........ Hold On To That Feelin' ......

Streetlight .... people ..... whoa-oh-OHHHHHH .......

I don't know which is funnier:

a) That someone turned a stop sign down by the creek into a Journey song.

b) That they originally spelled it "belivin'".

c) That they then recognized their error and tried to insert an "e" after the fact.

d) That they inserted the after-the-fact "e" in the wrong place.

Anyway, points for trying, dude, whoever you are.

There Will Be Blood. And Sweat. And Tears.

My VCR crapped the bed the other night.

Why yes, I DO have a VCR! I use it to tape programs that come on after my bedtime. At ten. SHUT UP.


I had been thinking that when my trusty VCR finally croaked, it would be time to upgrade to a DVR. But the DVR prices have not yet dropped enough to fit into my measly budget, so last night I went to Crapmart and bought a DVD/VCR combo. All I really needed was the VCR, but they don't SELL plain ol' VCRs anymore, and my DVD player wasn't that hot anyway, so I went ahead and plunked down my sixty bucks. And then my heart stopped, because I am cheeeeeap.





It makes a really good platform for the kittens' "cat attack" toy, doncha think?


So! Now all I have to do is hook the mutha up. *cough*.

I SUCK when it comes to all things electronical. (YES, IT IS A WORD. Because I said so, that's why.) Let's just say that I'm technologically impaired.

I got the manual out of the box, and reviewed the connection diagram, and it looks do-able. Then I reviewed the "timer recording" instructions, and they, too, look do-able. Which means I am going to mess this up in ways heretofore unimagined, because that's how I roll. When I got my first DVD player, several years ago, my neighbor Bill took pity on me and came over and set it up and even went to Radio Shack to get the RF modulator (whhaaaat?) that I had no idea that I needed and set THAT up and let's just say I am very, very sorry that Bill moved away.

But! There is a three-day weekend coming up. I know what I'll be doing!

Crying. And swearing.

I've Been Remiss

I never did post a pic of my last foster, Gigantic Farting Cat. Here she is:





Poor GFC had a sad story. The shelter had one particular volunteer who was a little, shall we say, overzealous when it came to trapping the feral cats in her neighborhood. One day she captured GFC in one of her traps.

Unfortunately, GFC did not appear to be feral. She appeared to be someone's pet. She was friendly, and cuddly, and spayed, and had a beautiful coat that had obviously been groomed on a regular basis.

Then, just to compound the fuck-up, the rogue volunteer took GFC to a friend's house for a few days before taking her to the shelter. A friend who had leukemia-positive cats.

So poor GFC, evidently someone's pet and now exposed to feline leukemia, landed at the shelter. The shelter immediately started putting ads in the paper, messages on line, etc., trying to find GFC's owner. They tested her for leukemia and she tested negative, but because she had been exposed to leukemia-positive cats, she had to be quarantined for ninety days and then re-tested, just to make sure.

And somewhere out there, a little old lady is wondering where her cat went.



Not all volunteers are good volunteers.

It's The End Of The World As We Know It*

Last night, on America's Got Talent (I know! I KNOW! What can I say?), there was a group of clog dancers performing to "Push It".

Aw Jaysus.




*Best REM song ever. I know that everyone says "Night Swimming", but they're wrong. So there.

Book Review - Tobacco Road

Okay, I will admit - I've never read this one before. AND I thought Erskine Caldwell was a woman. Hmmmf.

I'm about three-quarters of the way through, and I'm a leeetle confused. Is this supposed to be a comedy? I mean, there's the whole thing with totalling the brand new car, and the thing with Dude marrying Bessie, and it seems like it's supposed to be funny, but ......... these people are starving. And unbelievably ignorant. I don't know if I'm supposed to laugh, or not.

Anybody? Your thoughts?

I Think My Vet Reads My Blog .....

........ 'cause she hardly used her "squeaky voice" at all last night, and she was giving me the stinkeye throughout the visit.

Oh, Dr. B.! Please don't take offense! I remarked upon your voice because I had never heard a vet talk like that before! They're usually all gruff and no-nonsense.

Dr. B., if you have a blog and I hope you do, please feel free to talk smack about me there. Just make sure to send me the link so I can read my own beatdown, ok?

