Category: Life

* * * When I was in Maine, I had a chance to visit my friend Liz and see her apartment. She moved into an apartment in downtown Portland several months ago, and I hadn’t had a chance to see it. It’s an absolutely adorable apartment within walking distance of Congress Street, and it’s located in one of those big old buildings. Her apartment is tiny, but it’s got enough space for her and it’s cute as hell. A few miles from her building, a woman was raped and beaten for several hours by a homeless man on September first. As soon as I heard that, I went into worried mother mode. “You’d better be careful if you get home or leave after dark!” I warned Liz. “I am, I’m always careful, and I have my keys in my hand.” “And don’t talk to strangers, especially male transients!” “I won’t, MOTHER!” I fretted some more. “Maybe you should buy some red pepper spray.” Which is when she and Debbie laughed at me. But you know, you can never be too careful. (Of course, if I were to buy red pepper spray to carry in MY purse, it’d only be a matter of MAYBE a week before I’d sprayed myself in the face with it.)

* * * They’ve played “Rock You Like a Hurricane” on the radio at least three times today. Ugh. * * * There’s been some posting going on over at the Tater, as I slowly get caught up on watching the TV we DVR’d while I was in Maine. I also fixed the link in the sidebar so you can get there from here. * * * Ugh. Fred just called. It’s official: the spud has no school tomorrow. ::sob!:: * * * “Would anyone notice if I ripped this bag of cat food open?” ]]>

* * * Miz Poo had her stitches taken out yesterday, not only out of her eye, but also out of her paw, where the vet had to drain an abcess and stitch it closed. He stitched her paw oddly, so that her paw looks like a cloven hoof. That, or she’s doing the “live long and prosper” thing. She’s still squinting her eye, and it’s a bit runny today, but the vet said that’s normal. My poor Poo.

* * * From my comments: Let me know what you think of the book Fried Green Tomatoes cause I have to say that is one case where I loved the movie and hated the book. Probably should have read the book first, who knows. I’m curious to hear what you thought. I didn’t hate the book, but I didn’t care for the way it kept jumping around. I ended up liking it (I’m going to rate it three Poos when I get around to it), but I do think the movie’s better. I’m going to try to convince Fred to rent the movie so we can watch it this weekend. Robyn: Am I mistaken in thinking that a car can be ordered painted in any color you want? I think you can only get it from the factory in the colors it comes in – which is to say that if a car doesn’t come in yellow, you can’t get it in yellow from the factory. I could be wrong, though – if I am, someone let me know in the comments, eh? Why is Fred’s car top secret? Because it’s always referred to as “Fred’s car” and because he makes a point of not disclosing what kind of car it is, I’m going crazy with curiosity. Because he’s a mean bastard. 🙂 Thank you for the dinner solution! I made the general tsao’s last night for dinner and it was really yummy. Maybe you could tell me your menu for the rest of the week so I don’t have to actually THINK about dinner? 😉 I’m glad you enjoyed the General Tsao’s – a couple of people apparently made it in the days after I linked to the recipe, and enjoyed it. We just had it again last night and it was faaaaaaaaabulous. Tonight, we’re having pork chops (broiled), sweet potato crack, and some kind of vegetable (possibly carrots and onions). Tomorrow, unfried chicken, brussels sprouts, and sugar snap peas. Thursday is sandwich night, where everyone fends for themselves (not surprisingly, sandwich night is my favorite night!). How fick’n big was a supersize Coke if a large is 32oz? A supersize was 42 ounces. Did I mention that they’ve done away with the supersize… but they’re charging as much for a large as they used to for a supersize? Those fucking bastards. I have a question (since you seem to be answering them from the comments!): How do you and Fred work out in your garage? Isn’t it hot out there? Or do y’all have an air conditioner? If I tried to workout in my garage here in Houston, I’d pass out from heat exhaustion! Yeah, it can get pretty hot out there. I’d love to have it air conditioned out there, but all we have right now is a pretty powerful fan; usually when I’m waiting during the one minute between weight-lifting sets, I go over and stand in front of the fan, and since I’m always dripping with sweat it cools me off very well. Also, we both work out in the morning before it gets really hot out there. Plus, it probably doesn’t get quite as swelteringly hot here in Alabammy as it does in Houston. It sucks more in the winter when it’s 40 degrees in the garage than it does during the summer when it’s in the 80s, though, that’s for sure. * * * I used a strongly scented blueberry bath bomb in the tub last night (sometimes I’m so frickin’ cold when I go upstairs at night that I have to take a hot bath just to warm up. And then when I get in bed, Fred puts his cold-ass feet on my legs, and I have to kill him and bury him in the back yard), one that came from Newfoundland Naturals, and even though I took a shower this morning (What? I worked out! I can’t walk around nasty all day from the sweat and grime of working out!) I can still smell the blueberry smell. Thank god it’s a pleasant smell, anyway. * * * “I could catch that bird and bring it in the house if I really wanted to…” * * * Previously 2003: No entry. 2002: No entry. 2001: No entry. 2000: No entry.]]>

I scanned it at an absolutely huge resolution, and I’m going to have it printed out, and frame it along with another picture I scanned:

