Category: Fostering

The Crooked Acres jam (and hot sauce) shop is now open!

Go buy jam and hot sauces here.

(And there’s a permanent link in the left sidebar, for future reference.)

Readers, some help? Does anyone recognize this cross-stitch picture and who the maker is? Debbie wants the pattern, but the only place she’s been able to find it is selling it for more than she wants to pay. She’s hoping to have more luck finding it if she can figure out who the maker is.

(Click on the picture for a slightly larger version.)

This email from Fred first thing this morning made me laugh:

I heard an ad on the radio this morning for a local mortgage company, wherein they were bragging that they’d helped a local family get out from under an onerous mortgage. The family was struggling to make their payments, and also had SEVEN credit cards contributing to their bills. With a re-finance from this mortgage company, they lowered their monthly payment by $400, paid off their credit cards, and didn’t have to make mortgage payments for October or November. So what did they do? Did they save that money, to keep from getting in the same situation again?

OF COURSE NOT. THEY TOOK THEIR KIDS TO THE BEACH FOR A FALL VACATION.

Have you ever noticed that if you Google “unexplained weight loss”, the ultimate answer seems to be “you’ve got cancer and will be dying any minute now but at least you’ll be skinny HA HA HA”, but if you Google “unexplained weight gain”, the ultimate answer is “You’re putting too much food in your fat face, fatty”?

(An unexplained two pound gain since yesterday morning – after an unexplained three pound loss over the weekend – made me think of the Googling on both topics I’ve done in the past.)

Over the weekend, Fred opened the big freezer in the laundry room, and said “I feel like we’re pushing our luck, here. One day I’m going to open this door and the shelves are going to collapse under the weight of everything we’ve got piled on them.”

In that freezer was the entire half pig we just got back from the butcher, an entire summer’s worth of green beans, shredded zucchini, boiled and mashed summer squash, spaghetti squash, corn on the cob, and a million other things.

“I really need to cook and can some of the chicken in the chest freezer in the garage, and then we can move most of the pork out there,” I said. “I keep meaning to do that since we’ve used up all the canned chicken, but keep putting it off.”

“We’re some procrastinating motherfuckers,” he said.

“That’s right.”

Sunday night, we went out to give the pigs their evening cookies and the dogs their evening treat. Fred herded one of the momma chickens in the maternity yard back into the small maternity coop along with her seven babies. As we walked through the chicken yard to the gate, he indicated the two roosts sitting in the middle of the chicken yard.

“I wonder if the seven chickens who have been sleeping outside are going to go into the coop tonight,” he said. “It’s supposed to get down into the 40s tonight.”

“I hope they’re smart enough to figure it out,” I said.

We said goodnight to the dogs and went back to the house.

Monday morning, Fred came upstairs to say goodbye to me before he left for work. Even if I’m dead asleep, I hear him coming up the stairs and wake up. He hugged and kissed me, and then stood at the end of my bed, petting Miz Poo.

“Houston,” he said. “Our procrastinating chickens have come home to roost.”

“Oh, good!” I said. “Did they all go into the coop or just some of them?”

There was a confused pause. “I didn’t mean that literally,” he said.

Fred found, when he went through the laundry room, that the freezer was dripping water. Whether it was due to being overstuffed or was on the verge of breaking down, who the hell knows?

“Can you take a few boxes of pork out to the chest freezer?” he asked. “We may end up having to empty the freezer completely and unplug it to defrost it. Blah blah blah something about a hose.”

“Yeah,” I said. I got up and went to take my shower and get started on the day.

I showered, dressed, fed the kittens, posted my entry for yesterday, and then grabbed one of the boxes that Fred had left for me on the side stoop. 45 minutes and 10 trips from the laundry room to the chest freezer in the garage, the laundry room freezer was empty.

(I figured that since we might need to empty the freezer anyway, I’d just go ahead and do it. Which would let me see whether we’d be able to fit everything in the chest freezer in an emergency. And as it turned out, everything (just barely) fit in the two freezers we have in the garage.)

So I present to you:

NOTES TO PAST AND FUTURE ROBYN FROM PRESENT ROBYN.

1. Hey, hi, how’d that LABELING thing go? You know, where you CLEARLY LABEL the shit you put in the freezer with details such as WHAT THE FUCK IT IS and WHAT FUCKING DATE YOU PUT IT IN THE FREEZER? Remember that brilliant plan? The plan that seems to have vamoosed in mid-2009? I almost put two big blocks of mozzarella cheese over with the fat I’m intending to render into lard SOME DAY because I thought it was fat. Then some voice in the very back of my head pointed out that the OTHER pig fat we have in the freezer is not neatly made into a square, and then I remembered that we had bought a big-ass block of mozzarella from Sam’s club sometime in 2008 with the intention of eating it with cherry tomatoes. And then WE DID NOT CARE FOR THE TASTE OF THE MOZZARELLA SO WE PUT IT IN THE FREEZER. Brilliant move, me.

And hi, if we’re going to label, WE NEED TO BE CLEAR about what we write. Do I have any goddamn clue on god’s green earth what the fuck “r” on a processed chicken means? Does it mean “roaster”? Why no, it does not mean roaster, because a roaster would have skin, and these do not. Perhaps “rooster”? And why the fucking shit are we marking the roosters and not the hens? WHAT THE FUCK?

Why did we bother to write “Michelle” on the bag that contains Michelle, the rooster who was processed a year and a half ago? What the fuck am I supposed to do with Michelle NOW? Was that so I’d know it was Michelle, and Michelle was kind of old – as chickens go – and thus to be stewed? WHAT THE FUCK?

