Category: Life

Good Morning America this morning, chances are good you saw our very own Erin, looking sassy and making some excellent points. Too cool, that.

* * * Here’s a shout-out to fellow dork One Dollah and her friend Twenty Cent. * * * Jesus Christ. A motorcycle just went zooming by at the speed of light on the very busy road behind our house, and I about fell off my chair and curled up into a fetal position, the sound scared me so badly. * * * When I think of Judge Roy Moore, the phrase “Getting too big for his britches” comes to mind. The current news is that they can’t get anyone to remove the 10 Commandments monument because they’re all skeered of the backlash from the loonies (I say that with love) who’re rabidly anti-removal. I sure am sick of hearing about it. * * * So when I was in Maine, I went to Deck The Halls in the Maine Mall, and I picked out some pictures to be framed and sent to me. For the last few days I’ve had a vague “Hasn’t it been a REALLY long time since I was in Maine, and shouldn’t those pictures BE HERE by now?”, and when Fred and I got home from the post office yesterday, voila! These two huge packages were waiting in the garage, and much swearing and ten tons of foam packing peanuts later, we had them unwrapped. This one’s going over the mantel. I love it so much I keep walking into the living room to stare at it. And this picture cracks me up so much that I keep going to look at it. It’s hanging in the hall by the front door, and every time I look at the picture in the middle, with the hilarious expression of surprise, I laugh my ass off. If only I could get a series of pictures of Tubby like that. While I was taking pictures of stuff I bought in Maine, I took a picture of these: I already had the orange one in the middle, but I decided we needed the calico to represent Miz Poo and the all-black one to represent Mr. Fancypants. Sadly, there were no black and white cats to represent Spot and Tubby. Or rather, there was one, but it was a lot bigger than these, and I wanted one that was the same size. Could I be more of a spoiled rotten yuppie bitch? “Look at what I bought! I have nothing better to spend my money on than pictures and tchotchkes! Next I think we’re going to grill steaks on a pile of $100 bills! Muffy, pull the Por-shuh around and let’s take a run to the Tar-zhay!” Did I mention we’re saving up for a new camera? * * * I stayed up late to finish The Dogs of Babel last night and it made me weep into my pillow (which alarmed Miz Poo), so I had to rate it 4 Poos on the reading list. The question, though, is whether the book actually rated 4 Poos, or whether my brain was so thrilled to read something well-written after I subjected it to that horrible book written by Carni3 Wils0n that I overreacted. Seriously, y’all, don’t waste your time with the Carni3 Wils0n book. The spud, who is 14, could have done a better job. Of course, nothing could be as bad as that fucking Mulvaney book. (Speaking of that damn Mulvaneys book, we were in a used book store over the weekend, and I saw three copies of that book. I turned to Fred and said “I feel like I should buy those books and burn them just to remove their offensive presence from the face of the earth.” Fred said “What’s funny is that I bet ten bucks there’s at least one person in existence who claims that book as their favorite.” True. No accounting for taste, I guess.) * * * Miz Poo poses for PlayPussy. ]]>

* * * Did you notice the huge article all about ME in the New York Times today? Okay, so the only part about me was the part that said Not everyone who indulges in weight loss blogs is unequivocally supportive. Robyn And3rson, 35, a homemaker in Huntsville, Ala., wrote about “naysayers” � people who, after she had lost 100 pounds, sent messages telling her that she would soon realize how much harder it was to keep it off. “The unspoken, `I can’t wait until you put it all back on and more,’ is there,” she wrote. Heh. Homemaker. You’d think with a job title like that, there wouldn’t be so many dust bunnies running rampant through the house, wouldn’t you? Good article, though, and a great picture of our adorable Erin.