Gram, my mother, and my uncle. I think I’m going to have that one printed out, too. In fact, I think that next time I go to Maine, I’m going to take an evening and scan all the old pictures so that I can have copies of them made and put into an album. I learned things about my grandmother I didn’t know – for instance, she wanted to be a teacher, and even had two years of college. I had NO idea she’d gone to college. Her brother was supporting her so that she could attend college, but he got married and could no longer support her, so she had to drop out and get a job. My grandmother specifically told my mother, many times, that she didn’t want a funeral because “I don’t want people standing around staring at my dead body”. When my mother made the phone calls on Saturday morning to tell people that my grandmother had passed, and that there would be no funeral or service, some of my grandmother’s old friends were VERY disapproving. One of them even called my mother a few days later to say “It’s just not right that there’s no service. There’s no closure!” My mother hung up the phone and said “If she wanted closure so bad, maybe she should have shown up at the nursing home to see her!” Oddly, not ten minutes before the phone rang, my mother had been discussing the possibility of having a small family service graveside at some point in the future. My grandmother was cremated, and part of her ashes are going to be buried in the family plot at a cemetery in Brunswick. The rest of her ashes were returned to my mother Friday afternoon for scattering. My mother, Debbie, and I went to several places that meant a lot to my grandmother and scattered some of the ashes. We used a shot glass (heh) to scoop the ashes out of the bag – I should say I used a shot glass to scoop out the ashes. At one point I had ashes all over my hands and in a few spots on the front of my black pants, and I thought “Some people would be freaked out at the thought of having the ashes of their beloved grandmother all over them, I bet.” Not me, though. Maybe I just don’t freak easily. We didn’t scatter all of the ashes. Some of them we put in a small container for the spud, who decided she wanted some of the ashes. Why? I have no clue what the child wants to do with them. All I know is that my grandmother’s ashes are NOT going to end up buried in the back yard next to Tubby – that I can guarantee you. The rest of the ashes, my mother kept. She wants to scatter them in the yard of the home where my grandmother grew up, once she finds out for sure which house it is. I should point out that when we scattered ashes on Friday afternoon, we didn’t take the silly step of asking people whether they minded having ashes scattered on their lawn. No, what actually happened is that my mother pulled into the driveway of the home where my grandparents spent 30ish years, I hopped out of the car, walked onto the lawn, and flung the ashes from the shotglass so that they scattered everywhere, got back into the car, and we took off for the next location. It was an undercover mission – Operation Scatter Gram. Luckily no one reported us for scattering an unknown whitish substance all over their lawn… * * * Flying on September 11th was a little creepy, I’ll admit. But there’s a bit of an upside – no one wants to fly on September 11th. Which means that on all three of my flights, the planes were less than half full. Which means that instead of being crammed in next to a stranger for the 2 hour and 43 minute flight from Newark to Memphis, I had a row of seats to myself. I suspect that as time goes by more people will be willing to fly on that date, though. I finished (and abandoned) two books in the eight hours between the time I left Portland and arrived in Huntsville. As always, Miz Poo was thrilled right out of her little mind to see me, and it was very nice to get home. * * * When I got home I checked my gmail account – I actually have two gmail accounts, isn’t that sickening? One for regular email, one for nothing but notify email – to find that I have 350+ emails from blogs and journals that updated while I was gone. I’m not complaining, believe me. It’s probably going to take me the better part of the week to get caught up. The cool thing about not having easy computer access (or, I guess I should say, easy computer access ON A DIAL-UP CONNECTION) is that once I get home, I have a ton of journal and blog posts to get caught up on, and a ton of TV viewing to get caught up on as well. Not to mention that since I’m hardly ever on the computer while I’m in Maine, I get a lot of reading done. Of course, I would have preferred a happier reason to go to Maine, that’s for sure. * * * The stitches come out this afternoon! * * * Previously 2003: No entry. 2002: I think he has a camera hidden somewhere in the bathroom, and when I’m in the shower, an alarm goes off and tells him to call me immediately. 2001: Time to go cold turkey, Deb… 2000: WHEN WILL THE SUFFERING END???]]>

My Gram August 26, 1918 – September 3, 2004. Mother to two. Grandmother to four. Great-grandmother to four – and a fifth on the way. Much loved. I think we’re going to miss you more than we ever realized, Gram.

* * * I’m leaving for the airport in the morning. I’ll be back next Saturday. Be good, y’all. * * * Previously 2003: If I had a brain I’d be dangerous. 2002: What I’ve been doing. 2001: I’m wise to your stalker ways, Margaret! 2000: No entry.]]>

me?

