Category: Life

Spanky, who is a sweet little lovemonkey, will sometimes get in the mood where he’ll, while hanging out on the stairs, “talk” to you, as long as you “talk” first. So I got out the crappy old camera and made a movie. Ignore my obnoxious voice and admire the doofy-ness that is the Spankmeister, here.

I have been up since 6:30 this morning, because I wanted to lift weights before I headed for the pet store. Once I got home from the pet store, I rode my stationary bike, then cleaned the entire upstairs INCLUDING DUSTING, all before I ate breakfast. I even took time off several times to snuggle with Miz Poo, who was seriously needing the Mama love. At some point today I need to balance our checking account, which I’m not looking forward to. We use our debit cards for everything, and thus there are a zillion small transactions on the account that I have to go through and check off. I check our account online every couple of days to be sure I’ve entered everything in Quicken, and I rarely miss anything, but it’s such a huge pain in the ass to reconcile the account. I never get it right the first time, and sometimes it takes me three times through to get it right, which always pisses me off. Maybe I’ll just wait until the PMS days are past. There is a catnip-filled sock on the floor, and though I do not know why, I am somehow compelled to sit upon it. Look at my face. Do I look pleased about this sock sitting that I am doing? No. But I cannot help myself.]]>

his journal. The funny parts of yesterday: 1. We left the house about five minutes early so we could swing by McDonald’s for an Egg McMuffin and Diet Coke for me. After driving out of our subdivision, Fred took a left. “Did you check the forum this morning?” I asked. At the same moment, I saw a McDonald’s bag that had been tossed onto someone’s front lawn, debris scattered for several feet. “No,” Fred said. “How RUDE,” I said about the person who’d tossed the trash out their car window. “I checked my MAIL!” Fred said indignantly, taking offense at my attack on his character, and then added “There was none. Obviously my readers don’t love me.” It took me a moment to realize why he was so indignant, and then I laughed for a good several minutes. So did he once I’d explained it to him. 2. Dr. B came into the pre-op room where Fred was laying. After talking for a few minutes and drawing lines on Fred’s chest with a marker, he got to talking about weight lifting. Fred bragged about how he’d lifted 63,000 pounds that morning, and Dr. B shook his head admiringly. “Do you hit the weights that hard, too?” he asked me. I nodded. “Well, I can’t lift as much as he does, but I lift weights that are heavy for me.” Dr. B began talking about a conference he’d attended, where he’d learned that having your hormones – estrogen, progesterone, testosterone – out of whack could make it more difficult to lose weight, and that I should set up an appointment to have my hormone levels checked. We chatted about that for a few minutes, and then he left to go do his thing. Five minutes later, it hit me. I turned to Fred and said “I should have looked all offended and said ‘Are you implying that I’m fat, Dr. B?!'” Fred appreciated that.

Today, Fred’s been pretty much fine. His jaw hurts, and his throat hurts, and his back hurts, and if he moves like that, his neck hurts (and so he makes a point of moving like that as often as possible, so he can whine about it). We watched About Schmidt this morning (amazing movie. Jack is so very un-Jack-like, and if I’ve got Kathy Bates’s body when I’m her age, I’m going to count myself lucky). This afternoon, Fred asked me to drag the recliner into the living room, where he positioned it in the middle of the floor, freaking out the cats. He brought the Fanny Lifter in from the garage and placed it next to the chair, and then put all four (!) of the remote controls on it, as well as a cup of tea, and settled in. He finally decided that he was in enough pain to take one of the Oxycodone Dr. B had prescribed, and then snoozed on and off while I watched Far From Heaven (I liked it. Not loved it, but liked it.). After napping on and off for most of the afternoon, he felt better, and actually went out to the movie store to rent some more movies for us (Catch Me if You Can, Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back, and Focus). So now, you’re up to date on all things And3rson. 1. How many times have you truly been in love? I know that I’m truly in love now. In retrospect I’d say that I wasn’t really in love with the ex, but I thought I was at the time, so I think that counts. So, two. 2. What was/is so great about the person you love(d) the most? His sense of humor, his intelligence, his willingness to tell me everything, and his cute little ass. 3. What qualities should a significant other have? A sense of humor, and a sense of honor. A cute ass doesn’t hurt, either. 4. Have you ever broken someone’s heart? I’ve hurt someone’s feelings, but I doubt I’ve ever broken someone’s heart. 5. If there was one thing you could teach people about love, what would it be? Love is like oxygen. Love is a many splendored thing. Love lifts us up where we belong. All you need is love.]]>

