The tradition continues

As some of you may know, I always buy myself gifts for my birthday and Christmas.  Hell, SOMEbody's gotta do it.  I buy them all year long, and stash them in a birthday box and a Christmas box, and when the occasion arises?  Gift time!  Surprise!  It helps that my short-term memory is shot, and a week after a gift goes in a box, I've forgotten all about it.

This year for my birthday, it turns out that I bought myself:

Tons of cheap-ass, straight-from-China costume jewelry, purchased on Ebay.  So sue me.

An awesome Indonesian rain stick.  Straight outta the local Christmas Tree Shops outlet. Ha.

Two kids' wristwatches, one with monkeys and one with frogs.  It's a good thing I have small wrists.

A stained-glass light bulb. I cannot WAIT to try it out.

And - the best part - an entire BOX of Better World Books.  I'm set until at LEAST spring, reading-wise.


I can't wait to find out what I got myself for Christmas!

Happy birthday to me, Happy birthday to me,

Happy birthday, Happy birthday ...
Happy birthday to me!

Yep.  Here it is.  The big 5-0.

I guess I'm officially old now. 

I will take this as permission to now yell at the neighborhood kids to get off my lawn.

Oh, wait, I was already doing that ...

Hmmm.  Maybe this means I have to start watching "Murder, She Wrote"?  Wait, I think that went off the air ... Is Angela Lansbury even still alive?

Am I supposed to start eating prunes now?  Eating dinner at four o'clock?  Wearing sweatshirts that say, "Ask me about my grandkids"?  I DON'T KNOW.

I guess somebody forgot to give me the manual - What the hell DO old people do, anyway?

Besides bitch at the neighborhood kids, that is.  I'm already QUITE good at that.

Really, Macy's?

So, I went to Macy's the other day, and I got the deal of the century.  Go me.

When I went to check out, I handed the cashier a credit card.

"Would you like to use your Macy's card instead?," she asked.  "Do you have a Macy's card?  Because if you do, you'll get an additional fifteen percent off your purchases today."

"Erm," I said, "I'm not sure if I have a Macy's card or not."  Because I have approximately nine billion customer-loyalty store cards in my wallet.  I'm not sure WHAT-all is rattling around in there.

"Oh!," she said.  "That's okay!  I can check the system for you!  I'll just need your driver's license, please."

I forked it over.  Hell, I get proofed half the time I buy beer.  No biggie.  Most stores can tell if I have a loyalty card just by entering my phone number into the system, but whatever.

"Now," she said, "I'll need you to enter your social security number into the keypad.  Don't worry, I can't see  it."

You know, I went ahead and did it.  And the system determined that I did not, indeed, have a Macy's card, I declined to apply for one right then, and blahblahblah.

And then I got back home and started thinking.

The cashier had had access to one of my credit cards.  (The one I used to pay.)  She had access to my driver's license.  And while she SAID she couldn't see my social when I typed it in, how did I know for sure?  Those stores have mirrors all over the damn place.  And for all I knew, it could have shown up in neon-green on her checkout screen as I entered it.

Talk about the perfect opportunity for identity theft.

I stewed about it for a little bit, then I called the store and talked to a manager.  Who reassured me that, yes, indeed, they needed both a driver's license and my social when checking to see if I have a store card.

WTF, Macy's?  Really?  You need to see more info than my bank required when I applied for a flippin' MORTGAGE?  To see if I have a stupid store card?
That sh*t ain't right.

Stuff it, Lands' End - Weekend in Review

So!  Thursday was a nice long walk and then Thanksgiving, which was mercifully short on drama this year.  New to the table was my firefighter nephew J.'s new girlfriend. 

Friday I was at the adoption center, where disaster was narrowly averted.  Then I made my annual trip to JoAnn Fabrics.  Every year, they hold a FABulous Black Friday sale.  I picked up a BUNCH of different fabrics for a buck seventy-four a yard, which makes my cheap little heart go all warm.  And I picked up some clear heavy plastic sheeting at half price, which I stapled-gunned to the bottom half of the foster room screen door, as the screen was in imminent danger of destruction due to KITTENS climbing on it all the time.  Sheesh.  Crazy kids.

