Category: Life

today’s entry. Trust me, you want to read it. But don’t forget to come back!

* * * Stupid me, I answered the door when someone rang the doorbell yesterday, thinking it might be one of the kids next door needing to go into the back yard. Instead it was some guy wanting to sell me something to put himself through school, and I listened politely to half his spiel waiting to get a word in edgewise, and when he held out the packet of whatever the fuck it was that he wanted me to buy, I knew better. Because once they hand you the fucking packet, they do NOT take it back, and you end up paying $64 for a little packet of paper towels, or some shit like that. I refused – REFUSED! – to take the packet, told him I was JUST about to leave to run some errands, and could he come back later? Why did I not just say “Nope, not interested!” and slam the door? I have no idea. He responded to my OBVIOUS lie – I was wearing sweatpants and a stained t-shirt, and even *I* don’t leave the house in that kind of getup – by telling me it would just take a minute, and I gave him a tight-lipped smile and repeated “I was JUST about to leave”, and he wished me a good day. And probably hung around to see if I actually left the house, the fucker. Why can’t we outlaw door to door selling? I mean, it’s hardly safe to be walking from door to door to sell shit, is it? What if I were a psycho? (Oh, shaddup) This is probably why they choose our middle-upper-class neighborhood, I suppose. Less chance of psychos. Little do they know… What kills me is when they start spouting off the names of our neighbors who bought whatever it is they’re selling. I know the names of, maybe, three of our neighbors, and I’m not even certain about two of those. And the third one sold us our house, for the love of god. I want to say “Who? Who the hell is that? Where do they live? Do they have any kids? What do they look like? What do they drive? Nope, don’t know them. Clearly they made the idiotic decision to buy something to get rid of you.” Don’t even look at me like that. I make plenty of charitable contributions. I just make it a point not to buy anything from someone who comes to my door. Well, except for Girl Scout cookies, maybe, though to be truthful I haven’t had any of those in four years or more. Don’t look at me like that, Local High School Football Team. If you really wanted to raise some funds, you’d pony up with the cookie goodness. Heh. This just occurred to me – I should gaze blankly at them and say “Do you have an appointment?” when they start in. “If you don’t have an appointment, I’m sorry. I can’t help you. No, I can’t give you an appointment, do I LOOK like someone who schedules appointments? Jeez! You’ll have to call and – No! No, you cannot have the phone number! If you were someone who truly wanted to make an appointment, you’d have the phone number!” * * * A reader emailed yesterday Oh god, I just kicked Miz Poo in the nose. IT WAS AN ACCIDENT. She forgave me eventually, but do I feel like a total Poo abuser, or what? Poor Miz Poo! Where was I? Oh yeah, a reader emailed yesterday (hi Shannon!) to say that she’d never heard the phrase “shit the bed” outside of her group of friends, and no one else she ever said it in front of seemed to know what it means. That cracks me up, because it seems so obvious what it means! Of course, trying to come up with a definition, I’m drawing a blank. I guess you either know what it means by the very sound of it, or you don’t. Suddenly, I’m reminded of the time I was driving to Pennsylvania a couple of years ago to meet my sister and hand over the spud. Debbie’s car broke down somewhere around New York City, and I called Fred on my now-it’s-working now-it’s-not cellphone and asked him to call my father. Ten minutes later when I could get service on my cellphone, I called Fred back. His first words? “Now I know where you picked up ‘You’ve gotta be shitting me!'” That was the first thing my father said when Fred told him. Fred had never heard anyone but me say it before. What’s funny is that in one of the first few episodes of the first season of The Shield, both Shane and Dutch said “You’ve gotta be shitting me!”, each with their own interpretation of it. And speaking of shit, why is that they can say “crap” on network TV, but “shit” gets bleeped? It means the same damn thing, does it not? I’ve always preferred “shit” to “crap”, because “crap” sounds more explicit to me somehow. Your “shit” discussion is now over. You may move on. * * * I know I’m supposed to think it’s treacly, sentimental crap, but I sure did love the American Idol rendition of God Bless the USA Wednesday night. God bless not only the USA, but god bless Grokster. Amen. * * * And while god’s blessing everyone, god bless the tech support at my host, Ventures Online. It took some time, hard work, and recreating of an inbox somewhere (don’t ask me, I didn’t do it), but I was finally able to get the mail sent to me from Tuesday night through Wednesday morning. You have no idea how happy I am – it was like my email was just out of reach, taunting me. I’ve set up forwarders so that all the emails I have set up on my two domains will be forwarded to one central account. Which I’m not going to post anywhere online in the interest of not getting spam.]]>