2. New rule: the only chickens that go into the freezer are the roasters. Every other chicken must be stewed, picked off the bones, and canned. How many chickens do we currently have in the freezer right now? I DON’T KNOW, I STOPPED COUNTING AT 22. And of course because NONE OF THEM are labeled (except for the ones with the date hastily scrawled on them, and of course the “r” chickens), even if we were willing to sell some chickens, I couldn’t in good conscience do so, because the buyer might end up with an old, tough, nasty chicken. Guess who’s going to be stewing, picking, and canning chickens ALL WEEK LONG? Is it me? I THINK IT MIGHT BE. (Not that YOU care, Past Robyn, you lazy whore.)

3. What the fucking fuck is up with THE CHEESE? Jesus christ, are we afraid there’s going to be a cheese shortage? How much cheese do we have? I don’t know, I STOPPED COUNTING AT 30. THIRTY FUCKING PACKAGES OF SHREDDED CHEESE, PLUS. No more cheese until the cheese we HAVE is used up. NO MORE CHEESE. Jesus christ.

4. No more perusing the Publix flyer on Wednesdays and running to the store to take advantage of the “buy one get one” sales. I mean, don’t get me wrong, some of those sales are AWESOME, but truly how many english muffins need to be sitting in the freezer for months until we’re in the mood for them again? I’ve gotten the okay from Fred (and you KNOW what a frugal bastard HE is) to actually go out and BUY a package of english muffins AT FULL PRICE if we run out! I know, right? THE LUNACY!

Future me won’t listen, though. Present me always thinks that if I know something at a certain point in time, I will ALWAYS know it, and thus cryptic notes like an “r” scribbled on the bag holding a chicken will absolutely mean something to me.

Past, present and future me are all dumbasses.

There are two things that has pretty much convinced me that Bolitar (who I’ll be calling “Buster” from here on out, because that’s what I call him in real life, and it’s too difficult for me to call him “Bolitar” when I never do!) and Rhyme remember living here.

The first was that on Friday afternoon, at Snackin’! Time!, I gave the cats their snacks, and then I walked down the hallway to the guest bedroom to go in and see Starsky and Hutch (this was before I moved them upstairs). I just so happened to have a plate in my hand, and Rhyme came FLYING down the hall after me and tried to lead me into the guest bedroom. Back when all four Bookworms were here, I gave the four of them their snack in the guest bedroom, and he clearly remembered.

The second was when, not an hour later, I looked out the back door and saw Buster and Rhyme frolicking in the back yard with Jake and Elwood.

And I guess I should add a third: yesterday morning I glanced out the side door to see that Buster had climbed over the fence and was in the side yard. I coaxed him inside and put a collar on him (for those who don’t know, we have an invisible fence around the back yard and the problem cats wear collars to deter them from getting too close to the non-invisible fence, so they can’t escape the back yard), and he hasn’t escaped since. Brat.

I’m not quite sure what Rhyme was doing here, but it kind of looks like a seductive dance, doesn’t it? There needs to be a feather boa involved.

Starsky and Hutch have now hit one pound. Hutch is one and a half ounces larger than Starsky, and that one and a half ounces is all in his big round belly. I told Fred that we should have named him Waddles McGee, because he waddles so when he walks – which is the MOST adorable thing to witness. (Yes, it could very well be due to worms – they’re both on dewormer – but they’re also at that age where they’re tiny and round little things. In a few weeks, they’ll start to lengthen and thin out, I suppose, so I have to enjoy the round stage for as long as it lasts!)

Detective Starsky detects.

Small enough to put in coffee cups, big enough to escape them. I love this age!

Loony Jake is loony.

Previously
2009: We are far too amused by ourselves.
2008: No entry.
2007: I had NO IDEA Red Lobster was such a den of heathenry.
2006: The rags used on that closet: ONE MEELLION.
2005: And then the last straw came along and broke the fat woman’s back.
2004: Because he’s a skinny bastard.
2003: No entry.
2002: No entry.
2001: Day One.
2000: So obviously I don’t know nothing’ ’bout picking out no paint.

The Crooked Acres jam (and hot sauce) shop is now open!

Go buy jam and hot sauces here.

(And there’s a permanent link in the left sidebar, for future reference.)

(Pardon the yammering about the jams and hot sauces being available. I’ll likely do that for the rest of the week so that the SKIMMAHS will see it and not ask me in three months when I’m going to have jam available. BUT YOU KNOW THEY WILL. Oh skimmers, why can’t I quit you?)

Fred installed Linux on my computer last week, but couldn’t get it to connect to the network. I have a wireless thingy that allows me to connect to the internet and Windows was dealing okay with it, but Linux is apparently a PRINCESS and wouldn’t play along. So Fred ordered a cable from Amazon so that we could connect my computer to the router (that might not be what it’s called. I don’t pay much attention to the particulars. There’s a magic box that Fred’s computer is connected to so he doesn’t have to rely on the smoke and mirrors of the wireless thingy like I do. Said wireless thingy is a bit princessy itself, and if I had a nickel for every time I bellowed “WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN YOU DON’T SEE A WIRELESS NETWORK IT’S FIVE FUCKING FEET FROM YOU, YOU STUPID GODDAMN PIECE OF SHIT!” at my computer, I’d be able to afford a personal assistant to Google everything for me and print out the information I require, so that I might peruse it at my convenience whilst being hand-fed grapes by the pool boy who also does all the litterbox scooping.) The cord came this week, and yesterday I decreed that it was time to hook that motherfucker up.

Only…. we weren’t going to run the cable across the room, because that’s just asking for trouble. Either Fred would trip over it every time he entered the room, or a cat would chew through it, or there are any myriad* things that could go wrong with having a cable run across the middle of the room.