On Saturday morning, I saw the pheasant again.   So did the cats, who were all, "What the hell is THAT?"  And I FINALLY got the bathtub scrubbed.  And did laundry.  And generally did all the other home-stuff I've been putting off for way too long.  And then I went to an antiques store, where I ALMOST bought a tiffany-style table lamp.  The fact that it was brand-new and not vintage (the Made in China sticker was a dead giveaway (ha)) did not bother me, but just as I was getting ready to take it down from the shelf, I tapped on the shade, and ... plastic.  The shade was made of PLASTIC.  Whew.  Disaster narrowly averted.  But THEN, I went to ANOTHER antiques store, and, you guys know Mr. Z, right?  The thrift store had a Mr. Z-sized, ride-on ELEPHANT.  Oh snap, you guys, I might have to go back for that.  AN ELEPHANT. 

Sunday was check the you-know-what day, followed by more time at the adoption center.  A young hipster dude came in and wanted to know why his cat was pooping all on the floor instead of in her litterbox.  Um, because she has to live with a young hipster dude?  Ha.  No, seriously, I did give him some advice, starting with take her to the vet to make sure there's not something physical going on.  "Oh yeah!," the hipster said.  "She DID have bowel surgery a couple of months ago!"  Yeah, that could be the problem.

And then!  And then!  I had the shopping score of the century.  All I can say is, Lands' End can STUFF IT, because I was looking for one particular item, and first I went on line and  I checked several web sites, including Lands' End, where they wanted an outRAGEous price for the object I needed, and THEN I went to the mall and found the EXACT same thing in Macy's for, like, a TENTH of what Lands' End was charging.  PLUS, Land's Sucky End wanted NINE BUCKS to ship something that weighed, like, three ounces, so SHOVE IT, Lands' Bite Me End.

Oh!  And on Sunday, I had a few awful minutes when I thought I had somehow lost thirty bucks at the gas station, but then I found the money tucked into a different part of my wallet.  When I thought the money was gone, I kept trying to talk myself down, all, "Maybe somebody who really needs it will find it", and "It's only thirty bucks", and yeah, no, I was heartsick.  So I was very RELIEVED when I found it.

And Ponyboy would like everybody to know that HE CAUGHT A MOUSE.  Completely unassisted by either of his brothers, Ponyboy GOT ONE.  Go, Pony!

And then it was Monday and I was late to work because going into the kitten-filled spare bedroom is a total timesuck.  Yeah, it's all the kittens' fault.

Coming soon:  The Year Without a Christmas Tree.  I KNOW.

Check you-know-what

Ha.

That was on my to-do list for this past weekend - "Check you-know-what".  "You-know-what" being the car's antifreeze.

I got the car back a couple of weeks ago, after the THIRD trip to the garage (or was it the fourth?) to try to stop the antifreeze leak.  It wasn't dripping on the garage floor anymore, and I wasn't SMELLING antifreeze anymore, but I knew it was time to check the level in the reservoir, just to make sure, and to tell you the truth?

I was afraid to do it.

Because I knew that if that fluid level was low, AGAIN, I was going to lose my ever-lovin' mind.  AGAIN.  And while I was trying to steel myself for bad news, maaaaaaan, I did not want to pop that hood.

Sh*t, I couldn't even write the words on my to-do list.  "Check you-know-what".  Oh dear lord.

So it was with GREAT TREPIDATION that I went out to the garage yesterday morning, flipped on the overhead lights, popped ... the ... hood ..., and

the fluid level was FINE.  Right where it's supposed to be.

WHEW.  The mysterious case of the drippy antifreeze is finally OVER.

Thank goodness.

Ho-lee Sh*t, one got away

This afternoon, I was at the adoption center, cleaning out litterboxes.  There was a kitten out of her cage, which was okay, because while the interior adoption door (the one that leads to the back of the cages) was open, the exterior door, the one that  leads out into the pet store, was shut.