* * * I don’t know about y’all, but I had one HELL of a time getting anything done online this weekend because that FUCKING virus (or one of them, anyway) gummed up the works at our ISP, and I shut down my computer and stalked away in exasperation not once, not twice, but THREE times, which is pretty much an all-time record for me. The third time, after dinner, I shut down the computer, yelled “I GIVE UP!”, grabbed my cup of water and magazine (last one! I’m now completely caught up on my magazines, and there’ll be a big-ass box headed your way in the next day or two, Say!) and began stomping up the stairs, stomping as hard as I could with every step. I was about 2/3 of the way up the stairs when Fred stopped me and asked if I wanted to go for a drive. We did, and by the time we got home I was calmed down and less likely to put my foot through the monitor. Goddamn internet. * * * Pet store pictures are hither. * * * Saturday we had our very own Jeff Corwin experience, did you read? And then Sunday I spent a good part of the day (when not having temper tantrums about the GODDAMN INTERNET) getting our business accounts caught up, with which Fred helped me by going to buy me a calculator that prints out, because I cannot for the life of me add up a column of numbers without fucking it up somehow. Math is haaaaaaaard! * * * Did I mention that we’ve started watching Oz? It cracked me up big time when Fred discovered that this guy: Tobias Beecher, from Oz was played by the same actor who played this guy: Terry, from Wayne’s World (on the right). And I’m sorry, but how freaky was it to see Woodman from Thirtysomething getting it on with Carmella from The Sopranos? Pretty damn freaky indeed. * * * There are definitely at least two hummingbirds visiting the feeder all day long every day. One flits up, sits on the rest and drinks and drinks and drinks, then flits off. The other flits up and drinks while flitting around, stops every few seconds to look around to be sure he’s not about to be attacked, and drinks out of every hole in the feeder. They’re damn cute, but I think I need to take the screen out of the window to get a decent picture. FlitFlitFlit. I can’t swear to whether they have legs, but they definitely have feet, Fran! 🙂 * * * Small cat, big bed. Big cat, small bed. What’s up with that? And there was a perfectly good big cat bed going unused over on the other side of the bed. If that makes any sense. Meh. ]]>

* * * Can I just take a moment to say that credit unions ROCK? Our personal checking and savings accounts are at a local credit union where Fred’s had an account since he was a wee one, and our business account is at a local bank. If we go out and use our credit union debit card to buy something at a local store, we can immediately come home, go online, bring up our account, and the transaction is already there. If we use our business debit card, it takes days for it to show up online. The credit union has started something new, too. If a check has cleared, you can click on a button next to the check number, and SEE THE SCANNED CHECK, front and back. That fucking ROCKS. On the other hand, last week we transferred money from PayPal to our business bank account (we were woefully unprepared for just how many padded envelopes we’d need during the first week), and although the money was shown on our account as available, it didn’t actually go into the account until midnight, and so when we bought envelopes at Staples, our bank charged us a THIRTY DOLLAR NSF fee. Which they reversed when Fred called to complain. Fuckers. I would say as a general rule, credit unions rock and banks suck. If we could switch our business account over to the credit union, we’d do it without hesitation.

* * * I’m FAR too excited by the fact that I just saw TWO hummingbirds at the hummingbird feeder. We’ve had one visiting the feeder all week long, sucking down the sugar water so often that I swear he’s developed a little pot belly, but today is the first time I’ve seen two of them. Unfortunately I’m not having any luck getting a picture of the little guy because he likes the side of the feeder that I can’t see from my desk, and if I get up to get a picture, the movement startles him and he flies off. I think I’m going to get Fred to move the pole a bit further away from the window, and maybe I’ll have more luck. It’s so funny to see one not in flight, isn’t it? I finally ran out of the red commercial hummingbird mix and made my own yesterday – boiling sugar and water together – and they seem to like the homemade stuff even more. Yes, I am a dork. And proud of it! * * * I was walking through the library – the windows of which look out onto the bird feeders – and I saw that our squirrel was back dining at the And3rson buffet. “Miz Poo!” I said. She was sitting on my desk, waiting impatiently for me to get my damn water and get my ass back to her for some belly-rubbing. She looked at me with interest. I gestured toward the library window. “Squirrel! Go get the squirrel!” I’m trying to train her to understand what the word “squirrel” means, because when my parents’ dog Benji hears the word, he loses his mind and hauls ass into the back yard, yapping his fool head off whether there’s actually a squirrel or not. Miz Poo looked at me, her eyes darkened, and she looked out the front window rather than the back window where the squirrel actually was. “Miz Poo! Squirrel!” I said, waving my arms in the air. “Squirrel!” Her tail began whipping around, and she made a chattering noise, all the while staring out the front window. “Get the squirrel, Poo Pie! Go get the squirrel!” I encouraged, and she jumped onto the floor, ran to the front window, and stared out at the front lawn. I finally had to go pick her up and show her out the library window where the squirrel was before it all clicked in her mind. And sadly she’s one of the smarter cats. * * * We were watching The Amazing Race last night (no spoilers here, because once the clowns were gone, I didn’t really much care who won), and when they landed in Hawaii, I started having a yen to visit Hawaii. “We could go in a few years. Hey! We could go for our 10th anniversary!” I said. “That would give us plenty of time to save up!” I think Fred got the impression I wasn’t serious, but won’t he be surprised in 5 years when I tell him to pack, we’re leaving for Hawaii for a week? * * * 1. When was the last time you laughed? When Fred had his nightly snack – a bowl of popcorn – and stuck his face in the bowl because he had a glass of tea in his other hand. He was so damn cute I had to go over and hug him ’til his guts shot out his mouth. 2. Who was the last person you had an argument with? Fred, I’m sure. Can’t have been too important, though, ’cause I don’t remember when or what it was about. 3. Who was the last person you emailed? My sister-in-law, who comments as Kate. She sent me pictures of her DAMN adorable cat Dulcinea. I had to go find Miz Poo for a belly rub. 4. When was the last time you bathed? 8:30 this morning. I shower every morning, although Wednesday I didn’t shower or take a bath, and felt grungy all day. That’s probably the first time I’ve skipped a shower in 10 years. 5. What was the last thing you ate? A Grilled California Cobb salad from McDonald’s with homemade honey-mustard dressing. And a super-size Diet Coke! * * * Y’all have a relaxing weekend!]]>