* * * I need to spend part of today backing up my system while I’m at it, because I get this very strong feeling that my computer’s about to shit the bed. So to speak. Is March almost over?

* * * Pet store kitties are hither. The spud went with me to the pet store today, and somehow the earth did not crack in two at the sight of her being awake and ready to go at 7 am. Like her mother, she’s a sleeper, but – also like her mother – she loves the kitties, and will forgo some sleep for some kitty lovin’. (I think she went back to bed, though. I’ve heard nary a poop (hee!) peep out of her since we got home) A couple of the litter boxes were particularly bad today, and I amused a kitty or two by reeling around gagging like the drama queen I am. * * * Fred called yesterday to buy the spud’s plane tickets to California and from there to Rhode Island. I had been, for some reason, under the impression that we’d have to buy two one-way tickets (Huntsville to California, California to Rhode Island) for her, since she was going to be staying in California for three weeks and a day. We were very pleased to find out that they could do it as a round-trip ticket, and it ended up costing half of what we thought it would. Of course, on top of the ticket cost will be a $75 fee each way so that someone will make sure she gets from gate to gate, but that’s definitely worth the peace of mind it buys, so I don’t have to worry about the spud wandering lost around the airport. And she would. Yes, she’s 14, and she gets straight As, but when it comes to the real world she’s been a tad overprotected in her life. * * * To the left of us lives a family composed of a mommy, a daddy, and three or four small boys. These small boys, possibly following the example their father sets, are very into all kinds of sports – football, baseball, soccer, tennis, the usual. Which is great, because god knows America’s youth spends too much time doing nothing active. But what kills me is that the boys next door, who have a nice, large backyard, spend all of their time playing baseball, football, etc, in their front yard, which is the size of a postage stamp. Several times a week the doorbell rings, and there stands a tiny boy asking if it’s okay to go into our backyard and get their ball, because they’ve tossed it over the fence from their tiny front yard into our back yard. Of course we always tell them to go ahead and get the ball, and it doesn’t really bother me that they need to, since they’re careful to close the gate behind them and we haven’t lost a cat yet. It really makes me wonder why they don’t want to play in the back yard, though. * * * A Tubbly man, waiting for the sun to come his way. And if you look carefully, in the background amongst the daffodils is Fancypants, who insists on laying there, even though I chase him out. Because he’s a bastard.]]>

* * * Last night Fred and I were watching TV, as we usually do at night. I don’t remember what we were talking about, but I glanced down at his foot and said something about a big, nasty callous he had on his big toe. As he stood up to go into the kitchen and get a drink, he grabbed his crotch and leered “I’ve got something big and nasty for you!” A second later, he looked into the kitchen – which is fully visible from the living room – and his mouth dropped open. From the kitchen, I heard the sound of the spud dropping a cup into the sink. I began laughing immediately, sure that she’d heard him. But then I discovered that what he’d been looking at was just Spot, standing on the stovetop. Which is a weak ending to the story. Maybe I oughta just claim it was the spud and she heard and was disgusted?