The Devil Wears Prada, which I’m enjoying. Anyone who’s had an asshole for a boss would probably enjoy it – and really, who hasn’t had an asshole for a boss at one time or another? The thing that I love most about the book, though, is that it’s about the assistant to the editor-in-chief of a beauty magazine – and the author, Lauren Weisberger, was for a time the assistant to Anna Wintour, editor-in-chief of Vogue. Of COURSE Lauren Weisberger insists that the book is fiction, but I think we all know that that’s a load of crap. The best thing is that Anna Wintour – if she even gives a shit – can’t do anything about it. If she sues Lauren Weisberger, she’s as good as admitting that the boss from hell in the book is based on her. I’ll admit that the fashion stuff in the book goes in one ear and out the other. The most expensive item I’m wearing at this very moment would be my $20 bra from Lane Bryant (although now that I think about it, my Dilbert t-shirt might have cost a bit more than that), and I have zip, zero, zilch interest in Prada or any of the other myriad designer names thrown around in the book. Probably a good thing I don’t live in New York City, or work in the fashion industry then, I guess.

Pet store kitty pictures are up here. So, I was sitting in front of the computer yesterday afternoon – of course – while Fred was mowing the lawn. I glanced up and saw two birds, one of them definitely a robin. As I watched, one fed worms to the other one, and then flew off, probably in search of more food. The one who’d been fed just sat there, and I started to wonder whether it was a baby who’d fallen out of the nest. It wasn’t all that small, but it also didn’t look like a fully grown bird, either. Naturally, I grabbed the camera and crawled to the window. It stood in the grass for a few moments, and then hopped into the front flower bed. At one point it looked directly at me, but didn’t seem concerned to see me there. And then it settled down amongst the Petunias and glanced at me again. I’d decided it was a baby and opened the door to see if I could get any better pictures, and it flew away. I guess that answers that! At the pet store today, every cat I picked up and held licked the sweat off my face. I have no idea why I sweat so much while I’m there, but it absolutely runs down my face the entire time. Apparently scooping litter box, refilling water and food dishes, and cleaning out cages is more work than you’d think! Anyway, none of the cats have ever shown any interest in the sweat running down my face before, but by the end of today’s stint I was afraid I wouldn’t have any skin left, they were licking so vigorously. Probably the hormones. (Heh – Fred always says “You blame EVERYTHING on the fact that you’re about to have your period, having your period, or just HAD your period!” Well, duh.) We watched The Blue Collar Comedy Tour last night (other movies rented this week: Die Another Day, About Schmidt, and Far From Heaven. I watched Die Another Day with Fred the other night, so he’d damn well better watch Far From Heaven with me! Bond movies bore me to death, and I’m not sure why.) We’d only heard of two of the comedians on The Blue Collar Comedy Tour – Jeff Foxworthy and Bill Engvall – but the other two – Ron White and Larry the Cable Guy – were pretty funny too. We didn’t laugh hysterically the entire time, but there were several laugh-out-loud moments. The best part was at the end when all four of them were on the stage, and each of them took turns telling a story. The best by far was the story told by Ron White. I thought Fred was going to pass out, he was laughing so hard. Highly recommended, if just for that. Fred found the first Japanese beetle on one of the rose bushes yesterday. We’ve pretty much decided we’re going to yank the rose bushes up and put something else in their place. We like our roses, but it’s not worth having to spray poison on the bushes all the time. I fucking hate Japanese beetles, especially when they get CAUGHT IN MY HAIR. My sister Debbie posted in my comments the other day to remind me that when I was little, I was TERRIFIED of bugs of any kind. And I didn’t call them bugs – I called them “beechies.” Don’t ask me, I have no idea on earth where that came from. My mother tells the story that when we lived in Indiana, I ran outside to play. As I ran onto the lawn, a swarm of locusts flew up into the air and I shrieked like I was on fire and ran back into the house screaming “Beechies! Beechies!” So anyway, we’re probably going to have a landscaper come and suggest something pretty and easy to care for to put in the front flower beds. If y’all have any suggestions, feel free to post them in the comments, as long as the suggestion isn’t “Awww, Robyn, don’t rip out the pretty rose bushes!” 🙂 Speaking of flowers and the like, I planted yellowish Million Bells plants in pots on the front step. They’re looking good so far. “::gasp!:: It is The Momma! And she sees that I am outside!” “Quick! I must run for the door before she catches and beats me severely!” (Honestly, I have no idea why he thinks he’s not supposed to be outside, but he always freaks and runs inside when he sees us)]]>

