Author: Robyn

spoke clearly. I can’t tell you how often I’m in a doctor’s office, and the nurse is over on her chair mumbling away and I’m just sitting there staring off into space minding my own business – ’cause I don’t want to eavesdrop on her talking to herself – and I realize halfway through the second mental verse of "Nine more weeks, nine more weeks, niiiiiiiiiiiine moooooooooooore weeeeeeeeeeeeks" she’s looking at me and politely waiting for my answer. And I jump and raise my eyebrows and say "Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you?", whilst feeling like an idiot. Have you noticed that I feel like an idiot a lot? With good reason, I’m sure you’re thinking. Anyway, after Dr. D checked out my ear ("Hey, there’s fluid back there…" "No shit, really?"), and I took a hearing test ("There’s definitely some hearing loss in that ear" "No shit, really?"), I was given three options – more antibiotics, leave it alone and see what happens, let them slice open my eardrum and suck out the fluid – the third of which there were two sub-options – have it done in the office while awake or have it done at the hospital under anesthesia – and I chose to have my eardrum slit open (okay, it’s a small slit) and have the fluid sucked out while I am blissfully unaware early Monday morning. (Wow, talk about your convoluted run-on sentence) Depending on the amount of fluid they suck out, she may stick a small tube in my eardrum, which will fall out of it’s own accord in a couple of months. Sounds like fun, no? Noooo, but better to be asleep than awake, thanks. I’ve always opted for general anesthesia when given the choice, because I’m a big scaredy chicken and the thought of being awake to hear them SUCKING FLUID OUT OF MY EAR gives me the heebies.Gah. Just thinking about it makes me wanna have nightmares. When they did the ultrasound the day before the spud was born and realized how big she was (10 lbs, 2 oz, thankyewverymuch), they suggested a c-section and gave me the option of local or general anesthesia. I had no desire to be awake while they were fiddling around in my insides, thanks anyway. The recovery was rough (my sister still tells the story about her visiting me in the hospital after I’d had the spud, and I was laying there chatting with her all perky-like, and without giving any clue to her that I was in pain, rang the nurse and asked for morphine) but to this day I’m glad I wasn’t awake for the event. Wasting time on IRC To present the banality of conversations on IRC, I present to you: The Great Eggs on Toast Debate Cbud: Okay, downloading a slow mail anyway. Cbud: And eating scrambled eggs on toast. **Cbud is now known as CbudEGGS
Robyn_: Don’t the eggs fall off the toast? CbudEGGS: I am eating them on a plate, with a knife and fork *DEric is hungry CbudEGGS: Like a civilised person Robyn_: You’re cutting your toast with a knife and fork? That’s like eating a candy bar with a knife and fork. CbudEGGS: Look, your eggs fall off the toast, mine don’t. Robyn_: I didn’t say my eggs fall off my toast. I asked if yours didn’t. CbudEGGS: Well, you asked in a way that suggested that it was a normal thing to happen. CbudEGGS: You American people, you eat doughnuts all day so you aren’t used to using knives and forks. CbudEGGS: or McDonald’s Robyn_: My eggs DO NOT fall off my toast, do you hear me? NEVERNEVERNEVER. DEric: My eggs never fall off my toast either. Awfully touchy, isn’t he? Anyway, the reason my scrambled eggs don’t fall off my toast is ’cause I don’t eat scrambled eggs on toast. So there. I noticed, as I checked my sitemeter stats this morning that someone had followed a referral from their stats back to the bookmarks page I set up for my own personal use. I can’t guarantee it, but I’m pretty sure I know who it was, and now I know where he works. I’d start stalking him but 1. I haven’t the energy to do the stalking thing, and 2. I’m not that kind of gal. Really, I’m not! Hey, he could do worse than to be stalked by me. He could be stoned to death by a group of thirsty monkeys. Tomorrow’s Friday! Woohoo! ]]>

know I’ll let y’all know how it goes. So, Mrs. Multi-Millionaire was on Good Morning America today, and it appears they’re splitting up. Shocker, eh? I believe I mentioned how unhappy she looked to be marrying the guy, and she confirmed that on GMA. I feel sorry for her, but Fred doesn’t, and said "Ya play with fire…" Heartless bastard. —–]]>