* * * And speaking of Fred, we were watching TV over the weekend (yes, I know. Eat your heart out at the glamorous life we lead!) and I’d been chattering about something or another. But I’d finished talking, and was flipping through a magazine, when something on TV – something about the war – caught my attention. I glanced at the TV, and then looked at Fred. Fred responded by raising his left hand and pointing his index finger skyward in the universal “Shut the fuck up, I want to hear this” gesture. I WASN’T EVEN TALKING, AND THE FUCKER SHUSHED ME! I’ll tell you what, he’s lucky I didn’t go get the cleaver and chop that fucking finger right the fuck off. * * * Miz Poo was taken to the vet yesterday by her horrible, evil, awful father. Her father who had to leave the room when they pulled her drain out because he couldn’t stand to watch it. In fact, he left the building so he wouldn’t have to hear her squeal, or do whatever it is that she did when they yanked the drain out, because he really is a big softy when it comes to any of the cats. From a high of 11 pounds, Miz Poo now weighs 8.5 pounds. I don’t think that’s terribly underweight, because she’s a small-boned cat under it all, but Fred said that we needed to buy some weight gain powder for her. Heh. She’s not terribly interested in the crunchy food that we feed the other cats, but she’s been very interested in the runoff from Fred cans of tuna, and in the cat food I discovered in the cupboard. She doesn’t actually eat much of the soft cat food, but rather mostly licks the gravy off. Last night, she climbed up on the table and jumped onto the kitchen counter, and proceeded to meow sadly until Fred gave her a little bowl of cat food. This is probably a bad habit to get into, but for now we’re going to spoil her a little. Of course, the other cats make out like bandits, too, because she licks the gravy off the food, and then leaves the food, and whoever gets to the bowl first finishes off the food. Yes, we let our cats roam around on the counters. Nasty, I know, but I get to make the rules. They don’t actually walk around on the counters all that much.]]>

That’s me, Obyn. Just call me Obyn. I’ll spot you the “r”, mm’kay? Quality control, anyone?

* * * Okay, I’m weighing in on the Dixie Chicks thing – yes, I know it happened a long time ago in the grand scheme of things, but I’m just now getting around to thinking about it, okay? I’ve had more important things to think about than Natalie Maines. Here’s the thing. If what Natalie Maines said bothers you, why why WHY would you respond by burning or otherwise ruining your Dixie Chicks cd? You spent the $17 (or ever how much), and by ruining that cd, all you’re doing is screwing yourself out of the money you spent. I understand that it’s to send a message, but the message you’re sending is “Natalie, clearly what you said while on stage in front of a bunch of your fans is INCREDIBLY important, in fact, it matters SO MUCH to me that I’m going to go out of my way to BURN the cd, thereby wasting the money I spent on it, while not taking any money out of your pocket.” Seriously? Who gives a shit what Natalie Maines or any of the Dixie Chicks thinks? Who gives a shit what anyone in Hollywood thinks? What have they done that makes their opinion so very valuable? Dennis Miller? Shut the fuck up and bring forth the funny, buddy. Natalie Maines? Zip it, and warble us a tune. Michael Moore? Didn’t you get the “accept/ present your award and keep the political jabber to yourself” memo? Jesus. Don’t get yourself into a lather because Natalie Maines went to another country and dissed the president. Natalie Maines’ opinion doesn’t and won’t ever amount to a hill of beans in my life. She shouldn’t matter in yours, either. (And before you say it, yes. You shouldn’t give a shit what I think, either.) * * * The spud and I watched 8 Mile Saturday night. Can’t say as I was all that impressed. It seemed that neither was the spud, and she’s the one who thinks Eminem is the shiznit. At one point I was watching the movie (I couldn’t sit and read through the whole thing, which I would have preferred, because I had to be ready to fast-forward through the sex scenes, while yelling at the spud to look away. And thanks for the You beat around the bush, Like you�re scared to lick pussy so you eat around the tush rap lines, Eminem. By the time I realized what you were saying, it’d already been said. Appreciate that. There should be a web site with a list of all the parts to skip while watching with your 14 year-old daughter, ya think? But I digress.) and I thought to myself “Damn, he has a pointy nose. I never noticed that before.” The VERY next second, the spud turned to me and said “He has a really pointy nose!” Freaked me out. I kept trying to send her thought messages to see if she was really reading my mind, but results were inconclusive. * * * So, remember when I said I was going to buy a new domain and move bitchypoo over there? I was, I was going to buy either robyn.to or nybor.org, but upon second thought I decided it was silly to move a journal named bitchypoo from bitchypoo.com to another domain. I decided to just stay here instead, though I may do some reorganizing. And I’m also going to start using Movable Type for the journal, what with it being so damn easy to use, and not having to mess with linking “before” and “after”, and updating the calendar every time I write an entry. * * * Whoo! I got 13 points in the Oscar Pool! I didn’t expect to win, since most of my choices were guesses, but I was certainly glad not to have gotten the lowest score, either. * * * The spud is turning into SUCH a teenager. Fred actually had to go wake her up around noon on Saturday. NOON. Even I can’t sleep ’til noon, and I LOVE to sleep. I suspect after a week of sleeping until all hours of the morning, she’s going to be one hurting unit when it comes time to get up at 6:30 to get ready for school. Two months from yesterday, she leaves for California. Am I happy about her flying from Alabama to California, alllll the way across the country, by herself? Nopenopenope. I’d say that I should fly with her and immediately fly home after handing her off to her grandparents, but she also has to fly from California to Rhode Island (where her father will pick her up, keep her for a week, and then take her to Maine) three weeks after that, and there’s no way I’d be able to fly to California, drop her off with her father in Rhode Island and then fly to Alabama, because we’re talking an AWFUL lot of money. I know she’ll be fine, and I know they’ll (for a fee) be sure she gets from one gate to another, but it still freaks me out.]]>

