Author: Robyn

* * * How much do I love you, my readers? My Tubby-loving readers, I guess I should say. I love my Tubby-loving readers a whole lot it would appear. Because not only did I take that awesome picture of Tubby and slap it on a t-shirt in Cafe Press, but I also ordered one to be sure that it printed out okay. And it did. Fred would like you to know he doesn’t usually look quite so crazed. And that I made him make a muscle to impress y’all. And then, in my Cafe Press store, I slapped the picture on everything from t-shirts to lunch boxes, and added $1 to the base price. Now, before you get all up in arms deciding that I’m a horrible money-grubbing bitch, let me tell you that any profits made from the sale of any Tubby-licious items will go directly to the no-kill cat shelter, the one we volunteer for. (I mean, I AM a horrible money-grubbing bitch. I just won’t be grubbing after this money.) I didn’t make any gray shirts available, because the gray will show through the white parts of the Tubby picture, but if you’re desperate to wear Tubby on your chest and refuse to wear white, let me know and I’ll make it so. Get your Tubby loot here. There’s also a permanent link to the ride under “other”, and when I get around to it I’ll add the link to the front page. Now, who loves ya, baby?

* * * Just so y’all know, the Libya/ Liberia conversation did not go ANYTHING like that. SOMEONE certainly likes to spin the words around so that I come across as a total clueless airhead idiot sometimes. Hmph. * * * I’m relieved to announce that my period has started (y’all KNOW you were sitting around saying to yourself “Now, when was Robyn’s period supposed to start? I forgot to mark the calendar…”) and the PMS is over for this month. I hate how easily I get teary-eyed when I’m PMS-ing. Tuesday night I was reading a book, and the main character and the man she loved fought and she left, and I was boo-hooing like you wouldn’t believe. Even though I knew they’d end up back together and happy at the end, I was still all heartbroken. And then I was crying because I was happy they were together and happy and living happily ever after. Thank god Fred goes to bed hours before I do, or he’d have been around snickering at me, because that’s just the kind of heartless bastard he is. * * * How to kick a sock’s ass. If it had an ass. By Miz Poo And3rson. First, you sees the sock in the distance, laying all innocent-like on the floor, like it’s not filled with the Evil Kitty Pot. Then, you runs over and sniffs on the sock. Like, sniffsniffsniff. Soon, your head fills with the craziness, and you knows that you gots to kick the sock’s ass, or it will lay there and fill the heads of the other kitties with the craziness, and then you’ll have to kick their asses, when you’d rather be laying around shedding all your hairs all over the place so that balls of the hairs form and become soldiers in your Army of Poo. Then you kicks and bites and kicks and bites and kicks and bites, faster and faster, your toes and teeth blurring ’cause you kicks and bites so fast, until the sock screams for mercy. When the sock is crying and begging for it’s life, you drops it like it’s a big ol’ nothing, and then you lay across it in case it tries to get you with the craziness again, and you lick your paw like licklicklick, so that the sock knows that you are the biggest badass in the whole big house. And the back yard, too. The End. PS: Send more catnip. But not for Tubby. Just for Poo.]]>

Lee Child book. ::sigh:: I love Jack Reacher.