So I'm all, la la la, digging for poop, digging for poop, when I noted that I hadn't seen the kitten for a few minutes.  I rounded the corner through the open interior door, and the exterior door ... was wide open.

Oh  sh*t oh sh*t oh shi*t I'm F*CKED. 

I quickly scanned the outside of the adoption area, grateful that it's far away from the doors to the outside.  No kitten.  I started scanning down the aisles.  No kitten.  I was heading off to grab a manager to put out an alert when a nearby shopper, evidently seeing me tearing around wild-eyed, said, "I think one of your cats is under this display of cat litter."

Oh thank GOD.

I immediately hit the floor, scanning under the raised display.  No kitten.  Next display.  No kitten.  Next was the - oh, CRAP, the doors to the warehouse area.  Had she escaped into the warehouse area?  Because there's a loading dock to the outside there.

Oh SH*T.

"Oops!  Here it is!", said the shopper, as the kitten emerged from under yet ANOTHER display, about fifteen yards away.

"Grab it!"  I yelled.  "PLEASE!"

Oh bless her heart, she reached down and scooped that kitten up, as I just about collapsed.  I ran over, collected the cat, and thanked the shopper profusely.

Oh sweet Jeezus my heart was in my throat. 

One (almost) got away.  Thankfully, she is safe and sound at the adoption center tonight, right where she's supposed to be.

Her name is Dodger.  Ha.

Sand trap

This morning, I decided I'd walk off my turkey dinner before I ate it (shut up!  The logic TOTALLY works!), so I went to a local state park, where some of the trails abut a golf course.

Sand trap.  Yawnnnnn.

But wait! What's that?  Is that ... writing in the sand?

Yep.

Ponyboy, Sodapop and Tinks were here.

Man, I just cannot resist an end-of-season sand trap.

Happy Thanksgiving, everybody.  

I am a good Doo-Bee

Yesterday, I went to the DMV and renewed my driver's license.  This morning, I got my flu shot. And it hurt like hell.  And I will tell you what, always bring a book with you to the doctor's office, because is there anything more typhoid-laden than waiting-room magazines?  I doubt it.  But anyway, I am checking sh*t off my to-do list like a MACHINE, I tell ya.

I'll let you know when I finally get around to scrubbing the bathtub.  It's starting to skeeve even ME out.

In other random news, I had a dream (I KNOW, I KNOW) the other night that I was an investigative journalist embedded in the Duggar clan.  Haaaaaaaaaaaaaa.  My big scoop was that Michelle Duggar is able to get a good night's sleep because she puts the littles into their car seats and then flips them upside down so they sleep upside down, like bats.  Evidently it works like a charm.  In my dreams.  Oh! And last night I had a dream (SHUT IT) that Little Girl came back!  It was awesome.

Tonight, I have to prepare a pickle-and-olive tray (EWW EWW I know it's GROSS but that's what was requested of me EWW) to take to Thanksgiving Dinner.  I plan on also taking some deviled eggs (YUM) to counteract the olive nastiness.

Oh!  And for the first time ever, I will visit a retail establishment on Black Friday. I will be volunteering at the adoption center (which is inside a retail establishment, so it totally counts) for a few hours.   I'll get to see the madness close up.  While being able to retreat into the adoption center if sh*t starts hitting the fan.  Although I'll be at a pet store, not the electronics aisle of Walmart, so things probably won't get too crazy.  Damn it.

This morning I saw a pheasant - a PHEASANT! - in the backyard.  Coooooooool.
Let's see.  Thanksgiving.  Hmmm, looking back, LAST Thanksgiving weekend, I had a tooth go south on me, which ended up needing a two-grand root canal.  (*sob*)  Yeah, Thanksgiving's not as much fun when you can't CHEW.  I will tell you what, when I called the dentist's office the following Monday morning and they said they could fit me right in, I practically SOBBED, I was so thankful.  Ha!  Giving thanks.  So THIS Thanksgiving, I am thankful that I am not in pain.  I am thankful for my three boys, and for the three little fosters in the spare room.  I am thankful to be here.

