Category: Life

most recent entry, I realized that it had been ages since I’d Nair’d off my now-full and lush mustache. I use the Nair made especially for the face and I’ve never had a problem with it, aside from a small amount of redness that usually goes away overnight. So yesterday morning, after working out and cooling down, I headed upstairs to doing some Nairing. I slathered the Nair above my lip and around my chin (making a Nair beard, sort of), and proceeded to clean out the drawer that is located between my sink and Fred’s sink. It’s amazing how much old medicine for the cats we tend to hold on to. I think I tossed about half the crap in that drawer. Ten minutes after I put the Nair on my face – the time limit suggested on the back of the bottle is ten minutes, and I have some stubborn whiskers on my face, so I go right up to the ten minute mark – I went into the bathroom to wash it off. Imagine my surprise when a layer of skin came off with the Nair. It FUCKING HURT, people, and it hadn’t hurt at all until I wiped it off. And I’ve NEVER had this problem before! I slapped some soothing hydrocortisone cream on the red skin, hoping that would take away some of the redness. It did not. The skin itched and burned and hurt and caused me all manners of pain. When I could bear to look at myself in the mirror, I appeared to have a red beard entirely around my mouth and chin. A blotchy red beard. And, no. I did NOT take a picture, thank you. Last night at bedtime, I recalled the bottle of aloe we keep under the sink, and since aloe is so very soothing and surely meant for just such an occasion, I retrieved it and slathered it liberally on the red skin, and then I waited for the soothing. Which did not come. It STUNG, and for a good ten minutes. “It got redder after you put the aloe on,” Fred observed. “That’s because it fucking HURTS!” I yelled. Never occurred to me to go wash it off, though. Duh. This morning, thankfully, it’s a lot better. I have a scablike spot below and to the left of my nose, and another one a bit lower, but I could almost go out in public without being pointed at. Almost. I’m sure if I was going to JournalCon this year it would be a lot worse, since that’s how it usually works out.

* * * Possible The Bachelor spoilers in this section. I just hate that fucking L3e Ann. I HATE HER. Which sucks, because I think she’s just adorable as can be. YET I LOATHE HER. This shit the bachelorettes are pulling in the last few seasons of The Bachelor, where they say “Oh, I’m not HERE to make FRIENDS, I’m here to be with The Bachelor!” Yeah? Well, that’s all good and everything, but there is NO fucking reason to be an obnoxious twat-head while she’s there. What the fuck does it hurt to be nice to the other people? And why whine about being shut out by the other girls, when she runs around being such an ass? HOW can she, with a STRAIGHT FUCKING FACE, claim that they’re shutting her out because she has such a deep and abiding “connection” with Bob? Personally, I think this “connection” is all in her mind. I could KILL Bob for giving her a rose last night, I really could. My money says that Le3 Ann and Mer3dith will be the last two standing, and Mer3dith will come out the winner. Please, please, PLEASE. Yeah, I know. I need a life. Shaddup. * * * I think I must be coming down with something. Not only did I clean out the drawer in our bathroom yesterday, but after Fred went to bed last night I cleaned the entire bathroom, dusted the entire upstairs, and cleaned out the crap under our respective bathroom sinks. How many bottles of rubbing alcohol DOES one family need, anyway? This morning I scrubbed out the litter boxes, vacuumed the entire upstairs, mopped the bathroom and laundry room, cleaned the kitchen (including cleaning out the refrigerator), vacuumed the entire downstairs – INCLUDING THE STAIRS – and took all the trash out. Also, I cleaned out the junk drawer in the kitchen – how many syringes to give medicine to cats DOES one family need, anyway? If you said twelve, you’d be right, apparently – cleaned out the closet off the kitchen, and cleaned out under the kitchen sink. I don’t think the house has been this clean since we moved in. And I’m not done yet. I’m making vague plans to dust the entire downstairs, clean and straighten all the bookshelves in the library, and go around with the swiffer to get all the cobwebs that form around the ceilings. Kind of scary, isn’t it? * * * This morning, while Fred was getting ready for work, Miz Poo was eating. The cats like to hang out in the bathroom and eat while we’re in there, for some reason. Stanley came happily along, and sat down next to Miz Poo. Casually, he reached his head forward to grab a piece of food. Ears back, Miz Poo growled at Stanley and then reached out with her Paw O’ Doom and slapped him soundly on the top of his little head. Stanley responded by putting his ears all the way back and glaring at her. She went back to eating, and Stanley again put his face in the dish to get some food. Again with the growl and the slap. It happened two or three more times, and then finally Miz Poo gave up. That’s right, folks, she GAVE UP. She walked away from the food dish, sat down next to the tub, and glared at Stanley as he ate. I believe Miz Poo’s reign of terror is about at an end. * * * He fell asleep like this. He’s a very heavy sleeper. Yawwwwwwwwwn. I love this picture of Gizmo and her big sister Dulcinea. Why do I have the feeling that a smackdown is about to happen? ]]>

post for yesterday and immediately tried to put your fist in your mouth? My fist, in case you were curious, is far too big for my mouth. Is it because I have a tiny little mouth or big man hands or perhaps a combination of the two? Who knows?

