Author: Robyn

kept it up even after I grabbed the camera. I’m still working on getting a Miz Poo movie together.

So, the point I completely forgot to make yesterday when I was talking about watching Out of Order with Fred: At one point, Eric Stoltz and Felicity Huffman – whose characters are married – are having a party. An Ecstasy party to be exact, because they’re screenwriters and doing research. So almost everyone at the party (there are 4 or 5 couples) gets hopped-up on the E and the women head out to the hot tub, naked. Naturally, the men follow, and after sitting in the hot tub for a while, they all head for the pool. It was then that I turned to Fred and said “You know, I have to confess that I’m glad I don’t know anyone who would be willing to come over and do drugs and skinny dip with us.” His response: “No kidding!” Repressed? Us? You know what pisses me off? Books like Rebecca’s Tale and The Little Friend, which are about a murder. You read the entire book, breathless with anticipation to know who the fuck dunit, and the author CRAPS OUT, and you never get to know. I HATE THAT SHIT. Before you say it, I KNOW that you don’t always get to know who the fuck dunit in real life, but I’m not paying $10, $15, $20 to wander around in real life. If I wanted to be in the real world, I’d put the fucking book down, wouldn’t I? I want some escapism, I want some entertainment, and I WANT TO KNOW WHO THE FUCK DUNIT. Argh. Last night while we were laying in bed talking, Spanky decided he was in the mood for some Mama love. Miz Poo was already snuggled under the sheets by my ankles, so he carefully walked around the lump that was she, and climbed onto me. I was laying on my side, and after doing some looking around, Spanky decided that he would be most comfortable with his ass as close to my face as possible, and the rest of him stretched out along my side and hip. He finally settled in, and Fred and I kept talking. For the record, the half hour we spend in bed talking every night before he toddles off to his own room is probably my favorite part of the day. It was almost bedtime, and then suddenly Spanky shifted and started wheezing. “Wha – ?” I began, and then I realized that he wasn’t wheezing. He was barfing. “Did he just BARF ON ME?!” I bellowed, and he jumped off of me and ran out the bedroom door. Fred turned the light on and we saw that, indeed, Spanky had barfed up a big ball of cat food and cat hair for a good 4 inches along the comforter covering my legs. He’s just lucky he didn’t barf on my bare skin, that’s all I have to say. Fred and Miz Poo have this funny game they play. Fred will wave his arms out to his sides and making a hissing kind of sound. Miz Poo, if she’s feeling playful, immediately runs into the library and lays down on the big platic Target bag we keep in there most of the time. She keeps a wary eye on the library door, waiting for Fred to appear. When he does, he waves his arms around and makes the noise again… ..and she goes as flat as a Portly Poo can. If Fred makes the noise again, she gets riled up. Sometimes… …she goes to the other side of the bag and goes flat again, as if we can’t see her big butt sticking up. If Fred makes the noise again, she might… …dig at the bag, trying to get under it and away from Fred. Eventually, Fred goes over to her and pats her, then encourages her to get inside the bag – which she loves to do – and then swings her around. You’d think a cat would hate being swung through the air in a plastic Target bag, but you’d be wrong. She loves it. (Unfortunately, I didn’t get any pictures of that part of the game) It’s much cuter in action, so I’ll try to get a little movie of it next time. 1. What’s one thing you’ve always wanted to do, but never have? I’d love to sky-dive or bungee jump. Maybe someday. 2. When someone asks your opinion about a new haircut/outfit/etc, are you always honest? It depends on whether it can be changed. If it’s a new haircut that nothing can be done about, I’d lie my ass off. If it’s a new outfit they’re planning to wear somewhere important, I’d probably give my honest opinion – pointing out that it’s just my opinion, and I’ve never been the most stylish gal in existence. 3. Have you ever found out something about a friend and then wished you hadn’t? What happened? Nothing comes to mind. 4. If you could live in any fictional world (from a book/movie/game/etc.) which would it be and why? Probably the world James Bond inhabits, wherein you can do all kinds of crazy shit and be okay at the end. 5. What’s one talent/skill you don’t have but always wanted? The ability to sing well. I mean, I can sing, but the paint peels off the walls when I do, so I try to avoid it in public. Is he a good boy? Why, yes. Yes he is.]]>

Pet store kitty pictures are here.

