Category: Life

Michigan J. Frog Hello My Baby!

* * * Pet store kitties are here. * * * Almost looks like he expects that box to take him somewhere, doesn’t he? ]]>

Crazy Cat Ladies Society. You bet your ass I’ll be requesting one of those shirts for Christmas. Speaking of shirts, have you bought your Tubby shirt yet? Sundry did. If you bought a Tubby shirt, take a picture of yourself in it (or if you bought something else, take a picture of yourself holding it), and send me the link. Or the picture, and I’ll post it. Heh. I could put up a separate page and call it “Tubby Lovers.” Bet that would get me some interesting Google hits.

* * * I watched the Affleck/ Lopez interview last night before bed. As I watched, I thought to myself “You know, maybe he really doesn’t have such a big head…” and then they showed him next to Jennifer Lopez and holy COW the man has a humongous noggin. If I were Jennifer Lopez, I would be VERY frightened at the thought of birthing an Affleck baby, if noggins like that run in the family. “Noggin” is a funny word, no? Anyway, it’s not like there was any exciting, shocking information disclosed during the interview (she does the cooking, he doesn’t do the dishes, she loves being “the caretaker”, he wears the pants), but it was interesting to see the two of them together. She was a giggling fool, but she seems to have stopped with the constant and annoying “Y’know what I mean?” which was so apparent in the Diane Sawyer interview. Ben Affleck referring to Matt Damon as “A weepy, weepy man” cracked me up. * * * I have a bunch of reader questions that I haven’t answered and they’ve been sitting in my “questions” folder for months and months (I did answer a few of the health/ weight related questions in my diet journal a few days ago; you might be interested in those). Reader Pauleen asks: You and Fred seem to have the best relationship. I wish my husband and I were as “friendly” as you guys. Anyway, I was wondering whether you and Fred ever argue. Is there anything about him that really gets on your nerves (and vice versa)? We bicker from time to time, but we rarely actually argue. There are little things about him that get on my nerves and vice versa, but if I could change one thing about him, it would be the farting. He’d probably say the same about me. * * * Reader Aly asks: How did you come to the decision to publish a public journal – not only this one, but also your OFB chronicling your weight loss efforts? [snip] I was wondering what made you want to go public. You and Fred both go to great lengths (and I’m glad you do) to protect the obvious personal information in your lives, like address and phone number, but you’re so open and honest in your journals about other aspects of your lives. Y’know, that’s a good question. I know that I had been reading other journals for at least a year, and talked about starting my own for probably 6 months before I finally sucked it up and bought the domain. I can’t say for sure what made me want to start my own journal – I think that a large part of it was seeing whether I could come up with something to write about several days a week, and I actually wrote almost every day for the first few months before going to a Monday – Friday schedule. What made me start my own diet journal was that I was simply afraid that diet-and-exercise talk in the regular journal would bore the hell out of people, so I pretty much split that part of my life off into another journal. As far as being open and honest in our journals, I do have to say that it’s always easier to be open and honest when you’re sure that no one you know in real life is reading. I’ve had to go back through my archives at least three times to delete stuff, unfortunately. Once when I discovered that a member of Fred’s family was reading his journal, once when someone Fred works with discovered his journal, and once when a member of my family (other than my sister Debbie, to whom I gave my url years ago) emailed to claim that they’d found my site by searching on their name (which is impossible, since I never used their full name anywhere on my site). At this point, though, I’m of the “fuck it if they don’t like it” attitude and I won’t be removing anything else from my journal. Hm. Did that answer the question? Let me know if it didn’t, Aly! * * * Reader Lindsey asks: How did your cats get their nicknames, specifically Miz Poo? I have no idea how Miz Poo got her nickname, although it probably started with baby talk along the lines of “She’s a little pootie-pie, isn’t she? Oooooh, such a pootiepootiepootie! That’s MIZ Pootiepoo to you!” and so on. Yes, I’m a dork. Spot doesn’t really have a nickname, although Fred calls him “Buhhhdy” sometimes if Spot’s being particularly friendly (“friendly” for Spot includes not screaming and running for cover if you twitch your foot in his direction). It’s fairly obvious where Tubby got his nickname, I think, although I think it can be pinpointed to me saying something along the lines of “Get your tubby ass out of my way!” to him (Why must cats always walk 6 inches in front of you and then suddenly stop with no warning? Why?). Spanky is usually called “Boodie-boo”, which also came from baby talk (this time from Fred, who would say “Who’s a boodie-boo? Who’s a boodie-boo?!” to Spanky when he was little). We also call him Gomer because Spanky’s got a total “Duh?!” look on his face 99% of the time. And lastly, Fancypants. I remember this, because I’m the one who came up with the nickname. We were laying in bed one night talking about Fancypants, who was swishing and prancing across the end of the bed, meowing his sad, high-pitched meow. “He’s such a sassy thing!” Fred said. “Look at him!” “He’s a Fancypants,” I said, and Fred responded by laughing long and loud, and deciding that that was the perfect name for him. * * * Reader KAPD asks: Just wondering how long you’ve worn contacts, I’ve considered them, and just curious about your level of prescription? I got my first pair of contacts when I was 13. They were wickedly expensive – maybe $75 or more per lens? – and the first time I had to take them out myself, it took me about an hour, because the thought of touching my eyeball freaked me out. Still does, actually. Though sometimes they can be a pain in the ass (“Then you’re putting them in the wrong place, Robyn! Haha!”), I much prefer them over my glasses. And since I know nothing about how to read a prescription, this is what mine looks like (why did I blur my name? I have no idea. It seemed like a good idea at the time): * * * Reader J asks: What do you do with your flock of kitties when you go away on vacation??? I just got ours back from a boarding facility – I think they hated it, I worried, etc. Usually, we have Fred’s father come and feed/ scoop a couple of times (depending on how long we’ll be gone), and it usually works out pretty well. They check to be sure all the cats are present and accounted for, and we know that if the house has burned down or been broken into they’ll give us a call. When we went on vacation last Fall, we hired a girl who worked at our vet’s office to stop by and do the feeding/ scooping for $10 a day, not because Fred’s father and stepmother don’t do a perfectly good job but because it’s a bit of a trek for them to come from their house to ours. Unfortunately, the girl doesn’t work at the vet’s office anymore, and we don’t know how to get in touch with her, so we’re back to asking Fred’s dad to do it. Have a burning question? Ask! * * * This picture reminds me of the part in Casino when De Niro does the The dealers are watching the players. The box men are watching the dealers. The floor men are watching the box men. The pit bosses are watching the floor men. The shift bosses are watching the pit bosses. The casino manager is watching the shift bosses. I’m watching the casino manager. And the eye-in-the-sky is watching us all. voiceover. The Momma is watching The Poo. The Poo is watching The Tubs. The Tubs is watching The Bird…. ]]>