really short work week, and you sure don’t hear me complaining. My ear’s still bugging me, with that whole constant-static sound still going on, not to mention the unable to hear much out of that ear thing, so I have a doctor’s appointment at 11:15. The kitten has a vet’s appointment at 2:30, because her eye has been bothering her, but Fred kindly consented to deal with that appointment. Aside from that, I have to register my Jeep and Fred’s Jeep (which was supposed to be registered in January, but I obviously dropped the ball on that one), stop by Petco to pick up a bag of cat food, and rent Double Jeopardy at the movie store. There was one other thing, but I can’t remember what it was. Oh, well, can’t have been too important, eh? Remember when I talked about Richard Grieco being a dead ringer for the Grinch? (I’d link to the entry, but I’m too lazy to go look for it) Well, for your viewing pleasure, the photo comparison: That’s still not the Grinchiest Greico’s ever looked, but I definitely see the resemblance. Don’t you? So Sunday night I had to drive a fair distance to return the movies we’d rented for the weekend, and since I was going to be passing the Dairy Queen on the way home, it was decided that I would stop and pick up dessert. Things were going well – drove to the movie store, dropped off the movies, headed back for home – and so it was with a happy heart that I pulled up to the Dairy Queen drive-thru. When the person on the other end of the drive-thru speaker asked if she could take my order, I spoke clearly "I would like a banana pudding blizzard-" "What size?" drive-thru-chick demanded before I could finish my order. "Size medium," I said, and had opened my mouth to complete my order, when drive-thru chick decided that I was done. "A dollar four, drive up." As Fred would say, that just flew all over me (ie: really pissed me off). I fumed for a few seconds, then said "Fuckthis," and drove off. Would it have killed the bitch to make sure I was done with my order before giving me the total? I wasn’t doing the dumbass thing that far too many people do, which is to hesitate for a full minute before continuing on with their order. She didn’t give me half a second to finish, fer godssake. And yes, I know she was probably really busy, but I worked the drive-thru at McDonald’s for three years (ask me about my horror stories), and I never cut off a customer. Sure, I made faces at the drive-thru speaker, and muttered "Come ON already, it’s the same freakin’ menu that’s always there," but cutting them off? Never ever. The manager of the moment would have kicked my ass. Speaking of drive-thru idiots, I hit McDonald’s this morning (and with the horror stories I have, it’s incredible I ever eat from any fast food place ever) for a sausage mcmuffin with egg, hash brown, and large coke. Simple order, right? Well, apparently "coke" sounded like "coffee" to the Einstein taking my order. How is that possible? They’re two completely different words, the only similarity being the "c" at the beginning. Cohk and cawfee. Idiots. The worst part is that I didn’t realize it was coffee until halfway back to the office. Grrr. I finally got off my butt this weekend and paid the bills. While I was paying the phone bill ($130 this month, and that’s for three separate lines and only four short long-distance calls. Am I wrong, or is that an incredible amount of money to pay for three basic phone lines?) I noticed that we pay $3 a month for the privilege of being unlisted. Isn’t that odd? Instead of charging people to be listed, they charge people to not be listed. It’s like if you went into a clothing store and they said "Okay, you don’t want that shirt? That’ll be $50 to not buy it." I hate talking on the phone, have I ever mentioned that? I’m a blithering idiot on the phone, and it amazes me that I’ve held so many jobs where the main responsibility was taking calls. At home when it rings, it’s always up to Fred to answer it, because I let the answering machine pick up. When he’s not home at all, I check the caller id before picking up the phone, and if it’s anyone other than him (he?) or the spud’s school, I don’t bother to pick up the phone. That’s just the kind of anti-social gal I am. —–]]>

