Category: Life

Nance‘s birthday, but she wasn’t home, so I didn’t wish her a happy birthday. Let me take a moment now to say “Happy birthday, Nance!!!!”

So, the spud got on the plane to California just fine, and several hours later called me from her grandparents’ home in California to let me know she’d arrived. I guess I can relax until June 15th, when she’ll be flying from California to Rhode Island, where she’ll stay with her father for a week before she goes to Maine. Saturday morning we were standing at the ticket counter while the ticket counter lady did her thing – printing out tickets, making me fill out the “Unaccompanied minor” envelope, making sure the spud had a big goofy-looking pin stuck to her shirt that signified that she was an unaccompanied minor – and while we were waiting, they searched her suitcase, and she turned to me and said, her voice echoing through the airport as she spoke as loudly as possible, “AT LEAST THEY KNOW I DON’T HAVE A BOMB IN MY SUITCASE!” For an instant I thought of running away from her as fast as possible, with the intent of disavowing all knowledge of the child or who she might be “Who, her? Nope, never seen her. Yeah, I heard her say something about a bomb in her suitcase. Gotta go, bye!” Instead I settled for making the big, horrified bug-eyes at her, waving my arms wildly in the air and hissing “Shhhht upppp!” “What?” she said. “It’s not like I HAVE -” “SHHHHHT UPPPPPPPP!” I hissed again, horrified. And to my relief she did shut up. When we were walking away from the counter and there were no other people within earshot, I said in her ear “You do NOT need to even THINK the word “bomb” when you’re in an airport!” Naturally, she wanted an explanation. “Why? How come you shouldn’t even say the word? Whyfor? Howcome?” “BECAUSE I SAID SO.” Fortunately, that still works. We got to the security thingy (that’s the official name) where they send you through the metal detector, and they’ve changed it now so that about 10 feet in front of the metal detector/ x-ray machine, there’s a guy at a podium who looks at your ticket and (in my case) temporary boarding pass and gives you a stern “I know you did it! Just admit it!” look designed to make the guilty person break down in tears and confess all. From there, Podium Man (Podium Man, Podium Man, doing the things a podium can…) can direct you either straight ahead to the x-ray/ metal detector, or to the right to a small enclosed area. He directed me to the former, and the spud to the latter. I was through the metal detector and my purse through the x-ray machine in less than a minute, and I stood and waited for the spud. In the enclosed area, they patted her down and then led her to a spot where they wanded her down. The pin on her shirt – the one indicating to all and sundry that she was an unaccompanied minor – set off the wand, and the wand lady made her take it off. Once she’d been wanded and cleared, they got her belongings from the bin they were sitting in after going through the x-ray machine, and thoroughly searched her bag. And then finally, after finding no contraband items, no bombs, no guns, no knives, they let her go. I waited with her at the gate until the gate agent took her to the plane, and then I watched through the window until they shut the door to the plane and started backing away from the gate. And then I went home and said to Fred “Now I can walk naked across the bedroom without worrying that she’ll be standing in the doorway watching me, and will be scarred for life!” It’s oddly quiet around here. Sunday, we drove to the Cathedral Caverns – which Fred visited a few weeks ago with the spud – and took the tour. It was pretty cool, all in all, and I impressed myself by not bitching about the fact that there was so much hilly walking. For some reason I’d assumed it would be a fairly level walk, and it very much so was not. But my legs were apparently just relieved that I wasn’t going to make them lift weights, and cooperated, thank god. At the end of the tour, when the guide turned all the lights off, was my favorite part. As I said to Fred later, “That’s how dark I wish I could get the bedroom at night!” I found it oddly soothing. Possibly I wouldn’t have found it quite so soothing if the guide hadn’t been RIGHT there, ready to turn the lights back on, and also if I hadn’t known that Fred had a flashlight in his hand. But I swear I could have curled up with a blanket and napped for a good long time. Pet store kitty pictures from yesterday are here.]]>