* * * Fred stopped on his way home from work yesterday to pick up Miz Poo. I was sitting in front of my computer (but of course), when the phone rang. I looked at the caller ID to see that he was calling. When I answered, he was laughing so hard he could barely talk. “She looks… she looks.. she looks like a PIRATE!” he gasped. I started giggling. “She does? Does she have a PATCH on her eye?” “No!” he stopped talking for a moment to laugh even harder. “But her eye is sewn closed and she has a bandage on her leg and it makes her look like she has a peg leg!” The vet found a sore on one of Miz Poo’s front paws that he had to open, drain, and stitch closed. Is it a coincidence that “Miz Poo” has the same initials as “Money Pit”? “Awwww,” I said. “My poor Poo!” Just then, the vet walked into the room to talk to Fred, and so Fred hung up the phone, telling me he’d be home soon. Ten minutes later I heard the garage door go up, and Fred walked into the kitchen with Miz Poo. I could see her through the door at the front of the carrier, and she looked kind of dopey and confused. “Awwwww,” I said. “Hi, baybee! Hi Miz Pooty!” Fred set the carrier down and bent down to open the door. Miz Poo came out of the carrier, fast, shaking her legs. With her came a wave of urine, splashing everywhere as she tried to shake it off her back legs. Fred bent down and grabbed her so she couldn’t run under the couch, and I grabbed a towel. Fred picked her up and we started drying her off, getting cat pee all over us in the process. “I hate to say it, but I think we need to wash her off,” Fred said. I agreed, and carried her upstairs, Fred right behind me. Now, when Fred said he thought we should wash her off, I assumed he meant we should use shampoo and actually wash her. What he actually meant was that we should rinse her off, which is what we did. She fought us frantically – did you know cats don’t like to get wet? – and Fred rinsed her off the best he could, while she whimpered and whined. We dried her off and again and put her down, and she limped for the bedroom, where she spent a good part of the afternoon hiding under the bed. I thought for sure that she’d stink to high heaven of cat pee, but amazingly enough just rinsing her with water did away with the smell completely. I even buried my face in her fur and sniffed hard, and couldn’t detect the slightest bit of cat pee odor. Last night she pulled the bandage off so she could lick her paw. The vet had said that might happen and if it did it was okay, so I pulled the rest of the tape off her leg and tossed it. She spent the entire night sleeping pressed up against me. Well, she started by draping herself across my head, with the rest of her body laying against my neck, and I’m pretty sure she would have stayed like that all night long, but it got uncomfortable for me pretty quickly, so I put her on a pillow, and pulled the pillow against me. She spent the majority of the night half laying on the pillow, and half (the heavy half) laying on me. Around 4 am, I couldn’t stand laying in that position anymore, so I pushed the pillow away so she’d slide off the pillow and onto the bed. And laying on the bed, up against me, is where she spent the rest of the night, until it was time for me to get up. I didn’t want her to have to jump off the bed and hurt her paw, so I put her on the floor. Poor Miz Poo. I’m sure while I’m in Maine she’ll break a leg or something! * * * Last week, Fred got into my Jeep and moved it away from the house so it wouldn’t be in the way. When he got home that night, he said “I thought your Jeep was going to fall apart when I started it!” After driving his nice new car, he was surprised at what it was like to drive a crappy old vehicle, I guess. “Maybe we should just go trade it in and get you a new one right now,” he said. Do you know what I said? I’m so shocked and amazed, because it’s possibly the most adult thing I’ve ever said in my life. I said, “No, it’ll be okay until February.” February is when we’ve been planning to go shopping for a new car for me. In the past, whenever Fred has so much as thought about suggesting that it’s time for me to get a new car, I’ve grabbed him by the hand, run him out the door, and began shopping for a new car. We don’t believe in spending a lot of time shopping – the day we decided the car I drove from Rhode Island to Alabama was on it’s last legs (wheels) and should get a new one, we were signing the papers for my truck in less than three hours. When it was time to trade in my truck (I’m not really a truck kinda gal, I discovered), Fred went out looking at vehicles at 10:30 in the morning, and was home with my Jeep (the one we traded in a few months ago for Fred’s new vehicle) by 1 pm. But he’s brought up the idea of trading in my Jeep no less than five times in the last week, and every time he brings it up, I tell him we should wait until February. Because the Jeep will be paid off, and we’ll have money from our tax refund for a down payment, rather than having to dip into our savings. Don’t get me wrong – just because I’m willing to wait doesn’t mean I haven’t been LOOKING at cars. Although I like the yellow Beetle, the dashboard freaks me out, and the price is a little more than I’d like us to spend on a car. I wish like hell that the Toyota Echo came in yellow, because I think it’s about the cutest little car I’ve ever seen. Of course, if the Ford Mustang wasn’t so expensive, I’d go for that, because I need me a muscle car, don’tchathink? Lately, though, I’ve been eyeballing the Suzuki Aerio SX. It’s a cute car and it comes in yellow. I actually like the look of the Aerio Sedan even more, but of COURSE it doesn’t come in yellow. It’s very “me” to shop for a new car based on whether it comes in yellow, isn’t it? * * * I was supposed to be going to a family reunion for Fred’s father’s side of the family tomorrow afternoon. Every year on Labor Day weekend a bunch of them get together at a restaurant (usually a different restaurant each year), have lunch, catch up on what everyone’s been doing, and take a ton of pictures. Every year, a few days before the reunion is to take place, I develop a raging red pimple somewhere on my face. This year, it popped up at the top of my nose, directly between my eyes, red and throbbing and drawing the eye of everyone who comes within ten feet of me. Two days later, another one popped up on my cheek. Neither of them is poppable (oh, shut up. I’ve been popping zits my entire life, I don’t CARE if popping them leaves a SCAR) and they don’t seem to want to go away. Someone suggested in my comments, at some point, that I should put Milk of Magnesia on them, let it dry, then wipe it off with a warm washcloth. I tried that yesterday, and it might have dried them out a little, but they’re still bright red. Y’all know that I never EVER wear makeup, but I just can’t bring myself to go out into public with them so red, so this morning I covered them with foundation and powder. You can still see them, but at least the brightness of the red has been dialed down a tad. I get more pimples at 36 than I ever did at 16! * * * At a quick glance, you can’t even really tell that her eye is sewn shut. I bet it’d be more obvious if it was the eye on the lighter side of her face. * * * Previously 2003: I guess Spike TV really IS television for men. 2002: When married characters are that cruel to each other, all you can think is, “Why the hell are they married if they hate each other so much?” 2001: Gatlinburg pictures! 2000: No entry.]]>