* * * In my comments yesterday, Kay mentioned that she’d recently seen a really good bumper sticker. When I read what it said, I laughed my ass off, and read it to Fred, who also laughed pretty hard. And then I googled the phrase. You can get a bumper sticker here or here. You can get t-shirts here and here. You can even get a keychain! I’d buy the t-shirt if I didn’t live in the FUCKING BIBLE BELT. I’d probably be hung from the nearest tree if I wore something like that in public. Fuckers.

* * * Several days ago, after I had to vacuum the Tubby hair off our bedspread for the third day in a row (godDAMN that cat sheds a lot), I told Fred I was going to buy a cat bed to place on our bed, in hopes that Tubby would lay in it, and all the cat hair would be contained in the bed instead of on our bedspread. I went, I bought, I placed, and Tubby seemed to like it. Only a problem developed, because not only did Tubby like it, but so did someone else. Tubby’s waiting his turn.]]>

* * * Folks, Sydney has slipped to #2. Go vote! Go on, I’ll wait here. And don’t forget, you can vote once a day!

* * * I have a confession. On Sunday nights at 8:00 Central Time, when Sex and the City comes on, if no one else is in the room, I do a little dance to the theme song. And if no one else is in the room I do it again at the end of the show while I’m waiting to see what next week’s show will be about. It’s kind of like a samba. * * * And like Nance, I really like The Sopranos theme song. Fred always fast forwards through it, though, because he’s a bastard. * * * Speaking of Sunday night’s episode of Sex and the City (Sex AND the City, folks, not Sex IN the City), I have things to say. *I am simultaneously drawn to and repelled by Evan Handler. And I’ve seen WAY too much of his ass. I never wanted to see his ass, but he showed it so often that it’s burned into my memory and that’s not something I really want to have to think about. *Tatum O’Neal looks unfortunately EXACTLY like her father, poor thing. Between her and John McEnroe, their kids don’t have a chance in hell of growing up good-looking. *I know I’ve said it before, but to pay $485 for shoes is just insanity. I could never pay that much for strappy little heels, not ever. Of course, let me loose in a book store, and I could easily spend twice that. I guess it all depends on what interests you, eh? *I could relate to Miranda saying “I don’t like any kids who aren’t mine.” I’ve always said that I wasn’t interested in any kids that weren’t related to me. Of course, once I started thinking about it, I realized that I love reading when journalers tell stories about their kids, and that if I’m in a restaurant and a kid takes an interest in me, I’ll do the peekabo thing ’til the cows come home, so I guess I like other peoples’ kids more than I realized. Although when I was sitting in the waiting room with the spud last week waiting for her to have her thyroid ultrasounded, I could have done without the 1 year-old who toddled over and started going through my purse. (Yes her mother was horrified when she realized what was happening, and yes I smiled and said “That’s okay!” when she apologized profusely.) * * * And speaking of television, we watched The Restaurant the other night, and the whole thing where the three cooks (chefs? Kitchen staff? What was their fucking job, anyway?) pretended that one of them had been in the hospital and the three of them didn’t show up for work left a bit of a bad taste in my mouth. Now, I KNOW that those three were wrong for doing what they did, and I would think that it would have been enough for Rocco to know that they were going to come across as childish idiots when the show aired. But, no. First he had them separately tell their story, and when they thought they were home free and going to leave on good terms, he felt the need to confront them and let them know that he knew no one had ever been admitted to the hospital. To me, that was childish. Why not let them leave and then see that they weren’t fooling anyone when the show aired? Did I mention that DAMN I love that show, fake reenactments and all? * * * We rented and watched Chicago last night. I liked it, and I really liked Catherine Z-J. I thought that Renee Zellweiger’s voice was going to get on my nerves, but I adjusted quickly enough. And now I have a new song to sing to Miz Poo. “All that Poo!”, of course. * * * A couple of pictures from Maine: We saw this bumper sticker in Portland when we were shopping, and it cracked me up. If you can’t read it, it says “For a small town, this one sure has a lot of assholes.” This is the building that housed (houses?) the first apartment I ever had. 16 years ago, that was. You can’t even see the tiny-ass windows to the apartment that was mine, because it was on the top floor. It was a crappy, crappy apartment, with a hole in the kitchen floor that let me see into the apartment below (which belonged to a guy in the Navy, who was hardly ever home). Rumor was that the city had been trying to condemn the building for years and years. The water pressure sucked so badly that it took half an hour to fill up the bathtub. I only lived there for about 3 months before I fled back home where the water pressure was decent. The landbitch and her husband lived in the building. Her name was Alexis something, and she was a money-grubbing bitch who held back $100 from my security deposit because she “suspected” a friend of mine had messed with her husband’s bike, which was tied to the sign in front of the building. This building is located on Main Street in Brunswick, a fairly busy road, and the dumbass leaves his bike tied to a sign, and he’s surprised that someone messes with it? Yeah. Let’s blame it on the 19 year-old in the building! She was a lawyer, by the way, and I hope she’s lost every single case since 1987. 220 Maine Street, Brunswick, Maine, in case you were wondering. * * * Such a happy, happy boy. ]]>