Time to go to the v-e-t

Tonight the kittens go to the vet for their very first Itty Bitty Kitty Committee check-up. Oh, they were seen by the vet tech at the shelter, but tonight is their very first visit to MY vet. (Erm, that is, the vet that I take my cats to, not, you know, MY vet. Got it? No? Moving on ....)

Anyway, I couldn't figure out why I was getting all nervous and jerky about this. I mean, it's just a vet visit. Dr. H. is out of the office due to ankle surgery, so the kittens will be seeing Dr. B., who is very nice. And talks to the cats in a really weird, high, squeaky voice that is TOTALLY not like her normal speaking voice. Hey, whatever gets the job done, right?

So I'm all nervous, and trying to figure out why, and then it hit me, well, DUH ....

The LAST time ...........

The LAST time I went to the vet's ................

The LAST time I went to the vet's, it was to have Rocky put to sleep. And he did not go gently into that good night, and it was horrible, and my heart was sick for months afterward, and I still feel awful about the whole thing.

And here's the thing. One of the ways I try to calm myself down when facing a bad situation is to ask myself, "What's the worst that could happen?"

Yeah. You can see how that really doesn't work so hot in this particular case.

But! The Runt and Little Girl will be making the acquaintance of Dr. B. tonight. It should be interesting. And I can only hope I don't do something totally inappropriate, like walk into the vet's office and burst into tears. 'Cause that's what happened the LAST time I was there, doncha know ......

Wax On, Wax Off

On Saturday, I washed and waxed the car. I really, really do not enjoy waxing the car, but hey! somebody's gotta do it, right?

My Dad was a car buff. He was always buying old cars and tinkering with them. He used to pay me to wash and wax his cars, and he always insisted that I use Turtle Wax paste wax. "If you're not going to use paste wax, don't even bother", he'd say. "That liquid stuff isn't worth crap."

So on Saturday, I washed the car, then I grabbed the container of Turtle Wax (it's shaped like a turtle, with a little shell on top! How cute!), a bunch of old t-shirts, a chair (so I could reach the car roof), and the radio, and got to work. And I thought about my Dad as I waxed and buffed.

Dad! Lo these many years later, rest assured that I'm still using paste wax.

Happy, Happy Birthday Baby

Two years ago today, I started writing.

And after two years, I still haven't decided if blogging is (a) a hobby; (b) a pleasant diversion; (c) a complete waste of time; or (d) something else entirely. Hmmmm......

Happy birthday, l'il blog!

That Damn Tequila

Little Girl: *erp* Why did I let The Runt talk me into doing that last shot? *erp*



Me: Dude! You've got bigger problems! Did you know that you have three ears?







P.S. Check out the little tiny orange eyelashes! Swoon. Totally distracts from the whole three-ear thing.

Why, Jif, Whhhyyyyyyy?

Jif has apparently stopped selling its Peanut Butter & Honey in my area, as I can't find it in any of the local grocery stores.


*snif*


In other food news, Ben & Jerry's is selling a flavor called "Cake Batter", which was highly recommended to me, but when I couldn't find it at the store at first, I picked up some Edy's "Take the Cake", which is birthday-cake flavored and which I actually prefer to the "Cake Batter", seeing as how it has "frosting swirls". Whee!

Pop Quiz

Okay, so that last post got me thinking about aging (bleeecccchh), so here's a pop quiz that will veer wildly off tangent after the first question, 'cause that's how I roll.

Would you rather be ..............

1. Twenty or forty (assuming you would somehow stay that age for the rest of your life)?

2. Too hot or too cold?

3. Pretty or smart?

Here's my answers:

1. Forty. I was pretty much an idiot when I was twenty, and my life was all about the drama. I didn't even START to acquire any common sense until some time in my mid-thirties.

2. Close call, but I'd have to say too hot. I'm at the office right now, where it is FREEZING, because the guys insist on keeping the AC at sub-zero temps. I'd rather be too hot than be sitting here shivering.

3. Pretty. So sue me. You don't really have to put a bag over my head, but I'm not exactly a knockout, thanks in part to my Roman nose (thanks, Dad!). I'd like to see what Pretty is like.