The only way you can be removed from this list is to avoid users reporting your site as a source of spam – either by changing your behavior, or by negotiating a cease-fire with the unhappy users. The only thing I can think of is that some sites are seeing my notify emails as spam, and since I’m not about to stop sending those out, I guess I’ll just have to keep re-sending bounced emails. A pain in the ass, but I’ll do it. Because who loves ya, baby? That’s right, no one loves ya like me.

* * * I have something embarrassing to confess. I’ve set the VCR to tape the Ben Affleck/ Jennifer Lopez interview on NBC tonight. Shaddup. Fred can’t stand Jennifer Lopez, but I kinda like her. Whether she’s truly diva-like in real life or not, she seems like the kinda gal who knows how to have fun. I’m not crazy about Ben Affleck though, because his huge face just scares me. Sorry, lovers of The Affleck. * * * There’s a new entry in Not Terribly Crafty, if you’re interested. Since we’ve been spending so much time watching The Sopranos lately and I can’t stand to just sit and watch TV – if we’re watching something I’m not terribly interested in, I’ll read; otherwise I cross-stitch – I’ve been doing a lot of cross-stitching lately. Three ornaments in one week is a personal record, for sure. * * * Because I’m somewhat of a dork, and also because I really REALLY love the Jack Reacher books, I visited the website of Lee Child, and requested a signed picture of him. It arrived the other day, and I was minding my own business doing something, and I felt like I was being WATCHED. I looked down and saw Lee Child giving me the concerned look. I moved the picture to the other side of the desk, and again felt that sensation of being watched. Again, the concerned look. No matter where I moved the picture, his eyes followed me. It was a little creepy, to tell the truth. Maybe I should frame the picture and hang it on the spud’s wall and tell her that Lee Child can see everything she does, and he’ll report to me if she’s misbehaving. She’s almost 15. Think she’ll buy it? * * * Cude ‘n cuddly… Annoying and bitchy… The stuff nightmares are made of. ]]>

Lis, who gave birth to Dustin Andrew at 3:39am on Sunday (July 13th)!! I’m definitely looking forward to cute baby pics. And while I’m offering up congrats, congrats to Jessamyn and Geoff! Babies, babies, everywhere… Lastly (but certainly not leastly) a big, bad WOOT! to Erin, the triathlete, who surely is being coy when she says that’s a bad picture, because it’s about the most adorable picture I’ve ever seen.