* * * So, I bought a small round seedless watermelon at Target the other day, and finally got around to cutting it up to have with my lunch. I feel like this is possibly a very Jessica Simpson-y question, but how is this: …a seedless watermelon? Are those not seeds? Or are they the “safe” kind of seeds that won’t grow into watermelon plants in your stomach? (Just kidding on that last part. Really!) * * * Nothing but cat stories and pictures from here to the end, folks. If you’re a cat hatah, you’ll be wanting to give this one a miss. I’ll probably be going back to just one or two cat pictures per entry in a day or three. We’ve named the kitten, finally. I was pushing for “Shithead” (pronounced “Shy-theed”, of course – someone suggested that over in Fred’s comments, and it made me giggle), but the perfect name came up last night, and once we heard it, we decided it was just right. Introducing… Stanley And3rson. Who is not afraid of that can of compressed air at ALL, unfortunately. Stanley likes to use his claws to climb up the side of the bed. Stanley likes to hang out on (and knock shit off of) The Momma’s desk. Stanley likes to hang out in the cat bed and have his belly rubbed. Stanley likes to smack at the camera lens cover. Stanley got his ass kicked for trying to eat out of the same bowl as Miz Poo. It’s okay for him to drink water out of the other bowl while she’s eating, though. Stanley likes to follow Miz Poo around. Stanley was stretching, not about to go jump on Miz Poo. Stanley has jumped on every one of the other cats at one point or another. The night before last, as Miz Poo was snoozing on a pillow on my lap, Stanley jumped up on the couch, ran over and put his arms around her neck, and began licking her ear. I would guess she let him do it for a good minute, minute and a half before she smacked him upside the head and hissed at him. I still can’t believe she let him do it for that long – she must have enjoyed it. Last night, he ran across the room and jumped on her. She hissed and smacked at him, and he smacked back and knocked her over. I’m afraid Miz Poo’s reign as Queen Shit may be coming to a close. ]]>

cancer Diet Coke. His idea of a relaxing weekend is doing a little hike like this one, maybe. (For the record, my idea of a nice hike is one that includes paved paths, like this one) This past Sunday, as I was sitting in front of my computer, cooling off from my workout, he started making his usual “If I don’t get OUT of this house, I’m going to LOSE MY MIND” noises. I said nothing, hoping in vain that he would get over it and wander off to read or watch TV. Silly me. “Want to hike up to Three Caves?” he suggested brightly. The last time he suggested hiking up to Three Caves was early this past summer, and on the way I got pissed at the fact that we never did ANYthing FUN (like go to the movies or go shopping or sit on our asses on the couch – NONathletic things, in other words), and started a fight. (It all worked out well, though – that was the first time we went to feed the ducks and geese at the lake by the university.) Because I knew that there’d be no shutting him up until we hauled our asses up the mountain once and for all so I could see the goddamn caves, I immediately agreed. A few minutes later he twigged to the fact that I was only agreeing to shut him up. “You’re agreeing to go just to shut me up, aren’t you?” he said. I smiled. He got out the map and showed me where Three Caves was located. “We could take the hard hike,” he drew his finger along a long trail that ended at Three Caves. “Or we could take the shorter route.” “How long of a hike is it?” I asked. He traced the route and calculated. “About half a mile.” Well, hell. Even I could do half a mile of hiking, followed by a short rest, a drink of water, and another half mile back to the car. We decided to leave in about half an hour, and both headed upstairs, he to tell the spud we were going for a hike and if she wanted to go she needed to be ready at 11:30, and me to take a shower. Not long after 11:30, after packing everything but the kitchen sink in his backpack (GPS, map, flashlight (no lights in the cave, dontchaknow), 3 bottles of water, and other assorted things), we were on our way. We got to the trailhead around noon and stood around while Fred changed out the batteries in the GPS and marked the location of the Jeep. We headed up a fairly steep trail, and it wasn’t long before I was breathing pretty heavily. Fred kept asking if I wanted to stop and rest, but I was in “Get this the fuck over with” mode, and refused. That whole line of crap about enjoying the journey rather than the destination, by the way, only holds true when the journey is ENJOYABLE. Yeah, yeah, enjoying the journey is a decision, blahblahshutthefuckupcakes. The trail evened out after ten minutes or so (there were some cool sinkholes, but we forgot to take pictures of them), and it wasn’t so bad for a little while. Fred and the spud took turns leading the hike, breaking the spider webs with their walking sticks. Another trail crossed the one we were on, and it occurred to me that we’d surely gone at least half a mile. “How much further?” I asked finally. “Oh, I don’t know. I didn’t mark the location of the caves on the GPS… Oh, wait!” A flash of brilliance came to him. “We can look on the map and see where that other trail crosses this one, and where the caves are!” He dug the map out of the backpack the spud was carrying (they were taking turns), and opened it up. He showed me the path we were on, and then found where the other path crossed. “And where are the caves?” I asked. He showed me, and I gave him a look that, by all rights, should have made his brains leak out his ears. “So, not even halfway.” “A little over halfway!” he LIED. Bastard. We kept going. Soon, the path turned into what was obviously an old stream bed, lined with rocks designed to make me lose my balance. It also went from fairly flat to a pretty seriously downhill path. As we walked, Fred and the spud leaping nimbly from rock to rock, doing pirouettes in the air as they leapt, I tripped along, silently shooting Looks O’ Hatred at his back and wondering if we’d ever get there. He would turn and say “We’re almost there, I can feel it!” with a big grin on his face, and I would wonder how hard I’d have a throw a hickory nut at his back for it to cause pain. He stopped occasionally to pick up hickory nuts to bring home and crack open, and we saw a few cool-looking lizards. “If you want, you and the spud could wait at the road by the cave, and I could hike back to get the Jeep and drive down to pick you up,” he said. The idea cheered me up more than I can express, and I was happy to agree. We reached the path that loops around the caves – amazingly enough named Three Caves Loop – and followed it for a bit before we ended up at the top of a very high cliff.