Bonus question! Can anyone recommend a good (scoopable) cat litter that doesn't cost a fortune? Rocky always went outside, and now that I am faced with a litterbox, I've been trying out different litters, and they all pretty much FAIL. Has anyone tried the "Feline Pine" that Crapmart sells? Kthxbai!

Not Dead Yet

There's been a lot of news coverage about Dara Torres, the forty-one year old Olympic swimmer. Everybody's acting like it's a miracle she can even get into the pool at her advanced age, and I'm thinking, "Wait a minute! I'm older than she is! What does that make me, chopped liver?"

So then I was watching the equestrian events, and there was this Canadian guy jumping. (Okay, okay, he wasn't jumping; the horse was doing the jumping, and he was riding the horse.) And they were talking about how this guy was sixty-one years old, and this was his ninth Olympics. (Ian Millar, by the way, if you're interested. And when he takes off his riding helmet, he looks like he's around forty.) And then I discovered that there is a Japanese rider who is sixty-seven.

I feel better now. People older than me are competing at the Olympics.

But you know; I don't feel old, at all. When I think about being forty-five, it just boggles my mind. How the hell did I get to be forty-five? I can't possibly be that old! Jeezus Christ, fifty is right around the corner! What the hell?!

Is it just me, or does everybody feel that way?

Penny Rock

Over the weekend I went back to Salt Springs to try and get acquainted with more of the trails. This is necessary, because I have an embarrassing confession to make: I suck at reading trail maps. Give me a road map, ask me to get from Point A to Point B, and I may or may not get there, but give me a trail map, and I will fuck up every single time.



When I look at a trail map, it makes perfect sense. I pick my route, off I go, and after a while I realize that, yep, I've screwed up again. AFTER I've gotten waylaid on some side trail, I can look at the trail map and see exactly where I've gone wrong (the "d'oh!" moment), but somehow I seem unable to learn my lesson and READ THE DAMN MAP RIGHT THE FIRST TIME.



So! When I start walking at a new place, I try to get a general feel for trail locations, because God knows the maps aren't gonna help me.


There is a cool rock at Salt Springs. Over the years, people have stuck pennies into it. My sister-in-law, who is in her sixties and grew up near Salt Springs Park, says she remembers sticking pennies into it when she was a little girl. But the funny thing is, the pennies are melting.







I don't know if you can tell by the picture above, but the pennies are slumped over. Pretty cool.

The Wild Bunch, Part 2

See Part 1 below.

The shelter worker and I headed back to the kitten room. She explained that they had separated the feral two from the adoptable two. We got to the cages, and she said, "These are the feral two. The two boys."

Except it wasn't two boys in the cage. It was The Runt (a boy), and Little Girl.

I pointed this out to her; we did some, um ..... checking of parts (Little Girl and Tuffy, who was deemed "adoptable" along with Fluffy, are virtually identical, except Tuffy's a boy) (I know this is getting confusing; I'm sorry!), and it turned out that yes indeed, The Runt and Little Girl, my two favorites, had been deemed feral and unadoptable.

So I grabbed my two feral, unadoptable kittens, and headed home. Where they played and played and played and then slept, waking to hop up on the bed several times during the night to nuzzle my face and purr.

The Wild Bunch. *snort*

That's The Runt in front, and Little Girl in back, after I brought them home last night.

The Wild Bunch

So! The shelter called yesterday afternoon - they had found another foster home for Gigantic Farting Cat, which meant I could bring her back to the shelter and pick up the kittens.

After work, I loaded up Gigantic Farting Cat, put all her stuff (litterbox, dishes, toys, etc.) out on the porch, as it will all have to be disinfected, and headed for the shelter. We transferred GFC to another carrier for her trip to her new foster home, and the shelter worker turned to me.

"There may be a problem with some of the kittens", she said.

My heart sank. All I could think was that they had picked up some damn shelter disease and had either been euthanized or were very ill.

"Two of the kittens are fine .................", she continued.

THE RUNT!!! I'm thinking. PLEASE let The Runt be okay!

"............. and the other two ..............."

By this time, I'm practically on the floor. I can handle it, I told myself. Whatever it is, I can handle it.

"................. and the other two are so feral, we think they're unadoptable."