* * * Fred reminded me last night that I forgot to tell a Gatlinburg story. First, some backstory. Since I’ve lost weight, I have started to sweat easily. I mean, I sweated a lot when I was at my highest weight, but I sweat far more now. I think it’s got something to do with sweat being your body’s way of cooling off, and as I’ve gotten in better shape, my body’s become more adept at cooling me off faster. That, or I’m a freak. On Monday mornings when I go to feed the cats at the pet store with Fred, while he’s doing the heavy work – the cleaning of the litter boxes and the scrubbing out of the cages. My job on those days is to refill the food and water dishes, and cuddle with the kitties. By the time we’re done, Fred is still perfectly dry, while I am soaked with sweat from head to toe. So not ten seconds after we stepped out into the warm, sticky, humid day around 10 Friday morning, I began sweating. Profusely. I was Albert Brooks in Broadcast News, battling a river of sweat. But at this point, I’ve gotten used to it, and tend to not even realize I’m sweating unless I reach up to scratch my forehead or push my hair behind my ears, at which point I realize a lake of sweat has taken up residence on my forehead and sent streams down my cheeks and neck. Usually I end up with a sea of sweat in my bra. Luckily, I wear cotton bras which are very absorbent. Anyway, I noticed fairly quickly on Friday morning that I was sweating, but since I had no napkins or tissues with me, I simply swiped my face with my hands and thought no more of it. Fred stopped in front of the Ripley’s Moving Theater and asked if I’d be interested in taking a ride. I said I would, and we stood in line. The woman in front of us, accompanied by a kid, bought two tickets. The ticket lady, with no comment, handed over the tickets and the 3-D glasses. Fred stepped up to the counter, and I stepped up beside him. “Two tickets, please,” he said. The ticket lady smiled up at him, and then she glanced at me. She pointed at the sign behind her, which had a list of restrictions – the usual “You shouldn’t ride this ride if you’re pregnant, have a heart condition, have a blood pressure condition, blahblahblah.” “You need to read the sign behind me and be sure no one in your party,” and here she gave me a significant look, “has any of the listed health concerns.” Fred blinked at her, read the sign, and glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. “No one does,” he finally said. We were handed our tickets and 3-D glasses, and Fred led the way inside. “What the hell was THAT about?!” I fumed once we were away from the ticket booth. “What, just because I’m fat she thinks I have a heart condition? She should be talking! She didn’t look all that healthy to me, either!” “Bessie,” Fred said patiently. “You’re covered in sweat, and you’re all pasty and pale. You look like you’re about to have a heart attack.” He grabbed my shoulders and pointed me toward a wall covered with mirrors. He wasn’t kidding. I looked like I was about to drop dead. But I felt fine, and I guess that’s what’s important. Although, my father used to say to me ‘Nando, don’t be a shnook. It’s not how you feel, it’s how you look! And roo look mahvelous! * * * My glads are continuing to bloom slowly. About 1/3 of the bulbs I planted put up a shoot about 6 inches high, and then turned brown. I’m guessing that they’re probably too crowded, and would have been happier in the ground. Maybe I’ll actually dig a bed next Spring for them. But then again, maybe not. I’d probably die from dehydration after about 5 minutes of digging. * * * We’ve started working our way through season 1 of The Sopranos . I’ve seen a few shows here and there, but Fred really hasn’t (although he can identify Big Pussy and “That Van Zandt guy”), and since there’s not a lot on TV during the summer, we decided to give it a try. So far we’re definitely enjoying it – though we were surprised to find that Tony Soprano seems to cry, or at least tear up, in almost every episode. Anyway, last night we were sitting in the living room watching an episode, when something out the window on the back patio caught my eye. I turned my head and looked. “We have a bunny on the patio!” I told Fred. We went outside to check it out, and he hauled ass across the yard, then sat under the tree and eyed us. Fred walked toward him and he hauled ass behind the shed and disappeared. We thought he might have gone under the shed, so Fred looked but he wasn’t there. We finally decided he must have gone through a small gap in the fence. Damn he was cute. I’d show you pictures, but I didn’t think to grab the camera. He was small, too – I don’t think he was fully grown yet. Cute as he was, I hope he takes the cue to stay out of our yard. I’d really rather not wake up one morning and find a half-dead rabbit trying to hop around the bedroom. I’ll point out that Fancypants has been gone for about a month, and in that time, there have been no animals brought into the house. Coincidence? I think not. I still miss his fancy ass, though. * * * “Meh. MEH. Meh!” Is it just me, or does Spanky look all miserable back there, all curled up into a tight ball?]]>

Meg, who made not only the one above, but also a second one, which will be up in a future month. Thank you to everyone who heeded my cry for help. Y’all rock, you really do.