* * * I forgot to mention that Friday morning, as I was making the bed and waiting for the shower water to warm up, I glanced behind the chair, which sits next to the side table, which in turn sits next to the bed. “Well, damn,” I said calmly, and then called to Fred, “Could you come here?” Fred came, peered at the spot where I was pointing and said “Yep. It’s a frog.” “Well, DO something about it!” I said. “Let me finish brushing my teeth first!” he said irritably, and wandered back into the bathroom. I stood and stared down at the frog – which was nothing near as ugly and meaty-looking as the one from last summer – and wondered if it was dead. I reached down and scratched the carpet near him to see if he’d move or blink or something. Nothing. His eyes glittered deadly. (Hee! “Glittered deadly.” Oh, I crack me up, I really do.) So I reached out and poked at his dry-looking side. ::Sproing!:: he went, leaping at least a foot in the air, and I watched, impressed that he’d contained that much energy in his dry and dead-looking little body. And then he hit the wall and landed on one of those arm-protector things that belongs on the chair but is always knocked onto the floor by the cats, and lay there again without moving. When Fred was done brushing his teeth, he carried the frog into the back yard and placed him amongst the tomato plants. Hopefully the cats didn’t bring his dead carcass back into the house to stink up the joint with death and decay.

* * * I dreamed last night that I was standing in the bank with my mother, and the bank teller said something – I don’t remember what – that tipped me off to the fact that we were being Punk’d. “We’re being Punk’d!” I hissed at my mother. “We’re being Punk’d!” Finally, she turned to me and said “We are NOT being ‘punked’!” the way old people do when they don’t know how to pronounce something right and suspect they’re not cool enough to understand what it is. (Which reminds me of the time I said something about Nick Lachey from 98 Degrees, only I pronounced it “Lackey”, and the spud looked at me as if I were the stupidest thing alive and said “La Shay.”) But we were, and when Ashton Kutcher showed up at the end of the punk’ng, I did a little dance and said “I knew I was being Punk’d! I knew I was being Punk’d!”, and he was impressed by my intuitive skills. * * * Speaking of the spud, when we were in Mississippi, we were watching TV, and a Cheez-Its commercial came on. It was a woman (I don’t know her name, but I know she was on The State, which also brought us Michael Ian Black) sitting in front of a television set watching a (football?) game and eating Cheez-Its. When her husband’s car pulled into the driveway, she hid her Cheez-Its under a pillow and switched the channel to some sad, sappy movie, pulled out a tissue, and pretended to sob along with the movie. The husband, seeing how into the movie the woman was, said he’d go watch the game in the bedroom. When he was out of the sight, the woman smiled, grabbed her Cheez-Its, and turned back to the game. “Well, isn’t that NICE,” Fred said disapprovingly when the commercial was over. “I guess she doesn’t want to spend time with her husband. Good role model for the little girls!” “Yeah,” I said, only half paying attention. “It’s a horrible, horrible thing.” The spud looked at us as if we were the stupidest things alive. “No!” she said, “She didn’t want to share her Cheez-Its!” Ohhhhhhh. Well, that makes a whole lot more sense! * * * 1. How much time do you spend online each day? Oh, I’d say that 6 hours is a conservative estimate. More since the book became available, and I’m about 3 weeks behind in most of my journal reading. 2. What is your browser homepage set to? Google, because I visit it at least 10 times a day. 3. Do you use any instant messaging programs? If so, which one(s)? I used to have – what’s it called? The one from AOL? – but I uninstalled it at some point and never reinstalled. 4. Where was your first webpage located? http://bitchypoo.com/bitchypoo.html. If you go there now, you just get the 404 page. 5. How long have you had your current website? It’ll be 4 years on October 10th. Woot! ]]>