* * * I don’t remember who recommended the Casey Jones series by Katy Munger, but I must take a moment to send out a big, fat “Thank you!” I was reading in bed the other night, and this passage had me howling: The band launched into a stuttering Isley Brothers medley and my dance partner leapt into action with alarming enthusiasm. I watched, open-mouthed, as Harry Ingram popped into the air, clicked his heels together and swept both arms over his head as if he were a tree being buffeted about by the wind. It was as if his secret ambitions to be a jazz dancer exploded in one terrifying moment on the dance floor. The crowd cleared away as Ingram bowed, twirled, bent and pirouetted his way into our collective memories. I was astonished that such a plump, soft man could sustain the pace – and somewhat dismayed at having to stand there, lamely bouncing my knees and trying to look cool, as my lawyer companion performed an interpretive dance that belonged in a Jules Feiffer cartoon, not on a dance floor in Raleigh, North Carolina. (copyright Katy Munger) There was an even funnier scene further in the book, but I don’t want to ruin it for anyone who hasn’t read it yet. I’m currently working my way from left to right across the middle shelf of my bookcase – it ends up being fairly random, because I don’t keep my to-be-read books in any particular order – so once I finished Money to Burn, I picked up the next book. What are the chances that I would finish reading a book wherein the main character is named Casey Jones, and then pick up a book wherein the main character is named Sam Jones? And further, what are the chances that the authors of the two books I read back-to-back would be co-founders of the web site Tart City? It’s a small, small world, I tells ya. I bought the new Janet Evanovich yesterday while I was in Target, but after having just read two Zany Chick mystery novels back-to-back, I decided I needed to quickly read something else to cleanse the palate, so to speak. I picked up Accidental Courage by Joe Kita, which Fred recently read and liked a lot. Joe Kita’s a writer for Men’s Health Magazine, which is Fred’s favorite magazine (and I even like it, I’ll admit. It’s got a bit of the Playboy tone, only without the nekkid chicks, and that can only be a good thing). If Zany Chick books fall into the Chick Lit category, I’d put Accidental Courage firmly into the Dick Lit category. Don’t get me wrong, there were parts of the book that were fairly enjoyable, but god save me from middle-aged men who whine about how they’re not really living their lives. Heh. That makes it sound like I hated the book, doesn’t it? I didn’t, really. Of course, the best part is that I’ve finished it, so I can start To the Nines. Whee! * * * We’ve been watching The Sopranos – I think I’ve mentioned that – and we’re about a third of the way through Season Two. Last night or the night before, we saw the episode wherein Meadow had a party at Livia‘s house, and the house got pretty well trashed. When Tony showed up to take Meadow home and she started with the attitude, I turned to Fred and said “That is a child who does not fear her parents nearly enough.” When Tony and Carmela (Fred calls her Caramello. Heh.) tried to lay down the law the next morning, I said “Make her clean the house! Make her scrub the entire house!” What was her punishment? They took away her Discover card for three weeks. Puh. Lease. I don’t know about you, but if I’d thrown a party in my grandmother’s deserted house, resulting in vomit, urine, and garbage everywhere, I would have been cowering before my parents with my hands over my heads, and praying that they’d let me live. They’d have taken away my car, grounded me for two weeks, and made me scrub that house on my knees TWICE, at the very LEAST. Take away the Discover Card for three weeks. Jeezus. Who the fuck uses a Discover Card, anyway? We sure do love that Paulie Walnuts – he always cracks us up. We’re pretty partial to Silvio, too. * * * Almost two years ago, I bought the best welcome mat ever (you can see it here). Recently, I’ve noticed that it’s gotten awfully dirty and moldy, and just downright disgusting. I guess the humidity (not the heat!) finally did it in. I tried cleaning it, but it was too far gone. See what happens when you ignore the welcome mat for too long? So yesterday, during a trip to Target, I purchased a new welcome mat. This one’s made to last (or so I hope), and is made of rubber and that stiff bristle-y stuff. When I got home I dropped the mat on the table and went off to eat lunch. Half an hour later, I wandered back into the kitchen to see Miz Poo rolling around on the mat, rubbing her face on it, and purring to beat the band. After rolling around, purring, and rolling around some more, she settled down for a bath and a nap. (Damn she reminds me of Bucky in that picture for some reason) * * * Can this possibly be comfortable? ]]>

Tubby Loot yet? Have you, huh? All the cool kids are buying something. How can you not want Tubby’s bitchy face on the front of your shirt? (Okay, okay, I’ll stop mentioning it. Y’all know where to go if you’re interested in the swag.)