So Tuesday, as I was having my hair done, I chatted with the hairdresser. We were talking about the spud, and how she was out in California, but leaving on Sunday for Rhode Island and then a week later, Maine. “Does it ever get warm in Maine?” Ev asked. “Because you don’t think of it being warm up there, ever.” “Yeah,” I said. “It gets very hot and humid and sticky up there during the summer, and no one ever has air conditioning.” She nodded, and a few minutes later asked “Is there anything to do up there? Won’t she get bored? You never hear about people going to Maine on vacation.” My eyes bulged out of my head. “Well, yeah, there’s lots to do,” I said. “It is, after all, Vacationland.” She gave me a blank look. “That’s what it says on the license plate. Vacationland.” “Oh, really? Do they get many tourists up there?” “Uh, yeah. You could say that.” Especially considering how many times the words “Fucking tourists!” came out of my mouth when I was living up there. I guess it’s funny – she’s from this area, and can’t imagine why anyone would want to go to Maine on vacation. I’m from Maine and can’t imagine why on earth ANYONE would come to this part of the country on vacation. Tell me again how it is that I ended up living a zillion miles from the ocean? Oh yeah. About five minutes after I put up yesterday’s entry, I glanced out the front window, and saw an ugly, dark, scary-ass bank of clouds in the sky. The clouds were moving faster than I’d ever seen them, and it was extremely windy. I half expected to see a funnel cloud drop down at any second, but when I turned the TV on, none of the local channels had anything but a thunderstorm warning, and the tornado sirens weren’t going. Since I decided I wasn’t in immediate danger of dying, I did the natural thing. I took a picture. This is at 3 in the afternoon, by the way. A few weeks ago, I taped the premiere of the new Showtime series (or is it a mini-series?) Out of Order. I’ve loved Eric Stoltz since Some Kind of Wonderful (although he was a TAD creepy in Once and Again), and I’ve loved Felicity Huffman since Sports Night. Anyway, we were watching it, and after Eric Stoltz has been propositioned by Justine Bateman (don’t act like you don’t remember her from Family Ties. And if your response is “Family what?”, then shut up you little whippersnapper.), he picks up the phone. “All riiiight,” Fred said approvingly. “He’s going to call the one who wanted to sleep with him!” (Fred likes to pretend he’s a DAWG to get on my nerves. It works well, especially when I have PMS.) Only, Eric Stoltz didn’t call the one who wanted to sleep with him. He called the other one, the one he wanted to sleep with. “Why?” Fred said in disgust. “Why would he call HER when he’s got a sure thing with the other one!” “Because!” I snapped (PMS? Hi.). “He doesn’t WANT TO SLEEP WITH MALLORY, HE WANTS TO SLEEP WITH THE OTHER ONE!” Five minutes later, Justine Bateman’s boobs gave Eric Stoltz the eye. Fred squinted. “Is that Justine Bateman?!” As I smacked him soundly about the face and neck I yelled “WHY DO YOU THINK I CALLED HER MALLORY?!” Luckily for him, two days into my period the PMS is almost gone. For the first time in, like, forever, I cleaned the upstairs – INCLUDING DUSTING – and the downstairs – ALSO DUSTED – in the same week. Frankly, that never happens, and I’m starting to suspect they’ve replaced my Diet Coke with liquid speed or something. Not only did I clean upstairs and down, I also cleaned out the closet in the kitchen (damn did it get nasty), went to Wal-Mart for new litter boxes, and – are you ready for this? – cleaned out my car. Which, if I can go by the receipt for March of 2002, hasn’t been cleaned in a long, long time. It’s clean now, by god, and if I get a bug up my butt one of these days, I very well might actually take it to the car wash and even vacuum it out. Hell, I’ll probably even end up cleaning Fred’s Jeep before we go on vacation for the 4th of July weekend! Somebody stop me! Such a fancy thang.]]>

Playboy (last month’s or the month before, I don’t recall which), I have come to like Lisa Marie Presley. This surprises me, frankly, because I expected to think she was a whiny little brat. She’s not, though – she seems to have a sense of humor and doesn’t take herself too seriously. And DAMN she looks like her father. Who’d’ve thunk Elvis would be so good-looking as a girl? I’d even like to see her in concert, but she’s going to be in Maine when I’m in Alabama, and Alabama when I’m in Maine. Bah. It should probably be noted that I was certain, as a child, that Lisa Marie was my separated-at-birth twin sister, because in a picture of my father as a young man, he strongly resembled (at least to my eyes) Elvis, and Lisa Marie’s birthday is only about a month after mine. Too bad it’s not true – I could definitely have used some of those Presley genes. (Insert joke about how she got the “Young, good-looking Elvis” genes and I got the “Old, fat Elvis” genes. Heh.)