From there, it was a pretty easy hike along the cliff to the bottom of the caves. We saw some pretty flowers: and an interesting bush: If anyone knows what kind of bush this is, please let me know. Fred is curious. You can see the full-sized picture here. The road at the bottom of the caves is made of gravel. As we walked down the road to the caves, we could feel the cool air pouring out of the caves. It was pretty neat, and the caves were even bigger than I’d imagined. I made the spud pose in the door of one of the caves for perspective. We went inside and poked around the caves for twenty minutes or so. Fred was holding the flashlight and would occasionally forget that the spud and I didn’t have flashlights of our own, necessitating the occasional cries of “WE DON’T HAVE A FLASHLIGHT, MOTHERFUCKER!” (me), and “FRED!” (the spud). The caves were just awesomely huge, and could easily hold the inhabitants of a city the size of Huntsville. Fred and the spud. Pardon the blurriness; I had to use the night vision function on the camera. Once we were done marveling over the size of the caves, we headed back up the gravel road. “Do you want to wait here while I check to see how far the road is?” he asked. I nodded, sat on a conveniently located bench with the spud, and drank some water. A few minutes later, he came back around and motioned for us to come along. We followed him down the gravel road (away from the caves), and as we turned the corner, I remembered (because it was right there) that there was a fence at the end of the gravel road, separating it from the main, paved residential street. There were “No trespassing” and “Do not enter” signs everywhere, and the fence – 10 feet high and made of chain-link – was padlocked close. “How are we going to get out?” I asked. “The fence just goes a little way and then ends,” Fred said, and led the way. The spud and I followed him slowly, and then when he was out of sight, I heard his voice. “Wait!” he called. “I guess the fence doesn’t end over here, it just keeps going.” He crashed back through the woods toward us, told us to follow him, and headed in the other direction. Oddly enough, that fence didn’t end, rather kept on going as well. “Wait here while I go look around,” Fred said. The spud and I stood by the fence watching traffic occasionally go by, while Fred crashed off into the woods and disappeared. When he’d been gone for several minutes and I was wondering whether it was time to start worrying, he came back. “Come with me,” he gasped, out of breath. “I think I figured it out…” We followed him up the path near the caves, and down a small (but steep) hill and came out by the fence a few hundred yards up the road from where we’d been. We followed the fence along behind a fenced off neighborhood pool. “I thought for sure it would have ended here!” Fred said unhappily when we’d reached the other side of the pool, and the fence continued. We followed along the fence further, and saw a lovely neighborhood park. I was beginning to get resigned to the idea that we were going to have to hike back the way we’d come to get to the Jeep, and I was less than thrilled about it. I’m pretty certain “Never going to fucking go hiking with him EVER A-FUCKING-GAIN” crossed my mind at least once. “Fred!” the spud said, stopping. She pointed to a spot in the fence where someone had cut or pulled part of the fence away from the pole, leaving a gap at the bottom that we could fit through, so long as we snaked through on our stomachs. Fred came and examined the gap, then pointed along the fence. “I think it ends on the other side of the tennis court,” he said. “Why don’t you go look,” I suggested, “And we’ll wait here.” He walked off to investigate, and a few minutes later came back to report that the fence ended, but it was attached to someone’s privacy fence. “Let’s just go through here,” I said. And we did. The spud and I sat at a picnic table in the park while Fred walked off to get the Jeep (it was on a street less than a mile away). By the time we got home, rather than the 1:00 or even 1:30 I’d been expecting, it was after 2:30. I was happy just to be HOME. The next time he suggests a hike, I’m going to counter-offer a trip to the mall. And he BETTER not turn me down, that’s all I have to say. * * * I’d say this is a pretty good representation of how he looks about 40 percent of the time. ]]>

here.