AB’s got a couple of ADORABLE kittens up for adoption. I will not drive to Texas and get those kittens. I will not drive to Texas and get those kittens. 5 cats is more than enough. 5 cats is more than enough. (If I keep saying it, hopefully I’ll start believing it) And speaking of cute cats, Bonnie’s killing me with the great pictures of her gorgeous cats. Also, while I’m talking about urban legends and the like, I need to mention that apparently the Mate Match thing I put up last week is an urban legend as well. The only reason I know that is because reader Kinzie, among others, mentioned that they hoped the couple got the free trip. I decided to see if there was anything on WBAM’s web page, and imagine my surprise when I discovered there IS no WBAM in Chicago. WBAM is in Alabama. So I did a quick search on Snopes (which is The Shit) and found the page I linked to above. Ah well. It was still funny as shit.

So, right on track as we head toward the PMS Zone, the cats are starting to get wild, as they do every month at this point in my menstrual cycle. It’s got to be the hormones in the air, that’s all I can guess. They’ve started with the wild running-back-and-forth-and-back-and-forth-for-no-reason thing, and have begun picking fights with each other. I’m only thankful that we don’t have a full moon coming up until the Saturday after I start my period, because then they’d really be wild, running at walls and biting my ankles, and the like. This morning Spot – the most mild-mannered cat who will avoid a fight if he can (but if someone picks a fight with him, he’ll flatten them) saw Miz Poo walking across the bedroom. He went flat and crawled across the bed to the edge, watched for a few minutes, wiggled his ass, and jumped on her. That’s the sort of thing that only happens when those pre-PMS hormones are running rampant. Speaking of the cats, I’ve been singing a lot to them lately. I was brushing my teeth last night, looked down and saw Miz Poo, and sang “Pootin’ tiiiiime!” to the tune of Closing Time. Fred burst out laughing. The other night, I sang “Tubby, Tubby” to the tune of Monday Monday, and then “Every other cat, every other cat, every other cat in the house is fiiiine, yeah. But whenever Tubby comes, but whenever Tubby comes, you find me cryin’ all of the tiiiiime.” What? Are you implying I need a life? The spud called this morning. I talked to her for 13 minutes, and it was like pulling teeth. I did hear that they’ve apparently hit every restaurant in town, and that today is an R&R day. They went to Downtown Disney twice and are having a barbecue tonight. They’re going to make cookies. All of these facts were interspersed with long, long silences which I tried to fill by telling her about the cats or Fred or ask questions. Either she hates talking on the phone as much as I do, or she just hasn’t gotten the hang of it yet, I s’pose. “Hey, bebbe. Do you believe in love at first sight or should I walk by again? Rwowr.”]]>

I had a bit of a freaky experience at the post office last week. I had a card in my PO box indicating that I had received a package that was too big to fit in the box. I took it up to the counter, and handed it to the postal worker. He smiled at me and headed for the back to get the package. “Robyn, right? Box 565?” he said without looking down at the card. People, I about jumped out of my skin and ran away screaming. I’ve always thought I enjoyed a bit of anonymity at the post office. Like, they’d see me and think “Oh yeah, it’s her. She comes in here all the time.” Madison’s a pretty big town – it’s not New York City, but it’s a big yuppieville suburb all the same – so I never expected that, even though I do go in there at least twice a week. But knowing my name? And knowing not only my name but also my box number? Honestly, that startled the shit out of me. All I could do was smile blankly and nod. “I like to memorize names and box numbers, it saves time,” he explained when he came back with my box. “You must have a good memory – that’s a lot of boxes to remember!” I said. And then today I went to the post office again. I stood in line, and when it was my turn, the postal worker – a completely different one this time, might I add – smiled and waved at me. “Come on over, Miz And3rson!” he called. I think I’m going to have to move. (No, not really. It’s just weird, because I’m not used to it.)