* * * I forgot to mention yesterday that one of the things that REALLY pissed me off about the hotel is that, after we’d checked out, I perused the statement they gave us, and I discovered that they’d charged us $1 a day for the room safe. WHICH WE DID NOT USE, SPECIFICALLY BECAUSE IT WAS A BUCK A DAY, AND I CAN THINK OF BETTER THINGS (FUDGEFUDGEFUDGE) TO SPEND A BUCK ON! Clarion Inn & Suites, 1100 Parkway, Gatlinburg, TN. DON’T STAY THERE, PEOPLE! * * * I weighed myself an hour ago. I gained three pounds in Gatlinburg. THREE pounds – and I’m retaining water like a motherfucker due to PMS and sore muscles. Do motherfuckers retain water? I suppose they must. Everyone does at one point or another, I think. I am amazed that I only gained three pounds, because the amount of fudge that went in my mouth was staggering. It was a heartbreaking work of staggering fudginess, is what it was. Fred said “I feel like wherever we go in Gatlinburg and Pigeon Forge, we stop and get half a pound of pecan fudge.”, and that was pretty much the way it was. Here a fudge, there a fudge, everywhere a fudgefudge. This really belongs over in the weight loss journal, but I have to watch my language over there, and it gets tiresome. I just don’t love the weight loss journal the way I love this one. Three pounds! Three pounds! Plus, if I posted over there that I’d gained three pounds (and trust me, people – this is not real weight. This weight is from the water I’m retaining and the crappy food still wending it’s way through my system. This three pounds will be gone in the next week as I get back to eating right and moving my ass, I guar-on-tee it) I’d get a bunch of preachy emails. You won’t send me preachy emails, will you? Emails telling me to eat more/ less protein, more/ less carbs, that sugar is the devil, that I should stop drinking Diet Coke, that the dollop of ketchup I have every so often is the entire reason I haven’t lost any weight? Heh. I’m bitching about my weight loss journal behind it’s back! I hope it doesn’t do a Google search and find this entry! It might say nasty things in it’s entries about this journal, and start a flame war! Three pounds. Whee! I’m probably the only one you know who’s glad to have gained three pounds. Because three pounds ain’t ten, is why I’m happy. * * * On our last evening in Gatlinburg, after we ate dinner, we were walking back to our (crappy) hotel. I saw a store that looked like my kinda store, and so I told Fred I wanted to check it out. As soon as I walked through the door, I saw a big display with tons of bath bombs, in different scents and colors. I headed for them immediately, for I am helpless in the face of yummy-smelling bath stuff. I sniffed a couple of the bath bombs, and thought about buying a few so that I could take a bath when we got back to the (crappy-ass) hotel. And then I saw the price. Seven fucking dollars and ninety-fucking-nine cents. $7.99. For a bath bomb. I was so aghast that I actually went out and dragged Fred inside so that he could see the price. And also because I was sure that if I told him the price later, he would have scoffed. “$7.99 for a bath bomb? I think you read the sign wrong!” But I did not. Not at all. Not only were they $7.99, but lest anyone get the wrong idea about the whole thing, and perhaps think that $7.99 was the price for the whole freakin’ display or something, they made sure to add the word “each” underneath the price. Holy fucking shit. I was appalled and horrified, and most of all pissed off. SEVEN NINETY-NINE FOR A BATH BOMB. Bath bombs are made of citric acid, cornstarch, baking soda, oil, and fragrance FOR THE LOVE OF GOD. I was so pissed that even though there was a bunch of other cool stuff in the store, I refused to buy ANY of it. Fuckers. * * * Not the most flattering picture, god love ‘er.]]>

