Category: Fostering

From reader Amy – go read about sweet little Pug Casey, and help out if you can!

Seriously – have you ever seen a cuter little face?

I recently read a post on someone’s blog somewhere (I can’t even begin to remember where it was), and the person was answering a question someone had asked wherein she had read her boyfriend’s text messages accidentally, and stumbled across the fact that he was supposed to have lunch with an ex-girlfriend while she (the question asker and current girlfriend) was supposed to be out of town. Now, the focus of the question was on whether the girlfriend should be concerned/ say something to the man in question. That’s not what caught my interest, though – what caught my interest was in the blogger’s answer to the question.

(Jesus christ, could I make the build-up to my point any more convoluted and boring?)

Okay, I went and looked – it was Slynnro, this post, and in her answer to the question, she says This is the thing about reading texts and emails- you tend to find things you wish you hadn’t.

Which leads me to my point, and that is that I have full access to Fred’s email and texts (Fred generally hands his phone over to me if there are texts, so that I can delete them – he has never sent a text in his life), and holy Virgin Mary in a pink sparkly sidecar does that man send and receive the MOST FUCKING BORING emails that have ever been seen on the face of the earth. I would almost welcome a flirty email with a “fuck me!” subtext from an ex-girlfriend when I’m snoring through his emails just to break up the tedium.

Now, I’m not a complete idiot, it’s entirely possible that he’s got a second email address about which I have no clue, and that there’s a veritable treasure of flirty emails –

(I’m sorry, if you’ll pardon me while I guffaw a little at the idea of any hapless dumbass sending Fred a flirty email, because if I know my husband, I imagine he’d be mostly impatient that she was wasting his time with that happy horseshit when there’s shit to be stirred on the internet.)

but I doubt it.

And just so y’all don’t think that I’m all breathing down his neck when he’s sending or reading his emails, I don’t look at his email all that often, maybe every few months. I either have to be looking for some specific information, or hugely bored with nothing left anywhere on the internet that I haven’t already read, to even think about looking at his email.

Also yes, of course he knows that I read his email, because he’s aware that I’m nosy like that, and I have full access to all his shit all the time. He has full access to all my shit all the time too, of course, but he doesn’t bother reading my email unless he’s looking for an email address or something else that I’ve asked him to look for. As bored as I am by his email, he is six times that bored at the thought of reading my email.

Of course, he’s WRONG, because my email is far more interesting than his. I mean, I have emails about cats and Real Housewives and Dr. Phil; how does it get more interesting than that, I ask you?

I’ve recently realized that I go through nickname phases when it comes to the cats. Instead of calling each and every one of them by their names (because if I even tried, I’d be a mess of sputtering through the fragments of six different names before I got to the right name. “Spank – Sug – Tom – Mom – ELWOOD! Stop that!”), I go with a general nickname. I think for a little while last year it was “Honey”, then I went through about a six month “Bunny” phase, and now I’m calling them all “Turkey.”

“Whatcha doin’, Turkey?” I say to Elwood, who’s hanging out minding his own business. Then I walk into the next room and it’s “Hello, Turkey-butt.” to Sugarbutt, who’s sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor hoping that it’s almost time for The Snack. And so on.

I always add “butt,” “face,” and “dork” to the end of the nickname for reasons that are unclear to even me.

They don’t care what I call them – if I yell “Turkey-butt! Time for the snackin’!”, they come running just as fast as if I yell “Suggie! Time for the snackin’!”

It’s probably no surprise that most of them don’t know their names, is it?

“Hello! Tryin’ to sleep, here!” (Bolitar)

Do you SEE the baleful look on Corbett’s face?! He’s got himself some hate going on, right there. I don’t know what Bolitar did, but it was apparently QUITE offensive.

Getting ready to jump on his brother and kick some butt.

“I am but a poor sweet baby who wants nothing but a cuddle.” Don’t be fooled!

“HELLO! That belly’s not going to rub itself!”

Don’t be fooled by the sassy look. She’s a complete and utter sweetheart.

Spanky, snoozing on the couch. He’s such a HAPPY boy.

Previously
2009: Rude little brats.
2008: No entry.
2007: Feel free to cut and paste, assholes, though I fully understand if you prefer something with a few more misspellings.
2006: Must… resist… evil… urge…
2005: “Ah JEEZUS, here she goes again with the Gatlinburg! She goes for four days and talks about it for four weeks!”
2004: Oh. My. Eyes.
2003: No entry.
2002: No entry.
2001: Entries I liked.
2000: No entry.