Okay, guys, spill it.  What are your Thanksgiving plans?  What are you thankful for, this Thanksgiving?

Car Songs

When I was a kid, I spent a lot of time in the car.  The family had a cottage two hours away where we went every weekend in the summer, and one summer, we went all the way out to Wyoming and back.

It was my parents up front, and my sister Ditzy and me in the back.  The other kids were "too old" to do the road trips.  We always had a station wagon.  And Dad always drove like a bat out of hell.

Bored spitless and uncomfortable in the non-air-conditioned back seat, Ditzy and I would sing.  And sing and sing and SIIIIIIIINNNNNNG.

"Almost there ... we're almost there ... a paaaaaaaaradise, paaaaaaaaaaradise for two ... close your eyes ... close your eyes ... CLOOOOOOOOOSE your eyes, 'cause we're almost there ..."

Evidently an old Andy Williams song, although not with those particular lyrics.  I still remember 'em, though.

"Bury my heart, on the lone prairie, and the rest of me, at Wounded Knee ..." yeah.  We were fond of changing the lyrics.

See also:  Every flippin' John Denver song ever, in particular, "Almost Heaven, West Virginia".  I think my Mom would have lost her damn mind if we sang that one more time.

Oh lord, we would sing and sing and crack each other up and sing and sing some more.

"Almost heaven, West Virginia, Blue Ridge mountains, Shenandoah River ... Life is old there, older than the trees,  younger than the mountains, blowin' like the breeze ..."

I still got it.

Meet the new guys

I don't think Moses is too fond of Tinks.  (They were on either side of a screen door - no kittens were harmed in the taking of this photo.)

Here is Moses in a calmer (i.e., EATING) moment:

His shy brother, Aaron:

And then there's Hobo, the hellraiser of the group.  Hobo was found on a volunteer's back porch, eating out of a garbage can.  He was six weeks old at the time.  Meet Hobo:

Welcome, dudes.  Relax and stay a spell.

Company's coming

I've cleaned out the spare bedroom.  I moved the houseplants into another room; I bought more baby wipes to replace the ones that had dried out since my last young visitors were here.

Tonight, I'll re-hang the spare room screen door.  I'll spend some quality time with my boys, possibly the last quiet time we'll have for a little bit, because tomorrow?

Kittens are coming.

I KNOW.  I am CRAZY.

My last foster experience, Wanders, did not go so well.  She was unhappy, and my boys were unhappy, probably because she was very aggressive toward them.  They don't like getting beat up; go figure.  I think some little kittens, full of energy but not malice, will be more their speed.  Lord knows my boys love to play.

For whatever reason, our rescue is experiencing a late-season kitten boom.  In addition to several teenagers, we also have some teeny-tinies, and four MORE wee ones came into care over the past weekend.

One foster home currently has waaaaay too many kittens in it, and so? I caved.

Kittens are coming!

Pony, Soda and Tinks, I'm counting on YOU to teach the new kids some manners.  And to play with them, of course.  I'll handle the food and litter end of things. 

Kittens are coming!  Time to batten down the hatches.

I don't even know who I am anymore

Last night, I had to stop at the store on the way home from work.

To buy boil salve and cat food.

ahahahahahaha it'd be funny if it wasn't so pathetic.  What the f*ck happened to me?!

I need to, like, start skydiving or something.  Put a little zing in the old life.

Boil salve.  *shudder*.  Jeezus Christ.

A better class of beater

I called the garage this morning.  I did not swear, or rant, or rave.  I laughed.

I think they've driven me insane.

I am currently tooling around in a 2007 Saturn, which is better than the old Malibu I had last time, and MUCH better than the 1992 Buick I was originally given.  Although honestly I didn't know they were even still MAKING Saturns in 2007.

Eventually, I will have driven every car they have.