When she came inside, she sat in the living room for a few minutes, and then walked over to the kitchen and threw up. You can bet your ass I freaked out. I called Fred on his cell phone, and he said “Oh no!” We discussed it for a few minutes, decided to just keep an eye on her, and she hasn’t vomited since. THANK GOD. She’s eating; not a lot, but enough to keep me happy. I gave her some soft cat food this morning, and she also had the juice from a can of tuna yesterday. She’s supplemented that with lots of water, and the occasional bite of regular cat food. The drain, which runs along her entire incision, was originally sticking out both ends. Last night, we noticed that the part coming out of the lower part of her incision wasn’t there, despite the fact that it had been stitched in place. We decided that it had slipped under the incision, and when Fred called the vet this morning, he said that as long as stuff is coming out, not to worry about it. One of the things we have to do twice a day is get a bowl of warm water and a cloth, wring the cloth out so it’s not dripping, and hold it against her belly for five minutes (rinsing the cloth once it’s cooled off). She’ll tolerate it for the first minute or two, but after that it’s a struggle. I imagine that her whole belly is tender, and having something pressed against it – no matter how gently – doesn’t feel very good. The drain will be coming out tomorrow, and Fred kindly decided to take her. I don’t think I could be in the same building, let alone the same room, when they pull that thing out. Just the thought freaks me out a little.

* * * And after a bit of a lull, when it seemed that things might get better around here, yesterday morning the phone rang. It was Fred’s mother, letting him know that his sister’s husband was in the hospital. He’d been having some very bad heartburn, finally decided to go to the hospital, whereupon the doctors discovered that the artery covering the left half of his body was 98% blocked, and they had to do an angioplasty. Yep. Happy March! (He’ll be fine) * * * I just glanced out the window of the computer room, to see a woman walking by, with a clear message to me: I don’t know what it said under the happy face, but this is a sign from the universe that things are going to get better, right? That, or she’s a stalker-reader.]]>