Whhhaaaaaaaatttt???? Feral? Unadoptable? I'd taken care of those guys for the last two months, and while their Momma was certainly feral, the kittens were all cute and adorable. While I had fallen hard for The Runt and Little Girl, the other two were also fab. Not a one of them ever hissed or spit or clawed or objected to being picked up. I had treated The Runt's ear mites with mineral oil and Q-tips (he was too young for ear mite meds) and he sat right there and let me work on him.

"So," the shelter worker continued, "If the two you've picked out to keep are the feral ones, you can certainly change your mind. Or, if you decide to take them anyway, we'll give them to you for free, since we won't be able to adopt them out."

And I'm thinking, what the hell happens to unadoptable kittens? Are they euthanized? Are they sent out to be farm cats?

So of course, THEN I'm thinking, oh, I hope it's The Runt and Little Girl who are the "feral" ones. I'll take them! I love them! They're not feral, damn it!

So we headed to the kitten room, to see which ones had been determined to be feral, and which ones were adoptable.


Oooops! I've gotta go get some work done. I'll be back later to finish this up.

Questions About The Olympics

How do the male divers keep those tiny little bathing suits on? They're already cut so low; it seems like when they hit the water at however-many-miles-per-hour, the suits would fly right off.

Why do all the American female gymnasts have severely receding hairlines? (Personally, I'm thinking anorexia, but that's awfully mean-spirited of me.) They showed a team interview last night, and most of the gals had hairlines somewhere around the tops of their heads. Oh, and I had to laugh when that one gymnast was talking, and she's all, like, "We TOTALLY support (whatever her name is), (who was standing RIGHT BEHIND the girl who was talking), even though she blew her routine and made us lose the Olympics." Yay snark!

WHO is that, um .......... person doing the human-interest stuff? Last night they had, um ...... her? ...... eating weird food. All I can think is, well, I know it's supposed to be a woman, but I think she started out as a man and made a little side trip to Sweden.

Recently Read

Standard Disclaimer - As usual, I am putting these up mainly just to keep track of them. Feel free, as usual, to skip this post.


Places to Look for a Mother by Nicole Stansbury - Novel about a dysfunctional family in the seventies - good.


Mudbound by Hillary Jordan - Novel about a Southern farmer's wife in the 1940s - good.


I Was Told There'd Be Cake by Sloane Crosley - Funny essays - entertaining.


Prep by Curtis Sittenfeld - Novel about boarding school - good.


The Prince of Frogtown by Rick Bragg - Memoir about the author's father - very, very, good - this guy can write like nobody's business.


Driving Sideways by Jess Riley - A light summer novel - good.


Northline by Willy Vlautin - Novel about a Vegas waitress - grim, but good.


No Man's Land by Ruth Fowler - Memoir about being a stripper in NYC - I did not like her writing style and couldn't get into this one - gave up about 40 pages in.


Moose by Stephanie Klein - Memoir about growing up fat - interesting.


The Good Times are Killing Me by Lynda Barry - Interesting, although I'm a little confused as to why this one was in the "grown-up" section of the library and "Cruddy" was in Young Adult - I think they got it backward.


The Bones of Plenty by Lois Hudson - Novel about the dust bowl years on a Kansas farm - OK, but I got through about half of it and quit, mainly because I had other books waiting - maybe I'll give it a try another time.


I Love You Like a Tomato by Marie Giordano - Meh. I got about 200 pages in and lost interest.


Lullabies for Little Criminals by Heather O'Neill - Novel - Very depressing and very good.

Well Okay Then!

Whew! Thanks to everybody for your support these last few days.

I had been talking to my sister Texas earlier in the week about trying to make this decision. She called me last night and she was all, "ummm ............ are you ok? I was worried about you and so I read your blog (she never reads my blog) (oh hi Texas!), and then I was really worried until I got to the end of that last post and I just wanted to make sure you're, you know, OK ......."

Awww! Great ........ now my blog is making people think I'm having a nervous breakdown! (oh wait ........ I kind of was having a nervous breakdown, wasn't I?)

ANYWAY, I am actually (relatively) calm this morning, and hopefully all the hand-wringing and AGONIZING and panic attacks are over with. I'll keep you posted. (and you're all, like, NO!! No! DON'T keep us posted!) Heh.