* * * One of the things we did while we were there was spend some time in Pigeon Forge. In Pigeon Forge there is a river, and on the river? Ducks, of course. I took way more pictures than that, but you get the idea. I so wanted to pet one of the babies, but they never got close enough. If you’ve read Fred’s entry, you know that he bought a bunch of obnoxious t-shirts. I only bought one, not particularly obnoxious one: There were t-shirts I really liked – one said, in tiny little letters, “Nosy fucker, aren’t you?”, and another said “Fuck yesterday, fuck today, fuck tomorrow, and fuck you!”, but I decided not to buy them. I love the word “fuck” (I know, you’re shocked, aren’t you?), but I do try not to wear shirts with the words “fuck”, “shit”, “hell” or “ass” out in public, because I don’t really want to offend any strangers. And god knows, there’s always someone willing to be offended. I did hit Magnet World, which was great. The magnets I bought: Hee! Milked in her pants! Please, a fat woman wearing yellow. How could I resist? I bought this magnet, because I knew that chat was French for cat, and thus I thought this would translate as “Lunatic cat” or “Crazy cat”. But according to Babelfish, it translates as “Whimsical cat.” Oh. Heh. Fred pointed this one out to me. Gotta love the Cartman. The store also had a Mr. Hanky to stick on the end of your car antenna. I was very tempted to buy it, but didn’t. And this is the magnet I dearly wanted to buy, but didn’t, because I knew I’d catch shit from either my parents or Fred’s for having such a thing on the fridge in front of the spud and her unsullied eyes.

* * * In Gatlinburg, there’s a store with any kind of jam or jelly or mustard or pickle you’d ever want. We bought a bunch of jams, various flavors, but what we didn’t buy: Hee! Is it adolescent that I think this is funny? Moonshine Jelly! I tasted it, and it had a definite bite to it. We were walking down the strip Thursday evening shortly after we arrived in Gatlinburg, and I sensed a smiley face near me. Not just one smiley face, actually, but many. I turned and looked, and found the mothership calling me home. The store wasn’t open when we walked by, so Friday morning we stopped in and looked, and there was a huge amount of smiley stuff. Anything you could imagine, they had. I could have gone nuts in there, but I limited myself to a couple of smiley cups, some magnets, a couple of keychains, some erasers, and some gumballs. Some of the magnets will be up for grabs at the giveaway page sometime tomorrow. While we were in Pigeon Forge Friday, I saw off in the distance a statue, and I got out the camera and snapped a picture for Say. It was out in front of a Corky’s BBQ restaurant. The picture didn’t come out that well, but when you’re going down the road at 45, that’s what happens. Better picture next time, Say, I promise! Speaking of restaurants, we ate lunch at The Alamo in Gatlinburg for lunch Friday, and then for a change of pace Saturday, we had lunch at the Alamo in Pigeon Forge. The Alamo has the best damn sourdough rolls ever, I swear. Oddly, The Alamo in Pigeon Forge was nicer than the one in Gatlinburg. So, that’s it. That was our vacation. I didn’t take a single picture of the mountains, though I did get a couple of other scenery pics. A Mimosa tree, and in the background, a wall of kudzu. I continue to be enthralled by the kudzu. The stream running through a cool little park in the middle of Gatlinburg. I continue to be enthralled by any bodies of water. Like I said, we’re very glad to be home. * * * Pet store kitties are here.]]>

February March April May June But I’ve run out, and need some new ones – not that the ones above aren’t kick-ass logos, ’cause they certainly are, but I’ve gotten used to having a new logo each month. The only rules are that the logo should have a white background, and if it doesn’t, it should have a border around it (like the one above), and be 400 x 100-150 pixels. That’s all – now get to work and send me what you’ve got! (Bossy, aren’t I?)

