped a few pictures of it. Then I stomped it dead.

Since I thought it was possible I’d been bitten by a Brown Recluse in the garden a few weeks ago, I’d recently seen pictures of them. Which is the only reason I even considered it might be a Brown Recluse – not because of the “fiddle” on its back (don’t tell Fred, but I still don’t see a fiddle shape), but because it’s a particularly leggy spider.

Fred came inside and looked around online, and decided that it was, in fact, a Brown Recluse.

Now, okay. Brown Recluse spiders are scary and all. But the man has lived in Alabama his entire life – for several years in his father’s house, where a LOT of Brown Recluses were known to show up IN HIS BEDROOM – and never once has he been bitten. But finding out that there’d been a Brown Recluse in this house made him FLIP the fuck out, as if he suddenly had concrete proof that there were at least 50,000 of them living in the walls of our house, and every one of them was gunning for a big juicy bite of Fred Anders0n.

I think of it this way: the Brown Recluses have been IN the house whether we knew it or not, and neither of us was bitten until a few weeks ago when I likely jammed a feed bag up under my armpit and pissed one off. They’re not going to SUDDENLY start coming after us. From what I’ve read, as long as we’re careful where we stick our hands, we don’t need to be too terribly worried.

Fred, on the other hand, wanted to move all the damn cats to the garage and spray every inch of the house. And then he wanted to bug-bomb the house. Then he wanted to follow that up by maybe going through the house with the torch and burning anything that looked like it might possibly think about being a bug, in this life or the next.

We compromised. He closed the doors to my room, his room, and the foster room, and sprayed. I also ordered a buttload of glue traps, which should be here later this week. When they arrive, we’ll put them in all the out-of-the-way places where Brown Recluses like to hide, where the cats can’t get.

Pic of the Brown Recluse is here, since I know some of y’all would have the screaming tizzies if I posted it here.

YOU ARE WELCOME.

(Now watch. I’ll be bitten by seven Brown Recluses in the next week because I am not showing them the proper amount of fearful respect.)

If you haven’t “liked” Love & Hisses on Facebook, you might have missed my announcement Sunday night that the McMaos are going to Petsmart this afternoon.

Now, don’t give me the sad faces. Y’all knew this was coming. It’s time for those rambunctious, leggy monsters to go off and find their forever homes.

Maggie will stay here and recover from the three months of constant mothering and nursing, and eventually she will also go to Petsmart.

Today, when I’m not snuggling with and loving on those McMaos, I’ll be burning their baby pictures to DVDs to go with them to their new homes and making up bags of toys to send with them, too. This afternoon, I’ll be taking all six of them to Petsmart and getting them comfy in their new (temporary) digs. I’m keeping my fingers crossed that they all go to their forever homes very very fast.

Y’all feel free to keep your fingers crossed, too!

(There will be McMao pictures for the rest of the week, since I have so many left on my hard drive!)

I love my Declan.

Please, Declan. Try to relax. I hate seeing you so tense.

::om nom nom nom nom::

“Try it! It’s tasty. And good for you!”

::om nom nom nom nom::

The vinegar box from Sam’s: BEST. BOX. EVER.

I love Declan’s pretty white ruff.

Declan and Ciara, chillin’.

Cillian, taking up as much of the bed as possible. I love his little smiling face.

Miss Cori in the sun.

Smilin’ Joe. Have you ever seen a happier cat?

Previously
2010: Greetings from Maine!
2009: No entry.
2008: No entry.
2007: I like me a crisp pickle.
2006: One more year, and we get to move out to the country where we will hopefully be acres and acres from the nearest neighbors, and children will not treat our yard as their very own. One more year, one more year, one more year…
2005: I’m all about the quick and easy, wink-wink-nudge-nudge-har-har.
2004: If you set off fireworks for three hours straight, starting at 7:30, you are not only an asshole, you live near me.
2003: No entry.
2002: A bunch of links that are probably no longer good.
2001: Pictures from Maine.
2000: Unfortunately, I forgot that when I say things like “Let’s go skinny-dipping and watch the fireworks”, what I actually mean is “Let’s go skinny-dipping and watch the fireworks”, but he hears “Let’s go swimming naked and get frisky in the pool under the fireworks.”