What we were going to do, instead, was drill a hole through the floor by where the internet connecting thingy was located, then a hole near where my computer is, and then someone was going to have to go under the house and take the cable from one hole, crawl to the other hole, and feed the cable back up through. Fred has been under the house many times (well a couple, anyway) and really does not care for it at all, so I told him I’d do it.

I suited up in an old pair of jeans, a long-sleeved shirt, and gloves, and climbed through the door to the under-house area. After hearing about the horror of being under the house many times, I expected it to be a horrifying experience, with cave crickets jumping in all directions, mice coming to sniff at me, and perhaps a raccoon or feral dog running out to occasionally bite me in the face.

Of course, after all that dreading, it wasn’t bad. I mean, I didn’t LOVE it – there were spider webs everywhere, and I killed a great big juicy spider the size of my thumb near the door, but mostly the spider webs had been abandoned. I crawled from the door to where I expected the hole to be, and there it was. I was displeased to see a cluster of cave crickets (if you’re lucky enough to not have cave crickets – also known as camel crickets – in your area, you’re not missing much. They have the legs of a spider and the jumpy spazziness of a cricket and they are hideous looking, but they won’t hurt you.) near the hole, and made Fred feed the cable down far enough that I wouldn’t have to actually touch any cave crickets. (Cave crickets are very springy and they generally jump at your face, making you jump and scream like a big baby, and I prefer not to get too close to them.)

I got the cable, and then couldn’t for the life of me find the hole where I was supposed to poke it back up through even though Fred was shining a flashlight into the hole. I finally found it, couldn’t get the damn cable to go through the hole (the hole being only slightly bigger than the end of the cable) and ended up having to lay on my back on the ground and push the cable with both hands.

Then I crawled back to the door, and it was done. Not one-tenth as bad as I’d expected it to be, either. But then, I’m smaller than Fred and am also not in the least bit claustrophobic. It’s not something I’d want to do on a daily basis, but once or twice a year, I could handle it.

That little wooden door is the door I came through (Fred closed it after me so Maxi or Newt didn’t get it into their heads to follow me in), and that cement thing to the left is the well.

*When I was taking college classes at New Hampshire College (on the Navy base in Brunswick) back in the days when I thought I might actually get my college degree someday, I took an English course (the title of which escapes me at the moment). The professor was fond of the word “myriad” and used it at least a couple of times each class. Toward the end of the semester, it came out that one of the other students thought that she had MADE THE WORD UP and he was amazed to find it in the dictionary. This was the same professor who thought my writing skillz were so awesome that I had to have gone to Catholic school. Heh.

So last night we were upstairs in the foster room hanging out with Starsky and Hutch. They needed to be medicated (dewormer), so Fred held each of them while I shot the medicine in their little mouths. When he put the second one down, we both noticed that one of the kittens had drooled a drop of medicine on Fred’s hand. I grabbed a piece of paper towel and as I held it out to Fred, he put his hand down and WIPED THE GODDAMN MEDICINE ON THE CARPET.

My question to you: how deep do I have to bury him so that the dogs won’t dig up the body?

So Friday morning, I decided to leave the house bright and early to take the kittens to Petsmart. I had originally intended to take them later in the morning so as not to get in the way when the Friday morning volunteer showed up to clean cages. But the night before, Fred and I had put Moxie, Melodie, and Dodger in the foster room so that Friday morning I’d be able to get my hands on them and put them in carriers. (We left Martin out because he’s very easy to get hold of. You say “Marty, come here” and he’s pretty sure you’re going to give him a snack.)

Melodie and Dodger have a gift for knowing when I’m about to do something to them they won’t care for, and they vanish. I was afraid they’d vanish or I’d end up chasing them around and be unable to catch them. Friday morning, they were ready to be OUT of that room, and they were howling and banging on the door. Which led me to the decision to take them to Petsmart before the Friday morning volunteer showed up instead of after.

So I grabbed Martin and put him in one carrier. Then I thought I’d be SMART, because I knew there was a good chance the kittens would be able to get past me if I opened the door with carriers in my hands. I closed my bedroom door and the bathroom door, and then I put the half door across the end of the hallway so if anyone got past me, they could only go into the hallway, and it would be easy enough to catch them there.

I opened the door, and went in holding the carriers in front of me. That blocked Melodie and Dodger, who backed away from the doorway, but Moxie would not be denied, and she jumped over the carriers and ran past me. I knew I didn’t have anything to worry about, though, right? Because she could only go into the hallway?

Except that before I even had a chance to turn around and look at her, Moxie had climbed over the half door at the end of the hallway and taken off for parts unknown.

I got Melodie and Dodger in one carrier (they were NOT thrilled to go into the carrier, if you were wondering) and then I went downstairs and started looking for Moxie. I found her huddled under the couch, but when I reached for her, she scampered away and went under the other couch. I stopped and thought for a moment, and then I went into the kitchen.

I took out a stack of plates and rattled them, which is the sound that alerts all the cats in the house to snack time. When I was done rattling the plates, I turned to see a group of cats running toward me, Moxie in the lead. I scooped her up and popped her into the carrier with Martin. Then I grabbed Reacher, who was standing right there hoping to get a snack, and I put him in a third carrier. Then I looked out back and did the snack time call to Corbett, who was chilling under the tree. When he came inside, I popped him into the fourth carrier.

And then we were on our way to Petsmart. The kittens had apparently had a prior discussion about what to do if put into carriers and then into the car, because they began coordinating their howling so that someone was always howling. The entire 35 minute drive to Petsmart, someone was always howling. Sometimes more than one was howling, and several times I’m pretty sure all six were howling, but at all times at least one of them was howling.

(Reminder to self: bring ear plugs next time!)