* * * So, remember the other day when I was talking about cat names? And how I added “But it won’t be anytime soon, so don’t get excited?” Yeah. Riiiiiiight. About a week ago Fred said, very casually, “Maybe we should think about getting another cat…” I just gave him a “shut UP” look, since he’s prone to suggest things that will get me all excited and then telling me he was just making conversation (for example, the time he said “If you got a new car, what would you want?” Bastard.). A few nights later, he brought it up again. Then, like I mentioned last week, we had the conversation about cat names. The funny thing is that he was always the one to bring it up. This is funny because back at the end of the summer when Fancypants first went missing, we had a long conversation about whether we’d ever adopt another cat, and King Fred’s stance was “We don’t need another stinkin’ cat!” All I can guess is that he remembered how damn fun and funny kittens can be, with their unending energy and playfulness. Friday afternoon, he finally convinced me that we should drive out to the shelter (the ones that the pet store cats come from) and take a look around. The shelter’s about half an hour from where we live, which gave Fred plenty of time to change his mind, but he never wavered. We got to the shelter – it’s a house converted into a shelter, I don’t know if I’ve ever mentioned that – and began looking. In the first room we visited, there was a small black long-haired kitten named Debby that caught my eye. She was a feisty little thing, but when I picked her up she settled right in and began purring loudly. She was probably about two months old and adorable as could be. Fred wasn’t as taken with her as I was – and she couldn’t be adopted yet anyway, since she hadn’t been fixed – so we kept looking. Folks, there are over 70 cats at this shelter, every age, every color, any kind of cat you could imagine, it was there. There were SO many kittens, especially black kittens, that we couldn’t believe it. We went from room to room, picking up and playing with cats, but none of them really catching our fancy. The last room we were in was the room where they keep all of the older cats. There were probably 20 cats in the room, and as I stopped to pet one of the black cats, a tabby named Alice jumped up on the table, purring like mad, and put her front paws on my chest. I loved her, but we had agreed that we were going to adopt a kitten rather than an older cat, only because kittens tend to adapt better when brought into a situation where there are already adult cats present. The adult cats tend to adapt better to kittens, as well, if only because they can establish their authority. That’s been our experience anyway. A few weeks ago on the pet store kitties blog, I posted a picture of a cat that wasn’t actually at the pet store, but I’d seen his picture on the shelter’s page, and thought it was so funny that I put the picture up on the blog anyway. His name was Paw Paw. “Is Paw Paw here at the shelter?” Fred asked the woman who runs the shelter. “He is,” she said. “He’s in the bathroom, quarantined from the other cats because he has an upper respiratory infection, and he’s on medication.” Fred still wanted to see him, so she led us to the bathroom, where he was curled up in a cat bed. He began purring loudly as soon as Fred picked him up, and he was purring so loud that his little cheeks were puffing in and out. He was laid-back enough so that he didn’t mind being passed back and forth, and we could see a little glint of the devil in his eyes. We talked about it for a moment, but the decision was pretty much made the first time he wagged his stubby little tail. After the paperwork was filled out and the fee was paid, we popped him in a carrier (for the first time ever when adopting a cat, we’d brought our own carrier), and headed for home. He howled occasionally, but was mostly quiet. And so I present to you, the newest member of the And3rson family. We haven’t decided on a name yet, but when we do, I’ll definitely let you know. He likes hanging out on our bed. We think he kinda looks like a little lion (Fred thought that naming him “Simba” was one of my stupider ideas) Miz Poo is very curious about the kitten. Also, very freaked out. She kept a very close eye on him all weekend, following him around and smacking him when she felt the situation warranted a good smack. The kitten is very fond of the cat beds. Spanky is less than fond of the kitten, and refuses to sleep near him in case the kitten jumps on him. Which the kitten has done, more than once. I love the way his paws look like they’re tinged blue. The other cats, as you can imagine, were a bit freaked out. They’d just gotten over the visit from Gizmo a few weeks ago, and now there was another interloper! They’ve been hissing hysterically and swatting at him when he gets too close. I feel sorry for him, because all he wants to do is PLAY, and our fuddy-duddy cats won’t play with him. It’s funny as hell to see him run at them and jump on them, though. I thought I was going to pass out last night when he ran across the bedroom and jumped on Tubby’s back. Tubby, as you can imagine, was somewhat less amused. He is absolutely a little hellion. He’ll run back and forth from one end of the house to the other, turn around and do it again. If there’s something to be climbed, he’ll climb it. If there’s something to be batted around, he’s your man. The first night we had him, after Fred (the bastard) had wandered off to bed, the kitten woke me up every two hours by pouncing on my feet and grabbing and kicking at them. When he wasn’t doing that, he was running around making the other cats hiss and growl at him. The second night, he was marginally less active – only attacked my feet twice – and last night, he slept most of the night through. He’s not a lap cat – by which I mean, he’s not interested in sitting in your lap and being petted all the time – but if you pick him up for a snuggle, he’s happy to snuggle with you for a while. He can be a total hellion, but he’s so damn funny that we find ourselves laughing at him an awful lot. This morning, he sat on the back of the chair in our bedroom, and then FLUNG himself at the blinds (I’m not sure why), and when he hit the blinds Spot, who was laying in a cat bed across the room, popped up and out of the cat bed like a popcorn kernel. It was funny as hell. He’s definitely a good fit for our family. Edited to add: He’s four months old. We aren’t sticking with the name “Paw Paw” because he needs an “S” name to fit in with the other cats. I suggested both “Stubby” and “Stumpy” to Fred, but Fred said, all disapprovingly, that that would be making fun of his disability. Hmph. (There are more pictures of him here and here.) (Comments closed due to spammers)]]>

here, let me know.) Here’s to year number five! Woot!

* * * After being informed of the meaning of “Fo’ shizzle my nizzle” (thanks Michele!), I decided that Shizzle M. Nizzle was probably not the best name for any future cats we might adopt. Instead, we should probably go for “Shizzle M. Andersizzle.” (I laughed so hard I snorted when I came up with that one) Fred also likes the name “Shmuley.” And talking with Nance and Mo this morning, I came up with the name “Scabby.” Heh. * * * No spoilers, but wasn’t Survivor awesome last night? Rupert absolutely rocks! Go Rupert, go Rupert, go Rupert! * * * Man. The spud and I went to Applebee’s for lunch, and I’m all drugged up from the sugar (apple chimicheesecakes, don’tchaknow) and salt (the honey-soy dipping sauce that goes along with the oriental chicken wrap), so I’m going to slap up this week’s Friday Five and a couple of cat pictures, and call it an entry. Way to celebrate the journal-versary, eh? 🙂 * * * Oh, wait. I meant to address this: someone posted in my comments yesterday and asked why I spell our last name as And3rson and also disguise the names of some of the places we visit. It’s pretty simple, really – I disguise our last name so that anyone searching on our names (first and last) won’t find this page. It’s probably a losing battle, but anyone searching on “Robyn And3rson” (only with the “e” where the “3” is) will come across the weight loss website before they come across this one. In like manner, I would hate for Digg3r to become suddenly internet-savvy and search on his name and town, and end up here. Because I’m sure he really would get out the rifle then. * * * 1. Do you watch sports? If so, which ones? Is figure skating a sport? Because if so, then yes. Yes, I do. 2. What/who are your favorite sports teams and/or favorite athletes? Y’know, I don’t really know any of the current skaters. I like Kristi Yamaguchi, and that skinny little white girl who won a medal unexpectedly (that narrows it down, eh?) 3. Are there any sports you hate? Most sports bore the ever-loving shit out of me. 4. Have you ever been to a sports event? I’ve been to my share of high school football games. Also, I played SOFTBALL when I was in middle school. Also, I once went to a wrestling match (?) when I was 19. There was a Russian wrestler, and the audience took great pleasure in screaming “Go home, commie!” at him. 5. Do/did you play any sports (in school or other)? How long did you play? The aforementioned softball in middle school. (I sucked, did I mention?) I took a gymnastics glass when I was younger, but was never good enough to compete (again, imagine that). * * * Miz Poo, hangin’ out in the sun. “Mehhhhhhhhh!” ]]>