You guys, I am SURE, already read this, but in case you haven’t, let me be the one to tell you: go read Jane right now, and then read this one, too.

And then shave your heads to show solidarity. Also, wear nothing but pink. Also also, make sure you give her LOTS OF BIG HUGS. She pretends to be a non-hugger, but she secretly loves the long, long hugs. She’s a closet hugger!

Okay, you guys had questions about the chart. Let me see if I can address them all…

The chart is set up thusly – the names going across the top are the ones who are feeling, and the names going down the side are the ones who are being felt about. For instance, in the first column, where Spanky’s at the top, that shows his feelings toward Miz Poo, his feelings toward Tommy, and so on, going down the list. Most of the time the feelings are the same in both directions, but there are a few occasions where the cats have different feelings toward each other – ie, Spanky tolerates Jake and Elwood, but Jake and Elwood like Spanky.

Don’t feel sorry for Miz Poo and Kara – they are not fans of the other cats, but that’s because they’re people lovers, not cat lovers. Miz Poo would be perfectly 100% happy to be an only cat (it’s good to dream!), and Kara would too, except that then Kara would go crazy because there’d be no one for her to keep in line. As long as the other cats stay the hell out of their way, they ignore them. If anyone gets too much up in either of their faces, they hiss and smack and make it known that The Bubble has been breached.

There is one time of day when Kara LOVES THE HELL out of all the other cats, and that’s Snackin’! Time! While the cats are milling around excitedly waiting for their Snack!, Kara will rub up against any other cat she happens across. Usually that’s Jake and/ or Elwood, sometimes Spanky. And sometimes she’ll rub up against Jake or Elwood, and then in the next second she’ll smack the hell out of them.

I don’t know what on earth the deal is with Joe Bob, honestly. When he was our foster cat four years ago (or thereabouts), he was great friends with Mister Boogers, Tommy, and Sugarbutt. When we adopted him and Fred brought him home, Mister Boogers didn’t care for him at all, Sugarbutt ignored him, and Tommy went back and forth between being friends with him and picking on him. Most of the other cats have no use for him (oh, how Stinkerbelle LOATHES him, mostly (I think) because he picks on her), which is too bad, because he’s a good cat. I will say, though, that it’s not all their fault – he’s kind of touchy about being looked at by the other cats, and can take it as a challenge if they look at him for too long. He’s a little bit of a drama queen, is what I’m saying.

Actually, the chart is incorrect, now that I think about it – Spanky HATES Joe Bob, and will follow Joe Bob around and glare at him, sniff at the places where Joe Bob has been, and just generally make Joe Bob feel uncomfortable. (We call him “Creepy Cousin Spanky” when he acts like that.)

Someone asked if there are any major cat fights around here, and the answer is that sometimes there are, mostly between Stinkerbelle and Joe Bob (though now that I’ve said that, I think it’s been relatively calm between the two of them). Occasionally Jake or Elwood will chase Stinkerbelle, and she runs and hisses like the hounds of hell are after her. Sometimes Stinkerbelle will be up on top of the bookcase in the front room, and Kara will jump up there, and there’s a hiss-off, culminating with one or the other of them jumping down and running off. One day last week, Miz Poo was on top of the cat tree near the same bookcase, and I don’t know WHAT possessed her, but she decided to jump up to the top of the bookcase. The problem was, Maxi was already up there, and there was yelling and hissing and growling, and I sat up and looked over to see Miz Poo jump down to the top of the cat tree in terror, and then the poor thing fell OFF the cat tree (she’s fine).

Okay, I think that answered all the questions – of course, if I missed one, feel free to ask again!

So, I think I forgot to mention that I had my follow-up appointment last Thursday with my gynecologist (if you’ll recall, at my 6-week appointment, my internal incision wasn’t quite healed up). It was again not quite there, so she hit it up with the friggin’ silver nitrate a little. This time around it hurt a lot more than last time, WHICH I ENJOYED SO. She told me that I didn’t have to come back for another follow-up, but to let her know if I had any problems.

I don’t intend to have any problems. I am not fond of that damn drive, I’m telling you.

The thing about my gynecologist’s office is that instead of calling the day before to remind you of your appointment, they now call you two days before. And when you answer the phone, they make sure they have the right person on the line, and then they remind you that you have an appointment.