* * * So, ever since we had an incident last month (or maybe the month before, I don’t remember) with a neighborhood cat getting into our house, we’ve started shutting the cat door at night. Usually, Fancypants comes into the house sometime between 7:30 and 9, and when Fred hears him come in, he goes and shuts the door so no one else can go in or out. I’ve been saying that one night Fancypants wouldn’t bother to come home, and Fred would have to decide whether to lock him out all night, or leave the cat door open. Last night was that night. At 9:00, when Fancypants hadn’t come back through the door, Fred went out into the yard and called for him. We went upstairs to read, and Fred came back downstairs to check for him a couple of times, then closed the cat door. Before going to bed, Fred checked the yard a few more times, but Fancypants was never out there. I checked myself a few times before I went to sleep, and again he was never around. He finally moseyed into the house sometime this morning to get some food, and then left again, and I haven’t seen him since. I suspect he’s either got a girlfriend (one who doesn’t mind that he’s neutered), or he’s found a family he likes better. Fred’s mostly worried about the fact that Fancypants is declawed in the front and can’t defend himself, and he’s also the most aggressive of our cats, so if he picks a fight with the wrong cat (or dog), he’ll get his ass kicked. As much as I want to boot Fancypants in the butt sometimes for his carpet-shitting chair-peeing ways, I do worry about him, too. I know that we could just keep the cat door closed all the time, but I don’t think it’s fair to the other cats, who like to go out and sit in the yard during the day. If they could all jump the fence, it’d be one thing, but clearly Fancypants is the only one who’s light enough to do it. Damn cats. They sure do like to make me worry.

* * * Fred was flipping around the news channels last night, and I was reading a magazine, looking up from time to time. On either Fox News or CNN, Harlan Ullman, the author of Shock and Awe: Achieving Rapid Dominance (one of the authors, I guess I should say) was being interviewed. I half-listened to the interview and a moment before Fred changed the channel, he said something about the American bombing runs. My mind whirred and processed what I’d heard. I put down my magazine, my eyes wide. “‘The boldness and bodaciousness of the American bombing runs’?!” I repeated what I’d heard. Fred laughed. “Boldness and audaciousness,” he corrected. I think I like my version better.]]>

* * * After a crappy beginning to the day yesterday, the sky cleared and it was bright and sunny and warm for most of the day. Today, it’s sunny and warm again, with the high expected to get somewhere close to 80. And best of all? Finally, FINALLY, several of them bloomed. How can you not love daffodils? How, Chris, how? Ah well, to each her own, I s’pose. As long as you don’t go crazy and decide you no longer love The Vince, I’ll be happy. After I got that picture above, I turned around to see Fancypants sitting in the doorway watching me. I took his picture, but didn’t realize until just now that he’d been in the process of yawning. Kinda looks like he’s screaming, doesn’t he?

* * * Pet store kitties for today are hither. * * * Have you ever looked forward to reading a book, thinking it will be pretty good, and once you’ve started reading it you don’t love it nearly like you thought you would? I’ve been looking forward to reading And My Shoes Keep Walking Back to You, by Kathi Kamen Goldmark for a while now, mostly because I know she’s with the Rock Bottom Remainders, and I like most of the authors involved with the group, with few exceptions. Plus, there are positive reviews by a lot of authors on the back of her book. And the plot – Sarah Jean Pixlie, a Bay Area country singer who stumbles into stardom – sounds like it’s right up my alley. But I’ve been reading it for the past two days, and I’m not enjoying it terribly much. I’ll finish it, because I want to know what happens, but unless it gets a lot better soon I’ll be rating it with an “eh” on the reading list. * * * I hit Target this morning for the first time in a long time. I needed kitty litter and stuff to clean the shower and bathtub, and Target’s the best place to get that stuff. While I was wandering around, I noticed that the Diet Coke was on sale, $2 for a 12-pack, so I bought 5 (they limit you to 5). So we’re stocked up on Diet Coke for the time being, considering that Publix has 6-packs on sale for 89 cents each. Publix limits you to 4 6-packs at a time, so every time I’ve driven past Publix the last few days I’ve been stopping and buying 4 6-packs. Although the 12-packs at Target are a bit more expensive than the 6-packs at Publix, they’re also in refrigerator containers, which are more convenient than 6-packs and their plastic rings. I have no idea where I was going with this topic. I apparently just felt it important that you know I’m all stocked up on Diet Coke. You can rest easy now. I’m off to finish the spud’s laundry (so she’ll have clean clothes to take on vacation with her) and do some other fun stuff. Y’all have a good one!]]>

* * * May I just say that I was disappointed that no one on American Idol sang “Xanadu” last night? Hmph. Clay and Ruben kicked ass, and so did Trenyce. I thought the blond Kimberly did a pretty good job – even though I don’t really care for her – but she’d probably have been better off doing a song where the backup singers did so much of the song. I guess I’ll be taping American Idol tonight, though, since it’s on against Survivor. Did they have to do that? Couldn’t they have put Survivor on at 8 instead of 7? Bastards. Oh, wait. I’ll be watching The Bachelor: Where Are They Now? at 8, anyway.