* * * Miz Poo has been squinting a lot lately, and since she was due for her yearly shots and physical AND because Spot has bare patches on the inner part of his back legs (his inner thigh, I guess you’d call it), Fred took them both to the vet Tuesday. There’s a good reason Miz Poo has been squinting – because she has a huge scratch on her cornea. I can’t imagine how on earth she got a scratch on her cornea. What could be the cause of that, I wonder? Hmmm. I don’t know. It’s a mystery. I puts my paws around her neck and I kicks her with my back feets. Anyway, the vet prescribed a medicine for to promote healing of the cornea and another for the pain (I imagine having a scratched cornea hurts a bit). I took her back to the vet’s this morning and dropped her off. He’s going to examine her, and if her eye isn’t getting better, you know what’s going to happen? (No, he’s not going to remove her eye. Thank god.) He’s going to sew shut her nictating membrane and then her eyelid so that the eye has a chance to heal. I don’t know about you, but the idea of an eyelid being sewn shut just gives me the willies in a big way. Poor Miz Poo, with her thousands of health issues. Her eye, her lip, her wheeze. The nurse at the vet’s office told me that they do this – sewing eyes shut – all the time. They sew them shut, leave them that way for two weeks, and when they open the eye back up, it’s like a whole new eye. I was less focused on the “whole new eye” part than the “two weeks” part. “Does it ever, like, GROW CLOSED?” I asked, horrified at the very thought. The nurse laughed and reassured me that to her knowledge that has never happened. In any case, if they do sew her eye closed she’ll be able to come home this afternoon, and if they don’t she can come home even sooner. Bet she lives to be twenty or more. It’s always the ones with the health issues that surprise you, I find. For the past two nights we’ve had to give Miz Poo a ton of medicine. I grab her up in a towel, wrap it tight around her, and Fred gives her a decongestant pill, a squirt of oil, and a squirt of medicine in each ear. Then I hand her over to Fred, and he holds her while I put one kind of medicine in both eyes, and one kind of medicine just in the bad eye. Then we put her down, and she just kind of sits there and looked like she’s not quite sure what just happened. My poor baby. (She’s out of surgery and doing fine – she’ll be coming home this afternoon.)

* * * Since Miz Poo was going in for surgery this morning (or potentially going in, I guess I should say), we had to put the cat food away before we went to bed. It’s hardly fair that just because Miz Poo couldn’t have food after midnight none of the cats could, I know, but that’s just the way the cookie crumbles. Fred put the food in the bathroom closet before he went to bed, and the cats milled around looking worried and nervous. Spot ran in and out of the bathroom several times, and the Booger ran around making the grumpy noise he makes constantly. Not ten minutes after Fred went to bed, I heard a crackling sound in the closet. When I looked over, I saw the Booger on the top shelf in the closet, trying to get into the bag of Kitten Chow (you’ll recall that we give them Kitten Chow as a treat and they LURVE it). I took the bag and put it where he couldn’t get to it, and he gave me a pissed-off look, then ran around grumping some more. When I ignored him, he let out several ear-piercing meows, then settled atop the kitty condo to go to sleep, where he stayed most of the night. I got up at 4:20 to pee, and the second I stepped through the bathroom door, I was surrounded on all sides by frantic, starving-to-death cats who wanted to be sure I knew there was NO FOOD, DAMNIT! Somehow they survived the night and when Fred poured food into the cat bowl this morning before he left (right before he snatched up Miz Poo to put her in the cat carrier), they about lost their little kitty minds. And then each ate about two pieces of cat food and wandered off. The Booger went to see why Miz Poo was making sad meowing sounds from the hallway. Fred had put her in the cardboard cat carrier and then left (I was the one who actually took her to the vet’s), and I was in the process of getting dressed when I heard the sound of cat jumping on cardboard and then a hiss from Miz Poo. When I went out to look, I saw that the Booger had jumped atop the carrier, pushing the top down and allowing enough room for Miz Poo to escape. When she saw me coming toward her, she ran and hid under the bed, and I couldn’t get hold of her for the life of me. I had to call Fred, because I am a lame, helpless girl who can’t get a portly cat into a carrier, and he came back home (he was only a minute away) to help catch her. This time, we put her in the plastic carrier the Booger couldn’t break her out of. * * * ]]>

September logo!) I’m flying to Maine on Saturday and staying for a week. My grandmother, who went into an assisted care facility last summer, has been failing. She has stomach cancer. It’s an estrogen-based cancer and they’ve been treating it with an estrogen prohibitor; there’s no way she would have survived the surgery to remove her stomach. The pain in her stomach has slowly gotten worse, and at the assisted care facility they were treating it with Tylenol with codeine. She turned 86 last Thursday. She’s the only grandparent I’ve ever really known. She’s fallen several times over the past year, the last time just last week. She hadn’t apparently hurt herself, but when my mother showed up later that day to have lunch with my grandmother, my grandmother couldn’t stand up. They took her to the hospital to try to figure out what was wrong, and couldn’t find anything – they thought it might be a stroke, but a brain scan showed that it wasn’t. Over the weekend, they moved her from the hospital to a nursing home. The nursing home called my mother on Sunday to tell her that my grandmother had been begging anyone who came near to kill her. My mother went to the nursing home and spent the day there, and while she was there, it became apparent that the nursing home was attempting to treat my grandmother’s pain with plain extra-strength Tylenol, which wasn’t helping in the slightest. When my mother asked if they could give her something stronger, the nurses apologetically said that they couldn’t, that the nursing home doctor had said to give her Tylenol. My mother spent quite some time trying to get in touch with someone who could help. My grandmother’s former doctor wasn’t available, her current doctor wasn’t available, and finally my mother was able to reach the doctor covering for my grandmother’s oncologist, who prescribed morphine, which seems to help. This morning my sister called, crying, because I think it’s one thing to know that your grandmother is dying, and another thing to actually see her dying slowly in front of you. I can’t tell you how hard it is to sit and listen to someone you love, 1500 miles away, crying like that. Debbie said that my grandmother’s knocked out on morphine most of the time, but when she’s awake, she just looks so sad. I think it’s talking about that sadness that made Debbie cry the hardest. I talked to my mother for a few minutes and she sounded sad, but resigned. I wish that you could all know my grandmother as she was when I was growing up. She was the sweetest woman I’ve ever known. She took meticulous care of herself, ate a raisin bran muffin for breakfast every morning, walked for exercise, kept her house clean and neat as a pin, was always sweet and sympathetic and active and independent. She would never have wanted her life to end like this, doped up on morphine, unable to get out of bed, so far from the house she loved. I ask you, what the fuck is the point of taking care of yourself so well for so many years when this is how it ends?