Then there’s this pause. I always say “Okay!”, expecting that they’ll say “See you then!” and hang up.

But they don’t.

What they do is remind you that if you don’t show up for your appointment or cancel it at least 24 hours in advance, they’ll bill you for the office visit. And I always feel really defensive, like “BUT I WAS PLANNING ON BEING THERE!”, like they KNOW me, and KNOW that my REAL plan was to just ditch the appointment and not bother to cancel in advance. Which would be stupid on my part, because I have to go back eventually, right?

(Well, I guess I don’t. I could always find a gynecologist nearer, I know But I’m too lazy to go looking for another gynecologist right now.)

When they called on Tuesday to remind me of my Thursday appointment, I confused the lady who called by saying “8:45, right? I’ll be there!”, and she just meekly said yes and hung up.

Had I known that the Census Bureau would be wasting MY TAX DOLLARS by sending me a postcard letting me know that my census form was on the way and THEN sending the census form and THEN sending another postcard to inform me that I should have gotten the census form, I wouldn’t have been quite so fast to fill the damn thing out and send it back. The SAME DAY, I sent that stupid thing back.

Will they be calling me now, to check and make sure I understand that they know I filled it out? Will they be knocking on my door? “Mrs. Anderson, it says here that there are only two people living here, but HOLY CRAP you spend a lot at Sam’s. Can you explain that to us? Also, the washer seems to run a lot, as shown here by your water bill. Cats? You have cats? Really, I don’t think a couple of cats would make… Oh. 11? You have 11 cats? In this house? Oh… and five fosters. So that makes… Okay, so two people and 16 cats. I see. Well, we’re going to need to put you on the SPECIAL list….”

Fucking census people, mind your own fucking business. Unless you wanna find out how many GUNS two people and 16 cats can cram into one house*.

(Attention FBI and other law enforcement: That is not a threat. That is me being annoyed and talking shit.)

*I don’t know how many. A lot. Enough so that Fred and I could each have one in each hand and one in each foot with a few left over. Not that I’m saying my toes are strong enough to pull the trigger of a gun, but you know, desperate times call for desperate measures. And unless you count the shootout over the kibble between the Bookworms yesterday, no one’s been shot yet. YET. But I’ve got guns and I know how to use ’em, stalkers. That’s all I’m saying.

I’m sorry, does that little face KILL YOU DEAD like it kills me?

Dreamy little Corbett. He is just SO FREAKIN’ GORGEOUS, I can’t stand it.

“Halp! HALP I SAY!”

“Who, me? Sharpening my claws on your jeans? I’d NEVER.”

“Hellow.”

“Okay, hi, my eyes are UP HERE, if you don’t MIND. Jeez.”

Tommy needs a good dusting, apparently.

Previously
2009: No entry.
2008: If you see my bottle of Feliway, please send it home. Thankyew.
2007: “If a fluffy black cat prances across the yard, goes upstairs and shits on the carpet, could you give us a call?”
2006: “Hmm,” I said, like that meant something to me.
2005: Just because the fuckers are talking to me doesn’t mean I’m obligated to listen to their bullshit, does it?
2004: What exactly the fuck was I supposed to be doing at 5:30 on a Sunday afternoon, running for fucking president?
2003: No entry.
2002: Apparently the Committee for Deciding Who is Hellbound was meeting in the waiting room.
2001: “Jesus has arrived in Madison,” he said nonchalantly.
2000: Now that, my friends, is wickedly fast.

I was surfing around the net yesterday, and I read that you can actually plant the top of a pineapple, and eventually it’ll take root and grow and after like two years, you might end up with a whole new pineapple.

This fascinated and intrigued me, and I of course had to immediately tell Fred about it.

“Hey!” I said. “Did you KNOW that if you plant the top of a pineapple, it will take root and grow? We should grow our own pineapples!”

Fred considered. “So, it takes root and grows into a pineapple tree?”

I wasn’t sure if he was kidding or not, so I turned around and gave him a look.

“A pineapple tree,” I said.

“It grows into a pineapple tree, you’re saying, and we could go out and pick our own pineapples?”

I gave him another look.

“Pineapples… do not GROW ON TREES,” I said.

“Oh. They don’t?”

“Um. No.”

“So you plant a pineapple top, and you get one pineapple from it and it takes a couple of years?” he said.

“Yes.”