Ahhh yes - RockyCat the blog. Where the author goes batshit insane for all to see. Aren't you glad you stopped by?!

Splat

Oh my God you guys, I am really at a crossroads here, so I'm just gonna splat it all out.

Last Wednesday, I took Evil Momma and the foster kittens back to the shelter. I was already thinking of adopting The Runt and Little Girl, but I was torn, because I really enjoyed the foster experience, and The Runt and Little Girl were both orange, and I was never partial to orange cats, and while they were cute adorable kittens now they would grow up to be ordinary cats, and after losing Rocky in February after 15 years was I really ready for more cats so soon, and what if I didn't adopt them and they found better homes with people with more money, but oh my God I'd miss The Runt, and blah blah blah .........

On Friday, I stopped at the shelter to visit the fosters, and they were still upstairs in intake because there was some respiratory thing making the rounds of the adoption center, and they were all glad to see me and I told the volunteers that I wanted The Runt and Little Girl, and filled out the paperwork, and was told the shelter would call when they could be released. And even as I walked out the door I was not sure I was making the right decision (see agonizing above).

All weekend, as I waited for a call from the shelter, I worried and worried and WORRIED about the decision, and actually managed to work myself into a full-blown panic attack on Sunday, with the difficulty breathing and the chest pains and the whole nine yards.

By last night, the shelter STILL had not called (is it a sign? oh sweet jeeezus), and I took a deep breath, called the foster coordinator, and told her I had decided not to adopt and wanted to continue fostering instead. She asked if I could do another foster right away, and I said yes, and so right now I have this fucking fat monstrosity of a cat who FARTS constantly in my home for the next sixty days and I'm thinking that oh my God I WANT THE RUNT BACK and I have no idea what to do. I am really seriously thinking about stopping at the shelter after work and explaining that I have changed my mind ONCE AGAIN and I want to bring back the fucking fat farting cat and get The Runt and Little Girl.

Oh, you guys, I know I asked you for help on this once before and you TOLD ME WHAT TO DO and I DID NOT TAKE YOUR ADVICE and oh help help help me please.......... am I insane if I go to the shelter tonight and tell them I want The Runt and Little Girl ......... having trouble breathing again ...... please help .........


UPDATED TO ADD:

It is done.

As soon as I finished writing the above, I knew I was being ridiculous. I simply HAD to have The Ruuuuunnnnnnttt and Little Girl. I went flying out of the office (sorry, Boss, I'll explain it all tomorrow), sped to the shelter, and talked to the woman who runs the shelter. I explained my situation, trying to sound *not insane*, and to my surprise, she totally understood. She said that they would find another foster home for gigantic farting cat, and I could take home The Runt and Little Girl. I am to call her tomorrow at noon to make arrangements for the transfer.

I am so relieved! My heart was telling me all along what to do, and my mind refused to listen, blocking my heart with nine million "what-ifs". I think the panic attack on Sunday should have been my cue, but GOD FORBID I actually LISTEN to what my heart (and the Internet!) is telling me. I think there's a lesson here for me.

So! While I feel bad about crapping out on the whole foster deal, for it is truly a worthy undertaking and I recommend it highly, by the end of the week The Runt and Little Girl will be back home with me.

The End.

Movie Review - "No Country For Old Men"

Disclaimer: I am a terrible movie reviewer. I have an attention span of, like, five minutes, and then I have to get up and go DO SOMETHING, so it can literally take me DAYS to watch a movie. And even when I'm actually WATCHING the movie, my mind tends to wander (Look! Something shiny!) so I end up watching some scenes over and over until they can sink into my wayward mind. So feel free to disregard this and any future movie reviews on this site, and feel free to disagree with my feeble opinions.

Warning: Minor spoilers may follow.


While I found this movie interesting, I don't think I'll be watching it again.


Although the blow-gun thing that the guy with the really bad haircut used was pretty cool.


I think this was based on a book by Cormac McCarthy, which explains some of the ...... weirdness. I have tried to like Cormac McCarthy, I really have; I just don't.


But! According to Netflix this movie is, like, two hours and twenty-odd minutes long. So I'm watching along, and watching, and bad haircut guy has a bone sticking out of his arm and buys a shirt from a kid, and then Tommy Lee Jones is talking about his dad, or maybe his grandpa, and then ........