I got to Petsmart, and instead of going in and getting a cart, then piling the carriers in the cart, I somehow got it in my head that I could carry all four carriers in. I was actually able to do so, but by the time I got to the cat room, I felt like I was hauling 100 pounds of cat. The manager let me into the cat room, and I let Bolitar and Rhyme out of their cage, cleaned it, and got it set up for Reacher and Corbett. I did all the things I needed to do to get the cats all set up, and then I sat on the floor and told them all that I loved them (Melodie, for one, didn’t believe me for one single second), and then I put Moxie, Melodie, Dodger, and Martin in one cage, and Reacher and Corbett in another.

Melodie wasted no time – she went into the litter box and meowed sadly. The others seemed more curious than scared, so I told them one last time that I loved them, and then I put Bolitar and Rhyme in carriers, and left.

None of my babies were adopted over the weekend, and the word is that MMM&D were okay, if nervous, but Corbett was hiding in the litter box, and Reacher was freaked OUT. They’re always scared the first few days, so I know they’ll be okay. I have to go into Huntsville later today, so I may stop by and spend a little time with them.

When I got Bolitar and Rhyme home, I took them directly upstairs to the foster room, shut the door, and let them out of their carriers. They started slinking around the room, growling and hissing and smacking at each other. I spent some time with them, and then left them alone to get used to their new surroundings.

It was my intention to keep them in the room for at least a day, until they relaxed a little. But Fred got home and went up to see them, and when he opened the door they ran over to him and he made the decision to let them out into the house. There was drama queen behavior on both their parts, they hissed and growled and smacked the permanent residents (I’m sure you can imagine how THAT went over), but by Sunday afternoon they were settled in like they’d never been gone.

I meant to share the last of the MMM&D and Reacher & Corbett pics I had over the weekend, but got busy and never got around to it, so here they are!

I think I threw a stick, and cats ran from all corners of the yard to check it out.

Pretty Moxie.

I came home from running errands one day to find this going on. I guess Martin wanted a little Spanky love!

Marty in the sun.

Corbett, peering out the door.

Rhyme, just after we got home.

“What?”

Bolitar, keeping an eye on things.

Saturday morning, I scrubbed down the upstairs foster room, and then I moved Starsky and Hutch up there. They weren’t sure what to think at first, but they seem to like the toys and the brighter room. Especially the toys!

(These pics are from before I moved them.)

Hutch enjoys a good belly rub.

Starsky, having caught sight of Hutch, goes insta-floof.

Friday afternoon, when Bolitar and Rhyme were running around the house hissing at everyone like the drama queens they are, I opened the door to the guest bedroom to go in and see Starsky and Hutch. Now, the guest bedroom is where the Bookworms were pretty much raised – they were in there from the time we got them, and even when they were allowed out in the house, they spent their nights in that room. It stands to reason that Bolitar and Rhyme would consider that room theirs. So when I opened the door, they went running in, and there was an awful lot of hissing and growling and floofing up from all four cats. (Is there anything cuter than a floofed-up baby kitten?) I grabbed Bolitar and Rhyme and put them out of the room, and then had to spend ten minutes reassuring Starsky and Hutch. Poor babies.

“Kittens again? FABULOUS.” Maxi always loves the kittens. NOT.

Previously
2009: No entry.
2008: No entry.
2007: No, my number one concern is that a woman, somewhere in Alabama, might have purchased a device to ensure that she’s able to get off.
2006: The stinkin’ kitten is not so cute!
2005: Annnnnnnnd that’s just a little glimpse into the dorkiness that is my life.
2004: ARRRGH.
2003: No entry.
2002: Wow. Apparently I’ve been doing the pet store thing for three years now.
2001: Day Zero.
2000: I’m back!

Donna, Love & Hisses does, in fact, still exist. It’s located here, and there’s a link in the left sidebar, under “misc.” It’s updated every day that Bitchypoo is, which means most weeks it’s updated Monday through Friday.

Martin and Jake: it’s a love-hate-love-hate relationship.

“What do you MEAN I have a big butt and you cannot lie?”

“That’s right, right there. That’s the spot!”

“What do you MEAN you can’t stand the way I purr?!”

“Just SMILE for the stupid picture so she’ll go away. I’ll deal with YOU later, mister!”

“I know, I know, I’m sorry, too.”

A blissful moment.

“You’re kind of getting on my nerves, with the hovering. I need my space.”

“Do you always have to be RIGHT NEXT TO ME?”

“Oh my god, STOP BREATHING SO LOUD!”

“YOU ARE DRIVING ME CRAAAAAAAAZY!”

Okay, they’re named!

Meet Starsky:

and Hutch:

Put ’em up!

Y’all had some REALLY good suggestions, thanks for those. I liked Frasier and Niles, too, but couldn’t talk Fred into it. I thought Axl and Slash were good names, but couldn’t talk Fred into that, either. After some negotiation, we settled on Starsky and Hutch. I’ve saved all your name suggestions, though, for future fosters!

Miz Poo would like you to know that TODAY it’s a Poo cave, not a Suggie cave or a Spanky cave. In case you were wondering.

Previously
2009: Is it not amazing how the tiniest things can make the worst smells?
2008: Did I mention SHADDUP, YOU?
2007: No entry.
2006: No need to send out the announcement that we’re freaks just yet, I suppose.
2005: What a fucking day, I tells ya.
2004: Which makes me think he’s out there talking shit about me, of course.
2003: I know I’ve lived in Alabama too long when 70 is a bit too cool for me.
2002: No entry.
2001: I swear, my work is NEVER done.
2000: No entry.

Cetta, I haven’t a clue how the hell I got my music and videos from my iPod to my computer. I plugged the iPod in, iTunes said “There’s shit on here that isn’t in your library. You want to reformat your iPod or transfer the stuff on your iPod to iTunes or what?” and I said “Please transfer all the stuff on my iPod, thanks.” and it did!