* * * Someone asked in the comments to yesterday’s entry (hi Amy!) how it is that we managed to get 5 cats to live in harmony. I’d love to say that we had some kind of trick to make them get along, but there’s really nothing we’ve done to make it so. We’d bring home a new cat and just kind of throw it in the mix. The other cats would respond by hissing hysterically and running away, then relax after a certain amount of time went by. There’s the occasional fight, but it doesn’t happen all that often. Maybe it’s just that their personalities mesh fairly well, or that most of them are pretty laid-back. Possibly it’s because all the boys know that Miz Poo will kick the shit out of them if they don’t keep cool. Whatever it is, I have to say that I’m glad we don’t have to deal with too much fighting. And speaking of cats fighting, I’m reminded of a story. This, I believe, was before Miz Poo joined the family, and it was definitely when we lived in the other house. I was sitting in the living room reading, and I heard the thump-thump-thump sounds of a heard of elephants running through the house. The sounds stopped, and then I heard a hysterically hissing cat. “Hey!” I yelled. “Knock it off!” Laugh, but that tends to break up the fights, maybe ’cause the cats don’t want Mama to come over there and break it up herself. A minute later, I heard thump-thump-thump-HISS!, a brief pause, and then thump-thump-thump-HISS!. This happened three or four more times, and I was just about to get up off my ass to investigate, when Spanky ran into view. Behind him were Spot, Fancypants, and Tubby. Spanky stopped, turned around to face them, and hissed hysterically. And then he ran off, with the three of them in pursuit. I did break it up, but I’ve never seen anything like it since. The cat fights in our house only ever involve two cats. I have no idea what Spanky did to piss them all off so that they ganged up on him. * * * There’s something new up in the crafty blog, if you’re interested. * * * We watched the last episode of Out of Order last night. It was a pretty good series – the only thing that sucks is that, given the way cable series work, it’ll be 2005 before we see any more episodes. I think Felicity Huffman poked my eye out with one of her nipples. I watched The Hours over the weekend, and at one point I paused the movie and called for Fred. “Who does she remind you of?” I asked, pointing to the screen. “The chick from The West Wing,” he said. “Well, no shit,” I said. It was Allison Janney on the screen. “But who else?” He couldn’t come up with an answer. “Doesn’t she look a LOT like Justine Bateman?” I suggested, and he immediately agreed. Allison Janney Justine Bateman Surely we’re not the only ones who see the resemblance? I think it’s the eyes. Maybe the lips, too. And possibly the nose. In other words, y’know, the whole face. * * * I’m sitting here with the windows in the computer room open, because the air conditioning was set on 70 (I turned it off before I opened the windows, so don’t give me shit, people), and I got cold. Miz Poo was sitting in the window watching the kids run back and forth, and then a mockingbird suddenly landed on the shepherd’s hook holding the hummingbird feeder, not two feet from the windows. He sat there for at least five minutes, chirping bitchily. I’m not sure what his problem was, but he wasn’t intimidated by Miz Poo at ALL, nor was he frightened when I walked up to the window and tapped on the glass. He didn’t fly off until I opened the front door. “Yeah, I see you, you portly little cat. You don’t scare me!” “You don’t scare me either, lady!” * * * So, we’re leaving for Gatlinburg tomorrow morning at 8:30ish. Since I have to go feed the cats at the pet store and then come home and take a shower and finish packing before we go, that doesn’t leave me much time for writing an entry. Lucky for y’all, though, I have plenty of CAT PICTURES, so I’ll slap up a pictoral not only for tomorrow, but also for Friday. You lucky, lucky people. * * * Snoozing on top of the monitor… “Woman, MUST you flash that friggin’ bright light at me every time I get comfortable?” “Yeeeees?” A little sun and a stretch. What could make a Poo happier?]]>