Fancypants, it appears, is missing. The last time I can definitely say that I saw him was Sunday night, when I got up to go to the bathroom and saw him laying in the chair in the corner of the room, which is an unusual place for him to lay. I may have seen him sometime Monday, but if I did I’m not remembering it. I didn’t notice that anything was amiss until last night around 6 when Fred said “Have you seen Fancypants lately?”, and I realized that I had not. It’s not unusual to go for most of the day without seeing him, because he spends part of his day sleeping in the guest bedroom, and part of his day outside wandering around the yard or jumping the fence to do god knows what. I usually catch sight of him when I go upstairs to take my shower after working out, and he almost always comes in and visits while we’re watching TV in the evening. We went out driving around last night, hoping to see him running fancily across a yard, or jumping over someone’s fence, but didn’t see a thing. As I told Fred, though, we don’t really know where he goes once he’s over the fence. He might stay in the back yards in our neighborhood, or he might cross the busy street our back yard faces to go into that neighborhood. We just don’t know. He’s wearing a collar (hot pink!) with his name, and our address and phone number on it, but it’s a breakaway collar, designed to come apart if he gets hung on something. Fred called Animal Control and made a report. They hadn’t seen any fancy black cats, but they’ll keep an eye out for him, and they’ll check with the guy who goes around cleaning up roadkill. Yeah, roadkill. I know it’s only been a few days, and I also know that cats tend to roam and it’s entirely possible he’ll come sauntering home in a day or so, but it’s hard thinking that he’s out there, possibly hurt, possibly dead, and just not knowing. I’ll say that I do rue the day that damn neighborhood cat jumped over our fence, and Fancypants was sitting there watching. I could see the light go on over his head at the realization that – “Hey! I don’t have to try to go UNDER the fence! I could jump OVER it!”, and there was no holding him back from there on out. There have, you’ll recall, been times when I’d have liked to toss Fancypants out the door, lock it, and never set sight on his fancy little ass again. But as much as I’ve hated the little bastard from time to time, I love him too. He’s the bad-ass kitty of the family, out tomcatting all night long, then coming in and making Tubby groom him all the live-long day, then swishing across the floor, meowing pitifully for attention. Mamas always secretly have a little extra love for their bad kids, and as much of a pain in the ass as he can be, I love to pick him, flip him over on his back like a baby, and rub his belly. And as much of a badass as he pretends to be, he likes to have his belly rubbed. Fred and I were talking last night, and I suggested that maybe Fancypants has become close to another family in the neighborhood and decided to throw us over for them. “Yeah!” Fred said with a grin. “They saw that his name is Mr. Fancypants, and said ‘Oh, we’ve GOTTA keep this cat! Poor thing! Who would name their cat Mr. Fancypants?'” Oh, I know it’s unlikely, but I’d rather believe he’s living like a king somewhere else than think of the alternative. I will, of course, keep y’all informed if we learn anything. ]]>

‘Twas a busy, busy day here in BitchyLand. I had a hair appointment at 9:30, then had to run to the post office (more about that in a minute), then get groceries, and run to Sam’s. At the post office, I mailed out the stuff people won in this week’s giveaway (don’t bother to go look, I haven’t put anything new up yet), and then checked my mailbox to find three – three! – packages for me. Well, the slips for the packages, anyway. In those three – three! – packages, in no particular order, were: Book marks and marble magnets made just for me by awesome reader Jolie! With smiley faces and everything! A big-ass box of candles, from Say’s store. And they smell absolutely amazing, especially the Almond Joy ones. Oh, and the Mulberry ones. Oh, they all smell amazing! I’d be burning one right now, but it would be overpowered by the smell of the red beans cooking, so I shall wait. She also stuck a fish-shaped Banana Kiwi soap and a pack of gum in with the candles. Clearly she’s been looking in my pantry and knows that I just opened my last pack of gum last night! Last, but certainly not least, from reader Suzette, along with one of the Bullshit! tapes (I believe that makes 4 lists who’ve finished with their tapes), a memo pad with an adorable kitten at the top. Love it! So, thanks Suzette, Say, and Jolie, you definitely made my day!