The movie ended. Just ended. And the credits started rolling, and I'm all like whaaaaa? And I checked the DVD player and the movie had ended at almost two hours exactly.


So! When Netflix said it was two hours and twenty-odd minutes long, were they including the trailers? Or did I get some weird Reader-Digest-condensed-version of the movie, which would explain why it ended so suddenly?



I'm confused. As usual.

Headstones

On Saturday I went to a local cemetery.

I had heard that it had great views, and it did:

What are those house-thingies (see pic below) called? Are they crypts? Mausoleums?

And I wondered, who pays for them? Do you decide ahead of time and set aside money in your will to build a little housie for your bones? Do your kids do it in memory of you?

Some people take the simpler approach:

Some people accessorize. This grave had a very simple marker, plus several angels, elephants, a statue of Saint Francis, and a teeny-tiny horse and wagon (you can double-click on the pic to make it bigger):

Do you think she asked her friends to do this before she died? Or did they just go ahead and decorate? I think I'd be kind of pissed off if someone placed a bunch of crap on my marker ..... oh, no, wait; I wouldn't be pissed off ..........I'd be dead.

Gee, do you think this guy was a dolphins fan? This headstone really bothered me, for some reason. It just seemed so ...... tacky. And I couldn't figure out if the statue in front was a dog or a fox. I'm guessing dog, but I'm not sure.

Anyway, it was a neat place to spend some time.

Make Up My Mind, Will Ya?

Evil Momma and the kittens went back to the shelter for adoption on Wednesday. Now I have a decision to make:


1. I can adopt two of the kittens from this last litter. They are all adorable, and I fell particularly hard for The Runt.


Pluses: I would get to have two adorable kittens in my home, who would grow up to be beautiful, loving cats.


Minus: It means a big commitment, in time, in money, in emotion. Cats live a long time, and vet care is expensive, and it is very, very hard when they finally pass away.



2. I can continue doing foster care.


Pluses: Kittens are a ton of fun, and the work is very rewarding. I get to give a safe haven to momma cats and their young kittens who otherwise would be spending their formative weeks in a cage at the shelter, or, worse yet, be turned down by the shelter because they are out of room.


Minuses: They all go back to the shelter once they are old enough. And young kittens really aren't cuddly; they are too busy playing to want to be held. And, with the large litters, cat food gets expensive, especially when Momma is malnourished and is making up for lost time. The shelters do offer to help out with food, but I hate to ask, when they are already so strapped financially.


3. I can continue to do foster care, with the understanding that if the kittens who just went back fail to get adopted, I will adopt two of them. (Two is the max my landlord allows.)


Pluses: This seems like the most logical option.


Minuses: I would really, really miss The Runt, if he got adopted.



I talked to the foster coordinator, and she said that while they always need foster homes, they also need permanent homes. They have cats at the shelter right now who have grown up there, because no one adopted them as kittens.



So I just don't know what to do. I feel like any of these options would be a good one; I just don't know which one to choose. Help me!

The Unbearable Lightness of Being a Kitten

So long!

Farewell!

auf Wiedersehen!

Adieu!

And they're off! Off to loving homes and new adventures in the great big world.

Bye, guys! Stay as sweet as you are! Bye!

Bye!

Bye!

*Sob*

Oh No .........

The shelter called ......... they want their kittens back.

After a couple of false starts, Evil Momma and the kittens are supposedly going back to the shelter tonight.

This is gonna be tough.

This Never Woulda Happened When Rocky Was Alive, Part Two

I wrote earlier about the exploding rabbit population in my neighborhood, and how Rocky used to chase the rabbits off. All but ONE rabbit, that is ......

One night, several years ago, I was sleeping soundly. I had left the bathroom window open, as usual in the summer months, so Rocky could go in and out. So there I was, sound asleep, in the middle of the night, when I was rudely awakened by a sudden "thump" on my chest. I looked down to discover that Rocky had brought in a baby rabbit, jumped up on the bed with it, and dropped it right on top of me.

Well! Little baby bunny, who was very much alive, started screaming. Have you ever heard the screaming noise a rabbit makes? It's really quite impressive. And the rabbit shot off the bed, followed by Rocky, followed by me.