What event in your life do you feel deserves its own Memorial Day? (Only one stipulation on this — no weddings or births, since those are already celebrated.) The event in my life that deserves it’s own Memorial Day would be March 10, 1996 – the day I wandered into the IRC Undernet room #!Fredsplace, where I talked to Fred for the first time. I’d been in the channel a time or two before and seen him in passing, but never really talked directly to him. You know how chat can be. On this particular evening, sitting in front of my incredibly crappy on-it’s-last-legs $50 computer I’d bought from a friend’s husband, I watched as Fred, who was the “owner” of #!Fredsplace, flit from conversation to conversation. At one point, he jokingly asked for a volunteer to flirt with him. I watched him ask once, and then pretend to pout when no one jumped to volunteer, and so I typed /me raises her hand. We chatted in the channel for a few minutes and then took it to private chat, where we found that we had an awful lot in common. We got into the “Me too!” mode, where one would say something, and the other would say “Me too!” “I breathe oxygen!” “Me too!” I’ve written about how our relationship began and developed before – so I won’t talk about it further here. So much has happened in the more than 7 years that have passed, but if I hadn’t wandered in that room at that time, if Fred hadn’t been a flirty mood, if if if, then very likely my life would be very different right now. Frankly, it scares me to think too much about it. So, yes. If there’s one day that deserves a Memorial Day in my life, a day that is not already marked by a birthday or anniversary, then it would be that day – and I’d celebrate it with huge, booming fireworks from coast to coast if I could. Because what happened that day made the past seven years possible, and I wouldn’t change a thing.

Happy 36th, baby. I love you!]]>

Three. At least this one didn’t actually make it into the house, although if Fred hadn’t gotten back from his run this morning and stepped into the back yard to see that Tubby had this guy cornered, I’m fairly certain that it would have ended up in or near the master bedroom in a show of love on Tubby’s part. It’s interesting that Tubby’s the culprit rather than Fancypants. Thinking about it, it really makes sense that it would be Tubby, because as much as Fancypants thinks he’s a badass, deep down he’s a big wimp. He’ll hiss and growl when he sees a strange cat, but if the cat comes toward him, he runs and hides. Tubby, on the other hand, really is a badass. A while back when a strange neighborhood cat actually came in through the cat door, it was Tubby who kicked it’s ass and chased it out, while the other cats were hiding upstairs. He’s a badass motherfucker, that’s right. (Yes, I’ve used that picture before. But it’s such a good one I’m using it again!)

Did you know that if you order books on Amazon, and part of that order are used books, they’ll put each used book through as a separate charge? Because I don’t have enough trouble balancing the checking account each and every month – now I have to deal with 145,000 small charges from Amazon. Fuckers. I have to say that I’m mighty glad that I can look at my checking account online whenever I want. My credit union RAWKS, man! I meant to mention, in the midst of all my spazzing about the spud flying to California by herself, that she’s actually done it before. When she was 10, or thereabouts, she flew from here to Rhode Island to spend a week with her father for Christmas. And I know she’ll be fine, but it’s a mother’s prerogative to worry, y’know? Miz Poo loves to be held and snuggled and cuddled and loved. But sometimes all that love is too intense for her and she starts biting – literally – the hand that loves her, snarling and growling while she does so. It’s funny as hell, because it’s about the least threatening thing ever, and I encourage the behavior, sad to say. Yesterday, she got into one of those moods while I had the camera close at hand. I am going to BITE your fingers OFF your hand, and then I’m going to play with them, bitch! I love that damn cat. Have I mentioned? 1. What brand of toothpaste do you use? Crest, usually. I think we’re using Crest Rejuvenating at the moment, though it could be another brand. 2. What brand of toilet paper do you prefer? Scott Tissue, always. Fred used to use Charmin, which I hate, because it’s too soft. He’s come around to my way of thinking over the past 7 years. It ticks me off that Sam’s doesn’t carry Scott Tissue, though. One of my fears is running out of toilet paper, perhaps because it seemed to happen so often when I was a kid. (I could be wrong, though – it may have been just one isolated incident that has scarred me for life.) 3. What brand(s) of shoes do you wear? New Balance – I assume we’re talking about sneakers. I used to wear Nike Air Prestos, but since I need to wear a heel cup in my sneakers, the Nikes hit the top of my foot in an uncomfortable way. 4. What brand of soda do you drink? Diet Coke, always. 5. What brand of gum do you chew? Trident White, in wintergreen. We all chew it, and we go through it pretty damn fast. Which is why I buy it in bulk at Sam’s. Y’all have a great weekend – stay safe and drive careful. I want to see you back here on Tuesday, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed!]]>