While at the post office, I was standing in line, filling out a couple of delivery confirmation forms. As I finished the second form, I heard one of the postal workers say “Next?” I grabbed my boxes and looked up, and as I stepped forward, this little old lady came out of NOWHERE, swerved around me, and stepped up to the counter. I stared, my mouth hanging open. “Did she just cut in line?” the guy standing behind me asked. “I’m not sure,” I said. “I just looked up, and she was there!” “She was over there looking at stamps a minute ago. She did – she cut in line!” he said, and then tsked in disapproval. Bitch. This morning, a moving truck pulled up to the house of the realtor who lives two doors down from us. The movers spent all morning moving furniture and boxes into the truck. As I sat in front of my computer, the truck pulled out, drove two houses further up the street, backed into the driveway, and now they’re moving everything into that house. I am oddly amused by that. “Oh me, I’m so bored. I think I’ll go sit on my plastic bag… Wait! What is that The Daddy holds?” “I don’t understand. Why would The Daddy put a paper bag on the floor and then walk away? Does he not understand the magic of sitting on a bag?” “I’m sitting, but the birds are chirping and distracting me. I don’t feel the magic. Where is the magic?” “Hmph. I’ve got better things to do. I’m outta here.”]]>

Spanky, who is a sweet little lovemonkey, will sometimes get in the mood where he’ll, while hanging out on the stairs, “talk” to you, as long as you “talk” first. So I got out the crappy old camera and made a movie. Ignore my obnoxious voice and admire the doofy-ness that is the Spankmeister, here.

I have been up since 6:30 this morning, because I wanted to lift weights before I headed for the pet store. Once I got home from the pet store, I rode my stationary bike, then cleaned the entire upstairs INCLUDING DUSTING, all before I ate breakfast. I even took time off several times to snuggle with Miz Poo, who was seriously needing the Mama love. At some point today I need to balance our checking account, which I’m not looking forward to. We use our debit cards for everything, and thus there are a zillion small transactions on the account that I have to go through and check off. I check our account online every couple of days to be sure I’ve entered everything in Quicken, and I rarely miss anything, but it’s such a huge pain in the ass to reconcile the account. I never get it right the first time, and sometimes it takes me three times through to get it right, which always pisses me off. Maybe I’ll just wait until the PMS days are past. There is a catnip-filled sock on the floor, and though I do not know why, I am somehow compelled to sit upon it. Look at my face. Do I look pleased about this sock sitting that I am doing? No. But I cannot help myself.]]>

his journal. The funny parts of yesterday: 1. We left the house about five minutes early so we could swing by McDonald’s for an Egg McMuffin and Diet Coke for me. After driving out of our subdivision, Fred took a left. “Did you check the forum this morning?” I asked. At the same moment, I saw a McDonald’s bag that had been tossed onto someone’s front lawn, debris scattered for several feet. “No,” Fred said. “How RUDE,” I said about the person who’d tossed the trash out their car window. “I checked my MAIL!” Fred said indignantly, taking offense at my attack on his character, and then added “There was none. Obviously my readers don’t love me.” It took me a moment to realize why he was so indignant, and then I laughed for a good several minutes. So did he once I’d explained it to him. 2. Dr. B came into the pre-op room where Fred was laying. After talking for a few minutes and drawing lines on Fred’s chest with a marker, he got to talking about weight lifting. Fred bragged about how he’d lifted 63,000 pounds that morning, and Dr. B shook his head admiringly. “Do you hit the weights that hard, too?” he asked me. I nodded. “Well, I can’t lift as much as he does, but I lift weights that are heavy for me.” Dr. B began talking about a conference he’d attended, where he’d learned that having your hormones – estrogen, progesterone, testosterone – out of whack could make it more difficult to lose weight, and that I should set up an appointment to have my hormone levels checked. We chatted about that for a few minutes, and then he left to go do his thing. Five minutes later, it hit me. I turned to Fred and said “I should have looked all offended and said ‘Are you implying that I’m fat, Dr. B?!'” Fred appreciated that.