Frankly, she’s just too cute, isn’t she? 🙂 Have you bought YOUR Tubby loot yet?

* * * Pet store kitties pics are here. * * * I have to say folks, nothing against you Mississippi-ans, but I don’t EVER want to go back to Mississippi again EVER. I thought Alabama was hot and humid and sticky and nasty in the summer, but it’s got NOTHING on Mississippi. (Just for the record, I have to sing the little MISS-ISS-IPP-I chant to myself to be sure I’m spelling it right.) We got to Mississippi around 2:00 Friday afternoon after what seemed to be the longest 6 hours ever. We’d intended to leave at 7:00, but didn’t get on the road until closer to 8:00, and then had to deal with all the traffic heading for the middle school and high school on the main road near our house. Then we had to stop every hour or so to pee and so Fred could call various and sundry people who needed to do something with the blah-de-blah and the blah-blah. Oddly, although I brought a book with me on the drive down (and 5 more in the suitcase, because the rule of thumb is to have at least two books for every full day you’re going to be away from home), I ended up not reading any, instead sat staring blankly into space like Puddy in that Seinfeld episode. We checked into the hotel and then Fred headed for the job site. “Spud,” I said. “Let us find the vending machines and buy us some junk food!” We hadn’t eaten since sometime around 11:00, and were both pretty hungry and needed something to tide us over. Our room was on the first floor, so naturally we went to the first-floor vending machines. “Hm,” I said. “It appears that there is nothing but soda here.” “Spud,” I said. “Let us head for the second floor and see if they have a food vending maching THERE.” They did not. “Spud,” I said. “Let us head for the third floor and see if they have a food vending machine THERE.” They did not. “Spud,” I said. “It appears clear to me that there are no food vending machines in this godforsaken hotel. Let us go back to the room and think about how hungry we are.” And so, dripping sweat, we did. After we cooled off in front of the air conditioner for several minutes, I had an idea. “Spud,” I said. “Let us walk up that BIG-ASS hill in front of the hotel, past the hotel next door and the hotel next door to THAT, to the gas station, where we can find us some junk food.” The spud readily agreed. So we put our sneakers on, double-checked to be sure we had the room key, and headed out. Halfway up the big-ass hill, I noticed something. “Spud,” said I. “Lookit that bridge thing there. The one coming from the 4th floor, which ends at the top of the hill. We should just go that way on the way back and take the elevator to the first floor!” “Mother,” said the spud, “That is an excellent idea, for I am going to melt into a motherfucking puddle of goo in about 10 seconds.” (Poetic license, people. Jeezus.) We made it, after hours and hours, or at least 5 minutes, to the gas station. I purchased a packet of blueberry Pop-Tarts, which are filled with fruit and thus good for you. A nutritious treat indeed. I laid our purchases down on the counter and waited for someone to ring me up. After three or four minutes of waiting while the two women behind the counter actively ignored us, one of them pointed to the other cash register, and said “I’ll get you over there.” I picked up our Pop-Tarts and walked over there. In the meantime, the woman had disappeared. Two minutes later, the other woman said “Can I help you?” from the first register. I picked our stuff up and walked back over to the first register. And naturally the other woman had disappeared. I was riddled with despair, just knowing that I was never going to get to eat my blueberry Pop-Tarts. Finally, the first woman showed back up and rang up our stuff, took my money, gave me change, and grunted in a surly manner when I happily thanked her. Back to the hotel we headed, walking slower and slower as the heat and humidity got to us, and finally – FINALLY, I say! – we reached the walkway/ bridge leading to the 4th (also top) floor of our hotel. When we got to the hotel end of the walkway, we headed for the elevator. “Those fucking bastards!” the spud said, stopping and pointing to the right. (Poetic license again, folks.) There, sitting merrily, nay smugly, nestled between the soda machine and the ice machine, smirking at us, was a vending machine filled with all types of junk-food goodness. Fuckers. (And the next day when we purchased Big Kat candy bars from that same vending machine, they had turned to