Did I mention that Tuesday was a very good mail day for me? Candles from the awesome Peg – Strawberry Cheesecake and Supreme Irish Creme. I burned the Strawberry Cheesecake for a little while last night, and it was AWESOME. A T-shirt that the wonderful Adrith saw when she was in Washington, DC. For some reason, it made her think of me. Can’t imagine why. And last, but certainly not least, a cool love letter from Mo‘s Frankie to Miz Poo. (A note to Mo: Miz Poo says that a reply will be forthcoming, but Frankie shouldn’t beat himself up. She completely understands.) (Note to readers: That card, by the way, is a Tickelope, if you’re interested.) Ah, me. I do love the mail.

Pet store kitties pictures are here. The spud and I have begun the long, laborious process of packing her suitcases (two, of course. And they’re both huge.) in preparation for her trip to Californ-I-A. The difficult thing is that I really don’t know how much to pack. I ended up packing all of her jeans (except what’s in the wash right now), about ten of her favorite shirts, all of her underwear and bras (which you can never have too much of), three pairs of pajamas, and several pairs of shorts. And all three (!) of her bathing suits. And 4 pair of shoes. And pads in case she has her period, razors and shaving gel, earrings, her flute, pictures, her yearbook. The main part of the packing is done, I guess, except for what’s in the wash. I figure if we forget anything, she’s going to be in California for 3 weeks, and I can just send it out there. I also figure that she’s 14 years old. What aside from her glasses and clothes does she need that they don’t have out there? Speaking of the spud, she’s been getting a bit of the teenage princess attitude the last few days. Fred finally had to speak to her last night after she did the bitchy (implied) “GodDAMN you people are stupid. Why do I bother to speak to you?” sigh, rolling of the eyes, and flouncing up the stairs. Today, she’s back to her usual sweet self. Honest to god, I have no idea why this picture makes me laugh so hard. Maybe it’s the “I’m suddenly very annoyed, and I don’t know why.” look on Miz Poo’s face. Maybe it’s the way it looks like we grafted a miniature Fancypants head to the middle of Miz Poo’s back. Whatever it is, I can’t look at the picture without giggling like a dork. The Fanciest thang for miles around.]]>

Possum #2. Apparently the cats ARE planning to bring the entire family of possums, one by one, into the house.

Bill O’Reilly wrote a column about Madonna this week that I wholeheartedly agree with. There’s just nothing sadder than someone who used to be pretty cool, who starts to take themselves far too seriously. (Thank you to Fred, who sent me the link) Spoilers below for the season finale of The Bachelor. I watched the season finale of The Bachelor last night (it was on Sunday night and I taped it and watched Malcolm in the Middle instead), and I’m happy that he chose Jen instead of Kirsten, because Kirsten’s entire voice and personality just grated. Jen was classy all the way – never saying anything mean about Kirsten – while Kirsten was happy to say “Jen doesn’t like animals! She’d never fit in here!” and “The thought of Jen and Andrew together makes me want to throw up.” On the other hand, who the hell doesn’t like animals? What’s that about, Jen? Freak. Heh. The whole time I watched it, Fred sat and smugly said “I know who wooooon! I know who won! I know who won!” Apparently he read something about it somewhere. He didn’t know who was who, though, and had to ask me. The most excited I got, though, was at the end when they announced that Bob was going to be the next Bachelor. I LOVE Bob, and I’m REALLY looking forward to that show! I finally had a chance to visit the new Sam’s – the one that’s only about 3 miles from home – and was mightily impressed. Everything was so shiny and new and clean, all I could do was wander around with glazing eyes, trying to take it all in. The only downside was that there were no fresh chicken breasts. What the hell’s up with that? The butcher (one of them, anyway. There was a gaggle of butchers standing around chatting it up.) said they’re still getting set up or something, but they’ll definitely carry them. Bastards. Chicken breasts were the whole reason I went to Sam’s! Of course, I managed to find plenty to buy. The day I walk out of Sam’s without buying something is the day y’all oughta start finding god, because I believe that’s one of the signs of the Apocalypse. Our government has just raised the Terror Alert to orange, and in three days I’m going to be putting my 14 year-old daughter on a plane by herself to fly across the country. Yep. Didn’t have enough to worry about already. My only consolation is that she’s not flying into LAX, and one would assume that if terrorist acts were going to be committed at an airport, they’d be one of the larger ones.]]>

order them online! How cool is that?! I ordered a selection of boxes to see which Fred’s book (which hasn’t been printed yet, but we know what size it will be) would fit in, because I’m apparently too dumb to notice that they had the dimensions listed under each box.