What’s your phone number? I have a ginormous favor to ask! I sent her my phone number, told her she had me really curious, and waited for the phone to ring. Five minutes later, it did. (Side note: This is what a dumbass I am. The phone rang, and I automatically looked at the caller ID and saw a name, followed by a comma and MD. Why on earth is Kate calling me from her doctor’s office? I worried. I hope she’s not sick! Ten or fifteen minutes later, AFTER I had hung up the phone, it hit me. MD = MARYLAND. D’oh!) It’s a long, involved story and really none-ya-bidness, but basically Kate’s mother passed away last month, and she needed someone to drive to scary-ass south Alabama to pick up her mother’s ashes. I said yes, of course, because that’s the kind of cheap, selfish bitch I am. The longer I talked to Kate and heard about her big, scary redneck brother (who had the ashes) the more I started thinking that maybe I wanted to see if Fred would go with me. What pushed me over from maybe to definitely was her warning that it was like Deliverance country down there. I’ve SEEN Deliverance, and I have no desire to be forced to squeal like a pig. After I hung up with Kate, I called Fred – who was on his way home – on his cell phone. I gave him a brief rundown of the situation. “So…” I said. “You wouldn’t want to take half a day off work tomorrow and go with me, would you?” “JESUS H. FUCKING CHRIST!” he bellowed. “Well, you don’t have to!” I said, taken aback. “You don’t have to – ” “NO!” he said in a slightly less belligerent voice. “GOD!” I said. “That’s okay, I’ll go by myself, it’s no big deal!” Sounding amused, he said “No, someone cut me off. That’s what I was swearing about.” “Oh,” I said. “I thought it was a mighty strong reaction!” He sighed and thought about it and finally said “Yeah, maybe. We’ll talk about it when I get home!” He eventually decided to take the entire day off, and said he’d go as long as we could leave early. “Like 7:00?” I said. “If you want to go that late,” he said. I think he was only half kidding.