* * * I spent a good part of the day cleaning yesterday. I had Fred’s Jeep, since mine was having the oil changed and the tires rotated, so I cleaned it out, vacuumed it, and cleaned the dashboard. I filled about half a garbage bag with crap, and probably half a vacuum cleaner bag as well. In the afternoon, with Roseanne in reruns going in the background, I cleaned out the pantry (I’m an amazing pantry cleaner. Definitely do a good pantry.) and then the refrigerator. The house looks like crap, but the inside of Fred’s Jeep, the pantry and the refrigerator are stunningly clean and organized. Go, me! Speaking of my Jeep having the oil changed and the tires rotated, when Fred dropped it off at Firestone this morning, he asked them to please PLEASE try not to find $500 worth of work that needed to be done. Seriously, every time we bring a Jeep in, they seem to find almost exactly $500 worth of work that needs to be done. The Firestone guy took offense at Fred’s tone, but when he called later, guess what? That’s right, $500 worth of work needed to be done, but it wasn’t critical. Fred told him not to do it, and we’re going to take it somewhere else to be checked over. I can’t guarantee Firestone’s screwing us over, but it seems ODD that every time we have either of the Jeeps in for an oil change or something along those lines, it suddenly needs $500 worth of work. Bastards.

* * * And while I was cleaning, I finished organizing the spud’s room, and I’d like to say that without a whole pile of crap sitting in the middle of her bedroom floor, and without a pile of shoes she never wears on the floor in her closet (the shoes are instead hanging in an organizer, and ha! I’m so cute, aren’t I? Dropping five bucks on a thing to hang in her closet and organize her shoes? Because I think we all know that within a week the organizer won’t hold a single shoe, but instead will hold dirty clothes and dirty dishes and probably straight-out garbage, we know that, right? And I will wander into her room at some point, and I will lose my shit, oh yes I will, and the words “Fred works hard, and it isn’t so you can LIVE IN A PIG STY!” will surely come out of my mouth), without crap everywhere, and everything neatly put in it’s place, there’s actually plenty of room for the child to move about. Amazing. * * * I finally went and picked up my new glasses today. They called Saturday to let me know they were done and ready to be picked up, but I didn’t feel like driving up that way until this morning. The big pair – which I will probably use most often. The small pair. For those rare occasions when I have to wear glasses in public. Why do I look like death warmed over? Also, note that if you look closely, you can see the Zit O’ Doom on my left cheekbone. Every fucking day this month I’ve had a zit on my face. If it wasn’t on my nose, it was on my chin or between my eyebrows. Basically wherever would be most noticeable to the public. Do I get zits in a convenient place, where I could hide it with my hair? Why, no. Of course not, damnit. And do I cover it up with foundation so as not to draw the horrified stares of other people? Fuck, no. All that does is make it more noticeable, at least so far as I can tell. If people have nothing more interesting to look at that the monster-sized zit on my cheek, then let ’em look to their heart’s content. * * * Fancypants has NOT wandered home yet, but this picture’s been sitting on my memory stick, waiting to be put up for y’all to enjoy, so I’m going to do it now. “Hey… dude, move over, you’re too close to me. Dude? Dude! Wake up!”]]>

Fred’s book, and when the final changes had been made, I needed to print out a copy to send the printer (he’s getting a copy burned to cd, but needs the printed-out copy to compare to). Before dinner last night I decided to get the printing started, and asked Fred “How many pages do you print at a time?” The printer attached to my computer is the “good” one. “Sixty-four,” he said, as if it were the obvious answer. I looked at him, eyebrows raised, thinking “I’m a good printer. Definitely a good printer”, but said nothing. He sighed. “Because everybody knows that 256 (the total number of pages in the book) is 2 to the 8th, which is 2 to the 6th times two squared, which is 64 times 4, so you should print four blocks of 64 pages.” Of course.