* * * Pet store kitties are here. * * * After a great big fuckarow with my email over the weekend (I can’t even explain to y’all what happened, because I have no clue what the hell I did), I am finally set up the way I want again. I never realized just how damn many email addresses I have going on. At the moment, I have 7 email “personalities” set up in Eudora, and that’s just assuming I didn’t forget one or more of them. I have a non-domain email address, a robynanderson.com email address, one for the giveaway list, one specifically for GFY, two for notify lists that I belong to (though I’m trying to get them all changed over so that I only have one notify list email), and one for postcards from Maine. It’s easier to filter all the notify list emails into a certain folder if they’re coming in to a certain email address, y’see. Could I be more boring, yammering on about my email address? Could I? Because I don’t think I can, no. * * * Saturday afternoon I opened the front door to go out and take a picture of the Four O’Clocks I have planted in a pot on the front porch, and to my surprise, standing on the hose which stretched across the front step, was a bird. “Uh, hey,” I said to Fred. “Come here!” He did, and stepped outside with me. The bird looked at me, looked at Fred, looked at me again, and then decided that perhaps we were just a tad too close. He fluttered his wings and flew a few feet away, then turned to look at us. “He doesn’t have any tail feathers!” I said. “Oh, poor bird! What happened to his tail feathers? He can’t fly very well without them!” “I think that’s a baby,” Fred said. It occurred to us that there was a nest in the next door neighbor’s front yard – we only knew that because we could hear the baby birds screaming to be fed on occasion, and there’s a Robin (as opposed to a Robyn) who spends a lot of time looking for food in our front yard. “He’s letting me get way too close to him,” I said. The bird would let me get within a foot of him before he’d flutter away. I followed him across the lawn to a spot underneath the tree he’d fallen out of. “Bessie, leave that poor bird alone!” Fred finally said, so after one last look and a few shots of the Four O’Clocks, I came inside. * * * Yesterday, with Fred itching to get out of the house, we headed for Decatur and took a walk along the walking path at Point Mallard Park. I have no pictures for you, because when Fred grabbed the camera to bring with us, I said “If you’re bringing the camera, you’re taking the pictures!” Sometimes I feel like I don’t get a chance to fully enjoy some of the things we do because I’m so caught up in taking pictures. A few hours later – me soaked with sweat – we arrived home. I put a couple of empty soda bottles in the recycling bin in the garage and then went back out to move my Jeep back a few feet, since it was parked squarely across the hose, and Fred wanted to water the lawn. “Bessie!” Fred called in a low whisper. “Your buddy is back!” “My buddy?” I said, not having any clue what he was talking about. He pointed toward the butterfly bush. I looked, and then looked blankly at him. He pointed again, so I looked closer. ‘Twas the baby bird, hanging out on the butterfly bush. (Yes, it’s a crappy blurry picture) He sat and stared at us, until Fred tried to get him to stand in his hand. The bird wasn’t up for that, and hopped down from the bush, running across the yard. Finally, Fred got him coralled back toward the butterfly bush and then left him alone. From underneath the butterfly bush, the bird regarded us warily as we headed inside. It’s like fuckin’ Wild Kingdom around here, it really is. * * * Those Four O’Clocks, by the way. I had no idea they get so big. For damn sure I’m going to plant them in the ground next year, though, because in the pot they have to be watered almost every day, or they start to wilt. While I’m showing off my garden, check these out. Some gorgeous Glads, aren’t they? I know you’re not supposed to cut them, because the bulb get it’s energy for the next year from the flower, but I couldn’t resist, so don’t give me shit. Seriously, don’t! They’re already cut and there’s nothing I can do to un-cut them! So there! * * * So, remember when I was bitching about how much I sweat these days (a side effect of the Synthroid, I’ve learned)? Y’all probably thought I was exaggerating, so I have proof. This morning, I hadn’t even started cleaning cat cages at the pet store, and this is what I looked like. (No comments about the hair, thank you) No wonder I have to drink almost a gallon of water a day to stay hydrated. * * * The least comfortable place to sleep in the house, yet the most in demand. ]]>