So, you must be wondering, what did you do this weekend, Robyn? Oh, this and that. I got groceries, did some laundry, watched a movie or two with Fred, and drove my new vehicle around a bit. Drove your new vehicle around? Bitch. Yes, Fred got a bonus at work Friday, and went car-shopping for many many hours Saturday morning, before coming home with this, my new (used) ’97 Jeep Grand Cherokee. I had talked about wanting a Camry, but he proclaimed that it was like a tin can, and I’d be crushed in an instant by all the SUVs in the area, so he selfishly bought me the much more expensive Jeep. And compared to the damn truck I was previously driving, I like it a lot. Am I a spoiled rotten wife, or what? Speaking of his spoiling me rotten, Fred did get enough emails to convince him to make the Do you see what I see? wav, and decided he needed a Singalodeon to help him make it. He found one on Ebay, and it’s on the way, so the .wav should be up in the next week or so. I read Heather’s latest entry, about her talking in her sleep to her husband. It made me guffaw. Loudly. Situations where people talk in their sleep has always amused the hell out of me. Once, a couple of years ago, Fred and I were laying in bed drifting off to sleep, and he said "Oh, guess what?" in a semi-excited I can’t believe I forgot to tell you this voice. I perked right up and turned over to look at him. "What?" I said, because good gossip is, to me, like nectar from the gods. In response, he snored loudly. Another time, we were laying in bed (yes we do that a lot, have you noticed?) talking about his friends, a couple who lived in the apartment above him. He had just found out that the wife had had a miscarriage, and he was worried about what to say when next he saw them. "That’s going to be an awkward situation," he said, and in the next instant let out a loud snore. Obviously, the awkwardness of the situation was troubling him deeply. When I was a kid, my cousin Craig woke up in the middle of the night, went out to the kitchen, sat down at the table, and started banging his hand on the table, declaring loudly that he wanted something to eat. When told about it the next morning, he didn’t believe it had happened. I could go on, but I won’t bore you with any more anecdotes from the Life O’ Bitchypoo this time. The house is looking particularly good this week. I don’t think I mentioned it, but the lady who used to clean our house, Summer, quit because she has two small kids at home, and wasn’t making enough money cleaning houses for it to be worth it. They replaced Summer with Kim, who just didn’t do as good a job. Little things, like not cleaning around the litter box, and not cleaning the inside of the microwave. This past Thursday, Kim’s kid was sick, so they sent Carolyn instead, and let me just say hallelujah, brothers and sisters! It was like having Summer back again. Fred promptly called the lady who owns the cleaning service and asked if Carolyn could be our permanent cleaner. Do you see, people? Do you see why I love that man so? In an instance where I would have just kept quiet and let Kim come week after week and do less-than-stellar job, he stepped up to the plate and made that crucial call (because he knows I don’t like talking to people on the phone, and I would worry about Kim’s feelings getting hurt), without even hesitating. He’s mine, y’all. Keep your mitts off. —–]]>

ER last night? I knew Lucy was going to die – I heard it on the radio a couple of weeks ago – but that didn’t stop me from tearing up like a big baby when she actually did. It was great to see Dr. Romano’s somewhat-human side. Have I mentioned that I really, really, really like Dr. Romano? I’m always drawn to the asses, it would appear. Fred and I always refer to him as "Bulldog", originally because he resembled Bulldog on Frasier, and then because he really is a little bulldog. I’d do him in a heartbeat, I would. Well, except he’d probably be bossy in bed. Or maybe he’s one of those guys who’s bossy in life, but wants to be tied up and whipped when it comes to sex. Ooh. Or maybe, just maybe, he’s a fictional fucking character, Robyn you fucking freak. That right there could lessen my chances of having sex with him, I s’pose. So this morning, whilst not fending off calls from clueless telemarketers, I spent a goodly amount of time adding a page to my site listing all my bookmarks. My Netscape is acting freaky as shit, and I’m tired of transferring my bookmarks from Internet Explorer to Netscape and back again once I realize how much Netscape sucks. Therefore, I created a page I can open, and follow links to my favorite sites. I’d put the url here, but I’m not all that keen on y’all checking out my bookmarks page and laughing at the erotica sites I surf to upon occasion. Yes, I am a bad, bad girl. Spank me? JUST KIDDING. Calm yourselves, people. Since Fred is out of the office today and the people in the channel we hang out on on IRC noticed he wasn’t around. Someone, who’s been looking for him for a week or so, asked me to pass on a message. I agreed, and the guy started discussing programming issues with me, talking (or typing) as if I had the slightest clue what he was talking about. Fred and I hang out in a programming channel, but I’m not a programmer, and all the programming chat goes right over my head. Everyone knows this, including the guy who wanted me to pass on his message, and yet he would say something geeky and then wait for an equally geeky reply from me. Perhaps he thinks I’ve absorbed programming knowledge through sex with Fred. In any case, the conversation on my end consisted of "Yeah." "Okay." "Uh-huh." I’m going to try to stay away from the computer this weekend, but I am rarely successful when I make such attempts. Therefore, I may or may not be updating this weekend. If you don’t want to keep checking back, go join my notify list, ‘k? Have a great weekend! Have I mentioned that 3-day weekends rock? They sure do. —–]]>