I spent a good deal of time with a mechanic this morning, explaining, IN GREAT DETAIL, where the car was dripping fluid and how much it was going through and how I could SMELL the antifreeze whenever I stopped the car and blahblahblah and I did not react with FURIOUS ANGER even though I really wanted to.

I save that for here.

And I promise there will be no more car talk.  I am starting to lose sleep over this whole thing, and while there are a lot of things that are worth losing sleep over, a 2008 Kia is not one of them.  I told the garage that I'll buy a case of beer for whoever finds the leak, and I'm leaving it at that.

So!  Seen any good movies lately?

Don't p*ss on my leg and tell me it's raining.

So!  Back in September, my car started spewing antifreeze everywhere.  I went to my neighborhood garage and paid them four hundred bucks (!) to replace some hoses.  Problem solved.

Except the car was STILL leaking antifreeze.  Not as much as the original antifreeze blowout, but still leaking.  And antifreeze is poisonous.  And I have pets.  I took the car back to the garage.  "Oh!," they said.  "Must be a bad hose clamp.  We'll replace 'em all.  No charge."  Problem solved.

Except the car was STILL leaking antifreeze.  I called the garage, explaining how I was STILL finding splots of antifreeze on the garage floor, and I was still having to top off the reservoir.  Last night I took the car back to the garage again.  They gave me a loaner and called this afternoon.  "Your car's all ready!  You can come pick it up!"  I get to the garage.  "We couldn't find any leaks.  The antifreeze on  your garage floor must be some that was overfilled when you had it in last time."

hahahah oh boys I AM NOT THE VILLAGE F*CKING IDIOT.  Fuming, I grabbed the keys, drove home, pulled into the garage, got out of the car, and

smelled antifreeze.  It's still leaking.

I will tell you what, I am about to get medieval on these a**holes.  Sh*t is about to hit the fan.  YOU DON'T MESS WITH ME, YOU F*CKS.  I WILL WIPE THE FLOOR WITH YOU.

I'm good at it.  It's kind of my specialty.  If you try to f*ck me over, with something automotive or electronic or HVAC-related or anything else that I don't know much about, I CAN TELL.   And you are about to be really, really sorry that you tried to play me for a fool.

I can read the antifreeze on the garage floor, after all.

Panache

At the adoption event last weekend, we were situated near the entrance to the store, which was also near the checkout aisles.  And when you're posted right near the checkout aisles, you can't help but overhear the conversations of people waiting in line.

An older woman was standing in line, and then a man got in line behind her, and they recognized each other as friends who hadn't seen each other in a while, and they got to chatting.

"So!,"  the woman said.  "How's your family?"

The man hesitated for a moment, then smiled and said, "You know what?  That's not a really great question for me right now.  How's YOUR family?"

I love that answer.  I plan to use it in the future.  "That's not a really great question for me right now."  Perfect.

Am I a racist?

So, the other day, I was chatting with someone, and somehow my cats came up in the conversation; specifically, my black cat, who is named Sodapop.

"Isn't that racist?," the person I was chatting with asked.

"Um ....," I said, "is WHAT racist?"

"Well," she said, "You named a black cat Sodapop, like Coca-Cola, which is black."

And I mean, she was just honestly curious.  And I was mortified to think that I might have given one of my cats a name that would imply I was a racist.

"Oh!," I said.  "I've never thought of it that way!"  Because I hadn't.  "Well, um ... Coke is actually brown, right?  And Sodapop was named after a character in a book - The Outsiders.  I have another cat named Ponyboy, which is also a name from that same book."

"Oh," she said.  "I get it. That's okay, then."

I mean ... really?  What if I'd named him "Blackie"?  Hoo boy.  I dunno.  I think she's overthinking this stuff.

Hmmm.  Maybe I should re-name Tinks, my white cat, "Cracker".  Just to even it out. *ducks*

And speaking of white cats, a lot of people who adopt white cats name them "Snowball", which,  ha!  All I can think of when I hear "Snowball" is the movie Clerks.  And then I snicker.  Yeesh.  I'm pretty sure Clerks ruined the name Snowball for pets.