Gram and the spud, Summer 1997. ]]>

My Day, In Progress (for August 30th) 4:07 am: I’m awakened by my bladder (the older I get, the more middle-of-the-night trips I have to make to the bathroom). I try to roll over in bed, but Miz Poo is laying on one side of me and Meester Boogers is stretched along the other side of me, effectively pinning me down. I flail and grunt and push, and finally the Booger deigns to move just enough for me to slide my legs around him and slip out of bed. Miz Poo follows me into the bathroom, sniffs at the cat food, decides she’s not hungry, and turns to watch me pee. I head back to bed, squinting at the clock on the VCR as I pass it, to see what time it is. 6:29 am: Meester Boogers lets out two very loud meows, waking me up. Worried that he’s brought a bird, mouse, possum, or other small critter (the possibilities are endless!) into the house and is in the middle of torturing it, I sit up, put on my glasses, and look over toward the cat bed under the table the TV sits on. The Booger likes to bring bugs in when we’re not paying attention, and tear them from limb to limb, leaving many of the pieces in the cat bed. I’ve taken to calling it the Abattoir. Hmmm. The BOOGattoir! But there are no small animals desperately fighting to live, so I lay back down. The Boogattoir. Yes, I clean the insect pieces out of the bed every few days. I’m just relieved he does it in the cat bed and not the Momma bed. 6:29 – 6:42 am: Rub Miz Poo’s belly while listening to Fred in the shower. (No, he’s not singing) 6:42 – 6:45 am: Chat with Fred, then give him a kiss goodbye and roll over to go back to sleep. 7:25 am: The alarm’s set for 7:30, but distant banging wakes me up, and since I’m already awake, I figure I might as well get up. 7:25 – 7:55 am: Get up, get dressed, put in contacts, take vitamin E and thyroid medication, clean the litter box, toss a load of laundry in the washer, grab a pair of socks, and head downstairs. Toss the bag of cat poop, open the blinds on the back of the house, check email. 7:55 am: Get into Jeep to leave (it’s Monday, thus pet store kitties day, whee!). Wave to the Paint Guy, who waves me down. I get out of the Jeep and he says “Do you need me to move my truck?” I say, “No, I think I have enough room.” “I’ve started painting around one of the windows, and I wanted you to check and make sure it’s okay. The paint isn’t quite the same white, it’s a little more yellow.” I look up to where he’s indicated. “See? I’ve painted across the top and down the side?” I look some more, but I’ll be damned if I can see any difference at all. There are people in existence who give a good goddamn about the 87,308 varying shades of white, but I’m not one of them. “Looks good!” I tell Paint Guy, and leave. 7:55 – 8:10 am: Call Fred from the car (yes, I KNOW, but the traffic was barely moving at all, and I’m an excellent driver, so shaddup) to tell him what Paint Guy said. Fred doesn’t care that the paint is a bit different than what’s already on the house, either. I knew there was a reason I love that man. After a few minutes, hang up and drive. Switch radio stations until I find a song I like. The traffic’s bumper-to-bumper, but moving, so it’s not too bad. 8:10 am: I arrive at the pet store at the same time as one of the managers, which means I don’t have to hunt down a manager to open the door to the cat room for me. I hate hunting down a manager and asking them to open the door, because they’re always busy and I feel like I’m bothering them. 8:11 – 9:15 am: Clean cat cages, feed and pet kitties. 9:15 am: Leave the pet store and stop to get gas. Yeah, I get the expensive kind. 9:25 am: Stop at the grocery store to buy all the stuff we’ve run out of since Saturday. 9:45 am: Go to McDonald’s to get a Supah-size Diet Coke. For some reason, the fountain Diet Coke tastes better than the Diet Coke I get from the 2-liter bottle or the cans. When I order the Supah-size Diet Coke, I am informed that they no longer offer Supah-size. Bastards! I order the large (I’m going to die of thirst!), and find that though they don’t offer the Supah-size Diet Coke, the price of a large is the exact same as the now-defunct Supah-size. Bastards! I vow to never darken the McD’s drive-thru again, but even as I’m making the vow, I know I’m a big fat liar. 9:57 am: Arrive home to find Paint Guy cleaning his brushes. He tells me he’s going to leave for the day, because it’s been misting out and the paint isn’t drying very quickly at all, and now gnats have swarmed the part of the trim he did paint, and he’s sure we don’t want bugs in our trim. He points out the part he painted, but I’ll still be damned if I can see the slightest bit of color difference from how it was before. After waving goodbye to him, I pick tomatoes off our tomato plants, which aren’t looking very happy. Yes, they need to be tied up. Our little lemon tree is looking just as happy as it could be, though. The butterfly bush is in serious need of pruning. It smells SO good. 10:15 am: After putting the groceries away and taking a big slug of my ice-cold Diet Coke (mmmm….) I pour a small bowl of Cheerios, dump half a cup or so of blueberries on top, add Splenda and skim milk, and eat breakfast in front of the computer while checking email and catching up on my journal reading. 10:35 am: I decide I can’t put it off any longer, so I put my dishes in the sink and head upstairs to do some cleaning. I toss the laundry in the washer into the dryer, and start a load of towels, then I get out all the cleaning supplies and go into the bathroom, where I spend the next hour cleaning the bathtub, shower, toilet, and sink area. The cats take turn inspecting my work.