Stop saying that! It’s so unladylike!, he said. Now, I’m really not sure how I come across in my journal, but I’m going to guess that ladylike is not the primary word that pops into your mind when you think of me. And why? Because I’m about as far from ladylike as you can possibly be and still be female. I’ve a total potty-mouth. Fuck and shit and crap and hell and damn fly out of my mouth at the slightest provocation. I’ve been known to tell my computer that it’s the biggest fucking piece of fucking crap I’ve ever fucking seen in my entire fucking life, and you’d better shape the fuck up, motherfucker, before I put my foot through your fucking monitor. I belch upon occasion. I fart, sometimes loudly, and delight in the horror on the faces of my loved ones. I wear makeup maybe twice a year, I keep my fingernails clipped short and unpolished, I shave my legs only when they start to itch, I wait to color my hair until my roots are about three inches long. On the other hand, I do color my hair, instead of chopping it all off and letting my natural gray show through, and I keep it long, because that’s how Fred prefers it. I pluck my eyebrows and facial hairs at regular intervals, I have little flowers on my underwear, and I have enough perfume and fruity body sprays to stock a third-world country. I like to hug and kiss my kitties whenever I can, and I will sit and baby-talk the kitten for hours on end. I’m addicted to The Bold and the Beautiful, and tape it every day so I won’t miss Brooke’s moments of happiness when they come along. I guess I was simply not born with the ladylike gene. I could never sit with my ankles crossed, delicately eating finger sandwiches and smiling politely at other ladylike ladies as they chatter about ladylike things. Ladylike. The very notion makes me yawn loudly without politely covering my mouth. Who the fuck wants to be a lady? You’d think he’d have realized this by now. *Okay, adult situations and disgusting language have ended* Last night, Fred and I watched the Who wants to be a millionaire? we taped Sunday night, mostly because we wanted to see where they called Rosie O’Donnell as the contestant’s phone-a-friend. We noticed almost immediately that Regis kept calling the male contestants big boy. What the hell’s up with that? It was more than a little weird, to say the least. So, what’s the deal with Jim Carrey starring as the Grinch? He looks nothing like the Grinch. Richard Grieco, on the other hand, is a dead ringer for the Grinch. The eyebrows, the smile, everything. If you’ve seen him in Night at the Roxbury, you’ve seen him at his Grinchiest. How it is that he missed out on that role is a giant mystery. Oh, wait. They probably wanted someone who could act. I always forget that part. Don’t you hate it when you’re talking to someone, and you make a joke – lame or otherwise – and they just continue to stare at you with no expression whatsoever and you’re left standing there with a big, goony grin on your face, laughing alone at your own joke? ]]>

the Pill) Sunday, and the nausea started Monday. I’m hoping it (the nausea, not the Pill) goes away soon. Nausea sucks. Fred made an extra $900 last week. How, you ask, did he make such a large sum of money? He sold stuff on ebay, of course. Among other things, he sold dvds we have no desire to ever watch again, a laser disc player, a large number of laser discs, and a projector. All stuff we never use. Pretty good haul – almost enough money to pay off last month’s Amex bill. Next up for sale on Ebay will be his collection of cookie jars. He went through a collecting phase a couple of years ago, and now he’s ready to sell. He’s got, I dunno, fifteen or so of them, and they’re taking up a 7-foot bookshelf which could be put to better use. Ebay is the shit, man. Did everyone watch Who wants to marry a multi – millionaire last night? I wasn’t nearly as creeped out as I thought I’d be. Yes, it was basically a pagent – was the bathing suit segment really necessary? – but I actually found myself liking 3 of the 5 finalists. Naturally, he didn’t choose any of the 3 I liked, but I didn’t have to marry a complete stranger, so more power to him. I was so nervous when it was time for him to make his choice that I couldn’t even look directly at the TV. It’s the bitchypoo way of life – if I’m not looking directly at it, it isn’t happening. None of the Unchosen seemed all that heartbroken, I noticed. I could swear I even saw a few relieved faces. ]]>

not believe Thorne married Macy. What is he, insane? I can’t stand that damn Macy, she’s always fawning over Thorne and touching him and calling him Honey. Gag me. And I wish Eric would just fall off the face of LA. Bastard. And how is it that I’ve been praying desperately for Rick to find out the truth, and now I feel sorry for Amber? I hated her from the moment I saw her, and now I get all teary-eyed when I see her crying. I loathe that smug, bitchy little Kimberly. She needs a good smack upside the head. Just so you know. ]]>