* * * I need suggestions for simple-to-use, won’t-take-up-much-space email clients. I want something other than Eudora, because I want to use it specifically for the account dealing with the book, and it was in attempting to install a second copy of Eudora that I fucked up spectacularly and lost my address book, among other things. And don’t say Outlook Express. Anything but, please. Leave your suggestions in the comments, if you would. * * * I was sitting at my desk this morning (big shocker there, eh? I spend most of my days sitting at my desk. I might as well just get a job. Except not.) when I caught sight of something out in the front flower bed. It was moving oddly, so I turned to check it out. At the same time, Miz Poo caught sight of it, and ran, whining and wildly whipping her tail back and forth, to the window. I tried to get a picture, but her head was pretty much in the way. It was a bunny, eating the flowers off our Petunia plants. I snapped several more pictures before I decided I’d go out and see if I could snap a picture of him before he ran off. He froze and stared at me for about a minute, then decided I wasn’t going to go away. He hopped next door and stood and regarded me some more, trying to decide if I was a threat. He was so still he could have been a statue. Finally, he decided I was just too close and he’d be better off further down the street, so off he hopped. Yes, I know that it’s weird that I’m so obsessed when rabbits and squirrels get in our yard, but they’re so little and cute, and y’all know we adore the little cute animals. By the way, this was definitely not the same bunny who was in our back yard the other night – this one was a lot bigger. * * * Ever have one of those days when you wake up, put on your glasses, and trudge into the bathroom? Then you look in the mirror and think to yourself “Hey. I don’t look half bad today. In fact, I look kinda cute!”? And so you pop in your contacts and take your Synthroid and while you’re brushing your teeth, you take a closer look and notice that you have a big red raw spot on the end of your nose, bloodshot eyes, and a ‘stache that desperately needs to be united with wax? Ever have one of those days, or is it just me? Ah well. I’m wearing my yellow shirt, so I’m happy anyway. See how low-maintenance I am? If I was one of those gorgeous girls who placed too much importance on her appearance, I’d be in bed with the covers over my head, sobbing loudly. Me, I just put on a yellow shirt and I’m happy despite the big red spot and lush, thick ‘stache. It’s only a matter of time before I’m going grocery shopping with curlers in my hair, wearing a muumuu, I’m sure. As long as it’s a muumuu with yellow on it, I’ll be happy. * * * 1. Do you remember your first best friend? Who was it? Nope, I sure don’t. I’m sure I had a different best friend for each base we lived on. I remember a Katie and a Candi Rhodes in Kinchloe, Michigan, and a Suzanne Dembinski and Sherri Robertson or Robinson in Guam. There was Karen Frost in Loring, Maine, and a number of others whose names I can’t quite remember. 2. Are you still in touch with this person? Nope, I’m not in touch with any of them. 3. Do you have a current close friend? In real life, other than Fred, I’d have to say that my sister is my closest friend, although we don’t get a chance to talk as often as we used to. 4. How did you become friends with this person? You could say we were born to it. Heh. 5. Is there a friend from your past that you wish you were still in contact with? Why? I’d love to be able to find all those girls on the various bases that were friends when I was a kid, just to find out where their lives took them and where they are and what they’re doing now. Also: 1. What were your favorite childhood stories? The Ramona books, and later, the Little House on the Prairie books. After reading one of the Ramona books, I was under the impression for YEARS that “Quarter past one” was 1:25. 2. What books from your childhood would you like to share with [your] children? I’d love it if the spud loved to read as much as I did (and do), and loved the Little House books as much as I do. 3. Have you re-read any of those childhood stories and been surprised by anything? I’ve re-read the Little House books, and been surprised by how much I still enjoyed them. 4. How old were you when you first learned to read? It was probably somewhere between kindergarten and first grade, but I was desperate to learn to read for years before that. 5. Do you remember the first ‘grown-up’ book you read? How old were you? You bet your ass I do. It was Carrie, and I was 11 or 12. I was just blown away by it – in a good way – which is probably why I still love everything Stephen King writes, whether it deserves it (Bag of Bones the Gunslinger series) or doesn’t (Dreamweaver). * * * A Poo under the desk… And a Spanky atop the monitor, hanging out with the screensaver.]]>

* * * How much do I love you, my readers? My Tubby-loving readers, I guess I should say. I love my Tubby-loving readers a whole lot it would appear. Because not only did I take that awesome picture of Tubby and slap it on a t-shirt in Cafe Press, but I also ordered one to be sure that it printed out okay. And it did. Fred would like you to know he doesn’t usually look quite so crazed. And that I made him make a muscle to impress y’all. And then, in my Cafe Press store, I slapped the picture on everything from t-shirts to lunch boxes, and added $1 to the base price. Now, before you get all up in arms deciding that I’m a horrible money-grubbing bitch, let me tell you that any profits made from the sale of any Tubby-licious items will go directly to the no-kill cat shelter, the one we volunteer for. (I mean, I AM a horrible money-grubbing bitch. I just won’t be grubbing after this money.) I didn’t make any gray shirts available, because the gray will show through the white parts of the Tubby picture, but if you’re desperate to wear Tubby on your chest and refuse to wear white, let me know and I’ll make it so. Get your Tubby loot here. There’s also a permanent link to the ride under “other”, and when I get around to it I’ll add the link to the front page. Now, who loves ya, baby?