“That seems like a lot of effort and waiting for two people who aren’t THAT into pineapple.”

Can’t argue with that.

We were driving somewhere last weekend, and AS HE ALWAYS DOES, Fred was weaving all over the road because he was so busy looking at the houses we were passing, or waving his hands in the air to make a super-important point.

“IT WOULD BE NICE IF YOU WERE ABLE TO KEEP THE CAR ON THE ROAD,” I said. I swear to you, I’m 99% sure that my cause of death will be due to Fred driving off the road into a tree (or ditch) because he’s NOT PAYING ATTENTION, driving directly into a car stopped at a red light because he loves to approach red lights at roughly 95 miles per hour, or my having a heart a attack at the way he drives.

(He said the other day, in response to my complaint about his driving, “I have never gotten into an accident!”, because I got into an accident a few years ago in the Lowe’s parking lot (and you think I tell you everything), and I said “Yeah? Well I have never lost my job!” HA HA HA ZING. I guess it’s hard to get fired when your lazy ass hasn’t had a job in ten years, though.)

“I’m ON the road,” he said, annoyed with me for questioning his driving skills.

“Then WHY are we driving down the goddamn rumble strip?” I asked.

“Is that what those are called?” he said. “Really, they’re called rumble strips?”

“Yes,” I said.

“How on earth do you know that?” he asked.

I shrugged. “How on earth do you NOT?”

So of course the question here is, how many of y’all knew that they’re called rumble strips? That’s common knowledge, right?

We were driving through Research Park in Huntsville last weekend, writing down the names of companies so that Fred could go online and see if they were hiring (this was before he realized that Wikipedia has a complete list of all the companies).

Fred pulled into the parking lot of a large company to make sure there weren’t other companies in the same building as the large company. I noticed that, alongside the United States flag, was a flag that was unfamiliar to me. I decided that it must be the flag of the country the company originated in. It wasn’t familiar to me, but aside from the US flag, the Canadian flag, and the Japanese flag, I can’t really identify flags from other countries.

This was definitely not a Canadian or Japanese flag.

I pondered the flag for a few moments, and then pointed it out to Fred. “What country is that flag from, do you know?” I asked. I thought maybe it was the German flag. Or perhaps Switzerland?

(Oh, I guess I do know Great Britain’s flag too, now that I think about it. Duh.)

Fred gave me a look.

“That,” he said carefully, probably restraining himself from out-and-out calling me a great big fucking idiot. “That is the Alabama state flag.”

“Oh.”

Fred snickered.

“Shut up.”

Fred snickered.

“Kiss my ass.”

Fred snickered.

How embarrassing.

“WHAT?”

What you really really need to see (I have GOT to start carrying the camera around with me at all times, I guess) is poor Maura’s big ol’ shaved belly. I was hanging out with her yesterday afternoon, and she was so relaxed and happy that she rolled onto her back and just stayed there, belly exposed, her four paws sticking straight up. It was seriously cute.

She is the MOST laid-back cat I’ve ever seen. She’s always pleased to see me when I walk into the room, and she loves to lay up against me when I sit on the floor. When the hanging-out time is over, she’s mildly puzzled, like “Oh, you have to go? Why would you need to be anywhere else? This room has it all, do you see the toys and the chair and the cat tree? You really have to go? Okay then, bye.” She doesn’t rush the door, she looks curiously out into the hallway at Jake and Elwood, who would dearly love to get into the room with her, and then she goes off to play or sleep or whatever is next in her hectic schedule.

What a baleful look I’m getting here!

“HELLO HI I HAZ A COMPLAINT AND MY COMPLAINT IS THAT I HAVE EYE BOOGERS IN THE CORNERS OF MY EYES AND THEY MAKE ME LOOK LIKE A STREET URCHIN THAT NO ONE CARES FOR BECAUSE IF SOMEONE LOVED ME, THEY’D CLEAN THE CORNERS OF MY EYES OUT BUT OBVIOUSLY NO ONE LOVES ME AND THAT IS MY COMPLAINT THAT I HAZ.”

Reacher’s eyes are changing color, and right now, they pretty much match his fur. Very neat.

Again with the baleful look.

Newt, Tommy, and Jake, hanging out on the patio and taking in some sunshine.