I recommend plugging in your iPod, and if iTunes suddenly starts reformatting your iPod, scream and yank out the cord. That’s what I’d do!

(Also, swearing a lot helps, too. True story!)

I have, in fact, watched Sister Wives. I found it interesting (I especially found the part where they showed a diagram of where each wife’s house is in the house as a whole interesting) and they certainly manage to make it sound like a reasonable way to live, with the wives supporting each other and helping out and all that. Almost seems like a valid life choice, really (isn’t it big of me to allow that other people might have their own lives that they choose to live differently than I live mine?).

But it fell apart when they showed Kody kissing one wife and then another and then the third. Not that he kissed them one right after the other, they were different houses and different times, but I just don’t get it. I guess I’m a weird and selfish bitch, but the idea of my husband spending one night in my bed and then the next two nights in his other wives’ beds, gives me the ookies.

(I much prefer it that he spends every night in his OWN bed, of course! Har! Har!)

I’m a generous person, but there are certain things I prefer not to share, thanks. When wife #3 (Christine, maybe?) said something like “Gosh darnit, they better!” about her husband having sex with his other wives, I cringed a tiny bit.

I think it’s no surprise that all three wives grew up in polygamous families (I don’t know if wife-to-be #4 did or not – they didn’t mention it either way, did they?). Did anyone else notice that wife #3 is less than thrilled about the idea of adding #4?

I’m not particularly fond of Kody, he strikes me as kind of annoying to be around, though probably he’s not quite so annoyingly rah-rah all the time in real life.

I’ll keep watching, of course, because I want to see what happens and it’s hard to look away!

Good lord, do I feel scattered today. I was a jam-making fool yesterday, and I have several batches to make today as well. In the midst of all the jam-making, I had to stop and go to Madison for my six-month dental appointment, then stop and buy a few groceries, then it was back to more jam-making.

I’m trying a fancy new trick this time around when I make my jams – I’m actually WRITING DOWN what the hell I’m doing, how much pectin I’m using, how much sugar, all that, in hopes of actually getting some consistency going in my jam, so that if you order a jar of, say, peach-habanero jam and then order another jar in six months, you’ll get about the same heat and flavor.

We’ll see how long I keep that up – or rather, how much attention I pay to my notes. I made a batch of apricot-habanero jam yesterday morning, and wrote myself a note that “apricots come to a boil quickly, keep an eye on them and stir frequently!” A few hours later I decided to make a second batch of jam (I used dehydrated apricots, rehydrated them overnight, which gave me enough for two batches of jam) and when I saw my admonishment to keep an eye on the apricots, I rolled my eyes and said “Yeah, like THAT bitch has any idea what she’s talking about.”

As a result of Afternoon Robyn thinking she knew better than Morning Robyn, I scorched the fucking shit out of the apricots and had to give ’em to the pigs.

Stupid fucking know-it-all Afternoon Robyn.

Is 43 the age when all men become obsessed with looking at the fucking weather map, or is it just MY husband? Numerous times a day we discuss what the weather has done and what the weather will do, and how we’re “just on the edge of this band. While it comes in useful, because he knows at any moment in time what the weather is expected to do, it is MOTHERFUCKING ANNOYING because he insists that I come look at the goddamn weather map.

I DO NOT WANT TO LOOK AT THE WEATHER MAP. I just want to know if it’s going to RAIN, or if it’s going to be SUNNY or whatever. Sunday I was ready to grab the nearest cat and smack him upside the head with it because I wanted to know if it was going to rain and he badgered me until I came over and stood next to his chair and pretended to look at the goddamn weather map.

Next he’s going to start spending all his time looking up his family tree, isn’t he? Isn’t that what old southern men do? (Judging by the fact that I have a bound book of my family tree written by my paternal grandfather on the bookcase right next to a notebook of Fred’s family tree compiled by his father, I’m thinking all signs point to “yes”.)

Apropos of nothing he says his name is William but I’m sure it’s Bill or Billy or Mac or Buddy but he’s plain ugly to me, once upon a time I used the Ouija Board (does one “use” the Ouija Board or does one “play” with the Ouija Board, or what?) with some friends – I was 13 or 14 – and the Ouija Board informed me that in a past life, I was Betsy Ross.

I must have used up all my sewing skillz back then, ’cause I sure didn’t bring them through to this life.

As the time draws ever closer for Reacher and Corbett, Melodie, Moxie, Martin, and Dodger to go to Petsmart (they go Friday morning), I’m remembering to take time to just enjoy having them around. I love the fact that they’ve become such good friends with each other (Martin, especially, loves to tussle with Reacher) and with Jake and Elwood. We’ve got a great bunch here, and I like to watch them play.

(Then I snatch them up and kiss them until they get disgusted and stalk away from me with their ears back. Nothing cuter than a disgusted cat, unless it’s a hissing kitten.)

Corbett got his claw caught in the dishtowel, and Martin’s mocking him.

“NOM. Kitten paws are the tastiest!”

Bath time (is it ever NOT bath time?).

Snack time is over, and a marauding band of kittens go from plate to plate to make sure not one single morsel of food was left behind.

“What, lady? Go away. We’re talking about you.”

The eyes just kill me.

Newt is such a quiet, unobtrusive presence. He likes to sleep in out of the way places where no one will bother him. Lately, if he’s not sleeping on the cat tree, he’s sleeping under the dresser in the guest bedroom. Usually I don’t even realize he’s there until he strolls out into view, stretches, and heads off to the food bowl.

You know, I keep feeling like there’s something I’ve forgotten to tell you. I can’t quite put my finger on it…

Oh, right! The new guys. Meet ’em.