* * * Yesterday morning, we left the house by 7:15. After we’d stopped at McDonald’s so Fred could get his coffee and I could get a Diet Coke, we hit the highway. We’ve made the drive down 65 south plenty of times before, and we’ve done many road trips together, so the drive wasn’t too terribly bad. Driving through Birmingham sucked, as it always does, and then we left 65 and drove through some tiny towns. (A few weeks ago when Tracy and Kate were in the area where we were headed, Tracy described it as “The ass-end of nowhere”. That’s a pretty good description, although there’s an awful lot of that here in Alabama.) We were drawing close to our destination – a little town named J3mison – and decided to stop in Cal3ra to use the facilities. We stopped at a gas station (“I wonder if folks from J3mison consider going to Cal3ra to be going to the big city!” I said later on our way back through.) and headed for the store. Sitting outside the store in a lawn chair was an old man. Sitting next to him was a young man straight out of Deliverance. Fred greeted them with a big, friendly “Hi!” as we passed, and I nodded and smiled nervously, ready to scream if either of them grabbed for me. A few minutes later we were on our way again, and it wasn’t long before we were driving down a small state road, looking for a road to the left. We went past the road without even noticing it, and had to turn around. “God,” Fred said finally, slowing to a crawl. “This has to be it, because it’s at the right mileage.” “There’s no sign,” I pointed out. “I thought county roads were usually paved.” “This has to be it,” he repeated. “And they usually are paved.” He turned onto the dirt road. To the left of the road was a trailer park. “Oh,” I said. “She didn’t mention he lived in a trailer park.” “There’s no way to get to the trailer park,” Fred pointed out. “I don’t think this is it.” We saw a mailbox with a number on it. We were heading for, say, number 666, and the mailbox was in the 200s. We passed the end of the trailer park, and then it got scary. We passed rusted-out trailers, trailers that were listing to the side, trailers with broken windows and doors, and everywhere we looked were ominous signs that said “Keep Out!” and “No Trespassing!” “Okay.” I seized the moment to discuss our plan. “We’re going to stun him with perky niceness, grab the ashes, and get the hell out of there. If he asks us in, you say we can’t stay, you’ve gotta get back to work, okay?” Fred suggested a Plan B. “If he gives us any trouble, I’ll snatch the ashes, throwing them to you, then roll and tackle Digg3r while you make an end run around the front of the Jeep!” “Why am I imagining that that scenario will end with us hiding in the woods while they burn our Jeep and then hunt us down?” “I have SEVEN bullets in my gun,” Fred said, seeming to feel that this would reassure me. “It’s a small gun, and I hear he’s a big guy,” I said. “But I guess you wouldn’t need to kill him. As long as you slow him down, we’ll be okay, right?” I imagined having to call Kate and say “Gee, not only did we not get the ashes, but we accidentally killed your brother! Sorry!” We slowed down as we approached a blue trailer. The number on the mailbox was the one we were looking for. We discussed which of the trailers was on the same piece of land as the blue one (the blue one having belonged to Kate’s mother), and decided that the one with all the vehicles in the yard had to be it. We pulled into the driveway. I stated the plan again. “Stun ’em with niceness, grab the ashes, get the hell out.” “I don’t want to be here for more than five minutes,” Fred said. “I don’t want to be here for more than one.” We walked up the driveway and up rickety steps to a front deck. “Ready?” Fred whispered. I considered fleeing, screaming, back to the Jeep. “No,” I said, nodding. Fred reached out and knocked on the storm door. Immediately, we heard the yapping of a dog. Relieved that I wasn’t hearing the deep “WOOF! WOOF! WOOF!” of a big dog, I smiled at Fred. “At least it’s a little dog!” A moment later, the inside door opened. A very large, very scary man peered out at us. “Uh, are, are you, uh….” Fred sputtered. “Uh, Kate’s brother?” I plastered a big grin on my face and tried to look as friendly and non-threatening as possible. He nodded, and then smiled at us. He turned and grabbed something that we couldn’t see. Sure that the next thing we’d see would be the business end of a rifle, I thought about rolling off the deck and running for the Jeep. Fred could take care of himself, I figured. Digg3r’s hands came back into view, holding a small box. He opened the storm door to hand it to Fred and hesitating, apparently remembering his manners. “Would you like to come in?” he asked politely. Confident that SINCE WE’D DISCUSSED THIS POSSIBILITY Fred would decline, I was surprised to hear him eagerly say “Sure, we’ll come in for a few minutes!” I’m sure my smile faded more than a little. We stepped into the living room of the trailer and were approached by a small yappy weiner dog. She danced around us, yapping as loudly as she could, her ears flopping every which way. “Oh!” I said, bending down to pet her. “You’re so mean! You’re so scary!” Digg3r seemed to think I was actually afraid of her. “She won’t bite,” he said reassuringly, and when she wouldn’t shut up he locked her in another room. At some point, Fred introduced both himself and me – in scary situations I tend to clam up, whereas he’s more, it appears, of a babbler – and I kept the grin plastered across my face. I’m sure I looked a bit addled, if not simpleminded. “Have a seat!” Digg3r encouraged. We sat carefully on the couch as Digg3r settled into his recliner. And then Fred began to talk. And talk and talk and talk. About the drive. About the weather. About how we’d gotten lost for a few minutes. Grin in place, I thought shutupshutupSHUTUP at him. Finally, he seemed to hear my thoughts. With no segue, he went from “…and we really could use the rain” to “well, we don’t want to take up your whole day!”, and popped up to a standing position. “Oh, it’s no trouble,” Digg3r demurred, waving his hand about as if we were welcome to take up as much of his day as we wanted. Which spurred Fred into babbling about how he had to get back to work. “I have to get back to work,” he said. “Well, not BACK to work, since I didn’t work this morning, but I have to get TO work…” I thought I was going to have to shoot him with his own gun. Finally, he took the box of ashes and handed it to me. I made a comment about how heavy it was (We weighed it later and found that it was 6 pounds. Apparently when you’re nervous, 6 pounds feels a lot heavier than it is.), and we shuffled toward the door. This is always the point in the movie when the bad guy pulls out a gun and says something like “Oh, it’s not going to be QUITE so easy, Mr. Bond!” before he starts shooting. As I headed for the door as quickly as I could get the babbling Fred to move his ass, I kept an eye on Digg3r’s hands. We said our goodbyes, and then headed down the driveway. “Now is when he comes running out with a rifle and shoots us in the back,” I predicted. And then, when we were in the Jeep, “Now is when he comes running out with a rifle and shoots out the tires.” And then, when we were driving down the road, “Now is when he comes running down the driveway with the rifle and shoots out the back window, taking off the top of my head.” And then, when we were back on the state road, “Now is when he’s changed his mind and called the cops to track us down and get the box back.” And then, after we’d stopped at the McDonald’s in Cal3ra to pee and get breakfast, and we were on the highway headed for home, “Huh. That was almost anti-climactic.” THANK GOD. * * * By the way, no. It did not freak me out to have the ashes of my sister-in-law’s mother sitting on the table (in a box on the table, I should say) all night. That’s not the sort of thing that freaks me out, I guess. * * * I’m about ready to go steal Gizmo from Kate and Tracy! ]]>

Women’s Bodies, Women’s Wisdom and The Red Tent) off of my wish list, which took me completely by surprise (surprises are good!), and I’d like to thank you properly.

* * * Notifylist.com, you sure do piss me off. I’m not getting my Jane notifies. I’m not getting my Allison notifies. What other notifies are you failing to send me, motherfucker? I hate you! I HATE YOU! I joined the goddamn notify lists so that I wouldn’t HAVE to type their urls in with my dainty little fingers, and also I don’t have all their sites saved in my “favorites” folder, because the reason I JOIN notify lists is so that all those bookmarks won’t clutter up my “favorites” folder, and YES, I do have a list of journals and blogs I read, but it is woefully incomplete, to wit: I began reading Allison AFTER April 16, 2003, and thus she is not on the list, and it is only because I was perusing Jane’s guestbook and saw an entry by the lovely (and now engaged!) Allison that I thought to myself “Hey. I haven’t gotten a notify from her lately!”, and went to find that she had updated TWICE since the last notify I got from her, AND I HATE YOU NOTIFYLIST.COM!!! (And of course as soon as I typed that, I got notifies from BOTH Allison and Jane.) * * * Fred and I had an adventurous roadtrip down to Deliverance country today. He wrote about it (or at least the first part of it) in detail today, so I’ll wait until both parts of his entry are up before I address the whole adventure here. Just know that it was a little SKEERY. Not our destination, but very close to it. * * * On our way home from Deliverance country, we stopped at a roadside stand in Hartselle to pick up some apples (’tis the season, y’know) and a bag of plums, and while we were there we bought a small bag of raw peanuts to put in the back yard for the squirrel, who is visiting the bird feeders several times a day as he prepares for winter (there were actually two squirrels in the back yard yesterday – the regular one, and an interloper, who got his ass handed to him on a platter by the regular one, who has apparently claimed our yard as his own). Miz Poo went out into the back yard with me as I refilled the bird feeders and scattered some peanuts in the platform feeder on the ground. When I was done, Miz Poo came running over and sniffed the peanuts, then looked up at me with her mouth hanging open. It cracks me up when the cats do that, because they look so damn brain-dead. One of these days I’ll actually get a picture of it. * * * Speaking of cats (aren’t I always?), Fred and I were laying in bed talking about the point in the future when we might get a new cat (which won’t be soon, so calm down!), and trying to come up with names. We tossed forth a bunch of “S” names. “Shibby!” I said. “Scooby!” Fred said. “Skanky! Skanky ho!” “Stanky!” There was a long pause while we thought hard. Fred turned to me, his eyes shining. Spanky, who was laying on me looked expectantly at him. “Shizzle!” he said. “Shizzle M. Nizzle!” I hooted so loudly that Spanky hauled ass away from me as fast as his little legs could carry him. Now if we only knew what “Shizzle my nizzle” meant… * * * This is Dulcinea (Gizmo’s big sister)… ..and Gizmo, in the same window. SHE IS SO CUTE! Perhaps I’ve mentioned? 🙂 * * * Another sunset from our back yard. ]]>