Spanky sleeps soundly, unaware that his arch-nemesis inches ever closer. Will he wake in time to shoot a disgusted look over his shoulder and run away, or will he awaken to find himself Fancified?]]>

this, won’t I?

So this weekend was lovely and sunny and warm, and when the weather is like that, Fred always gets a hankering to go somewhere and do something. Saturday we drove up into Tennessee and stared at the Mennonites (Fred’s got an entry about that here – note that he didn’t give me any credit for taking every one of those pictures. Hmph.), then got Subway for lunch and ate our sandwiches at Davy Crockett State Park, before driving back home. And also, I was bitten by a mosquito while we were eating lunch, so I fully expect to come down with West Nile virus. In fact, I note that one of the signs of West Nile virus is headache, and I recall with horror that I had a headache this morning. (The fact that I was deadlifting 100 pounds at the time has nothing to do with it, I’m sure. I feel so weak and ill. I can barely see. Mother? I can’t see you…) Yesterday, Fred decided that it was a good day for kayaking. Since he’s been bugging the hell out of me to try it for myself, I decided that I would. We first went to Point Mallard, since Fred had some success kayaking there last week, and found also that the water wasn’t as scary as the previous places we’d been. We got there, headed to the bathrooms, Fred unloaded the kayak, and then we walked toward the water. Fred stopped and looked around. “There are an awful lot of people here,” he said. “Do you think it’s some kind of reunion or party?” I looked around and pointed out the “Cost Cutters Party” sign. He sighed and cursed everyone for not showing up BEFORE he’d unloaded the kayak, and we headed back to the Jeep. Not that there’s anything wrong with other people being around, but there’s NO way I was going to get in the kayak with people watching, and Fred wasn’t up for being an object of curiosity either. We drove around trying to find a place to put in the water, but had no luck. Fred got grumpier and grumpier, and threatened to just give up and go home. Finally, he had a flash of brilliance, and we drove back over the bridge to the marina. We found a fairly decent spot to put in, I put the lifejacket on, and Fred held the kayak so that I could get in. After a little while, I did get in, and then he pushed the kayak into the water. “Bessie,” he said. “I don’t see any boats, but in case any come along, what do you do if they go by fast?” “Scream and hold onto the sides of the kayak,” I said. I mean, duh. That’s an obvious answer, right there. He sighed and rolled his eyes. “NO, you turn INTO the waves, so they won’t knock you over.” Now, how motherfucking stupid does the man think I am? I DID spend an entire summer working on an island (bet that’s something you didn’t know about me, eh?), and one of the many things I did was drive a small boat back and forth between the island and the mainland every single day, usually several times a day. And if there’s anything I know about dealing with waves caused by other boats, I know that the best thing to do is hold on to your ass and hope for the best. Anyway. Fred pushed me into the water, and I almost immediately let out a little scream and grabbed onto the sides of the kayak. Those fuckers are tippy, let me tell you. If you shift your weight just a tiny bit to one side, the kayak is more than happy to tip in that direction and act like nothing would make it happier than to tip my ass into the water. I mean, I can swim and everything, but who wants to go into the nasty river water? Remember, I grew up near the Androscoggin river, one of the 50 most polluted rivers in the early 90s, and so I’m a bit prejudiced against river water. I paddled around for a while, out a bit, back in toward shore, a circle to the left, a circle to the right, and then I paddled back in and declared my kayaking experience over for the day. It was windier than we’d expected, and I felt that I was on the verge of being swept 20 miles down the river. Getting out of the kayak was an experience in itself, believe you me, and I’m certainly glad there were no people around to be amused by me. I don’t know that I really cared for being out in a kayak, but I’m willing to try it again. Any new experience is scary at first, after all. While Fred went out in the kayak, I sat and read until a guy towing a catamaran came along and asked if I wouldn’t mind moving the Jeep. I did, and not long after, Fred decided he was done, and we headed home. I’ve finally gotten around to moving my reading page over to robynanderson.com. It’s here, now. It took me all of about 5 minutes to do, god knows