You didn’t think I was going to let all my kittens go off to Petsmart without some emergency kittens in place, did you?

WHAT IF I NEEDED A SCREECHY LITTLE KITTEN TO SNUGGLE?!

More about them tomorrow (by which time we might even have names for them!).

(Name suggestions more than welcome – they’re both boys. Names I considered and then discarded: McGarrett and Danno (Danno had already been used), Castor and Pollux (Castor had been used), Hurley and Charlie (Charlie had been used). Fred’s not loving Riggins and Saracen. We’re stumped.)

Previously
2009: No entry.
2008: No entry.
2007: Everyone, go forth and give me a “hubba hubba” in your blogs!
2006: YOU’RE WELCOME.
2005: Phear my l33t fotograffic skillz.
2004: Dear Stephen King: Stop defending what you did, and just write the goddamn story.
2003: No entry.
2002: No entry.
2001: No entry.
2000: No entry.

Hellooooooooooo, I am back!

Limping along on my computer. It’s not 100% what it was before (which wasn’t nearly 100% what I WANTED it to be), but it’s good enough. I’ve backed up my important documents and pictures to an external, uh, thingy. That won’t be affected when my computer shits the bed in ten minutes. The thing, you know, that attaches with the USB cable.

Whatever it’s called, I backed up to it. Which probably means it’ll shit the bed, too, taking all my pictures with it.

In these troubled computer-shitting-the-bed times, I thank god for two things:

1. My iPod. All my iTunes shit disappeared off my computer, but NOT TO WORRY, everything was on my iPod, and I was able to copy it all back onto the computer from my iPod, WOOT.

2. Google Chrome. Did you know that in Google Chrome you can sync your settings and bookmarks to your Google account, and thus when your computer shits the bed, after you get it up and running again, you simply sync Google Chrome to your Google account, and – BAM! – there are all your settings and bookmarks, safe and sound.

I am both updating to Windows 7 AND giving Linux a try. Fred’s in the process of installing Linux on my computer on a different hard drive so I’ll have Windows available to me if I give Linux the old college try and loathe it. Even if I love Linux, I’ll still have Windows on my computer. The best of both worlds!

Thanks, you guys, for your meatloaf suggestions! I made the Mennonite Girls Can Cook meatloaf Thursday night because I had everything the recipe called for on hand. It was really good, but I’ve printed out about twenty of the recipes y’all left for me, and I think I’ll be working my way through them slowly.

We are some meatloaf-loving motherfuckers.

Thanks, also, for your blender suggestions. I ended up ordering an Osterizer blender that (though I didn’t realize it at the time I ordered it) came with a food processor cup. I’ve tried using my food processor when I make habanero jam, but it’s never chopped up the habaneros fine enough, which is why I’ve always used the blender. I got the Osterizer blender/ food processor Saturday afternoon, and made a batch of habanero jam that evening. The blender worked well enough, eventually, but it seemed to take a long time to really get going. Sunday morning I made two batches of habanero jam and used the food processor, and that worked a lot better for me.

The weekend flew by. I woke up Saturday morning intending to work on the fence, but it was spitting down rain. And then it proceeded to rain almost all day. We desperately needed the rain, so you’ll hear no complaints from me. I mostly puttered around the house, cleared off my desk, made habanero jam, and relaxed on the couch and finished the book I was reading.

Sunday morning, it still looked like it wanted to rain, but I gathered my supplies and headed out to work on the fence. It never did rain, and I got the fence finished. Fred and I herded a large number of wandering chickens back into the back forty, and for the rest of the day we kept an eye out for escaped chickens. We didn’t spot any at all, which means I am tentatively optimistic that the fence is going to keep those damn chickens in.

Or, more likely, they’ll follow the fence around the back forty ’til they find the part where I stopped, and will start slipping under those gaps. Fucking chickens. They have the whole back forty! Why they gotta have more space than THAT?

Once I was done with that, I started making jam. I got a batch of caramel apple habanero made, and then a batch of strawberry. I’m going to be a jam-making fool this week, because I still intend to start selling jam on the 1st, which is coming up a lot faster than I expected.

I put a pot roast in the crockpot to cook, made a batch of apple crisp (peeling and chopping apples for the jam put me in the mood for apple crisp, which I don’t think I’ve made in at least a couple of years), did laundry, did 10,000 dishes, filled cat food dishes and water bowls, took a million and three pictures.

You know, the usual.

I felt like I had a productive weekend, and I love it when that happens.

Well, it’s been a month since Bolitar and Rhyme went off to Petsmart. They haven’t been adopted yet. And I think you know what that means…

“I need to stay here and help you make jam, lady!”

“If I don’t look at her, she won’t say it!” (Doesn’t he look like a smug little brat?)

“Whoops. I did NOT mean to look at her! Now she’s gonna say it!”

On Friday, I’ll be taking Reacher and Corbett to Petsmart, installing them in the cage where Bolitar and Rhyme have spent the last month.

And then I’ll be bringing Bolitar and Rhyme back here! They’ll stay here until Reacher and Corbett are adopted (hopefully) or until a month goes by without either of THEM being adopted, in which case I’ll switch ’em out again.

I sure am going to miss Reacher and Corbett. They are such sweet, good boys, and so nice and patient with the little ones.

But they’re going to be here ’til Friday, so I’m not going to start crying and feeling bad just yet. I’m going to spend the next few days giving them all the love I can, and I’m going to hope that someone sees their sweet little faces and falls in love.

But wait! That’s not all!

Guess who else is going to Petsmart on Friday?

Martin, Moxie, Melodie AND Dodger! Adoptions were good last week, which freed up some cage space at Petsmart, so there’s room for my little guys!

“A FOREVER HOME? For ME?!” I hope so, little girl.