liquid and required being put on ice for half an hour before they could be eaten.) * * * I was not impressed with our hotel at ALL. We got a room with two full-size beds (one for Fred, one for me) and a rollaway bed for the spud. The room was so cramped that we had to move shit around to make space for the rollaway bed. And there was NO REFRIGERATOR. Not impressed. Of course, what did I expect? Hotel rooms are hotel rooms, and unless you want to spend hundreds upon hundreds of dollars, they’re not going to be roomy or impressive. That’s my experience, anyway. I don’t particularly want to spend 24 hours a day for an entire weekend in the same room with the spud from here on out, though. I love the child, but I NEED MY SPACE, and she was doing this annoying little cough-type thing that rapidly got on my nerves (more about that in the next section), and she made us watch this goofy-ass “Cheetah Girls” movie on the Disney Channel (my god in heaven, folks, it was idiotic), and all I could do was read and try to escape. I finished 4 books over the weekend, though. That’s an upside. Friday and Saturday night we visited The Lucky Fisherman, a little restaurant that Fred discovered years ago (he used to visit Vicksburg all the time when he worked for another company) with a seafood buffet that was to DIE for. I had my first frog’s legs, and they weren’t bad, though I felt a little ill afterward every time I thought about how slimy frogs are. Blech. Friday night we left the spud in the hotel room and visited the AmeriStar Casino, which was cool. I had a Sex on the Beach (the drink), and almost immediately started feeling swelteringly hot, and my forehead and nose went numb. “Oh,” Fred said when I mentioned these things to him. “Maybe you weren’t supposed to drink alcohol because you’re on antibiotics.” Oh yeah. We won nothing at the casinos, but I had a good time on the slot machines. Fred got bored after a few hours, and we left and didn’t go back Saturday night. We did go eat at the AmeriStar for lunch Saturday, though – another buffet. Buffets rock, actually. Hm. What else? I took 10,000 pictures of kudzu and the mighty Mississipp’, and it’ll probably be months before I get around to posting those. So there ya go. That was my weekend. And I’m mighty fucking glad to be home, thank you. * * * Spud update: she had the ultrasound on Thursday (did I mention that in my last entry? I have no idea.), and when I got home from that appointment (after stopping at Sam’s) there was a message on the answering machine from the doctor’s office. But it was after 4, which is when they close, so I called this morning. Her thyroid levels came back normal, but the scan showed a multi-nodular goiter (which is the exact same thing I had at her age), and they’ve started her on Synthroid and want to see her in 2 months. The little cough/ throat-clearing thing I mentioned in the last section? She’s been doing it for a while now, and it’s got nothing to do with the Bronchitis, and everything to do with the fact that the multi-nodular goiter is pressing on her throat making her feel like something’s stuck there. Thus, she’s always trying to clear her throat. Hopefully the medicine will take care of that right quickly. Or at least before I have to spend every waking (and sleeping!) minute with her again. * * * Speaking of Sam’s (like I did in the section above when I said the spud and I stopped at Sam’s after her ultrasound), we walked into the store, and I distantly heard someone talking. I continued on my way, minding my own damn business as I am wont to do, and then suddenly I heard a loud obnoxious voice directed toward me. “EXCUSE ME! I AM TALKING TO YOU!” the voice bellowed, and I stopped and turned around, raising an annoyed eyebrow. “Did you GET your COUPONS?!” he demanded, holding up a sheaf of coupons for a local photography studio. “No thank you, asshole,” I said. “And FOR THE RECORD, just because you’re FUCKING TALKING TO ME does NOT mean I am required to LISTEN TO YOUR STUPID SKANKY FUCKING ASS!” And then I stalked over and smacked him upside the head and screamed “SO GO FUCK YOURSELF!” Or maybe I just scowled at him and kept walking. One or the other. My fellow humans, that is the PROBLEM with this world today. Everyone’s got something to say, and they think everyone else is required to listen to their stupid ass. Fuckers. * * * On Interstate 20/ 59 in Alabama, there were orange wildflowers as far as the eye could see. They stopped dead at the Alabama/ Mississippi border. Keeping The Daddy’s books warm.]]>