why I put it off for so long. Oh yeah. ‘Cause I’m a procrastinator! Speaking of my reading list, I note that after a kick-ass start in January, wherein I read 18 books during the month, my numbers have been heading downward, and in May I only read 11 books. (Yeah, I know. Y’all are saying “Bitch, I WISH I had the time to read 11 books in a month!” To which I say “Nyah, nyah, nyah. My life fucking rocks.”) I feel the need to explain that the reason my books-read number was so low for May is because I was trying to catch up on my magazine reading. And now that the spud is in California and then Rhode Island and then Maine for the summer (damn, the kid’s going to have some serious frequent flyer miles!) and I don’t have to do any of that pesky mothering stuff, I should be getting those numbers back up there. I know you were concerned. While catching up on my magazine reading (some of which I did this weekend), I came across last month’s issue of Playboy. (Did you know we subscribe to Playboy? Did you know that in fact, *I* subscribe to Playboy? Did you further know that Fred couldn’t be less interested in it, and that I get it for the articles, because plastic-looking women aren’t really my thing? Are you horrified and flocking to my notify list to unsubscribe? Did you know that if you subscribe or unsubcribe to my notify list, I don’t get an email, because I set it up that way?). In that issue of Playboy was featured Sarah Kozar, whom some of you might remember from Joe Millionaire. Here’s the thing. When I watched Joe Millionaire, I thought Sarah was a really pretty girl. I thought she was a tad bitchy, but very pretty. In all the pictures of her that I’ve seen since then, I’ve always thought she was gorgeous. But in her Playboy spread, she looked like a Barbie doll. All the character had been airbrushed out of her face, and she looked like a vapid piece of plastic. How anyone could find a picture of a bland, characterless woman – and we all know that her body’s been airbrushed to within an inch of it’s life, right? – sexy is beyond me, it really is. Which, of course, brings us to Carnie Wilson. I watched the 20/ 20 interview with Carnie Wilson Friday night, and it was interesting. Carnie always comes across as a bit flighty. I don’t recall exactly what her reasons were for wanting to be in Playboy, but I’m pretty sure it was along the lines of “I want to empower other women! To show them that it can be done!” (She also said “I’m not the Gastric Bypass Girl. I’m Carnie.”, and I’m going to save for another day my gripe about people who get loads of money to promote a product, and then whine about how that’s all anyone’s interested in.) Here’s the thing: I have no problem at all with women posing in Playboy, but if you’re going to do it, don’t pull some bullshit reason out of your ass to explain why. There are exactly two reasons for posing naked to be in Playboy: 1) The money, or 2) The attention. I guess there’s also 3) Because I believe it will further my career, but that really falls under #2, in my opinion. And, hell – I don’t think there’s anything wrong with posing for the money or the attention. If Playboy came calling and said “Robyn, we’re doing a series called Bitches of the Internet Who Write Incessantly About Their Cats. We’ll give you a million bucks”, I’d grab my suitcase and tell them to fire up the airbrush. It wouldn’t even take a million bucks, I’d do it for half that. Maybe even a quarter that. When y’all started emailing me and saying “Robyn, how could you do that? How could you pose naked like that?”, I would smile big, and I would say “I did it for the money, and I’d do it again. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get the pool boy to fish the Mercedes out of the pool again. Buh-bye.” I promise you – I wouldn’t blow smoke up yoiur ass about how it’s good for other women to see my plastic, characterless, airbrushed to death, because it would be INSPIRING for them. No, you’ll get the truth from me, I promise. During the interview, Carnie was shown several times recording a Diane Warren song, and at one point she sang something along the lines of “I don’t need you to tell me I’m pretty to know that I’m beautiful”, and what we’re supposed to understand is that Carnie’s a strong woman who has shed the weight and standing strong. But that’s not how she comes across. She comes across as someone who needs desperately to pose in Playboy so that she’ll get the attention that she craves so much, so that she can point to those pictures and pretend that that’s what she really looks like, and so that she can distance herself and almost believe that Now Carnie is in no way related to Then Carnie. And I find that sad.]]>