“Hmmm, yes. Perhaps a little more scrubbing of the sink is in order.” “This FLOOR is atrocious!” “Ah yes, clean enough to drink out of. Well done!” This picture, hanging on my bathroom wall, happens to be Jane‘s favorite saying EVER. When I’m done cleaning the bathroom, I move the tray holding the water and cat food dishes out into the bedroom so I can vacuum in the bathroom. The cats, fascinated by the location change of their food, take turns checking to see if the food tastes the same in the bedroom as it does in the bathroom. Apparently it’s nothing to write home about. I empty the trashcan that goes in the bathroom, and leave it on the bed for a moment. And a moment is all the Booger needs to knock it over and claim it for his very own Stump Cave. 11:45 am: Done cleaning and vacuuming the bathroom, I dust my bedroom, Fred’s bedroom, and the few pieces of furniture in the hallway. The Booger keeps a wary eye on the vacuum cleaner. When I grab the vacuum, he high-tails it downstairs and stays there while I vacuum the entire upstairs. The other cats join him. 12:20 pm: With the cleaning done, it’s time to take a shower. I turn on the shower and step inside. 12:45 pm: My hair is dry – at least the front part is – and I settle into the chair in the corner of the bedroom to read for a little while. Meester Boogers decides to keep me company. Uh, no. He actually isn’t sitting on my head. I probably wouldn’t look quite so cheery if he was. 1:23 pm: I finish the book I started yesterday (Killer Smile, by Lisa Scottoline. I love her!), get dressed, and start to head downstairs. Then I remember that I have laundry to fold, and I reverse directions. I toss the clean clothes on the bed, put the towels from the washer to the dryer, and put another load of clothes into the washer. The Booger inspects my work. That, or snoozes. It’s hard to tell the difference. 1:35 pm: I sit down in front of the computer and start working on an entry. In between reading Nance‘s entry and checking Jane‘s guestbook (no fighting going on today, damnit!) and checking Mo‘s blog, I write an entry. 2:05 pm: Post the entry and go make lunch. 2:15 pm: Consume lunch: Lunch is a huge-ass salad consisting of half a bag of Spring Mix salad, several cherry tomatoes, half a cucumber, a couple of sliced radishes, and half a baked boneless, skinless chicken breast half, cubed. Drizzled on top is 2 T. of Kraft Light Done Right 3-Cheese Ranch dressing. Aside from the salad is a container of white chocolate and raspberry yogurt, and a cup of Diet Coke. Yum! 2:35 – 3:00 pm: Catch up on journal and blog reading, check email, do random surfing, give Miz Poo belly rubs. 3:00 – 3:25 pm: Slice 1 pound of steak into small pieces so I don’t have to do it later when it’s time to make dinner. Also, chop up two scallions. Stick cut-up steak and scallions in separate bowls, and then put them in the refrigerator. Clean the top of the stove and wipe down the counters while listening to Dr. Phil’s show. 3:25 pm: Fred arrives home. Follow him upstairs to lay down and talk about our respective days. 3:40 pm: Fold some laundry, then go downstairs and ask the spud about HER day (she made blueberry muffins in Home Ec. (or whatever the fuck they’re calling it) and they sucked). 3:45 – 4:00 pm: Sit in front of the computer and surf. 4:00 pm: Put a pot of rice on to cook. Peel carrots, chop them up, and put them in a pot of water. Add a chopped-up onion. Put the pot on the stove, then go back to the computer for more surfing. 4:10 – 4:35 pm: Sit in front of the computer and surf. 4:35 – 5:00 pm: Make dinner. 5:00 – 5:20 pm: Consume dinner, while chatting with Fred and the spud. Dinner is General Tsao’s Chicken – substituting steak for chicken – on rice, and carrots and onions. It is MIGHTY fucking fine. 5:20 – 5:30 pm: Lay down and chat about various and sundry (though not Sundry) things with Fred. 5:30 pm: Fold towels and put them away. Hang bras up to dry in the closet. 5:40 – 7:00 pm: Sit in front of the computer, put up Pet Store Kitties entry, make Fred look at picture of the Booger, talk to the Booger, snuggle with Miz Poo, watch Spanky watching the birds out the window, check mail, read Jane‘s entry, catch up on more journal reading, update my weight-lifting schedule for this week (I change up my routine every two weeks to keep things FRESH and EXCITING), look at TVGuide to see what’s coming on this week, and make notes (shut UP), watch the hummingbirds out the front window, surf, waste time, be a slacker. 7:00 – 7:18 pm: Fred’s in the middle of something on his computer, so I turn the TV in the living room on, then pause The Complex: Malibu so we won’t miss a single magical moment of it. I go through the list of shows we want to watch this week, and set the DVR to tape the ones we want to tape. Why does everything good come on on Tuesday night, and nothing good at ALL comes on on Thursday or Friday? 7:18 – 7:22 pm: I nag Fred until he decides he’s done with what he was doing, and he goes to make his evening snack. 7:22 – 7:30 pm: Check email and do some mindless surfing while Fred makes his snack. 7:30 – 9:00 pm: Make my evening snack (a small bowl of bran flakes and raisins with Splenda and skim milk) and settle in with Fred to watch The Complex, which we enjoy, because except for the gay guys, everyone’s annoying as hell. Annoying in an entertaining way, that is. 9:00 – 9:05 pm: Check my email one last time, and check out Nance and Jane’s answers to the current Smart & Sassy questions. 9:05 pm: Fred comes back downstairs (he always goes upstairs a few minutes before me) and asks if I’ve seen the Booger. I haven’t seen him in an hour or so, and he’s ALWAYS inside at bedtime (how else would he get his tasty Kitten Chow treats?). Fred’s checked everywhere in the house for him, and he’s nowhere to be seen. We head out into the backyard and call for him, Fred shaking the Kitten Chow box. No Booger. Fred goes one way and I go the other. Fred finds that one of the gates is standing open, and we both freak out a little bit. We go into the front yard and I call for Meester Boogers, while Fred shakes the Kitten Chow box. We’re just starting to wonder whether we need to fan out into the neighborhood (can two people fan?), when the Booger comes running at high speed from the next-door neighbor’s yard. He hides under the Jeep until he realizes he’s not in trouble, and then he comes out and rubs on Fred’s legs. Fred picks him up, and we go inside. 9:20 – 9:40 pm: I get ready for bed – take out my contacts, take a vitamin E pill and my birth control pill, wash my face, brush my teeth, and put on my nightgown. I settle down in bed next to Fred to read, when we hear the sounds of Meester Boogers outside, howling. We both go downstairs and open the back door to see him flopped over on his side, enjoying the night. Apparently he just wanted to howl for no reason at all. We bring him inside and go back upstairs. Two minutes later, he starts howling from outside again. I wonder aloud whether he’s wishing he’d had a longer adventure, and then point out that it would suck if he figured out how to jump the fence the way Mr. Fancypants did. Fred admits that he would be bereft and incosolable if that were to happen, because he and Meester Boogers are soulmates. I suggest bringing the Booger inside and shutting the cat door for the night, and doing that every night from now on, like we used to. Fred asks if I’d mind going down to get the Booger and shutting the cat door. I don’t mind, so I go do it. Naturally the moment I step outside to get the Booger, Miz Poo shoots outside and won’t come back in with me. I carry the Booger inside, set him down, shut the cat door, then go back out to get Miz Poo. After a little chasing, I catch her, and she chirrups worriedly until I set her down and shut the door. I get about two minutes to read and then it’s time to turn the lights off. 9:40 – 10:03 pm: Fred and I lay in bed, snuggle, and talk. 10:03 – 11:17 pm: Fred goes to bed, and I settle in to read for a while. I’ve only read half a page when the phone rings. It’s my friend Liz, so I answer. We talk for about half an hour about a bunch of different things – she might come visit in November – and then we hang up. I read about ten pages in my book before I decide it’s time to go to sleep. I make one last trip to the bathroom, stopping on the way back to bed to pet the Booger, Spanky, and Spot, and then settle in for the night. 11:18 pm: Lights out.]]>