* * * So, we were watching The Restaurant Monday night (which we taped Sunday night), and there was this scene where Rocco and the general manager Laurent were walking down the street discussing whether Laurent was going to quit or not. We watched the scene to it’s conclusion, and then I said “Hm.” “What?” Fred said. I picked up the remote and rewound the tape to the beginning of the scene, where they’re walking down the street being filmed from behind. “Do you see a camera in front of them?” I asked. Fred looked and allowed that he did not. I let the tape play a little further until the camera was in front of them. “Do you see a camera behind them?” I asked. Fred looked and said “Motherfucker! It’s a staged scene!” We watched to the end of the scene again, and Fred said “Maybe they just filmed them walking from behind and cut that in with the part where they were filming them from the front, and they really were having that conversation.” “Except that at the end of the scene where the camera swings around in a single shot from the back to the front at the end of their conversation, it all matches up,” I pointed out. “Motherfucker!” was Fred’s response. “Suddenly I don’t like the show as much anymore!” The staged scenes with Gideon in his apartment receiving the phone calls from work are just horrifically bad. I like Gideon, but he’s no actor. I’m not crazy about Rocco’s voiceovers, either. But hey, I still really like the show a lot, so I guess I’ll shut up about everything they’re doing that I don’t like!

* * * Hey, did I mention that we’re leaving for Vicksburg early tomorrow morning and that chances are good there won’t be an entry? Oh, and that I plan to take a thousand pictures so I can add them to the pile of Maine pictures I still haven’t gotten around to organizing? Just thought I’d mention it. * * * So, the spud had her thyroid ultrasounded, and all went well. We’ll get the results from Dr. Judy Monday, unless we can get her on the phone from the road tomorrow. The spud’s appointment was at 2:30, and we were out of there by 3:15, which I consider VERY good. I had never ever even once noticed any kind of lump on the spud’s neck, but now that Dr. Judy discovered it and pointed it out, it’s impossible NOT to see it. My eyes are just drawn there every time the spud is within view. It’s not huge or anything, but it does catch the light a bit. It was kinda cool to see the ultrasound, although I didn’t know what the fuck I was looking at. I think it’s a boy, though! * * * Well, shitfire, I haven’t told y’all about Sarah and Simon, have I? Sarah is a longtime reader from Maine who one day emailed me and said “I don’t want to sound all stalker-y, but I think I live near your sister!” And by god, it was so. What are the chances, eh? So anyway, I told the notify list when I sent out an email while I was in Maine that I had met my first reader ever, but upon thinking about it, I realized that I’d met a reader when I did the 3-Day, and so Sarah is the second reader I’ve met. And Sarah has a cat named Simon, and y’all? I don’t know how to break this to you, but… I think he’s bigger than Tubby! (I cut Sarah out of the picture, because I wanted to protect her from all you psycho stalkers out there. You’ll just have to imagine the incredible adorableness that is she.) And SUCH a cute face Simon has! This picture really just doesn’t do him justice, though you can probably tell that he’s a cat with personality. SO CUTE! * * * Well, let’s see. I have 10 minutes before The Amazing Race comes on, because I spent half an hour trying to make the house look halfway decent, since Fred’s dad and stepmother are going to feed the cats for us on Saturday. Making the house look decent after the week we’ve had is a losing battle, so I had to settle for vacuuming all the floors and leaving it at that. If they don’t know we’re slobs by now, they’re probably blind. Anyway… what can I add to this entry to make it complete, to keep y’all happy until Monday? Whatwhatwhat? Oh, I know! * * * Illustrating the description “Dumb and happy”… Artsy Tubs. Pretty Tubs. Bitchy Tubs. Hope springs eternal.]]>

* * * As we were sitting in the examining room waiting for Dr. Judy to come in and tell us the results of the blood test (yes, they took blood to send out for a TSH test, too), I said “Are you still nauseous?” I had my suspicions, frankly, that she’d been nauseous for more than a few minutes, because people who are nauseated do not act CHIPPER and HAPPY and CHATTY. “No,” she said. “I’m not.” “Oh,” I said casually. “What time is lunch at school?” She went through a whole song-and-dance about how it was over at 12:30 no, 12:35, no 12:45. “So why don’t I drop you off at school so you can go to your last two classes?” I suggested. Which is when she explained that when she said she was “not nauseous”, what that meant was that she wasn’t “AS nauseous.” Riiiiiiight.