Previously
2009: Y’all are some grumpy motherfuckers, aren’t you?
2008: Detective Boogerton, the grizzled, cranky veteran detective who has seen it all, is disgruntled that his day off has been interrupted.
2007: No entry.
2006: FYI.
2005: Meme.
2004: Lime green would work.
2003: I called Fred at one point and said “Maybe it’s SARS!”
2002: Well, you can just bite my coconut-scented, soft, smooth, butt.
2001: No entry.
2000: No entry.

Sissy McGee – one of our hens who regularly escapes the chicken yard to free roam the property ’til it gets close to dark, and then she returns to the chicken yard ’cause she’s no dummy – took it upon herself to jump the fence into the back yard yesterday. Jake, who had never seen a chicken from that close up, was beside himself. He stalked her around the back yard as she explored and scratched and ate bugs.

“What the -?”

He never did attack – just followed her around and watched her. I guess he might be a lunatic, but he’s not CRAZY. She would have kicked his butt.

“NOM NOM NOM, there is NOTHING as tasty as a sock-covered foot! Unless it’s a slipper-covered foot!”

“NO! That are MY foot for chomping on! You go away!”

“Hiiii! I’m Reacher, and I’ll be in charge of eating your foot today!”

Don’t be fooled by the sweet face. Corbett also enjoys chomping on feet.

“So I told her and told her I wasn’t pregnant, and she just kept saying ‘Ha, ha, RIGHT you’re not pregnant. Give me those babies!’ and then she took me to the vet, and the VET told her I wasn’t pregnant, and apparently the VET knows more about my pregnancy or lack thereof than I do, and she was all ‘J’accuse!’, but seriously, what did I need to do, spell it out in poop or something? I TRIED TO TELL HER! And now the halcyon days of eating kitten food and sleeping off 63 snacks a day are OVER, and I ask you – is that fair? Am I to be punished for NOT being a harlot?”

Over the weekend, I spilled half a container of flour on the kitchen floor. Elwood ran right over and started EATING the flour, as if it were the finest cat treat I could have given him. I shooed him away, but not before I got a picture of him. See the coat of flour on his chin? Crazy boy.

Previously
2009: Random things that make me twitch.
2008: She turned and glared her “FUCK YOU” glare at me, and went along her way.
2007: No entry.
2006: You WISH you were me.
2005: Off to Gatlinburg.
2004: Our palates are too immature, I suppose.
2003: Now I know why, when the camera and sound guy were setting up and I chirped “Oh, is this the camera that’s going to make me look like Ashley Judd?”, everyone laughed so hard.
2002: No entry.
2001: No entry.
2000: Then he and the spud went swimming yesterday, since the pool’s up to a sultry 66.

Thanks, you guys, for your advice and positive thoughts in our direction (for the skimmers, Fred is looking for a job). Still no calls yet, but it’s early days yet, right? Right!

Remember how I’ve mentioned before that I have a Gmail email address that I don’t really use, that it’s got my first and last name in it, and I occasionally get emails from the college mates of a Robyn Anderson in Canada, discussing assignments, and sometimes I get emails from the mother of a Robyn Anderson in Texas, that I’ve gotten emails from the frequent flyer program of the Robyn Anderson in Texas, and work emails – once I got a spreadsheet from a coworker of hers?

And that I always respond to these emails with “You have the wrong email address. Please tell STUPID Robyn Anderson that she’s so STUPID she doesn’t know her own goddamn email address”?

(Okay, maybe I just say “You have the wrong email address” with a polite smiley. But the other stuff is totally implied.)

I logged into that email address over the weekend, and found that she had sent HERSELF an email with a list of tasks.

Now not only do I know where she works, I know the boring-ass tasks she tells herself that she has to finish by the end of the day.

I responded back with “Don’t wanna. How come I have to do all the work?” and a smiley, but have received no response as of yet.

Fred thought I should have responded with “Seriously. You don’t know YOUR OWN FUCKING EMAIL ADDRESS?”

I’m far too polite for that, though. I prefer to disparage her behind her back.

By the way, I was so annoyed by Firefox’s constant fucking updates, and the way the last time it updated my system was screwed up for an entire afternoon, that I finally gave up and downloaded Google Chrome to give it a try.

I’ve gotta say, I like it so far. There are a few things that annoy me – like, I’m not seeing an “undo” button, and I don’t know how to use the menu to print, so I have to remember to hit control-P (and the print menu that comes up won’t let me just print the highlighted selection for some reason, and that annoys the bejeebers out of me), or control-F for “find”, but I like the bookmarks toolbar at the top of the page. Also, Chrome loads in about a tenth of the time, and hasn’t forced me to update in the four days I’ve been using it, so I’m giving it a cautious two thumbs up.