Jack Bauer was saying. I got up, got dressed, trudged over to Fred’s bedroom, and tried to take a nap there. Fred’s bedroom is the furthest room in the house from the living room, and so I was sure I wouldn’t be able to hear the TV from there. Wrooooooooong. I had just started to doze off when Teri Bauer shrieked about something, and I sat up and growled that I hated the layout of this house, and I put my clothes back on, and went downstairs and sat in front of the computer and tried to surf. Except that I COULD NOT CONCENTRATE, because every word that every character on 24 was saying, was being drilled through my eardrums and directly into my brain. There was NOWHERE in the house to get AWAY from the sound of that FUCKING television set, and so I threw a temper tantrum. I stomped through the kitchen, grabbed my purse (which was sitting by the door), shot Fred a burning look of hatred, and slammed out into the garage. I was digging my shoes out from under the Preacher Curl/ Pushdown bench when Fred came out and gave me a curious look. “Where are you going?” he asked. “SOMEWHERE WHERE I CAN GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM THE SOUND OF THAT TELEVISION!” I bellowed. “Shhhh,” Fred said, since the garage door was open and he didn’t want the neighbors to know our bidness. “I CAN’T GET AWAY FROM THE SOUND OF THAT TELEVISION!” I bellowed, slid my feet into my sandals, and stomped toward the Jeep. “Well, it’ll be over in 15 minutes,” Fred said, sounding as if he might be amused. I didn’t look back to see if he actually WAS amused, because then I would have had to kick him REALLY HARD. “IT’LL NEVER BE OVER!” I bellowed, got into the Jeep, and left. (Yeah, I’m not sure what that was supposed to mean, either.) I drove off with the intention of driving to Tennessee to buy a lottery ticket so that when we won millions of dollars, we could build a house wherein the living room and master bedroom were NOWHERE near each other. But I didn’t want to drive that far, so I basically did a big loop and ended up home about 40 minutes after I left, a lot calmer. I know. He’s a saint, isn’t he?