Anatomy of a Smackdown
(Starring Fancypants and Miz Poo) Miz Poo: “I cannot stand your fanciness. I cannot, do you hear me? I will kick your fancy ass all over the place! I will, I will!” Fancypants: “Look into my eyes…” Miz Poo: “I am ready to spring forth and tear your fancy throat out with my sharp little teeth. I …. I….” Fancypants: “Look deep into my eyes….” ::eyelashflutter:: Miz Poo: “What was that?!” Fancypants: “It is just The Momma, trying to document my fancy ways.” Miz Poo: “I will spring… I will tear… I will… I am so sleepy…” Fancypants: “Feel the Fancy power taking you over…” Miz Poo: “I will hurt… I will maim… I will…” Fancypants: “Deeeep into my eyes.” Miz Poo: “Rub my belly?”]]>

“Self,” I said to myself yesterday, “What do you suppose would happen if you took that big flat-ish box out of the garage and laid it on the library floor?”

“I’m sitting on it. But I’m not happy about it!” “Meh. MEH! Meh.” “Sitting on the box. Sitting on the box. Yeah, man, I’m sitting on a box…” Miz Poo opts for the smaller box to the side. Someone mentioned in my comments yesterday that they liked our bird bath. We bought that last weekend, after we did our tour through the Cathedral Caverns. There’s a house in the country that’s surrounded by all kinds of cement things – bird baths, planters (some of the planters were huge – they were at least as high as my waist – and I can’t imagine how people get them home. They must need a crane!), and other assorted things. When Fred passed by the house a few weeks ago after visiting Cathedral Caverns with the spud, he’d stopped and asked if they took credit cards (he didn’t have enough cash, and he doesn’t carry a checkbook with him), and they said no. So we stopped on Sunday and looked all the bird baths over, decided on one that was shallow and shaped kind of like a daisy, then changed our minds and took the one shaped like a tulip. I’m starting to think we should have gotten the one shaped like a daisy so that the birds could get in and splash around and actually bathe. As it is, they’ll occasionally sit on the edge and take a drink, so it’s more of a bird fountain than a bird bath. It cost $45, and I hear it was heavy as hell. Luckily, I didn’t have to lift it myself, since I had a big strong man with me. I think we’re going to have to move it, though. It’s too close to the bird feeders, and it’s got a film of bird seed husks floating on the surface of the water. We’re still waiting for one of the cats to try to jump up on it to investigate. I hope Tubby doesn’t try it, because he’d probably knock it over on himself and be paralyzed from the waist down, and we’d have to buy him one of those carts so he can pull himself around. Okay, y’all. I have seen the funny cats video, thanks for forwarding it to me. I’ve gotten about 10 forwards of it, watched it every single time someone forwarded it to me, and laughed myself silly every single time. Almost as funny as the cats themselves are the owners you can hear in the background laughing or saying “Oh!” in surprise. Heh. Nothing funnier than a startled cat, I tell you. And lastly, reader Becky forwarded me something that made me laugh out loud. I put it up here. Trust me – it’s long, but the payoff at the end is more than worth it. I was taking pictures of the Doves in the back yard, mostly to illustrate how damn many of them there are, and this morning I was looking through the pictures and found one that was awfully funny. Does that Grackle look like he’s about to kick ass, or what? That’s a bird with a definite sense of purpose. 1. What do you most want to be remembered for? Being a bright spot in someone’s day – I want to be remembered with a smile. 2. What quotation best fits your outlook on life? I can resist anything but temptation ~ Oscar Wilde. 3. What single achievement are you most proud of in the past year? Not ending up in a belltower with a rifle. (No, not seriously, you freaks) 4. What about the past ten years? Getting out of a marriage that was going nowhere, and raising a great kid (though she’s not all the way raised yet). 5. If you were asked to give a child a single piece of advice to guide them through life, what would you say? Nothing worth having ever comes easy. If you put a bag on the floor, she will show up and settle in.]]>

Soap & Candle Stand. My credit card is whimpering in fear already!