The water fountain is an endless source of amazement. They’ve all gone swimming in it (accidentally) at one point or another.

I weighed them yesterday. Corbett (above) is the runt, at 1 1/2 pounds. The other three all weigh 1 pound 12 ounces!

Bellied up to the water bowls.

Bolitar, lookin’ for a snuggle.

Hey!

Remember yesterday when I was all GET A LOAD OF THAT BELLEH:

And y’all were all HOLY COW WHEN’S SHE GONNA DROP THOSE BABIES?!

And I was all DO YOU SEE THIS THING?! (Or at least I meant to – I forgot to post the picture, actually.)

And y’all were all HOLY MOLY YOU WEREN’T KIDDING, THAT IS ONE PREGNANT CAT! (Or you would have been had I posted it.)

Well, yesterday morning I decided that the fact that Maura had had herself a dirty behind for the last few days, and acted as though it hurt when I cleaned her off, might mean that she could have impacted anal glands. So I called the vet’s office and made an appointment and I loaded her up into the carrier, and headed for the vet.

She was completely silent all the way to the vet’s office (I am serious when I tell you that this is one laid-back cat), except for a few times when she turned around in circles trying to get comfortable, and I thought WOULDN’T IT BE FUNNY IF SHE WENT INTO LABOR RIGHT NOW, OH THAT WOULD BE HIGH-LARIOUS!

We got to the vet’s office, and I turned her over and sat down in the waiting room. The shelter manager came in while I was sitting there, and she went back to see what was going on. She asked a few questions, and then suggested I just come back so I could answer any questions the vet had. I went back, and as I walked back, the vet was feeling Maura’s abdomen.

The vet couldn’t feel any kittens. And as far along as Maura was supposed to be, she should have been able to feel kittens. She was pretty concerned that Maura might have developed Pyometra (basically, when the uterus fills up with pus), and suggested that she go ahead and spay Maura.

I agreed, and left Maura there.

All day long, I worried about Maura, of course, because I am nothing if not a worrywart. Also, I was a little sad that there would be no wee baby kittens. When the vet’s office was about to close, I picked up the phone and called to see how she was doing.

“Oh, Doc was about to call the shelter,” said Belinda, who’d answered the phone.

I steeled myself for bad news.

Turns out that our Maura, big ol’ pregnant Maura? Huge, ready to pop Maura? Maura with the great big pregnant momma cat appetite?

FAKING IT THE ENTIRE TIME.

NOT pregnant. NOT FOR ONE MOMENT PREGNANT.

NOT suffering from Pyometra. PERFECTLY FINE.

She TOTALLY played us.

She’s not pregnant. She’s just big-boned.

“Look. I never SAID I was pregnant. You just assumed. I went along with it for your sake, because I am sweet and kind and didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

I’m going to go pick her up from the vet’s office in a bit. Then I’m going to bring her home and girlfriend, who’s been living the life of Riley with the eating of the kitten food and the two snacks a day of canned food, is going on a DIET.

In a few weeks, after she’s healed from her spaying and up to date on her vaccinations, she’ll be headed off to the adoption center.

The party is over, sweet girl!

“I don’t believe I care for the sound of THAT.”

“I told you she was fakin’ it. When you gonna trust the Sheriff Mama to know what she’s talking about?”

Previously
2009: (The smell of boiling chicken livers: gag me.)
2008: No entry.
2007: No entry.
2006: Now, I’m sure I’d rather be skinny and bald than fat and hairified, but what I’d MUCH prefer to be is skinny and hairified, thanks.
2005: I think that a more accurate description would be “covered the annoyance of itching by making your skin feel as though you’re being set on fire.”
2004: Meme.
2003: No entry.
2002: No entry.
2001: No entry.
2000: Fred’s such a bastard.

Hellooooooo.

Did y’all have a nice Easter? We didn’t do much, had roast pork, deviled eggs, green beans, and I made Jordan Rolls. Dinner was kind of screwy, because the roast was done long before I expected, so it had to sit under a foil hat while I put the rolls together. I’ll admit, I was a little leery of the rolls because the dough seemed a bit soft to me when I broke the dough up into rolls, but they baked up nicely (though I think they could have used just a couple more minutes in the oven to brown up completely; I was afraid of overcooking them) and were very tasty. I’ll definitely make them again, though I might make them a tad smaller next time. Or actually, I think I’ll try Method #2 next time.