So, Fred got it into his head a few weeks ago that he wanted a kayak. And then he followed his usual m.o., which was to harass the living shit out of me until I finally screamed “Fine! Fine! GET A GODDAMN KAYAK, JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP ABOUT IT!” As usual, he then decided he didn’t want one. Then he did. Then he didn’t. Did. Didn’t. Did. Didn’t. He made 45,000 trips to Dick’s Sporting Goods store to gaze moony-eyed over the kayaks, and talked incessantly about it. Is it any wonder that I drink? (Oh, wait. I don’t. But I oughta!) Finally, on Sunday, he bought the fucking thing. He brought it home and put it on the garage floor and sat in it and discussed every detail of it until my ears bled. Then, of course, he wanted to take it to the river and try it out. Since he’s never BEEN in a kayak before, I insisted that he take me along. Not that I’d be much help, but I figured I could always call 911 and report a drowning. (Oh, calm down. Of COURSE he has a life jacket.) So we went to the river, or some offshoot of the river or something like that, where there’s a boat ramp, and he put the kayak in the water and paddled around. He was doing pretty well, so after I watched him for a while and took a thousand pictures (many of which will decorate his journal entry, which will be up later. Here‘s a picture to tide you over until then.), I went back to the Jeep and read for an hour or so until he was ready to go. Naturally, when he got home from work yesterday afternoon, he wanted to go out in the kayak again. Now, this is a big deal because except for taking the spud to her Youth Group thing at church on Wednesday nights, we rarely leave the house on a weeknight. So I made dinner early, and we headed for the river. We got there, he got the kayak in the river, and I watched him for a few minutes. Once again, I headed for the Jeep and sat and read the book that I always keep in my purse for just such an occasion. We’d agreed that he could spend about an hour on the river, so it surprised me when he showed up back at the car after half an hour. He didn’t have a watch or any way to tell time, so he was surprised that it had only been half an hour. He put the kayak on top of the car and began cinching it down. My cell phone rang, and I answered it to find the spud on the other end. She wanted to know when we’d be home, and as I answered her, I glanced up. The parking lot we were parked in is surrounded by woods, and coming out of the trees I saw four dogs. As I continued talking to the spud, I got Fred’s attention and pointed toward the dogs. He glanced up and nodded, then went back to what he was doing. As the spud said something on the other end of the phone, I watched the dogs. They caught sight of us and started hauling ass in our direction. “Babe!” I said, loudly and sharply, pointing at them. I brought my hand down, hanging up the phone, and stared at the pack of dogs coming toward us. Seriously, I don’t think I’ve been so scared in my life. I thought I was going to lose control of my bowels. Fred saw the dogs running toward us, and – leaving the front driver-side door (the door across from me) wide open – ducked into the back seat and pulled the door to. The dogs reached the Jeep, and one of them stuck his head in the open door, sniffing. As I got ready to kick at him, the dogs circled the Jeep and ran back the way they’d come. Later, Fred said “You know I would have protected you if they’d tried to come in the open door and attack, right?” Suuuuure he would’ve. I had such an adrenalin rush that I shook for most of the half hour ride back home. The funniest thing is that the dogs had been down in the river chasing balls thrown by their owner – and the “pack” was made up of three black labs and a beagle. I was scared shitless by black labs and a beagle. Possibly the least vicious dogs in the dog kindom. I’m a badass motherfucker, that’s right.]]>