We were watching TV Saturday night – World’s Craziest Police Chases (something like that – it was hosted by Sheriff John Bunnell (Ret.), anyway) on FOX, and I glanced up from my magazine when a commercial for Paradise Hotel came on. Now, I’m not really interested in the show and haven’t watched it at all, thus I don’t know anyone who’s on it. Someone’s face flashed across the screen, and caught my attention. “Hey,” I said to Fred. “That looks like the bug-eyed chick from Love Cruise!” Fred knew exactly who I was talking about, but hadn’t seen the girl in the commercial, so we forgot about it pretty quickly. It came on again during the next commercial break, and I made sure to pay attention. “That’s her!” I insisted. “That’s bug-eyed chick!” Naturally, I had to run in and look up the show online. Also naturally, I had to steal her picture from the FOX webpage and slap it up here for y’all to see. Ah me, I do love the Trash TV. Since for once Fred wasn’t in the mood to go kayaking or hiking yesterday, we hung around the house. I scrubbed out the bird bath (which I’d just scrubbed out two or three days earlier, but was already growing green crap) and refilled it, repotted a plant, did some straightening around the house, and he ran out to do some errands. When he got back, he announced that he’d rented a couple of things for us to watch – specifically the Band of Brothers dvd containing episode #9, which he wanted to see. Did he want to see episode #9 because I’d happened to see the last 20 minutes of it when it was actually on HBO, which I thought was just amazing? Why, no. No indeed. The one and only reason he wanted to see episode #9 was because Rachel Lucas mentioned it some time ago, and apparently her opinion on the matter is more important because birds of a political feather flock together. Hmph. (Amazing episode, seriously. If you can only watch one episode of Band of Brothers, stock up on the Kleenex and watch #9.) It’s pretty hard to take Ron Livingston seriously, though. Even in a serious role he always looks like he’s going to raise an eyebrow, smirk, and make a smart-ass comment. (Of course, that’s what I like about him.) Saturday, we did various and sundry errands, including running by Sam’s to buy some saltines (we were going to the park to feed ducks and geese and fish and pigeons, oh my!). While there, I checked to see if they had the newest Harry Potter. I’d meant to buy it during the week last week but never did get around to it. Sam’s had a copy, though, so we bought it along with the saltines, creamer, teabags, and hot dog buns (Sam’s is like that – you go in for one thing, come out with four. At least we spent less than $100, which almost NEVER happens). I like Harry Potter, but I’m not as excited about the new book as everyone else seems to be. I need to read it right away, though, or I’ll inevitably run across a spoiler telling who dies in this book, and the surprise will be ruined for me. I understand Harry’s much darker in this book. That can only be a good thing. Babies! You better believe I thought about sticking one in my purse and bringing it home with me… Another baby, and a big-ass fish. This guy came hauling ass up to us, demanding crackers. When we weren’t fast enough with the crackers, he’d start biting our feet. When he was done eating, he hauled ass away from us as quickly as he’d run up to us. Pet store kitties are here.]]>

The Amazing Race and work on a cross-stitch ornament. Then I DEFINITELY saw the difference – I could see! I could see! For the past few months I’ve just thought that the problem was that there wasn’t enough light in the living room, but apparently the real problem was that I was wearing a contact too strong for my eye. It was nice to be able to see all those squares in the Aida cloth without squinting and getting a headache.