Fred took this picture the other morning. He said Tubby looks like the fat little kid no one will play with. Tubby loves to hang out under the bird feeders. If you look closely at the upper right side of the picture, you’ll see a bird sitting on top of the pole. I think he’s trying to decide whether he could outrun Tubby. (Fred took this picture, too) So, Julia Roberts – remember my fondness for Julia Roberts? – has been married 10 months, and according to The Scoop, she’s on the road to divorceville. Of course, you can take most everything a gossip column publishes with a grain of salt, but if it’s true I’m not surprised. After all, on the forum last July, I said I give it 19 months – it’ll really be over in 7, but they’ll drag it out for another year. I did a little online searching, and it appears (again, you’ve gotta take the gossip stuff with a grain of salt) that Julia Roberts has a reputation for jealousy. That really does surprise me, because she’s always seemed so completely confident. Goes to show you never can tell. Bonnie mentioned in the comments to yesterday’s entry that the woman who’d never mailed anything before was similar to a guy on Dog Eat Dog the other night who’d never read a book in his life. You know, I know that there are people out there who don’t like to read, because my best friend from high school, Liz, doesn’t care to read. She’ll occasionally pick up a couple of magazines every once in a while, but for the most part, she’s not a reader. What the hell do people who aren’t readers DO? I mean, if I have a minute or two of downtime, I grab the book I’m currently reading, or a magazine and read that. I carry a book in my purse in case I have to wait in a long line. I’ve been known to sit at the table and read the back of the cereal box. I read a book while I’m on the stationary bike to make the time go by faster. Do people who don’t like to read just sit there and stare off into space, or what? As a side note, I guess I should add that I don’t ALWAYS have my “nose in a book”. When we’re driving somewhere, I like to watch the scenery. But if I’m in a situation where there’s nothing much going on – in a long line, for instance – I prefer to read to pass the time. I can’t imagine being married to someone who doesn’t like to read. Fred loves to read as much as I do, although he tends more toward the political and other nonfiction stuff (::shudder::) with an occasional bit of fiction tossed in. I, on the other hand, tend mostly toward fiction. Our tastes do intersect – Stephen King, Jeffery Deaver, John Sanford, Michael Connelly – but for the most part I’m not interested in what he reads, and he SURE as hell isn’t up for any zany chick books, because his sensitive side has very strict limits. This all reminds me of the episode of Seinfeld where Elaine and Puddy are on a plane coming back from a month in Europe. Elaine begins reading, and Puddy sits staring at the back of the seat in front of him. She asks if he wants something to read, and he declines. She tries to read but can’t, because she’s so bothered that he’s just sitting there staring at the seat back, so she breaks up with him. When I think of a non-reader, I think of Puddy staring off into space, slack-jawed. (No offense intended to non-readers. I love Puddy.) Someone is an evil little shithead who killed a baby Mockingbird and left its body on the patio.]]>

The Bear, with Gary Busey as Paul “Bear” Bryant. For those of you not in the south, Bear Bryant coached The Crimson Tide, and was the winningest coach in the history of college football. Anyway, the movie was made back in ’84 and Fred never got a chance to see it. Lo these many years, it has apparently been his fondest wish to see it, though Bear Bryant’s family had bought up the rights and refused to allow it to be released on videotape until recently. But I digress. So Fred was watching the movie while I ate lunch, and after listening to Gary Busey’s voiceover, I turned to Fred, who was snuggling on the loveseat with Miz Poo, and said “He sounds an awful lot like the guy from Slingblade!” Fred turned and gave me a blank smile, then turned back to the movie. I continued eating lunch, and then – five minutes later – Fred turned to me with a big smile. “He sounds like Carl from Slingblade sometimes!” he said, all proud of his discovery and obviously expecting me to burst out laughing at his astute observation. “Oh my GOD!” I said, giving him the JESUS CHRIST DO YOU EVER LISTEN TO ME?! bug-eyes. “Oh,” he said. “Did you already say that?”