* * * So, it’s – have I ever mentioned this? – always something. ALWAYS something, and can I just say that this month has been incredibly crappy? I told Fred last night that I was afraid to go on vacation because the hotel would probably fall into the ocean in the middle of the night. Last night, Miz Poo was licking at her incision, and I mentioned to Fred that where she was licking was starting to get rather red. We started watching The Shield, and Fred got up to get a drink. As he passed by Miz Poo, he lifted her up a little to look at her belly, and I saw something shiny and liquidy where she’d been licking. I told Fred to lift her up, despite his protests that the liquid I’d seen was just from her licking, and when he did, we saw a little hole in her belly – toward the end of the incision – along with what looked like pus to me. I got a paper towel and dabbed at the fluid. It was a little red, but most a yellow-clearish color. Naturally, I sat and worried for the rest of The Shield (though I wasn’t too distracted to enjoy Mackey calling that civilian auditor a santimonious bitch. Go, Mackey!). I was so worried that Fred even asked if I wanted to take her to the animal emergency clinic in Huntsville, bless his heart. I said no, because she was acting okay, didn’t seem to be in any real pain, and chirped happily when I reached over to pet her. We went to bed once The Shield was over, and talked about her some more, worrying, and talking about what a crappy month this has been. Before Fred went off to his room, we looked for Miz Poo – whom we’d brought upstairs with us so that Fred could give her her medicine – and I found her downstairs sitting on the back of the couch. That actually made me feel a little better, since getting on the back of the couch requires some effort. In the middle of the night, I woke to find her climbing on top of me, and she stayed there for some time before climbing down and settling on the bed next to me. This morning, Fred called the vet’s office and discovered that the vet wouldn’t be in today. The lady who answered the phone told Fred that if the vet did plan to stop by the office, she’d call so we could bring Miz Poo in to see him. But she didn’t sound concerned at all – a good sign that this is the sort of thing that usually happens after surgery, I guess. Later, she called to tell Fred that they’d planned to have Miz Poo come in on Friday to have her staples out, and I could just drop her off first thing in the morning. I’m still worried about Miz Poo, of course, but I’m not as worried as I was. I think. Argh. Always something, you know? * * * So Fred called me from work around 7:20 this morning (to tell me what the lady at the vet’s office had said), and after I hung up the phone and rolled over to go back to sleep, I noted that it seemed rather bright out. Since we haven’t seen any sun in a while, I hoped that meant we’d have a sunny day. An hour later, the phone rang again, waking me up. I noticed, as I rolled over to grab the phone, that it had gotten a lot darker out. And then I answered the phone. “Turn on the TV!” Fred said. “There’s bad weather out your way, and the tornado sirens are going off. Tell me what’s going on!” I opened the blinds, and saw a wall of dark clouds, moving fast. I turned on the TV and switched channels around until I found a special weather report. Two minutes later, sheets of rain began pouring down from the sky. I watched the weather report for a few more minutes, Fred listening in, and then – at Fred’s suggestion – went downstairs to watch it down there, so I’d be closest to the safest (unwindowed) room in the house, the bathroom. There were reports of tornadoes touching down in various places, but it all bypassed us, thank god. Because having the house ripped down around me? That would have been the perfect end to the month. And we’re only a little more than halfway through it! Have I ever mentioned that it’s always something? * * * Two months with the new email address, and I’ve started getting p0rn email. Argh!]]>