* * * My favorite t-shirt from Hawaii (I bought this one for myself) Another of my favorites. * * * I informed Fred yesterday that I’d already decided what my resolution for 2005 was going to be. (Shaddup, I know 2005 is months away) See that bookcase up there? Those are all the books I own, but haven’t yet read. I counted, and there are about 40 books on the top shelf, and the top 4 shelves are packed, so we can guesstimate that there are 160+ books on that bookcase. Now, that’s just ridiculous. Especially since I can walk into a bookstore or surf around Amazon and easily walk out (or check out) with 10 or more books that I want to read. So my resolution for 2005 is not to buy any new books, EXCEPT the books that my favorite authors put out (I’ll have to put a list together of the authors I consider my favorites). Anything else I want to read, I’ll put on my Amazon wish list, and by the time I’m ready to buy more books, no doubt half my list would have gone to paperback. The tough part is going to be sticking to that particular resolution! And maybe I’ll actually get that copy of Monica’s Story that I bought back in 1999 read! * * * Several people have asked what episode of Penn & Teller’s Bullshit! we were on. It was episode number 13 on (I think) disc 4, and the name of the episode is “Eat This!”, I believe. * * * “I see dead people.” (Picture taken by Fred)]]>

* * * I opted to skip exercising yesterday, and as a result felt cranky and bitchy all day long. (More cranky and more bitchy, I guess I should say) I had thought about just waiting until Fred got home to exercise – that way Fred could be available if the paint guy needed a window opened or to answer a question – but ’round about noon I decided I felt so crappy and dirty that I had to have a shower RIGHT THAT SECOND, so I went and took a shower, and I COULDN’T exercise after I’d already taken a shower, right? RIGHT? Gah. Skipping exercise for one day won’t kill me… But it does make me mighty cranky. Before I got around to showering, Fred’s father and stepmother showed up. The guy who’s painting the window sills and trim did their house several weeks ago, which is how we got his name. They were dropping off lawn furniture for him to paint (he’s a very handy man, he is), and I had to go outside in my stinky exercise clothes, with my nasty, unshaved legs showing, and make conversation with his stepmother while his father loaded the lawn furniture into the paint guy’s truck. I don’t think anyone noticed my hairy legs – I’m lucky enough that the hair on my arms and legs is blond, thus less noticeable than it COULD be – but if they did, they were nice enough not to mention it. Stinky clothes, unshowered, hairy legs. I am SO SEXY.

* * * Yesterday morning after I uploaded my entry, I went to the bottom of the stairs to grab the vacuum cleaner so I could vacuum the entire downstairs. (The vacuum cleaner doesn’t really have a permanent home. Usually it either sits at the top of the stairs waiting to go downstairs, or the bottom of the stairs waiting to go upstairs. Have I mentioned that I LOVE MY VACUUM CLEANER? Because oh YES I do.) I glanced up the stairs, to see Meester Boogers on the top step, eyes dark, huddled up against the wall. “Hey, little man!” I greeted him, and he stared down at me and huddled even closer to the wall. “What’s the matter, buddy?” I went up the stairs, and he watched me make the climb. I reached down to pet him, and he just looked up at me, eyes dark. I was starting to get a little worried, so I picked him up to check him over. Which is when he hid his face in my neck. Now Meester Boogers, while being friendly enough if you pick him up, has never to my recollection hidden his face in my neck. If you pick him up to pet him, he’ll purr and enjoy being petted, but will only put up with it for a short while before asking to be put down. I decided to take him into the extra bedroom (he really likes hanging out in there) and put him on the bed so I could check to be sure he hadn’t hurt himself. As I walked toward the bedroom, he LOST HIS SHIT, and started kicking and flailing. “What the-?” I said, and watched him as he ran down the stairs. I looked in the extra bedroom, and realized what the problem was. The paint guy was on his ladder outside the window, putting primer on the window sill. I think our cats are as antisocial as we are. * * * Everyone in Jane’s guest book seems to think we should have a Sassy Con. I’ll go, but only if everyone’s required to curtsy and call me “Your Majesty.” * * * Paint Guy is actually way more than just a paint guy. He’s an all-around handyman, it would appear. Fred told his father that he was tired of our driveway looking all nasty, because water tends to sit on the top part of the driveway and after a while, mold and mildew shows up. Fred’s father said something to Paint Guy, and Paint Guy told Fred that he could clean the driveway using his… thing. You know, the thing? That makes water shoot out really hard? That I cannot think of the name? Yeah, that thing. Anyway, he told Fred he could clean the driveway, and Fred accepted the offer, and so Paint Guy’s been cleaning the driveway for the better part of the morning, and it looks AMAZING. It’s stunning how clean he’s getting the driveway and sidewalk. We were laying bed talking last night, and Fred thought of another thing Paint Guy might be able to do for us, inside the house, maybe later when the weather gets cold and his work slows down. This guy seems to be busy all the time, and he doesn’t advertise at all – it’s all just through word of mouth. He painted Fred’s father’s house, did some work for Fred’s sister, now he’s doing work for us, and one of Fred’s business partners has work for him to do. Aside from all that, just through word of mouth, he has four houses lined up to paint when he’s done with ours. He’s a nice guy, very polite (anytime he asked me something yesterday, he apologized for interrupting me; and he won’t park in the driveway because his truck leaks oil), he works hard, he does an excellent job, and we’re paying him less than we’d pay someone from a big company – which works out well for him, because he gets to keep all the money he makes. The American Dream in action, baby. * * * ]]>