* * * Just so y’all know, the Libya/ Liberia conversation did not go ANYTHING like that. SOMEONE certainly likes to spin the words around so that I come across as a total clueless airhead idiot sometimes. Hmph. * * * I’m relieved to announce that my period has started (y’all KNOW you were sitting around saying to yourself “Now, when was Robyn’s period supposed to start? I forgot to mark the calendar…”) and the PMS is over for this month. I hate how easily I get teary-eyed when I’m PMS-ing. Tuesday night I was reading a book, and the main character and the man she loved fought and she left, and I was boo-hooing like you wouldn’t believe. Even though I knew they’d end up back together and happy at the end, I was still all heartbroken. And then I was crying because I was happy they were together and happy and living happily ever after. Thank god Fred goes to bed hours before I do, or he’d have been around snickering at me, because that’s just the kind of heartless bastard he is. * * * How to kick a sock’s ass. If it had an ass. By Miz Poo And3rson. First, you sees the sock in the distance, laying all innocent-like on the floor, like it’s not filled with the Evil Kitty Pot. Then, you runs over and sniffs on the sock. Like, sniffsniffsniff. Soon, your head fills with the craziness, and you knows that you gots to kick the sock’s ass, or it will lay there and fill the heads of the other kitties with the craziness, and then you’ll have to kick their asses, when you’d rather be laying around shedding all your hairs all over the place so that balls of the hairs form and become soldiers in your Army of Poo. Then you kicks and bites and kicks and bites and kicks and bites, faster and faster, your toes and teeth blurring ’cause you kicks and bites so fast, until the sock screams for mercy. When the sock is crying and begging for it’s life, you drops it like it’s a big ol’ nothing, and then you lay across it in case it tries to get you with the craziness again, and you lick your paw like licklicklick, so that the sock knows that you are the biggest badass in the whole big house. And the back yard, too. The End. PS: Send more catnip. But not for Tubby. Just for Poo.]]>

Lee Child book. ::sigh:: I love Jack Reacher.

* * * Fred reminded me last night that I forgot to tell a Gatlinburg story. First, some backstory. Since I’ve lost weight, I have started to sweat easily. I mean, I sweated a lot when I was at my highest weight, but I sweat far more now. I think it’s got something to do with sweat being your body’s way of cooling off, and as I’ve gotten in better shape, my body’s become more adept at cooling me off faster. That, or I’m a freak. On Monday mornings when I go to feed the cats at the pet store with Fred, while he’s doing the heavy work – the cleaning of the litter boxes and the scrubbing out of the cages. My job on those days is to refill the food and water dishes, and cuddle with the kitties. By the time we’re done, Fred is still perfectly dry, while I am soaked with sweat from head to toe. So not ten seconds after we stepped out into the warm, sticky, humid day around 10 Friday morning, I began sweating. Profusely. I was Albert Brooks in Broadcast News, battling a river of sweat. But at this point, I’ve gotten used to it, and tend to not even realize I’m sweating unless I reach up to scratch my forehead or push my hair behind my ears, at which point I realize a lake of sweat has taken up residence on my forehead and sent streams down my cheeks and neck. Usually I end up with a sea of sweat in my bra. Luckily, I wear cotton bras which are very absorbent. Anyway, I noticed fairly quickly on Friday morning that I was sweating, but since I had no napkins or tissues with me, I simply swiped my face with my hands and thought no more of it. Fred stopped in front of the Ripley’s Moving Theater and asked if I’d be interested in taking a ride. I said I would, and we stood in line. The woman in front of us, accompanied by a kid, bought two tickets. The ticket lady, with no comment, handed over the tickets and the 3-D glasses. Fred stepped up to the counter, and I stepped up beside him. “Two tickets, please,” he said. The ticket lady smiled up at him, and then she glanced at me. She pointed at the sign behind her, which had a list of restrictions – the usual “You shouldn’t ride this ride if you’re pregnant, have a heart condition, have a blood pressure condition, blahblahblah.” “You need to read the sign behind me and be sure no one in your party,” and here she gave me a significant look, “has any of the listed health concerns.” Fred blinked at her, read the sign, and glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. “No one does,” he finally said. We were handed our tickets and 3-D glasses, and Fred led the way inside. “What the hell was THAT about?!” I fumed once we were away from the ticket booth. “What, just because I’m fat she thinks I have a heart condition? She should be talking! She didn’t look all that healthy to me, either!” “Bessie,” Fred said patiently. “You’re covered in sweat, and you’re all pasty and pale. You look like you’re about to have a heart attack.” He grabbed my shoulders and pointed me toward a wall covered with mirrors. He wasn’t kidding. I looked like I was about to drop dead. But I felt fine, and I guess that’s what’s important. Although, my father used to say to me ‘Nando, don’t be a shnook. It’s not how you feel, it’s how you look! And roo look mahvelous! * * * My glads are continuing to bloom slowly. About 1/3 of the bulbs I planted put up a shoot about 6 inches high, and then turned brown. I’m guessing that they’re probably too crowded, and would have been happier in the ground. Maybe I’ll actually dig a bed next Spring for them. But then again, maybe not. I’d probably die from dehydration after about 5 minutes of digging. * * * We’ve started working our way through season 1 of The Sopranos . I’ve seen a few shows here and there, but Fred really hasn’t (although he can identify Big Pussy and “That Van Zandt guy”), and since there’s not a lot on TV during the summer, we decided to give it a try. So far we’re definitely enjoying it – though we were surprised to find that Tony Soprano seems to cry, or at least tear up, in almost every episode. Anyway, last night we were sitting in the living room watching an episode, when something out the window on the back patio caught my eye. I turned my head and looked. “We have a bunny on the patio!” I told Fred. We went outside to check it out, and he hauled ass across the yard, then sat under the tree and eyed us. Fred walked toward him and he hauled ass behind the shed and disappeared. We thought he might have gone under the shed, so Fred looked but he wasn’t there. We finally decided he must have gone through a small gap in the fence. Damn he was cute. I’d show you pictures, but I didn’t think to grab the camera. He was small, too – I don’t think he was fully grown yet. Cute as he was, I hope he takes the cue to stay out of our yard. I’d really rather not wake up one morning and find a half-dead rabbit trying to hop around the bedroom. I’ll point out that Fancypants has been gone for about a month, and in that time, there have been no animals brought into the house. Coincidence? I think not. I still miss his fancy ass, though. * * * “Meh. MEH. Meh!” Is it just me, or does Spanky look all miserable back there, all curled up into a tight ball?]]>