V.D.: Searching for a Cure. I woke up this morning feeling nauseous. I wandered around the house, trying various cures ("Maybe I just need to go to the bathroom!"), but nothing helped. I went into the kitchen to grab a couple of boxes of Gevalia coffee to take to work with me (Fred has a coffee maker in his office, and nothing but the best for my baby), saw a baggie full of chocolate chip cookies, and that was all she wrote. I stumbled across the kitchen and barfed my brains out in the sink (shaddup, I cleaned it out after). Still shaky, I called Fred and told him I’d either be in to work late, or not at all, and I’d let him know either way. Naturally, as soon as I told him I’d been sick, he jokingly spazzily shouted "You’re pregnant, aren’t you?!" Gad. Anyway, after sipping a coke and eating a handful of cheerios to settle my stomach, I took a short nap with the kitten and felt marginally better. I still feel nauseous and haven’t eaten anything since the cheerios and a couple of cokes, but there’s no danger of my hurking up bile all over my desk. At least, I hope not. It was a pretty quiet weekend. As I mentioned in my last entry, the spud spent Friday night at her friend Maria’s house. Well, I found out this morning that Maria’s parents took Maria and the spud to the mall, and while they were there, Maria decided it would be a good idea to spit from the 2nd level of the mall onto, as the spud put it, "a crystal-making guy." The spud suggested that it wouldn’t be a very good idea, but Maria did it anyway. The security cameras caught her doing it, and a security guard came over and gave Maria hell, then spoke to her parents, who also gave Maria hell. Is it wrong that hearing about that incident gives me a whole new respect for Maria? Aside from doing a little laundry and getting groceries, I spent most of the weekend reading – finished the John Saul book and read Nice in about three hours – and scanning work receipts, then burning them to a cd. Have I mentioned how much I love my scanner? It rocks, bigtime.

There were other things I was going to blabber on about today, but the nausea has come back full-force, and I’m concentrating on not sending a huge explosion of bile at my monitor. Hopefully I’ll be feeling better tomorrow. But I wouldn’t count on it! Take care, y’all. —–

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wretch/ retch to use correctly. No less than three times this week have I read the sentence (roughly) "I thought I was gonna wretch." No you didn’t. You can’t use wretch as a verb. Wretch, as defined by merriam-webster, means 1 : a miserable person : one who is profoundly unhappy or in great misfortune 2 : a base, despicable, or vile person. You cannot come into my house, look at the litter box and wretch. You can look at it and become a wretch if you so desire, but that’s your prerogative. No, when you see something gag-worthy, you retch. Retch, people. Definition?: to make an effort to vomit; also : VOMIT. Ah, now, that makes sense, doesn’t it? You would certainly retch if you were faced with the nasty, germ-ridden box of litter located next to the washer in my house. And I’m the wretch who has to clean the damn thing. Everyone clear, now? Good. Don’t let me see you using the wrong word again. Have you ever noticed that if you read or say the same word over and over, it ceases to make any kind of sense? I’m looking up there where it says retch and thinking, "That doesn’t look like a real word. It looks like a made-up word." Does, doesn’t it? Say it to yourself ten times. Retchretchretch. Anyway. Here’s a cute picture of the kitten, because I know you simply don’t get enough of those. If you look closely, you’ll see that her right pupil is noticeably bigger than her left. I’m not sure what’s up with that, but it makes her look a tad brain-damaged. Which would explain a lot. And here’s a picture of Spanky, sitting on top of my monitor, next to my Coke reindeer. He’s such a sweetie. Every night he jumps on my desk looking for love, and every night I pet him half-heartedly and turn my attention back to my beloved computer. And he sits and stares at me with love in his eyes. Well, that’s not really love in his eyes in this picture. That’s more of a feed me, bitch look. But he loves me! Really, he does. So, the weekend is upon us, and the spud is spending the night at her friend Maria’s house. Maria is from Guatemala, and I just can’t understand a word the child says. I’ve mentioned before my difficulty understanding those with accents, and Maria is no exception. The spud’s social life is picking up this year. I’m not sure whether it’s the new school (Madison rezoned last year, and she’s going to a different school from the one she attended for the previous two years) or the fact that she’s in fifth grade and girls get more social at that age, or what, but last year she only had one friend whom she saw outside of school with any regularity, and this year there are three or more who call all the time. Heh. "All the time." The phone rings for her about three times a week, and I consider that "all the time." With the spud gone for the evening, you might wonder what Fred and I are doing. Chasing each other naked through the house with whipped cream and ice cubes? Watching porn and doing it (you know, IT) on the floor of the living room? Taking this opportunity to do it (IT) in every room of the house? Well, no. Sorry to disappoint you, but I have two words for you: period, and yeast infection. Okay, that’s three words, but you get my point. This fine evening, we ate McDonald’s in front of the boob tube (yes, I know, we eat too much fast food. I’ll take that under advisement, alrighty?) and watched Stir of Echoes. It’s pretty damn good – I found at several points during the movie that I’d been grinding my teeth out of nervousness. I recommend it. (The movie, not grinding your teeth) After the movie, we – can you stand the excitement?! – made the grocery list for tomorrow, and here we are, each in front of our own computer. At least Fred’s getting something productive done – I’ve been sitting here and typing, then surfing for a bit, then typing a little more. It ain’t exciting, but I like it fine, thankyou. I may or may not update tomorrow and Sunday. I haven’t decided yet, and I intend to just go where the day takes me this weekend. Y’all have a good weekend, now. ]]>