Ventures Online, my host, and the problem was solved mighty damn quick. And then, not two days later, I got an email from the people who used to host me, the incredibly sucky Hispeed, and in the email, they said “Hey. We see that you registered your site through us, but you’re not hosted through us. You should be hosted through us, really!” I recalled what life was like when Hispeed was my host, with constantly being down, and never able to access my email, and I recalled how much better life has been since I switched to Ventures, and so then, you know what I did? I switched back to Hispeed. Ha! Just kidding! No, what I actually did was go to Ventures Online’s customer service page, and I sent them a glowing letter, telling them how much I appreciate the fact that whenever there’s a problem, they respond quickly, and even if they aren’t sure what the problem is, they keep me informed. I got an email the next day from someone (I don’t recall his name) asking if they could quote from my Letter O’ Love, and I said they could use it any way they wanted to, and if they wanted to give out my email address to potential customers, I’d let everyone I came into contact with know that Ventures Online ROCKS. And now if you go to Ventures Online’s front page, there I am, all quoted and stuff, on the right hand side of the page. Next, I’m going to write a letter to the manager of the local Wendy’s and compliment them on the outstanding service I always get at the drive-up. Because I’m sure that people are more than willing to bitch when things go wrong (god knows *I* am), but when things go right, there’s nothing but resounding silence. I may make it a goal to write one Letter O’ Love a week.

So I took the spud out to dinner at Applebee’s Friday night (I had the chicken fajita roll-ups (and just picked the chicken filling out and ate that to be sure I’d have room for dessert) and Dulce le Leche cheesecake. Not bad, but not the Apple Chimicheescakes, either), and then when we were done, it was still fairly early, so I asked the spud if she wanted to run to Wal-Mart. I had a list of stuff I needed to buy for her to take to California (she leaves Saturday, and I’m only freaking a little so far) as well as a few things for the house, and she wanted to look for some loafers with 2-inch heels (yeah, I have no idea why she wants them so badly, but she’s been driving me crazy with the wanting), so off we went. I was reminded anew that I loathe Wal-Mart. The fucking AISLES are half the width of the aisles at Target, and when there’s a giggling gaggle of teenage girls hanging out in front of the tampons and pads, it’s not possible to get by them. So the spud went off to look for her shoes, and I went to find cat food, bird seed, pads, a fan for the garage, and a George Foreman grill, among other things. The spud finally found the shoes she wanted (they were marked $10, but rang up at $7 – and I would guess that right there explains why I shop at Wal-Mart even though I loathe it so), and after an eternal wait in line, we checked out. When I got home, I had blisters on the TOP of my feet, and let me tell you why. Two years ago, I bought a pair of sandals at Land’s End. I’ve used them all the time when I needed to run out and do an errand or two, because they’re easy to put on – I just slide my feet in them – and they’re comfortable. For my birthday this year, I got a gift certificate to Land’s End, which I promptly lost in my desk drawer. When I was looking for something else in that drawer earlier this week, I came across it, and decided that I should buy a new pair of sandals to replace the old ones. The old ones look like this: On the Land’s End page, I couldn’t find sandals that were exactly the same, but found these. I figured that although those were kind of ugly – why would you want sandals that are white where your nasty, dirty feet go? Why? – I’d go ahead and buy them anyway. They came Friday, and I opened the box. The picture on Landsend.com didn’t do them justice at all. The words “ass ugly” were invented to describe these shoes. I tried them on, and they were comfortable enough. The bottoms of the straps rubbed the tops of my feet a little, but I figured they just need to be broken in a little, and after all how often do I look down at my feet? Not very often, believe you me. I bid adieu to my old sandals and tossed them in the trash. I wore the new sandals to Applebee’s and then to Wal-Mart, and by the time I was halfway through my Wal-Mart experience, I was cursing the instruments of torture on my feet. The straps were rubbing the tops of my feet like mad, and I couldn’t get them to NOT rub my feet. When I got home I took the fucking things off and saw a huge, angry red blister on the top of each foot. And then I sent the spud inside to get me a pair of tongs, which I used to fish the old sandals out of the trash can. Those new sandals are going back to Land’s End as fast as I can box them up and mail them, and there’ll be a letter enclosed. It will NOT be a Letter O’ Love, believe you me. Pet store kitties are here. “There is something on the floor, and I am somehow compelled to sit on it…” A bag o’ Poo!]]>

Patterson’s Cats calendar, one has scenic views of Maine, and one is a Get Fuzzy calendar. What’s worse is that those aren’t all the calendars in the house, oh no. On one side of the refrigerator is a calendar with pictures of famous works of art with a smiley face inserted somewhere in the picture. It cracks me up every time I walk by it – I’ll have to scan some of them. On the other side of the fridge is another smiley calendar, that one with the smiley face taking up the whole top of the page. And I think the spud has at least two calendars in her room. We’re some calendar-loving motherfuckers, that’s right.