Today, Fred’s been pretty much fine. His jaw hurts, and his throat hurts, and his back hurts, and if he moves like that, his neck hurts (and so he makes a point of moving like that as often as possible, so he can whine about it). We watched About Schmidt this morning (amazing movie. Jack is so very un-Jack-like, and if I’ve got Kathy Bates’s body when I’m her age, I’m going to count myself lucky). This afternoon, Fred asked me to drag the recliner into the living room, where he positioned it in the middle of the floor, freaking out the cats. He brought the Fanny Lifter in from the garage and placed it next to the chair, and then put all four (!) of the remote controls on it, as well as a cup of tea, and settled in. He finally decided that he was in enough pain to take one of the Oxycodone Dr. B had prescribed, and then snoozed on and off while I watched Far From Heaven (I liked it. Not loved it, but liked it.). After napping on and off for most of the afternoon, he felt better, and actually went out to the movie store to rent some more movies for us (Catch Me if You Can, Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back, and Focus). So now, you’re up to date on all things And3rson. 1. How many times have you truly been in love? I know that I’m truly in love now. In retrospect I’d say that I wasn’t really in love with the ex, but I thought I was at the time, so I think that counts. So, two. 2. What was/is so great about the person you love(d) the most? His sense of humor, his intelligence, his willingness to tell me everything, and his cute little ass. 3. What qualities should a significant other have? A sense of humor, and a sense of honor. A cute ass doesn’t hurt, either. 4. Have you ever broken someone’s heart? I’ve hurt someone’s feelings, but I doubt I’ve ever broken someone’s heart. 5. If there was one thing you could teach people about love, what would it be? Love is like oxygen. Love is a many splendored thing. Love lifts us up where we belong. All you need is love.]]>

The Devil Wears Prada, which I’m enjoying. Anyone who’s had an asshole for a boss would probably enjoy it – and really, who hasn’t had an asshole for a boss at one time or another? The thing that I love most about the book, though, is that it’s about the assistant to the editor-in-chief of a beauty magazine – and the author, Lauren Weisberger, was for a time the assistant to Anna Wintour, editor-in-chief of Vogue. Of COURSE Lauren Weisberger insists that the book is fiction, but I think we all know that that’s a load of crap. The best thing is that Anna Wintour – if she even gives a shit – can’t do anything about it. If she sues Lauren Weisberger, she’s as good as admitting that the boss from hell in the book is based on her. I’ll admit that the fashion stuff in the book goes in one ear and out the other. The most expensive item I’m wearing at this very moment would be my $20 bra from Lane Bryant (although now that I think about it, my Dilbert t-shirt might have cost a bit more than that), and I have zip, zero, zilch interest in Prada or any of the other myriad designer names thrown around in the book. Probably a good thing I don’t live in New York City, or work in the fashion industry then, I guess.

Pet store kitty pictures are up here. So, I was sitting in front of the computer yesterday afternoon – of course – while Fred was mowing the lawn. I glanced up and saw two birds, one of them definitely a robin. As I watched, one fed worms to the other one, and then flew off, probably in search of more food. The one who’d been fed just sat there, and I started to wonder whether it was a baby who’d fallen out of the nest. It wasn’t all that small, but it also didn’t look like a fully grown bird, either. Naturally, I grabbed the camera and crawled to the window. It stood in the grass for a few moments, and then hopped into the front flower bed. At one point it looked directly at me, but didn’t seem concerned to see me there. And then it settled down amongst the Petunias and glanced at me again. I’d decided it was a baby and opened the door to see if I could get any better pictures, and it flew away. I guess that answers that! At the pet store today, every cat I picked up and held licked the sweat off my face. I have no idea why I sweat so much while I’m there, but it absolutely runs down my face the entire time. Apparently scooping litter box, refilling water and food dishes, and cleaning out cages is more work than you’d think! Anyway, none of the cats have ever shown any interest in the sweat running down my face before, but by the end of today’s stint I was afraid I wouldn’t have any skin left, they were licking so vigorously. Probably the hormones. (Heh – Fred always says “You blame EVERYTHING on the fact that you’re about to have your period, having your period, or just HAD your period!” Well, duh.) We watched The Blue Collar Comedy Tour last night (other movies rented this week: Die Another Day, About Schmidt, and Far From Heaven. I watched Die Another Day with Fred the other night, so he’d damn well better watch Far From Heaven with me! Bond movies bore me to death, and I’m not sure why.) We’d only heard of two of the comedians on The Blue Collar Comedy Tour – Jeff Foxworthy and Bill Engvall – but the other two – Ron White and Larry the Cable Guy – were pretty funny too. We didn’t laugh hysterically the entire time, but there were several laugh-out-loud moments. The best part was at the end when all four of them were on the stage, and each of them took turns telling a story. The best by far was the story told by Ron White. I thought Fred was going to pass out, he was laughing so hard. Highly recommended, if just for that. Fred found the first Japanese beetle on one of the rose bushes yesterday. We’ve pretty much decided we’re going to yank the rose bushes up and put something else in their place. We like our roses, but it’s not worth having to spray poison on the bushes all the time. I fucking hate Japanese beetles, especially when they get CAUGHT IN MY HAIR. My sister Debbie posted in my comments the other day to remind me that when I was little, I was TERRIFIED of bugs of any kind. And I didn’t call them bugs – I called them “beechies.” Don’t ask me, I have no idea on earth where that came from. My mother tells the story that when we lived in Indiana, I ran outside to play. As I ran onto the lawn, a swarm of locusts flew up into the air and I shrieked like I was on fire and ran back into the house screaming “Beechies! Beechies!” So anyway, we’re probably going to have a landscaper come and suggest something pretty and easy to care for to put in the front flower beds. If y’all have any suggestions, feel free to post them in the comments, as long as the suggestion isn’t “Awww, Robyn, don’t rip out the pretty rose bushes!” 🙂 Speaking of flowers and the like, I planted yellowish Million Bells plants in pots on the front step. They’re looking good so far. “::gasp!:: It is The Momma! And she sees that I am outside!” “Quick! I must run for the door before she catches and beats me severely!” (Honestly, I have no idea why he thinks he’s not supposed to be outside, but he always freaks and runs inside when he sees us)]]>