Cujo (don’t give me that look; I read Carrie when I was younger than she is. Yes, she’s old enough to read Cujo.) last night and today was looking at our collection of Stephen King books. “Does he have any that aren’t so… BIG?” she asked. Heh. (Oh my god! She was looking at the list of books by Stephen King and said “Do we have Dance Mack-a-burr?” I stared at her for a minute blinking before I informed her of the correct way to pronounce macabre. Which is not the funny part. The funny part is that years and years ago when Danse Macabre first came out, I was all excited and checked it out from the library, and that night my brother Tracy called from wherever he was (Colorado? Maybe?) and I told my mother, “Ask him if he knows that Stephen King has a new book out!”, and my mother asked him and relayed back to him that he had said “No, what’s it called?”, and I said “Dance Mack-a-burr!”, and then my mother (and I assume Tracy on the other end of the phone) laughed for a good long time at me. Hmph.)

* * * I don’t think I mentioned this, but when we did The Big Reformat on my computer a few weeks ago, the one and only thing I forgot to back up was our Quicken file. This means that all of our checking, savings, and loan information was dust in the wind. (Thank god I *did* make sure to back up the company Quickbooks files) Fred reacted better than I expected when I told him; there was no wailing or gnashing of teeth, just a moment of closing his eyes while silently asking himself how he could have turned all the family finances over to the biggest airhead in the south. The day after I realized what had happened, I got an email from the bank letting me know that our eStatement was ready and I could download it whenever I wanted. Have I mentioned that our credit union ROCKS? So I downloaded it, created a checking file in Quicken, took the ending balance from the statement, and then went online and printed out all the transactions there had been since the ending balance, so I could enter them in Quicken. I think at this point that we’re pretty much caught up, thank god. I may be an airhead, but I solved the problem! Of course, if someone wants to see a copy of the check I wrote to the spud’s school for her lunch fees from three years ago, we’ll be screwed since I won’t be able to bring up the check number, but eh. How often does that happen? (Famous last words, right?) * * * GIZMO UPDATE! Kate said that Gizmo is getting along well with her big sister, Dulcinea. There’s been no cuddling, it’s all play-fighting and chasing each other around. I suspect it’s just a matter of time before they’re doing this. Dulci and Gizmo. It seems to be a toss-up as to who’s winning this one. She’s so cuuuuuuuute! ]]>

10-8 on Sunday nights. Imagine my surprise when we watched the season premiere. We knew that Ernie Hudson – who was the warden in Oz – was in the show, but a familiar face flashed across the screen, and I was struck almost speechless. “It’s! It’s! It’s!” I sputtered, pointing at the screen. “What?” Fred said, staring at me and then the screen, which was no longer showing the familiar face. “It’s! You know! It’s!” I struggled to come up with the name, and finally located it in a hidden corner of my brain. “It’s CYRIL!” For the record, Fred thinks Scott William Winters is the ugliest man alive, and every time Cyril comes on the screen, Fred says “God. He is SO ugly. His brother definitely got the looks!” (Dean Winters, who plays Cyril’s brother is Scott William Winters’ brother in real life)

I do not think Scott William Winters is ugly. At all. Also for the record, Scott William Winters played the blond guy in the bar who got his ass handed to him by Matt Damon in Good Will Hunting. He played himself in Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back (in the “I don’t like the sound of them apples, Will. What are we gonna dooo?” scene.) * * * So, I tend to go through my life (my real life) under the impression that no one really notices me. The main places I go are the pet store, the grocery store, the post office, and occasionally Target. The morning people at the pet store – the managers at least – have come to recognize me, because they need to open the cat room for me on my feed-n-scoop days. I think that some of the cashiers at the grocery store have come to recognize me, because I’ve been going in there at least twice a week for two or three years. I don’t know them well enough to chat, but we do smile and say hello. Of course, they smile and say hello to everyone, so maybe they don’t recognize me at all, and I’m delusional. Fred always gets groceries on Saturday morning as soon as the store opens, and so he’s developed a chatty relationship with many of the Saturday morning workers. But anyway, you get my point. I go through life pretty sure that no one much notices me, because at the places I frequent, they get hundreds of customers every day and why would I stick out? Saturday morning, Fred went out to run errands. One of his errands was to drop books off at the post office, and since a couple of them were going to Canada, he went in and stood in line because if a package is more than 1 pound (in the envelope, the book weighs 1 pound and 1/10 of an ounce, and they won’t let that slide, because if they let 1/10 of an ounce slide, they should probably let 2/10 of an ounce slide, then 3/10 of an ounce, then perhaps a whole ounce, and all would be anarchy), you have to hand it to a real live person, because it might be a bomb or something. A flat, book-shaped bomb. After standing in line for several minutes, Fred got to the front of the line and put his packages down in front of the postal worker. They chit-chatted (because Fred is a chit-chatty motherfucker), and then the postal worker glanced at the return address label on one of the packages! “Oh!” he exclaimed. “Box 565!” “Yes,” Fred agreed. “And3rson!” the postal worker said. “Robyn!” It should be noted that my name and our last name wasn’t on the package. Fred, not knowing what to say, nodded. “She likes to send packages to Topsham, Maine,” he told Fred, as if Fred didn’t know that already. “She grew up in Lisbon Falls. I grew up in Bath!” Later, telling me the story, Fred gave me a mock-suspicious look. “And then he told me he likes to have sex with you in the break room every day at 11!” he lied. “Only on Tuesdays,” I said. * * * Pet store kitty pics are here. * * * These cat beds are the best investment we’ve ever made, cat-wise. (Can you tell Spanky just woke up?) ]]>