Okay.  Let's talk cat names.  What's the funniest/weirdest/best cat name you've got?

Two! Two! Two!

We adopted out two! cats! at our adoption event today.

Which may not sound like much, but I am jazzed, because despite the presence of a cage full of teeny-tinys, the two who were adopted were teenagers, i.e., in the six-month age range. 

And!  One was a tabby and one was a black cat, the two "color schemes" who are slowest to get adopted.

Fastest?  White.  Followed by orange.  Followed by calico.

So!  Two cats, going to their loving homes tomorrow. (We don't do "same-day" or "drive-thru" adoptions.  We do a one-day wait and a home visit, just to make sure, dontcha know.)

Lilly and Wilma, I am excited for you both.  Have great lives!

Forty-six? FORTY-SIX?!

Okay, so I was sitting at home the other night switching back and forth between hurricane coverage and Nineteen Kids and Totally Insane, because frankly,  I can only watch so much devastation before I have to switch my mind to something it can actually process.  Like batsh*t crazy religious fanatics.

And Nineteen Kids and Totally Insane was all about Michelle Duggar's forty-sixth birthday.

Forty-six?!  Does that woman look forty-six years old?! 

Hell, no!  I mean, if I had to guess her age, I woulda put it in the mid-thirties.

But I guess that explains the problems she's had with carrying kids to term lately.

Honey, you're forty-six years old.  You've got NINETEEN kids.  Give it a rest, already.

Geez.

A few months ago ...

Hey, guys, whatcha doing?

They were perfecting their act.

Evidently, I have circus cats.

Recently Read

Skip it if you wanna.

1.  Flower Children by Maxine Swann - Novel about ex-hippies raising kids.  Started out interesting and then got meh - I didn't finish it.

2.  The Hour I First Believed by Wally Lamb - If you can't say anything nice ... Okay, I'll say something anyway.  It was seven hundred and forty pages of BO-RING.  Jesus.  That's several months of work lunchtimes that I'll never get back.  None of the main characters were particularly sympathetic, which made it a long, tough, slog.  I liked his book "She's Come Undone", but this one?  No way.  Waste of my time.

3.  The Queen of Palmyra by Minrose Gwin - Novel about a girl growing up in 1960s Mississippi - good.

4.  Movie Review!  "Hey, Boo - Harper Lee and To Kill a Mockingbird" - Doc about, well, you guessed it.  And I will tell you what, the people who made this doc managed to talk a great book into the damn ground.  What a snooze-fest, especially since Harper Lee was (of course) absent.  (When the subject of your doc refuses interviews, you might have a problem.)  Although I did learn that the neighbor boy in the book was based on a young Truman Capote.  The more you know!  And I have since learned that there are rumors that Tru actually ghost-wrote To Kill a Mockingbird, which I don't believe.  He's not that good a writer.

5.  The Drifters by James Michener - Great big honking novel about young people in Spain in the 60s.  I read this as a teenager and was fascinated with it.  I just picked it up again, and, like a lot of books I first read as a teen, it just doesn't have the same resonance with me today.  Still, a good read. 

6.  The Gift of Pets by Bruce Coston - Memoir of a veterinarian - Goes into WAY too much technical detail - Eww.

7.  Angie, I Says by Avra Wing - Think "Working Girl", the movie, and then throw in a pregnancy that derails the career plans. Interesting.  Oh! And evidently they made a movie out of this book, too, with Geena Davis.

8.  The Lost Saints of Tennessee by Amy Franklin-Willis - Novel about a man who can't get over the death of his brother.  Eh.

9.  An Irish Country Doctor by Patrick Taylor - Self-explanatory title.  Fiction.  Good.

So!  That's what I got.  How about you?

Why do I always buy the WRONG CAR?

I used to drive a Saturn wagon, which was the biggest piece-of-sh*t ever made.  Sweet Jeezus, that car would break down if you LOOKED at it funny.

So when it finally broke down one more time than I was willing to repair, I traded it in.  On a Kia Rondo.  Which they stopped making shortly after I bought mine.  *cue ominous music*.