Meg, who made not only the one above, but also a second one, which will be up in a future month. Thank you to everyone who heeded my cry for help. Y’all rock, you really do.

* * * I forgot to mention yesterday that one of the things that REALLY pissed me off about the hotel is that, after we’d checked out, I perused the statement they gave us, and I discovered that they’d charged us $1 a day for the room safe. WHICH WE DID NOT USE, SPECIFICALLY BECAUSE IT WAS A BUCK A DAY, AND I CAN THINK OF BETTER THINGS (FUDGEFUDGEFUDGE) TO SPEND A BUCK ON! Clarion Inn & Suites, 1100 Parkway, Gatlinburg, TN. DON’T STAY THERE, PEOPLE! * * * I weighed myself an hour ago. I gained three pounds in Gatlinburg. THREE pounds – and I’m retaining water like a motherfucker due to PMS and sore muscles. Do motherfuckers retain water? I suppose they must. Everyone does at one point or another, I think. I am amazed that I only gained three pounds, because the amount of fudge that went in my mouth was staggering. It was a heartbreaking work of staggering fudginess, is what it was. Fred said “I feel like wherever we go in Gatlinburg and Pigeon Forge, we stop and get half a pound of pecan fudge.”, and that was pretty much the way it was. Here a fudge, there a fudge, everywhere a fudgefudge. This really belongs over in the weight loss journal, but I have to watch my language over there, and it gets tiresome. I just don’t love the weight loss journal the way I love this one. Three pounds! Three pounds! Plus, if I posted over there that I’d gained three pounds (and trust me, people – this is not real weight. This weight is from the water I’m retaining and the crappy food still wending it’s way through my system. This three pounds will be gone in the next week as I get back to eating right and moving my ass, I guar-on-tee it) I’d get a bunch of preachy emails. You won’t send me preachy emails, will you? Emails telling me to eat more/ less protein, more/ less carbs, that sugar is the devil, that I should stop drinking Diet Coke, that the dollop of ketchup I have every so often is the entire reason I haven’t lost any weight? Heh. I’m bitching about my weight loss journal behind it’s back! I hope it doesn’t do a Google search and find this entry! It might say nasty things in it’s entries about this journal, and start a flame war! Three pounds. Whee! I’m probably the only one you know who’s glad to have gained three pounds. Because three pounds ain’t ten, is why I’m happy. * * * On our last evening in Gatlinburg, after we ate dinner, we were walking back to our (crappy) hotel. I saw a store that looked like my kinda store, and so I told Fred I wanted to check it out. As soon as I walked through the door, I saw a big display with tons of bath bombs, in different scents and colors. I headed for them immediately, for I am helpless in the face of yummy-smelling bath stuff. I sniffed a couple of the bath bombs, and thought about buying a few so that I could take a bath when we got back to the (crappy-ass) hotel. And then I saw the price. Seven fucking dollars and ninety-fucking-nine cents. $7.99. For a bath bomb. I was so aghast that I actually went out and dragged Fred inside so that he could see the price. And also because I was sure that if I told him the price later, he would have scoffed. “$7.99 for a bath bomb? I think you read the sign wrong!” But I did not. Not at all. Not only were they $7.99, but lest anyone get the wrong idea about the whole thing, and perhaps think that $7.99 was the price for the whole freakin’ display or something, they made sure to add the word “each” underneath the price. Holy fucking shit. I was appalled and horrified, and most of all pissed off. SEVEN NINETY-NINE FOR A BATH BOMB. Bath bombs are made of citric acid, cornstarch, baking soda, oil, and fragrance FOR THE LOVE OF GOD. I was so pissed that even though there was a bunch of other cool stuff in the store, I refused to buy ANY of it. Fuckers. * * * Not the most flattering picture, god love ‘er.]]>