the comments; it’s got a big bold warning at the top for those of you who haven’t seen the show yet.

* * * It’s time for another poll, isn’t it? This one regards comments. They’re currently set up so that the most recent comment is at the bottom of the page. So, would you prefer to have the comments that way, or would you prefer to have the most recent comments at the top of the page so you don’t have to scroll down? It doesn’t matter either way to me, ’cause I get all the comments via email, which is one of the reasons I love Movable Type so much. Anyway, even if you don’t care, you can still vote. Because I love you *just* that much. (Plus, it was free, so it appealed to my cheap side.)

Comments

Would you like the most recent comments at the top of the page, or the bottom? Top Bottom Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn. Current Results

* * * I thought I was going to get my ass divorced this morning after I told Fred that I’d downloaded MSN Messenger Plus last night, and it was making my computer act funny and had added some kind of toolbar to my Internet Explorer, and even though I’d uninstalled it and uninstalled Messenger, the thing on the toolbar was still there, and my computer was acting funny. “Bessie!” he said. “WHAT HAVE I TOLD YOU ABOUT INSTALLING THINGS PEOPLE SEND YOU???” I tried to blame it on Mo. “It’s Mo’s fault!” I said. “She’s a muffinhead.” “No,” Fred said. “You’re the muffinhead. DID SHE STAND OVER YOU AND MAKE YOU INSTALL IT??” “No,” I said. “But she told me I’d be one of the cool kids if I did!” “Did you READ the End User License Agreement?” he asked. Like anyone ever reads those. “Noooo,” I said. And he began reading it to me. I put the phone down and went to pee and get a cup of water, and when I got back, he was still reading. “Hm,” I said when he was done. “That’s interesting!” He yelled at me some more, telling me that he’d done a search on Messenger Plus, and it was widely loathed for installing all kinds of spyware on computers. “Nance tried to stop me,” I said. “But it was too late.” “Well good for Nance!” he said, then paused. “Why did she try to stop you?” “Because Rick had a hard time uninstalling all the shit from her computer, too.” It was then decided that Nance was also a muffinhead. After downloading and running AdAware and SpyBot, I think my system’s clean again. AdAware found 79 things on my computer to get rid of (about a third of those were cookies)(mmm, cookies) and SpyBot found another 9. I probably should not be allowed to be on the computer without adult supervision. * * * Did you know that last week was Banned Books week? I went to the bookstore with Fred yesterday so he could exchange a book, and I found a display with a bunch of books that had been banned. I bought The Outsiders and A Wrinkle in Time to re-read, because if it’s BANNED, it’s GOTTA be good. Fred was poking around in the self-help section, and I saw this book and pointed it out to him. “Why Men Love Bitches!” I said, smirking. “You need this!” Then I looked closer and saw the subtitle: From Doormat to Dreamgirl-A Woman’s Guide to Holding Her Own in a Relationship. Hmph. I was going to buy a copy of Good in Bed to give away in honor of Wendy‘s Jemima J. vendetta, but Fred gave me The Look, so I put it back. But put it on your wish list if you haven’t read it. * * * 1. What vehicle do you drive? A white ’97 Jeep Grand Cherokee. 2. How long have you had it? Uh… less than 4 years, because I remember mentioning it in an entry. I wrote about it on February 21, 2000, so a few days before that. 3. What is the coolest feature on your vehicle? That it runs. And the stereo’s okay. Fred’s got seat warmers in his Jeep. Hmph. 4. What is the most annoying thing about your vehicle? That it’s white, that it’s an SUV, that the engine is very loud and the brakes squeal, that it tends to pull to the right even after a 4-wheel alignment. 5. If money were no object, what vehicle would you be driving right now? It’d be a 3-way tie between a yellow Mini-Cooper, a yellow Volkswagen Beetle, or a yellow (if they make them), uh… DAMN, I can’t remember the name of it. It’s a tiny little two-seater, and the name of it might start with an “s”, and it’s a convertible. But it might not start with an “s”. Argh! Well, if it comes to me later, I’ll come back and add the name. (Thanks, Laurie! It’s a Mazda Miata, which doesn’t have an “s” in it at all. Duhhhh.) * * * That is not a pillow. That is a little bag of catnip. Miz Poo sniffed it, kicked it’s ass, and was so exhausted that she fell asleep. A year ago: Fred has been remarkably calm. Resigned, you might say. Two years ago: You know, for an event that’s for a good cause and supposed to make me feel all happy, I’m certainly feeling mighty hate-filled and grumpy right now Three years ago: Fred’s eyes went big as saucers, and he moved as if he were going to leap across the table at me and heimlich me to within an inch of my life.]]>