I won’t lie – except for Martin, this is a timid bunch. I mean, they’re not timid here, but that’s because they’ve had time to acclimate and are starting to really relax. I hope that they don’t go hiding in the litter box at Petsmart, and instead come out and let people see just how awesome they are.

Sometimes it’s a Suggie cave.

And sometimes it’s a Spanky cave.

It just depends on who gets there first!

Previously
2009: No entry.
2008: No entry.
2007: Little kitties on my desk top, little kitties made of fur and hate, little kitties on the gatetop, little kitties, not the same. There’s a gray one and a black one and an orange one and a calico, and they’re all made out of fur and hate and they look not the same.
2006: Hey, we’ll only be living here for another six months or so. Let’s BURN THOSE BRIDGES!
2005: Did I bring “a book” with me? HELL NO I didn’t bring “a book” with me – I brought FIVE books with me.
2004: No offense to you stoners out there, but the Warrens totally look stereotypical stoners.
2003: No entry.
2002: I think I’m going to start calling him The Todd.
2001: Does that kid’s face just scream “dilemmanated”, or what?
2000: No entry.

Before 9:00 yesterday, I:

1. Made a batch of pineapple-habanero jam

2. Broke the blender base (well, it broke itself – it sparked and then there was smoke, and then it worked no more. I wasn’t even using the goddamn thing at the time!).

3. Broke the blender glass blendy part (the cup?). No sooner had the thought “Well, maybe I could just get a new base and then I’ll use this, it’s still perfectly good!” gone through my mind as I was washing it than I dropped the fucking thing in the sink and it shattered. That blender wanted me to know it was retiring itself.

4. Broke my computer. I don’t know how, I don’t know why. Alls I know is that I sat at my computer to check my email, and the screen was frozen and I rebooted 300 times, and then it was like it reverted to Vista’s new install screen (Fred later said my profile was corrupted) and I couldn’t do a goddamn thing. I had to spend the rest of the day on Fred’s computer and I HATE sitting at his desk, since he’s several inches taller than me and has long ape arms, and NOTHING about sitting in his chair with his desk at chin-level, trying to reach the keyboard fifteen feet away, is comfortable.

5. Banged the shit out of my hand by accidentally squeezing it between my closet door and the frame of my bed. Today it’s achy and slightly bruised.

6. While getting eggs from the nest boxes, I banged the everloving shit out of the back of my head.

So, it was a day. And I am still dealing with trying to get my fucking computer working right. And I can FEEL my blood pressure going through the roof, so I need to get the fuck away from the fucking computer.

Which is my way of saying that there’s no Crooked Acres Thursday today, and I’m taking tomorrow off as well. Hopefully over the weekend we’ll get my computer to stop being a fucking pain in the ass and even if I have to use my netbook to do it, I’ll be back Monday.

Until then, I’m going to try to achieve a state of Sugarbutt-type zen.

Wish me luck!

Wait! Don’t go! I need two things from you!

1. Blender suggestions, and if I can get it off Amazon with prime shipping, all the better. I’m not looking to spend an arm and a leg, but I need a good little workhorse, something that can blend the hell out of habaneros and fruit. Until it shit the bed, I liked my blender, but I’ll be damned if I can remember what kind it was. Black and Decker, maybe?

2. A good meatloaf recipe. I made the recipe on the back of the Lipton Onion Soup Mix last week, and it was horrible (in my opinion – Fred liked it. The onion soup mix was just overpowering, though). I’m thinking of just using the mini meat loaf recipe and making a big loaf out of it, unless someone’s got a better (and easier) suggestion. The Pioneer Woman recipe won’t work for me, though – we don’t have any bacon! (Our bacon will be arriving tomorrow – but it’s not thinly cut bacon, in any case.)

Wait wait! One more thing!

Fred is talking about upgrading me to Windows 7 (I’m currently using Vista). I feel like I heard that Windows 7 is a great big bloated piece of crap, but I don’t know if I really heard that, or I’m just assuming.

If you’ve upgraded to Windows 7, tell me if it’s worth my time.

Also, Fred’s talking about switching me to Linux. The thought scares me, because new things scare me. If you’re an idiot like me and have successfully made the switch from Windows to Linux, tell me if it really was painless, as he claims, or if he’s blowing smoke.

Okay, I think that’s it. I need to get away from this computer before I lose my mind. I think I lost my entire iTunes library. ARGH.

Previously
2009: Things that are annoying the SHIT out of me lately.
2008: I’m sure SOMETHING will get peed on while she’s here, anyway.
2007: No entry.
2006: No entry.
2005: UGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH.
2004: Questions and answers.
2003: I feel like Eudora’s a creepy old lady hovering over my shoulder, reading my email, and threatening to tell my mommy on me.
2002: Anything more complicated than that, and I think you’ll have to look elsewhere.
2001: No entry.
2000: No entry.

The Many Moods of Martin.
(Or: Marty Haz a Flavor.)

Joe Bob knows you wanna rub the belly. YOU know you wanna rub the belly. Get over there and rub the belly!

Previously
2009: That was one big fucking dose of Benadryl and I was high as a kite.
2008: “Shit!” he exclaimed. “We forgot to check Nick for toots!”
2007: No entry.
2006: If I were manic-depressive (wait. Do they call it bipolar now? I haven’t kept up on my psychiatrically politically correct terms lately), I think I would have been considered to be in a manic state yesterday.
2005: Never-ending.
2004: If you had any idea how much time I spent backspacing and retyping words when I write my entries, you’d burst into tears of sympathy.
2003: Who the fuck are Nikki and Paris Hilton, and why would I give a good goddamn what they’re wearing or doing or driving or fucking?
2002: No entry.
2001: You know you’re getting old when you have to ask a 12 year-old girl who’s on the TV.
2000: No entry.