We’ll be eating roast and deviled eggs and rolls for at least another couple of meals. The good thing about only two people to cook for: leftovers. These days, it seems I’m only having to cook a couple of times a week.

I’m glad the rolls turned out, because I was starting to wonder if I’d lost my baking skillz. Nance posted the other day about all the damn fine food she’d made the day before, and I thought “Oooh, soft pretzel bites! Those look GOOD.” So on Friday I made a batch of soft pretzel bites, and I can tell you right now that they were NOT worth the effort. It must have taken me three hours to get the goddamn things made, because I made half of them with sea salt and the other half with cinnamon sugar, and the making of the dough and the boiling of the dough and UGH. There was a window of time about two hours long when they had cooled and were pretty good, but after that they just got tough.

AND I HAD FORGOTTEN THAT I DON’T REALLY MUCH CARE FOR PRETZELS ANYWAY. Duh.

Then on Saturday I made a Lemon Truffle Cake. Fred and I both love lemon-flavored stuff, so when I saw the recipe I knew I had to make it. The fucking cake took forever to make, and it was okay, but it was another instance where it just was not worth the damn effort. (Which didn’t stop us from eating half of it between Saturday and Sunday, before we gave the rest to the chickens.) (Also, I learned a new skill – I’d never tempered an egg before, and I did it successfully, so score one for new skillz!)

Sunday morning, I made muffins – Paula Deen’s Surprise Muffins – and I forgot the damn baking soda, so they were hockey pucks (which were also fed to the chickens).

But the rolls turned out, so hopefully my Baking Streak of Suckiness is at an end!

Tell me this, fellow reality TV viewers – did or did not a season of Survivor take place in the Seychelles? Because when the teams on The Amazing Race were there, I knew how to pronounce it correctly, and there’s no WAY I would have figured that out on my own. I’ve Googled around, but can’t find a damn thing.

Anyone?

The weather has been so lovely over the past week, with just half a day of rain, that it looks like we may actually be able to plant the damn garden before July. Fred went and got seeds this morning. Over the weekend, he mowed the lawn (mostly – the side lawn in front of the garage is still far too wet for mowing), the daffodils have all bloomed, the trees are starting to leaf out.

By god, I think spring might actually be here!

I wasn’t going to write about this, but honestly I see no reason not to – it’s the ONLY DAMN THING going on around here right now.

Fred’s company and their largest customer have parted ways – and as a result, Fred is looking for a job. Anyone in the Huntsville/ North Alabama area looking for a Software Engineer strong in C and C++?

Yes, Fred has been all over Monster, Dice, and Craigslist, he’s applied for one million positions in the last few days. At this point, we’re sitting and waiting for the phone to ring and it’s driving us (me) nuts. He’s literally been looking for five days (including the weekend), so I know the hunt is just beginning. But still – COME ON, PHONE. RING.

Where’s the employment love, Huntsville? Dayum.

“I do not appreciate this. At ALL. This is completely undignified. STOP IT.”

(No babies yet!)

Those Bookworms sure do love their food.

“Hi. Hi! Hi. Just hangin’ out. Snugglin’ in the lady’s lap. I think if I charm her enough, she’ll give me some more of that canned food. Hasn’t worked yet, but I think it will. Seriously, have you ever seen anything cuter than ME?”

“Um. Is that POOP on her leg? Ugh, humans are SO gross!” Yeah, and I wonder where that poop CAME from, brat!

Spanky! In! A box!

“Hey, Spanky.”
“Hey, Sugs.”
“How’s the box going?”
“Working well for me, thanks.”

Previously
2009: No entry.
2008: No entry.
2007: (Nevermind that Mister Boogers’ way of protecting me would be to go hide in the closet.)
2006: “Hard liquor is the first stop on the train to Gaysville.”
2005: I had no idea that leaving the top of the washstand bare meant that you didn’t appreciate the washstand.
2004: (Yeah, yeah, cry you a river. I know. Bite me.)
2003: No entry.
2002: Apparently Fancypants’ evil twin (except that I’m sure Fancypants is actually the evil one) now lives in our neighborhood.
2001: No entry.
2000: I guess there’ll be no physical fisticuffs for me to go break up.