While he was out running errands on Saturday, Fred had occasion to be in the Dollar Store, where he bought me a nice big bunch of smiley-face balloons. Aren’t they great? Naturally, Miz Poo was enthralled with the ribbons hanging from the ceiling, so we had to be careful so she wouldn’t chew off a length of ribbon and swallow it, which would make her intestines bind up and require another zillion-dollar operation. (Soon after we took the picture, we moved the balloons so she couldn’t reach the ribbon tied to them) I’d like to take a moment to extoll the virtues of yet another cleaning product. It’s fairly new, I believe, and in my experience it’s definitely worth the cost. A few weeks ago I purchased a bottle of Clorox with Teflon toilet bowl cleaner. The idea is that the “Teflon Surface Protector” keeps dirt and stuff from sticking, and so the areas you clean with it stay clean longer. I was skeptical – I mean, there were no actual Scrubbing Bubbles with big bug-eyes and blue eyebrows and a smile peeking out in the Scrubbing Bubbles Bathroom Cleaner that my mother bought once at my behest, and I have to admit that I was deeply scarred by the disappointment, because I was going to catch a couple of Scrubbing Bubbles and keep them as pets. But I digress. So always an optimist, I bought the Clorox with Teflon toilet bowl cleaner, because if there’s any one place in the house where I’d prefer dirt (among other things) not to stick, it would be the toilet bowl. When the downstairs toilet needed cleaning – because Fred’s father and stepmother were coming over to watch a few episodes of The Shield with us, and to be frank with you, the only time I bother to clean that bathroom is if someone’s coming over, and thus the reason it only gets cleaned three times a year, if that – I used the Clorox stuff to clean it. Two weeks later? Clean as a whistle. AMAZINGLY clean and sparkly and shining. I don’t even cringe when I see the cats belly-up to the toilet bowl, partaking of some scrumptious toilet water, because it’s just THAT clean. Yesterday, I bought a bottle of the bathroom cleaner, because the OTHER place I would like dirt and grime to stop sticking is in the bathtub – we use a lot of bath gunk in the tub, and a few days after cleaning the tub, it’s usually gunked back up – and the shower. This morning I cleaned the bathroom, using both the Clorox with Teflon products, and I have to say, so far so good. The area between the sinks has never looked so shiny. For that matter, the area around the tub is looking pretty damn good, too. So I have to say two thumbs up to the Clorox with Teflon products. All I need now is for them to make a kitchen product, and I’ll be all set. I was weirded out a tad at the post office yesterday. First of all, I walked in and stood in line behind a girl who had just put something in a Priority shipping box and sealed it. She looked up from her package and looked around, seeming confused. “Oh,” she said, smiling at me. “Go ahead. I’m a little confused.” So I moved around her to stand in line. I glanced back and saw her, still confused, looking around. She saw me looking, pointed, and said “What’s that?” “What’s what?” I asked. “That,” she said, pointing to the section of the post office where you can buy stamps and envelopes and various things. “That’s where you can buy stamps and envelopes and various things,” I said. “They also process packages for people, too.” “Oh,” she said, nodding her head. She resumed perusing her package. A few moments later, she tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around and smiled at her. “Can you – are you allowed to write directly on the box?” she asked, holding up the Priority box. “Yes, you sure can,” I said. She smiled, clearly embarrassed. “I’ve never mailed anything before.” I simply smiled in response and turned back around. It’s been so long since I’ve been around other people that saying “How on earth does someone get to be an adult (she appeared to be in her mid-20s, and had no foreign accent that I could determine) having never mailed anything before?!” seemed like it would be rude. But truly, the mind boggles. I go to the post office at least twice a week, and on at least one of those days I have one or more packages to mail. I’ve been mailing things since I was around the age of 10. How does it happen that an adult could have never mailed anything before? How? Was she locked in a convent until just recently? I stood and wondered what her story was, but by the time I thought of a good opening question (“Seriously? You’ve never mailed anything before?”), the time to ask it had passed. Today I’m still burning with curiosity, and I wish I’d asked anyway. He’s a good boy. Yes he is!]]>