Yesterday was my errand-running day. I was getting low on essential stuff that I usually buy at Sam’s, and since I was headed that way, I opted to stop at Michael’s and Target and Petsmart and get all my errand-running done on the same day. I got up and got a bunch of stuff done around the house (I’m finding that leaving a list of essential stuff that needs to be done that day taped to the microwave is a step toward actually getting it done. Well, at least until I wake up in a bad mood and tell the List of the Day to go fuck itself, that is.), got some packages ready to go, and left the house a little before 9:00.

Driving to Sam’s was a breeze. I have the bad habit of leaving the house at 8 to go to Sam’s (so I can get my shopping done before the peasants show up, since I have the super-special GOLD membership, FEAR ME), and then being taken by surprise by the morning traffic. But I got there about 9:30, which is a good half hour before Sam’s is open to the regular members. I intended to go in, grab the stuff on my (lengthy) list and get out of there before 10, but as it turned out, I wandered around that damn store for over an hour. They’ve changed the locations of a lot of my usual stuff so I did a lot of backtracking. I also remembered several things I hadn’t put on the list (Granny Smith apples, for one), and as a result, I would head for the checkout, then have to go way back to the back of the store to get what I needed.

I know they change the location of stuff regularly so you’ll end up wandering around the store and hopefully make impulse purchases, but I have to say that it is REALLY FUCKING ANNOYING to have to search all over hell and creation for stuff that’s been in one particular location for years. Probably doesn’t help that I’m apparently half blind, because I walked by the 3-pack of compressed air no fewer than three times before I actually saw it.

I got out of there, loaded everything into the car, thought about getting an Egg McMuffin at McDonald’s (my favorite fast food breakfast, by far), decided I wasn’t hungry, and headed for Michael’s.

Remember how every year I send out a Christmas card? And then how last year I didn’t because we were afraid Fred was going to lose his job at any moment and I was trying to cut costs? Then I said that the cards WILL be going out this year, but in an attempt to spend less, I’d be making them myself? And I was going to make sure I made a certain number every month so that when December rolled around, they’d be all ready to be signed and sent out?

Yeah. Guess who hasn’t done a damn thing about making those cards? And guess who hasn’t got one single crafty bone in her body?

Oh, the cards ARE going to be going out, but you’re basically going to be getting a picture stuck to the front of a card, and something written inside. Because, really, that’s what I’ve sent out in the past, it just happened that the picture’s been printed on the front of the card by a professional printing company. THIS year, you’re going to get a picture that will no doubt be crookedly affixed to the front of the card, and the sentiment inside will be crooked and sloppily written, and it’ll look like a 3 year-old made it.

BUT IT WILL BE MADE WITH LURRRRRVE. From me to you!

So I bought the stuff I needed for that (and wait ’til you guys see the picture I’m using it. It makes me giggle every time I look at it!), then I puttered around the store, looking at various and sundry things that I did not need. And lo and behold, I left the store with only what was on my list.

Then I went over to Target and I bought a lemon juice extractor thingy and I looked at the cat stuff, and I looked at the hair stuff, and then I bought the lemon extractor thingy and left.

THEN I went over to Petsmart and walked around the store looking at the stuff and it must have been a banner day, because I did not buy one single solitary toy. I KNOW, right?

I went over to see what Bolitar and Rhyme were doing, and they were curled up sound asleep in their cat bed. I thought about going in and waking them up, but decided not to because that would have been mean.

I thought about stopping at TJ Maxx on the way home, but decided it was time to get my ass home, and by the time I was home and had the car unloaded and everything put away, it was time for lunch.

I like getting out of the house, but it kind of messes up the rest of my day when I’m gone so long. Today, I’ll be doing all the stuff I didn’t do yesterday because I was out running errands. Fixing the fence, making muscadine jam, making habanero jams, filling bird feeders, cleaning out the bird bath. The list is endless!

Also, why the hell were there no fresh cranberries at Sam’s? What the hell? How’m I gonna make cranberry-habanero jam?!?!

Did I mention that it was around 100º yesterday? And it’s going to be around that today? I better get that fence work done early, before it gets too hot. If I don’t post tomorrow, it’ll be because I collapsed of heat stroke and Fred came home to find that the chickens had pecked my eyeballs right out of my head.

Moxie has a crush.

It was so hot here yesterday that cats were melting right out of their beds!

Moxie, helping with the groceries.

All four of the upstairs fosters really like to hang out in the hallway at the bottom of the stairs. I guess so they can flee upstairs if they feel threatened.

Pretty miss Melodie.

Tommy and Sugarbutt (inside the back yard fence) keep an eye on the chickens I call The Wanderers. The Wanderers escape the fence around the chicken yard regularly and wander around our property all day. I’ll be working on fixing the fence so they’ll only have their 2 1/2 acres to roam. Oh, the humanity! (I don’t mind having them wander on our property, but it bugs me to see them go onto the neighbor’s property. She’s never complained (and I don’t think it bothers her), but I don’t like it! Also, if they’re not inside the fenced area and a stray dog comes onto the property, George and Gracie can’t protect them.)

Previously
2009: If it had been an orb weaver, I’d be writing this from the Great Beyond, having died due to a heart attack brought on by the horror of having something the size of my head crawling down my face.
2008: No entry.
2007: I think I need more sleep.
2006: Photographic proof that I met a (Not So)Scary Internet Person and lived to tell the tale!
2005: I mean, it’s not bad enough the man has road rage, he’s got to have fucking walking-through-the-house rage too?
2004: “No, this is real time!” Fred sighed.
2003: No entry.
2002: No entry.
2001: Written by hand.
2000: No entry.