* * * So while I was in Maine, my beloved husband ordered for me something that came last week, and which I love and adore. A signed picture of Paulie Walnuts and Silvio Dante! I love it! Once I get it framed and hung over my desk, I’ll take a picture of it. Fred picked up a line from the 3rd season of The Sopranos that he’s been shouting out at random intervals. It’s from the show where Paulie and Christopher are lost in the woods, and the line as spoken by Christopher is: “I’ll leave you here, you one-shoed cocksucker! You know how fast I can run!” Heh. * * * Friday afternoon I was sitting in front of my computer (o’ course), and I glanced up to see a hummingbird hovering in front of the hummingbird feeder. He dove in and took a taste of the hummingbird food. “Hm,” he said. “That’s pretty fucking nasty.” And then he tried the next hole. “Hm,” he said. “That’s pretty fucking nasty, too!” He went around the feeder, trying every hole, and the verdict was always the same: pretty fucking nasty. He hovered for a moment, made a face that clearly said “Fuck THAT!”, and flew off. As soon as he was gone, I went out and grabbed the feeder, cleaned it out, and put fresh food in it. The food that was already in there was pretty rancid, since I hadn’t cleaned it out and refilled it since BEFORE I left for Maine. I hoped he’d give it another chance instead of warning all his hummingbird buddies off. Today, I heard Miz Poo make a whiny sound as she stared out the front window. I glanced up and saw: Pardon the crappy picture. After partaking of the food for several minutes, he flitted over to the pot where my Four O’Clocks are, took a sip out of one of the flowers, and flew off. An hour later, another one showed up (could have been the same one, I suppose). I wasn’t able to get a picture of that one, though, because he didn’t stick around long enough for me to take the memory stick out of the reader, stick it in the camera, and wait for the camera to turn on and be ready to snap a picture. Hopefully word will go out in the h’bird community, and I’ll be able to snap a decent picture or two in the future.]]>

* * * People, who broke the internet? I spent the morning on the verge of a stroke because I couldn’t connect to my email and couldn’t connect to Stamps.com, and if I can’t connect to Stamps.com I can’t print out postage, and by 10:30, with my foot bugging the shit out of me (it’s more swollen than yesterday, goddamnit) and my FUCKING EMAIL CLIENTS BEEPING AT ME BECAUSE THEY COULDN’T CONNECT I was ready to put my fist through the monitor, and so I got up and walked away from the computer and vacuumed and mopped the dowstairs floors. And my foot hurts. I’d blame my crankiness on yesterday’s tetanus shot, but I usually respond poorly to frustration, and so I cannot. In retrospect I should have hopped on the stationary bike and worked off my frustrations. Although, that never really works, because I just pedal and think about everything that’s pissing me off, and it makes me madder. And my upper arm hurts where I got jabbed with that damn shot. I’m a mess. But at least the damn floors got mopped for the first time in a month.

* * * Me, earlier today: “I swear to god, I’m going to go on a shooting spree!” Fred: “Who will you shoot?” Me: “THE GODDAMN INTERNET!” * * * Fred is swearing at the Paperclip in Microsoft Word, which is only trying to help him write a letter. Hee! * * * On the up side, Fred pointed out that Paypal has a feature wherein you can create a printable packing ship, and he further pointed out that it was ridiculous to create a new Customer: Job in Quickbooks for each and every order, and there was no reason we couldn’t create an invoice per day for all the customers that day, and lo! it was a good fucking idea, and lo! it hath my life easier, thankyajeezus. * * * While I was in Maine, Fred went out and bought Weird Al’s latest album, and last night as we were driving to the post office (which will be a regular part of our routine for the time being) one of the songs came on. It was a sweet, sad song… I was watching my TV one night when they broke in with a special report About some devastating earthquake in Peru There were thirty thousand crushed to death, even more were buried alive On the Richter scale it measured 8.2 And I said, “God, please answer me one question… Why’d they have to interrupt the Simpsons just for this?” What a drag, ’cause I was taping it and everything And now I’ll have to wait for the rerun to see the part of the show I missed. Which is when Fred hooted and said “From now on the name of this song is “The Robyn song!” Weird Al is a funny motherfucker. * * * As much as my email response rate (ie, me responding to your emails) has sucked before now, it will suck even worse in the new few weeks, so bear with me. I’ll read your emails, but as far as responding, well, packing those damn books is keeping me busy and I’ll get back to you when I can. You still love me though, right? * * * The squirrel, under the platform feeder (good pickin’s under there, I guess). Coming out the other side. Two seconds before Miz Poo exploded out the cat door after him. He’s not nearly as scrawny as he was before he started dining at the And3rson buffet on a regular basis. ]]>