And it HAD been a pretty good car, cheap-car-wise, until a couple of months ago when it started spewing antifreeze everywhere, and it cost me FOUR HUNDRED BUCKS to replace the hoses.

Saturday?  It started leaking antifreeze AGAIN.

And yes, I know that antifreeze is poisonous and yes, steps have been taken to keep the cats from getting into the leaking antifreeze.

And this afternoon the car goes BACK to the damn garage and holy Mary mother of F*CK I am going to be pissed if I have to buy a new flipping RADIATOR and God only knows what THAT will cost when the damn HOSES cost four hundred bucks and

and I keep thinking of those people in Jersey.  Who have no heat and no food and they're on the news BEGGING for someone to help them.

I'll shut up about the damn car now.

In other news, I was at the adoption center yesterday.  And it was crazy, crazy busy.  Thankfully, there was another volunteer there, so we were able to tag-team the job.  There is one cat there who is ABSOLUTELY not socialized enough yet to be there and should really be in a foster home, but all of the foster homes are full right now.  God, I feel bad for her - I can't even comfort her because if I put a hand near her cage she starts to hiss and spit and swipe. 

And in OTHER sad cat news, on Saturday I was out at the FC's house, where there were nine billion teeny-tiny kittens running around, and I got to cuddle with ALL of them.  Including one very friendly teeny-tiny-weeny orange bit of fluff, who unexpectedly passed away the next day.

It ain't EASY, this rescue business. 

And Wanders?  The foster?  She moved to another foster home.  After five weeks at my place, she was still making no progress in learning to tolerate (or at least ignore) my cats.  And she was obviously unhappy, and I was getting stressed, and poor Ponyboy (the brunt of her ire) STOPPED EATING, and that was when I called the FC and said that Wanders needed to move on.  It's really the best for all of us.  At least that's what I keep telling myself.  And no, I am NOT taking the adoption center hisser and spitter in.  The LAST thing my boys need right now is another angry foster cat.

And let's see, I went to a rummage sale and ran nine billion errands and did not rake the lawn because holy SH*T it was dark out at four o'clock yesterday and why does that surprise me?  It happens every year.

At least it's light out when I get up now.  Ha!  Always look on the bright side, that's me.

Well, sure, relax; take a load off

(Sorry; the pic was taken through a screen)

In my backyard this morning:

It's the deer's world; I  just live in it.

Wanders the foster

Sometimes she looks like this:

... but SOMETIMES she looks like THIS (she is hissing at me in this pic.  HISSING):

Which is why sometimes she looks like this:

 Good girl.

What the (&*$ is THAT #$&!?

So!  In the comments on the last post, Birdie and Kate stated their love for Whoppers.  So out of scientific curiosity, I decided to TRY a Whopper. It seemed that I remembered from my childhood that Whoppers were similar to Milk Duds, the most disgusting candy known to man, but maybe I was wrong.  I mean, after all, they were still being sold in stores, right?

*crunch*
Oh HELL no. Holy *&@#, Whoppers are NASTY. Crappy-ass chocolate on the outside, and some kind of rock-hard styrofoam on the inside. What the (^$)*?!  Why would anyone voluntarily EAT that?!  You could break a TOOTH on that crap!  (And having already spent an hour and a half in the dentist's chair this morning, I am NOT INCLINED to break any teeth right now, thankyouverymuch.)

Someone who hates children invented Whoppers. That's the only explanation.  They're like a bad joke.  Like nightmare candy.  All those trick-or-treaters last night were RIGHT!  I'm lucky my house didn't get egged, after trying to hand out Whoppers.  Holy CRAP.

I'm currently doing an experiment to see how long a Whopper will float in my coffee. It's five minutes so far. That's just not right.  You can't even DROWN the damn things.  They're like (*&ing ZOMBIES or something.

But Birdie and Kate, don't feel too bad. I think candy corn is disgusting as well. And don't even get me started on black licorice. *shudder*