AB’s got a couple of ADORABLE kittens up for adoption. I will not drive to Texas and get those kittens. I will not drive to Texas and get those kittens. 5 cats is more than enough. 5 cats is more than enough. (If I keep saying it, hopefully I’ll start believing it) And speaking of cute cats, Bonnie’s killing me with the great pictures of her gorgeous cats. Also, while I’m talking about urban legends and the like, I need to mention that apparently the Mate Match thing I put up last week is an urban legend as well. The only reason I know that is because reader Kinzie, among others, mentioned that they hoped the couple got the free trip. I decided to see if there was anything on WBAM’s web page, and imagine my surprise when I discovered there IS no WBAM in Chicago. WBAM is in Alabama. So I did a quick search on Snopes (which is The Shit) and found the page I linked to above. Ah well. It was still funny as shit.

So, right on track as we head toward the PMS Zone, the cats are starting to get wild, as they do every month at this point in my menstrual cycle. It’s got to be the hormones in the air, that’s all I can guess. They’ve started with the wild running-back-and-forth-and-back-and-forth-for-no-reason thing, and have begun picking fights with each other. I’m only thankful that we don’t have a full moon coming up until the Saturday after I start my period, because then they’d really be wild, running at walls and biting my ankles, and the like. This morning Spot – the most mild-mannered cat who will avoid a fight if he can (but if someone picks a fight with him, he’ll flatten them) saw Miz Poo walking across the bedroom. He went flat and crawled across the bed to the edge, watched for a few minutes, wiggled his ass, and jumped on her. That’s the sort of thing that only happens when those pre-PMS hormones are running rampant. Speaking of the cats, I’ve been singing a lot to them lately. I was brushing my teeth last night, looked down and saw Miz Poo, and sang “Pootin’ tiiiiime!” to the tune of Closing Time. Fred burst out laughing. The other night, I sang “Tubby, Tubby” to the tune of Monday Monday, and then “Every other cat, every other cat, every other cat in the house is fiiiine, yeah. But whenever Tubby comes, but whenever Tubby comes, you find me cryin’ all of the tiiiiime.” What? Are you implying I need a life? The spud called this morning. I talked to her for 13 minutes, and it was like pulling teeth. I did hear that they’ve apparently hit every restaurant in town, and that today is an R&R day. They went to Downtown Disney twice and are having a barbecue tonight. They’re going to make cookies. All of these facts were interspersed with long, long silences which I tried to fill by telling her about the cats or Fred or ask questions. Either she hates talking on the phone as much as I do, or she just hasn’t gotten the hang of it yet, I s’pose. “Hey, bebbe. Do you believe in love at first sight or should I walk by again? Rwowr.”]]>