* * * Fred and I were sitting on the couch last night watching TV – Animal Cops, if you must know, and that is one damn difficult show to watch sometimes, especially last week when they had a mother dog and her puppies, and some of the puppies had died. Anyway. We were sitting on the couch watching TV, and reading magazines while we were doing so, and I flipped past an article-type thing entitled “On the Minds of Men” with comments from men under different sections – one section was called “How does your home life compare with what you thought it would be like?” I scanned the comments from men, and then I turned to Fred. “How does your home life compare with what you thought it would be like?” I asked, because I was curious, and also because I know that men tend to hate questions like that. He gave me a fake smile and said “It’s everything I ever dreamed it would be” then turned back to his own magazine. “Don’t be an ass,” I said. “How does it compare?” “Oh, Bessie,” he said irritably. “Don’t start with your crappy woman’s magazine shit! You know men don’t really think about that kind of stuff!” With great pleasure, I held the front of the magazine up so that he could see the cover… The best part? He’d already read the magazine.

* * * I recently finished Dead Until Dark by Charlaine Harris, and liked it so much that I went to Amazon to see what else she’d written. There was another book in the same series, so I added it to my wish list, and then I discovered that she’d also written Shakespeare’s Landlord, which I’d added to my wish list a few weeks ago on the strength of Marcia‘s endorsement – if someone whose journal I read likes a certain book or series of books, I tend to give them a shot. And for me, giving them a shot means putting them on the wish list and having someone buy it for me for my birthday or Christmas, or waiting until we have some unexpected extra money come in so that Fred and I can buy stuff off our wish lists (what else is disposable income for, I ask you?). And then, because I’m a spoiled rotten American (stupid, too!) instead of keeping the book once I’ve read it, I give it away on the giveaway page so that someone else can enjoy it. I know I should just haul my ass to the library, but I have a zillion books on the bookcase in my bedroom waiting to be read, and I somehow doubt that the library would take kindly to me checking out one of their books and keeping it for months and months until I get around to reading it. It’s just easier this way, and god knows that’s what it’s all about, making it easy for me. As soon as you all accept that, the better off you’ll be.]]>

* * * Yesterday, after lolling in bed until about 9, and then lolling further until almost 10 so I could finish the book I was reading, I got my ass up and started cleaning the bathroom. See, the bathroom’s needed cleaning for at least a week, but I just HATE cleaning it, and so I wait until I can barely stand to look at it before I actually do it. When I was done with all the usual cleaning, I decided to scrub the floor clean on my hands and knees (regular mopping just doesn’t get in the nooks and crannies the way hands-and-knees scrubbing will). While I was down there, I decided further to clean the bottom of the shower door. See, there’s a flap at the bottom of the door that keeps water from going out while the shower’s being used, and when I take baths, I can see that the flap at the bottom needs to be cleaned. It’s the same color as the metal around the shower door – gold, and believe you me, I don’t care for THAT at all – and I could see that mildew had built up. So with a bucket full of ammonia mixed with hot water, I began scrubbing the floor. When I got to the shower door, I scrubbed around the edges, and then opened the door. With a damp rag, I reached under and ran it along the flap. I rapidly discovered that the flap, rather than being gold-colored to match the door, was actually CLEAR PLASTIC, and there was a huge amount of mold and mildew built up on it. We’ve lived in this house for a year and 7 months, and this was the first time I’ve cleaned that flap, and the people who owned it before us lived here for about a year. I would venture a guess that I wasn’t cleaning only our mold and mildew, nosir. And MY GOD was it nasty. It took me three rags to get it all off, and I don’t mind telling you that I don’t particularly want to have to do THAT again. I should have taken pictures, no? And after scrubbing the hell out of the bathroom, I went on to dust and vacuum the entire upstairs. Don’t be too impressed – I took the day off from exercising (after exercising for 7 days in a row), and figured I might as well get some cleaning done, since we’re leaving for vacation Saturday morning, and I don’t want the house to be a total pigsty when the girl who comes to feed the cats comes. This way, all I have to do is some picking up and vacuuming sometime Friday, and we’ll be all set. Stop acting like you’re bored. You KNOW you’re fascinated!]]>