I bought some bird seed yesterday, and it claimed on the bag that it was specifically designed to attract colorful songbirds. I’m not seeing any colorful songbirds out there aside from the same Bluejay and male and female Cardinals I always see. The Doves and Sparrows really seem to like it, though. I finished Pamie’s book at 1 am Wednesday morning. That I stayed up so late to finish it (I usually turn the light out at 11) should tell you that I liked it a lot. The only thing is (and this is my own weird fault, not Pamie’s) is that I spent a good part of the beginning of the book thinking “Okay, who’s that character based on? And did that really happen? What about that?” Once I forced myself to stop doing that and concentrated on the book as a book rather than a book-by-Pamie, I was able to truly enjoy it. I was glad to see the Little Wooden Hand entry, because that’s my favorite entry of all times. Definitely a good book. And definitely a Zany Chick book, no surprise there. I’m only appalled and horrified that I wasn’t mentioned in the book itself or in the acknowledgements. (You realize I’m kidding about that, right?) It could have used a little more Taylor, though. While I was in Target yesterday, I headed for the book section to see if they were carrying Why Girls are Weird. They have a whole Zany Chick section now (though of course they don’t call it that. I don’t know what they call it, now that I think about it. Maybe they DO call it the Zany Chick section! I need to copyright that phrase, no?) Unfortunately, although there were other Downtown Press/ Pocket books, none of them were by Pamie. I was disappointed, because I was going to make sure it was in the prime eye-level location, and if it wasn’t, I was going to move it so it was. Just doing my part to help out, you know. But I was thwarted in my attempts, and instead of raising a great hue and cry that they weren’t carrying the book, I was distracted by the funny greeting cards. I never said I had a long attention span. I dreamed two things last night: One, that we adopted 23 rats, each in its own cage, and didn’t know where to put them. Two, that there was a nuclear bomb about to go off, and I was knocking on Sundry‘s door to tell her, and she was freaked out and wouldn’t answer the door. I don’t know where the rats or the nuclear bomb came from, but I do know that Sundry’s latest entry was the last thing I read before bed last night. Just for the record, if there’s a nuclear bomb about to go off, I won’t be knocking on anyone’s door. I’ll be hauling ass for a bomb shelter. Not that I don’t love y’all, but you can save yourselves. Speaking of books (like I was a few paragraphs ago), upon perusing my reading list for this month, I note that I’m reading book number 19 for the month of June. I don’t know what that’s about – I don’t think I’m spending more time reading lately. I guess part of it is that I read a book while I ride the stationary bike 30 minutes a day (except for this morning. Sometimes I just can’t face the damn thing. I did lift weights, though, so shaddup.), and it generally takes me about a week to get through a book, so that probably adds to the total a bit. Zany Chick books make the stationary bike time go by faster, yes they do. 1. How are you planning to spend the summer? Doing what I usually do – working out first thing in the morning, sitting on my ass in front of the computer, and spending my evenings in front of the TV cross-stitching. Occasionally there’ll be an errand-running day. Next week we’re going to Gatlinburg (leaving Thursday, coming back Sunday), which will be a nice change. 2. What was your first summer job? My first job that was just a summer job (I’d already had two jobs – one as a carhop at the Hi-Hat Drive-In III (it was a restaurant drive-in, not a movie drive-in), and the other at McDonald’s) was on Malden Island, which is located at Five Islands, Maine. I was 17, and I worked in the kitchen house (the island is small with 10 or so summer homes, and there’s the kitchen house, which serves breakfast, lunch & dinner 6 days a week). I worked with the cook, Emily, and another server/ kitchen slave person, Chris. Chris and I switched off – one week I’d work in the kitchen, doing dishes and cleaning, and the next week I’d work out in the main dining room, making sure all the dishes of food were filled and there were enough clean plates and silverware for everyone. It wasn’t a bad job, and the people (with some exceptions – because if you have a bunch of summer homes that rich people from Massachusetts can afford, you’re going to have some flaming assholes. And if I could remember their names, I’d provide them.) weren’t bad. I was going to do it again the next summer, but decided I didn’t want to – because while it was a pretty good job (and the pay was good for a high school kid), it was hard being away from my friends all summer long. 3. If you could go anywhere this summer, where would you go? The Bahamas or Hawaii or the Caribbean. Are you sensing the beach-and-ocean theme here? 4. What was your worst vacation ever? The only thing that comes to mind is the time we drove – as a family, all 6 of us – from Maine to Alabama to visit my father’s side of the family. That much driving just sucks – and we didn’t even live where my parents live now, we lived about 6 hours north of there. 5. What was your best vacation ever? The first time we went to Gatlinburg. Because the trashy little gift shops rocked my world. Really, there’s nothing I could say to make this picture any funnier than it already is.]]>