I had a bit of a freaky experience at the post office last week. I had a card in my PO box indicating that I had received a package that was too big to fit in the box. I took it up to the counter, and handed it to the postal worker. He smiled at me and headed for the back to get the package. “Robyn, right? Box 565?” he said without looking down at the card. People, I about jumped out of my skin and ran away screaming. I’ve always thought I enjoyed a bit of anonymity at the post office. Like, they’d see me and think “Oh yeah, it’s her. She comes in here all the time.” Madison’s a pretty big town – it’s not New York City, but it’s a big yuppieville suburb all the same – so I never expected that, even though I do go in there at least twice a week. But knowing my name? And knowing not only my name but also my box number? Honestly, that startled the shit out of me. All I could do was smile blankly and nod. “I like to memorize names and box numbers, it saves time,” he explained when he came back with my box. “You must have a good memory – that’s a lot of boxes to remember!” I said. And then today I went to the post office again. I stood in line, and when it was my turn, the postal worker – a completely different one this time, might I add – smiled and waved at me. “Come on over, Miz And3rson!” he called. I think I’m going to have to move. (No, not really. It’s just weird, because I’m not used to it.)

Spanky sleeps soundly, unaware that his arch-nemesis inches ever closer. Will he wake in time to shoot a disgusted look over his shoulder and run away, or will he awaken to find himself Fancified?]]>

this, won’t I?