Oh, I finally got the page for the Anderson Kitties up and running. I put it over on robynanderson.com instead of bitchypoo – that way I can link to it from both web pages. It’s here, and if you want to see it in the future, you can get to it through the cast page. I may put up a separate link to it on the sidebar, but I may not – there’s already an awful lot of stuff linked over there. As a side note, I do know that some people – like Beth on her book page – have the option of clicking on a box if you want all links to open on a separate page. I may spend some time trying to figure out how to do that, or I may not. If anyone out there wants to send me clear, concise directions in words of two syllables or less on how to do that in Movable Type, I’m certainly willing to listen. While we’re on the subject of moving stuff and links and the like, at some point I’m going to move my reading list over to robynanderson.com as well, so I can link to it from my weight loss page. For that matter, I probably ought to just move the cast page over there as well – that way there’d be not much on this site but the journal. I’ll have to think about that. Oh, stop rolling your eyes. You know you’re fascinated! Our rose bushes are going nuts lately. I like all of our roses, but hold a special love in my heart for the non-red ones. I think red roses are boring, because I’m a freak. If I’m going to get roses, I’d prefer yellow ones (shocking, eh?) or a mix of cool colors. I really love our yellow rose bush, especially the way they have tinges of pink around the edge. Don’t ask me what kind of rose bush it is. I have no idea. (Note: It’s a Peace Rose. Thanks to the readers who emailed to let me know! Y’all know everything, you really do.) Note to self: Get potting soil and plant those damn petunias this weekend! Damn do the cats get excited when I open one of the windows in the computer room. They must like the smell of roses, too. 1. What drinking water do you prefer — tap, bottle, purifier, etc.? We have a purifier on our refrigerator water dispenser, and that’s pretty good. I’m not terribly picky about my water, though – if I had to drink from the tap, I could get used to it. 2. What are your favorite flavor of chips? If they’re real chips – not reduced-fat or baked – I love sour cream and onion chips. If they’re baked, I prefer BBQ. 3. Of all the things you can cook, what dish do you like the most? I really like my chicken soup – unfortunately, the other bastards in the house don’t feel the same, so I don’t get to make it all that often. I also like my chicken and dumplings. 4. How do you have your eggs? If it’s just eggs, I prefer them scrambled. I like to make the occasional omelet as well, though, with mushroom, onions, cheese, and sometimes spinach. 5. Who was the last person who cooked you a meal? How did it turn out? That would be Fred, who made steak burritos for dinner last Saturday (he also made black beans and rice on Sunday, but that doesn’t count, because I actually started the meal). They ROCKED. “Meh. MEH. Meh!”]]>

here.