And everybody went tearing around the apartment, round and round and round, until I managed to grab a towel, throw him over Mr. Bunny, shut Rocky in the bedroom, get the rabbit downstairs, and let him go in the yard.

And that was the last time I left the bathroom window open at night.

I should reiterate, to my knowledge, Rocky never actually killed any wild animals, except for mice. The ones he didn't run off, he would bring into the apartment. Very much alive. Thanks, Rocky!

I miss you.

Quick Question(s)

I got to see my youngest grand-nephew, H., yesterday. He is just learning how to walk and was wearing the cutest pair of what appeared to be little teeny cross-trainers.

My first pair of baby shoes, which I actually unearthed a while back while looking for something else up in the attic, were RIGID. I mean, it was like they were made of steel or something, they were so inflexible. And they had these incredibly slick soles, with no traction whatsoever. I mean, even if you already KNEW how to walk, any attempt to walk in those shoes would be destined to end in FAIL. Did anybody else have baby shoes like that? Or were my parents sadists? Or am I just SO OLD that those baby shoes were actually de rigueur back in, like, medieval times? Or, wait, were they maybe just for show, and I had another, more comfy pair to actually walk in? I'm so confused.

ALSO. I thought I saw something on TV the other night about Dog the Bounty Hunter being back on the air. Is this even possible? Wasn't he exposed as a horrible racist who threw the n-word around in a phone conversation?

OK, that's all my questions for right now. Feel free to add some questions of your own in the comments! But only if you answer mine first. (Kidding!) (Sorta).

Evil Momma Says ......

I WARNED him that if he did that ONE MORE TIME he'd have to go in Time Out!!

This Never Woulda Happened When Rocky Was Alive

My neighborhood is experiencing a rabbit population explosion. I counted four in a neighbor's backyard the other night.

Now, I have nothing against rabbits. I really enjoy watching them hop around and play. And neither I nor any of my neighbors have vegetable gardens, so we don't have to worry about rabbit-inflicted food loss. But this summer is the first in many years that there have been rabbits in the area, and it finally hit me why: Rocky's not around to run them off anymore.

Now, Rocky never actually killed the rabbits. His policy regarding the local wildlife was very much "bring 'em back alive". Oh, except for mice. He would dissect mice with great pleasure, eating only the tasty bits, and leaving the guts and feet in tidy piles on the back porch for me to step in when I went out in the morning to get the newspaper. Aaahhh, memories.

The first live item he brought into the apartment was a chipmunk. A very frisky chipmunk, who scurried hither and yon for two days. I would hear the chipmunk in the bedroom, or the kitchen, or wherever, and I would pick Rocky up and take him to the chipmunk, and all Rocky would do is give the chipmunk an affectionate nudge. I think Rocky was looking for a pet. But then, of course, the chipmunk would go scurrying elsewhere, everywhere of course except the open front door.

So on the second day, I determined it was time to help reunite the chipmunk with his natural environment. I got the broom and the cat and tried to herd the chipmunk outside. Instead, the chipmunk went running into the bathroom and up into the tub. "Perfect!", I thought. "I'll just put the chipmunk in ........ something ........... and take him outside!"

I grabbed a plastic mixing bowl and a piece of cardboard for a cover and headed into the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind me so as to prevent the chipmunk from heading back out into the apartment. You know where this is going, right? I put the bowl over the chipmunk, slid the cardboard under the bowl, and picked up the whole kit and kaboodle, with one hand under the bowl and one hand on top of the cardboard. Then I went to open the door, and ....... yeah....... not so much. I had no way to turn the door handle, as both hands were occupied with chipmunk containment.

So! I did the only thing I could think of (which is usually the worst possible option, in any given situation, given my thought processes), and placed the covered bowl against my stomach, holding it in place with one hand and using the other to open up the door. Success! And I headed out the back door, down the stairs, and across the back yard with the chipmunk scrabbling wildly in the bowl. I set the bowl on the ground, took off the cardboard, and the chipmunk ran happily away, surely to tell his friends about his adventure.

And Rocky spent the next few days sniffing about the apartment, looking for his missing friend.

Coming soon: Rocky graduates from chipmunks to rabbits.