So this weekend was lovely and sunny and warm, and when the weather is like that, Fred always gets a hankering to go somewhere and do something. Saturday we drove up into Tennessee and stared at the Mennonites (Fred’s got an entry about that here – note that he didn’t give me any credit for taking every one of those pictures. Hmph.), then got Subway for lunch and ate our sandwiches at Davy Crockett State Park, before driving back home. And also, I was bitten by a mosquito while we were eating lunch, so I fully expect to come down with West Nile virus. In fact, I note that one of the signs of West Nile virus is headache, and I recall with horror that I had a headache this morning. (The fact that I was deadlifting 100 pounds at the time has nothing to do with it, I’m sure. I feel so weak and ill. I can barely see. Mother? I can’t see you…) Yesterday, Fred decided that it was a good day for kayaking. Since he’s been bugging the hell out of me to try it for myself, I decided that I would. We first went to Point Mallard, since Fred had some success kayaking there last week, and found also that the water wasn’t as scary as the previous places we’d been. We got there, headed to the bathrooms, Fred unloaded the kayak, and then we walked toward the water. Fred stopped and looked around. “There are an awful lot of people here,” he said. “Do you think it’s some kind of reunion or party?” I looked around and pointed out the “Cost Cutters Party” sign. He sighed and cursed everyone for not showing up BEFORE he’d unloaded the kayak, and we headed back to the Jeep. Not that there’s anything wrong with other people being around, but there’s NO way I was going to get in the kayak with people watching, and Fred wasn’t up for being an object of curiosity either. We drove around trying to find a place to put in the water, but had no luck. Fred got grumpier and grumpier, and threatened to just give up and go home. Finally, he had a flash of brilliance, and we drove back over the bridge to the marina. We found a fairly decent spot to put in, I put the lifejacket on, and Fred held the kayak so that I could get in. After a little while, I did get in, and then he pushed the kayak into the water. “Bessie,” he said. “I don’t see any boats, but in case any come along, what do you do if they go by fast?” “Scream and hold onto the sides of the kayak,” I said. I mean, duh. That’s an obvious answer, right there. He sighed and rolled his eyes. “NO, you turn INTO the waves, so they won’t knock you over.” Now, how motherfucking stupid does the man think I am? I DID spend an entire summer working on an island (bet that’s something you didn’t know about me, eh?), and one of the many things I did was drive a small boat back and forth between the island and the mainland every single day, usually several times a day. And if there’s anything I know about dealing with waves caused by other boats, I know that the best thing to do is hold on to your ass and hope for the best. Anyway. Fred pushed me into the water, and I almost immediately let out a little scream and grabbed onto the sides of the kayak. Those fuckers are tippy, let me tell you. If you shift your weight just a tiny bit to one side, the kayak is more than happy to tip in that direction and act like nothing would make it happier than to tip my ass into the water. I mean, I can swim and everything, but who wants to go into the nasty river water? Remember, I grew up near the Androscoggin river, one of the 50 most polluted rivers in the early 90s, and so I’m a bit prejudiced against river water. I paddled around for a while, out a bit, back in toward shore, a circle to the left, a circle to the right, and then I paddled back in and declared my kayaking experience over for the day. It was windier than we’d expected, and I felt that I was on the verge of being swept 20 miles down the river. Getting out of the kayak was an experience in itself, believe you me, and I’m certainly glad there were no people around to be amused by me. I don’t know that I really cared for being out in a kayak, but I’m willing to try it again. Any new experience is scary at first, after all. While Fred went out in the kayak, I sat and read until a guy towing a catamaran came along and asked if I wouldn’t mind moving the Jeep. I did, and not long after, Fred decided he was done, and we headed home. I’ve finally gotten around to moving my reading page over to robynanderson.com. It’s here, now. It took me all of about 5 minutes to do, god knows why I put it off for so long. Oh yeah. ‘Cause I’m a procrastinator! Speaking of my reading list, I note that after a kick-ass start in January, wherein I read 18 books during the month, my numbers have been heading downward, and in May I only read 11 books. (Yeah, I know. Y’all are saying “Bitch, I WISH I had the time to read 11 books in a month!” To which I say “Nyah, nyah, nyah. My life fucking rocks.”) I feel the need to explain that the reason my books-read number was so low for May is because I was trying to catch up on my magazine reading. And now that the spud is in California and then Rhode Island and then Maine for the summer (damn, the kid’s going to have some serious frequent flyer miles!) and I don’t have to do any of that pesky mothering stuff, I should be getting those numbers back up there. I know you were concerned. While catching up on my magazine reading (some of which I did this weekend), I came across last month’s issue of Playboy. (Did you know we subscribe to Playboy? Did you know that in fact, *I* subscribe to Playboy? Did you further know that Fred couldn’t be less interested in it, and that I get it for the articles, because plastic-looking women aren’t really my thing? Are you horrified and flocking to my notify list to unsubscribe? Did you know that if you subscribe or unsubcribe to my notify list, I don’t get an email, because I set it up that way?). In that issue of Playboy was featured Sarah Kozar, whom some of you might remember from Joe Millionaire. Here’s the thing. When I watched Joe Millionaire, I thought Sarah was a really pretty girl. I thought she was a tad bitchy, but very pretty. In all the pictures of her that I’ve seen since then, I’ve always thought she was gorgeous. But in her Playboy spread, she looked like a Barbie doll. All the character had been airbrushed out of her face, and she looked like a vapid piece of plastic. How anyone could find a picture of a bland, characterless woman – and we all know that her body’s been airbrushed to within an inch of it’s life, right? – sexy is beyond me, it really is. Which, of course, brings us to Carnie Wilson. I watched the 20/ 20 interview with Carnie Wilson Friday night, and it was interesting. Carnie always comes across as a bit flighty. I don’t recall exactly what her reasons were for wanting to be in Playboy, but I’m pretty sure it was along the lines of “I want to empower other women! To show them that it can be done!” (She also said “I’m not the Gastric Bypass Girl. I’m Carnie.”, and I’m going to save for another day my gripe about people who get loads of money to promote a product, and then whine about how that’s all anyone’s interested in.) Here’s the thing: I have no problem at all with women posing in Playboy, but if you’re going to do it, don’t pull some bullshit reason out of your ass to explain why. There are exactly two reasons for posing naked to be in Playboy: 1) The money, or 2) The attention. I guess there’s also 3) Because I believe it will further my career, but that really falls under #2, in my opinion. And, hell – I don’t think there’s anything wrong with posing for the money or the attention. If Playboy came calling and said “Robyn, we’re doing a series called Bitches of the Internet Who Write Incessantly About Their Cats. We’ll give you a million bucks”, I’d grab my suitcase and tell them to fire up the airbrush. It wouldn’t even take a million bucks, I’d do it for half that. Maybe even a quarter that. When y’all started emailing me and saying “Robyn, how could you do that? How could you pose naked like that?”, I would smile big, and I would say “I did it for the money, and I’d do it again. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get the pool boy to fish the Mercedes out of the pool again. Buh-bye.” I promise you – I wouldn’t blow smoke up yoiur ass about how it’s good for other women to see my plastic, characterless, airbrushed to death, because it would be INSPIRING for them. No, you’ll get the truth from me, I promise. During the interview, Carnie was shown several times recording a Diane Warren song, and at one point she sang something along the lines of “I don’t need you to tell me I’m pretty to know that I’m beautiful”, and what we’re supposed to understand is that Carnie’s a strong woman who has shed the weight and standing strong. But that’s not how she comes across. She comes across as someone who needs desperately to pose in Playboy so that she’ll get the attention that she craves so much, so that she can point to those pictures and pretend that that’s what she really looks like, and so that she can distance herself and almost believe that Now Carnie is in no way related to Then Carnie. And I find that sad.]]>