I am pleased to announce that for the first time since Sunday I can straighten my legs completely. That’s the sort of thing you take for granted until you can’t do it, believe you me. Okay, anyone have any clue what the fuck kind of language this is? Is it spam? Anyone? This person keeps emailing the same email to me, and I have no clue what they want. And it’s not one of the language Babelfish translates, so I’m at a loss. merhaba seni aradim ulasamadim.. nerdesin?? d�n anneme kamera aldirdim zorla hehe simdi baya ii cekiyo kamerayi actim izlemek istiyosan buraya tiklat hadi g�r�s�r�z kendine cooook ii bak optum The other night, Fred and I were laying in bed talking before bedtime. Fred, as is his way, farted. “I wish I could do that when the spud comes in to say goodnight!” he giggled. It is his dearest wish to fart on the spud when she’s not expecting it. And it’s her dearest wish to fart on him when he’s not expecting it. So far, I believe she’s ahead in the fart wars. I continued breathing through my mouth – I can’t remember the last time I laid in bed and dared to breathe through my nose – and we resumed chatting. Ten minutes later, the spud knocked on the door, alerting us that she was there. She and Fred did their “What?” “Hug?” “Yes, I know what a hug is” dorkiness, and she entered the room. Every night when she comes in to hug Fred and I goodnight, it’s generally a long ordeal that involves her stopping to pet every cat in the room, making random remarks (“I did the thingy with the doohickey. I’ll do it again tomorrow”) that make no sense to us. Eventually, she approaches the bed and flings herself down across Fred’s upper body, where she lays like the dead, and would probably stay there the entire night, except that Fred pokes her to get her moving. On this particular evening, however, she approached the bed and began to lean down. Fred lifted the comforter and top sheet a slight amount, letting air circulate beneath the covers. The spud stopped suddenly, a disgusted look on her face. “Oh, GROSS!” she yelled, and then giggled. “You FARTED!” Countries as far away as Afghanistan made note of the momentous occasion. She continued her drama queen ways, waving her hand around in front of her face and making gagging sounds, punctuated with “Gross!” and “Ewww!”s. Fred was laughing so hard he was almost crying. After fifteen minutes of discussion about how Fred had farted and it was stinky and gross, I got impatient. “Quickly!” I yelled, which is what I yell when she’s dawdling, since it always gets her moving. Holding her breath, the spud gave Fred a quick hug and then rounded the bed to hug me. We hugged, and she bent over to pet Miz Poo, who was laying beside me. As she straightened up, I heard it, like a distant foghorn. “GodDAMN!” I yelled, holding my nose. The spud giggled wildly and ran for the door. “What?” Fred said. “What happened?” “She FARTED on me!” Fred and the spud laughed as if it were the funniest thing that had ever happened in either of their lives. You want my life, you know it. I don’t know if we have just one squirrel that occasionally visits our bird feeders, or if they’ve all been different squirrels, but we were visited by a squirrel this past weekend. Naturally, I got pictures. “Mmmm. Damn those Andersons sure are nice to stock the good stuff!” “Whuh? Did I hear something? It sounded like a whine from a portly animal…” “What the hell IS that on the other side of the window?” “Damnit! That fucking squirrel is always too fast for me!” Yes, I know. The next thing the cats bring into the house will be a friggin’ squirrel. You can imagine I’m looking forward to THAT.]]>

this page, When an opossum is attacked and can no longer defend itself through bluffing (baring his teeth/hissing nastily) or biting, it will go into a catatonic state known as “Thanatosis.” Thanatosis is a defense mechanism that apparently makes the attacking creature believe the animal is dead with the hopes of it losing interest in “killing” it. The opossum will actually appear dead when this happens. So maybe the possum wasn’t really dying, I suggested to Fred when he came upstairs to get ready for work. Fred smiled. “Maybe he’s playing possum!” Fred got ready for work, and I dozed off and on. We talked about the possum some more, and then he went back downstairs to find a cough drop and check on the possum. I had almost dropped off to sleep when he walked back into the room. “Houston,” he said. “We have a possum!” The dying possum was now up and moving around and occasionally opening his mouth threateningly. Fred went to wake up the spud so she could look at it. And let me just say, DAMN are possums stinky things. Possibly because one of their main sources of sustenance is roadkill (which would also explain why so many of them are roadkill themselves – they’re not fast enough to get out of the way of traffic). We discussed what to do with the possum. Fred was in favor of putting it in the next door neighbor’s yard, because we’re pretty sure that’s where it came from – that’s where the adult possum came from a few weeks ago, and the couple of times Fred’s seen a possum, it also came from that direction. I nixed that idea, though, because if we put it back where it came from, it would undoubtedly wander back into our yard, or Fancypants would find it in the neighbor’s yard and bring it into the house. Finally, Fred decided to take it over to Rainbow Mountain on his way to work and let it loose. He called when he got to work to let me know all had gone as planned. Let’s just hope there aren’t other adolescent possums next door ready to be snatched up and brought into the house. You knew there’d be a picture, right? Amusing possum links I found a few weeks ago and meant to link to: Fat Possum Records. Old Possum’s Book Store. The ‘Possum Pages. The Possum Cookbook. Possum Dixon. Doesn’t everyone need possum fur nipple warmers? Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats (thanks to reader Fitchypoo for reminding me of this one!)

Even shaved, he’s the fanciest thing around. ]]>