* * * One of the things we did while we were there was spend some time in Pigeon Forge. In Pigeon Forge there is a river, and on the river? Ducks, of course. I took way more pictures than that, but you get the idea. I so wanted to pet one of the babies, but they never got close enough. If you’ve read Fred’s entry, you know that he bought a bunch of obnoxious t-shirts. I only bought one, not particularly obnoxious one: There were t-shirts I really liked – one said, in tiny little letters, “Nosy fucker, aren’t you?”, and another said “Fuck yesterday, fuck today, fuck tomorrow, and fuck you!”, but I decided not to buy them. I love the word “fuck” (I know, you’re shocked, aren’t you?), but I do try not to wear shirts with the words “fuck”, “shit”, “hell” or “ass” out in public, because I don’t really want to offend any strangers. And god knows, there’s always someone willing to be offended. I did hit Magnet World, which was great. The magnets I bought: Hee! Milked in her pants! Please, a fat woman wearing yellow. How could I resist? I bought this magnet, because I knew that chat was French for cat, and thus I thought this would translate as “Lunatic cat” or “Crazy cat”. But according to Babelfish, it translates as “Whimsical cat.” Oh. Heh. Fred pointed this one out to me. Gotta love the Cartman. The store also had a Mr. Hanky to stick on the end of your car antenna. I was very tempted to buy it, but didn’t. And this is the magnet I dearly wanted to buy, but didn’t, because I knew I’d catch shit from either my parents or Fred’s for having such a thing on the fridge in front of the spud and her unsullied eyes.

* * * In Gatlinburg, there’s a store with any kind of jam or jelly or mustard or pickle you’d ever want. We bought a bunch of jams, various flavors, but what we didn’t buy: Hee! Is it adolescent that I think this is funny? Moonshine Jelly! I tasted it, and it had a definite bite to it. We were walking down the strip Thursday evening shortly after we arrived in Gatlinburg, and I sensed a smiley face near me. Not just one smiley face, actually, but many. I turned and looked, and found the mothership calling me home. The store wasn’t open when we walked by, so Friday morning we stopped in and looked, and there was a huge amount of smiley stuff. Anything you could imagine, they had. I could have gone nuts in there, but I limited myself to a couple of smiley cups, some magnets, a couple of keychains, some erasers, and some gumballs. Some of the magnets will be up for grabs at the giveaway page sometime tomorrow. While we were in Pigeon Forge Friday, I saw off in the distance a statue, and I got out the camera and snapped a picture for Say. It was out in front of a Corky’s BBQ restaurant. The picture didn’t come out that well, but when you’re going down the road at 45, that’s what happens. Better picture next time, Say, I promise! Speaking of restaurants, we ate lunch at The Alamo in Gatlinburg for lunch Friday, and then for a change of pace Saturday, we had lunch at the Alamo in Pigeon Forge. The Alamo has the best damn sourdough rolls ever, I swear. Oddly, The Alamo in Pigeon Forge was nicer than the one in Gatlinburg. So, that’s it. That was our vacation. I didn’t take a single picture of the mountains, though I did get a couple of other scenery pics. A Mimosa tree, and in the background, a wall of kudzu. I continue to be enthralled by the kudzu. The stream running through a cool little park in the middle of Gatlinburg. I continue to be enthralled by any bodies of water. Like I said, we’re very glad to be home. * * * Pet store kitties are here.]]>