Above and Beyond

The Runt is down.

And have I got a story for you .....

On Monday night, my neighbor's (two doors down, diagonal to my backyard) dogs treed The Runt in their backyard. I did not discover this until Tuesday morning, when he had not come home and I went looking for him. My neighbor and I spent all day Tuesday trying to get The Runt to come down. No luck. The neighbor placed a twenty-foot ladder against the base of the tree, hoping The Runt would come down far enough so we could reach him, but he stayed too high up.

Oh! and have you ever seen a cat poop in a tree? I have. Turns out that they pee in trees, too. Stand back.

Wednesday morning, The Runt was still up the tree. I had to go in to work, but my neighbor said he would keep trying to get The Runt down. He was keeping his dogs out of the backyard, afraid they would scare The Runt worse.

When I got home Wednesday afternoon, The Runt was out of the tree! I went over to profusely thank my neighbor*, who had spent as much time trying to help The Runt out of the tree as I had.
When I asked him when The Runt had come down, he said, "Welllll, he didn't come down." I gasped and said, "did you ..........", and he said, "Yep. I went up after him."

This guy, whom I did not know from Adam before my cat met his tree, had climbed to the top of the twenty-foot ladder, called to The Runt for half an hour until he got close enough to grab, and then one-armed him down the ladder, getting scratched in the process.

There are still good people out there. You just have to meet them.


*(And yes, there was a thank-you card and gift involved. I'm not a complete heathen.)

The Runt

The Runt went up a neighbor's tree Monday night.

He's still up there.

Any ideas?

Victorious!

Congrats to my sister Texas, who is this year's Garden Cup Champion of her golf club! After a two-day tournament, she finished two strokes ahead to win it all. You rock, sis!

More Gratuitous Cute Kitten Pics

For those just tuning in, these are The Runt and Little Girl, the "feral"-formerly-fosters turned permanent household members.

They're getting bigger .......

Do you remember, in the very first Waltons movie, when Elizabeth is in the barn and she decides that if she just keeps squeezing the sides of her head, she'll alway stay small and never grow up?

(I'm not saying I'm squeezing the sides of their heads (!), but still ....... )

Click Here

I was going to write about last night's vice-presidential debate, but as usual, Chez over at Deus Ex Malcontent said it much better than I could.

Click on the title above (where it says "click here" .... yeah ..... that's the ticket) to get his take.

I Cannot WAIT For Tonight

I hope Biden mops the floor with Palin.

I don't think Palin is stupid. Vindictive, petty, manipulative, stubborn: Hell, yes. But I don't think she's stupid. So I'm sure she's been cramming like crazy for this debate. And if Biden's not careful, this whole thing could backfire, with him coming out looking like the big bad meanie who unnecessarily shredded his poor defenseless opponent.

But if Palin performs as she has in interviews, winking and smirking and avoiding the questions and repeating meaningless phrases, she's gonna be in trouble.

And I cannot WAIT.

Pissing Me Off Right Now ........

1. My boss, who has spent the last two days dicking around with his amended 2004(?!) tax return, as opposed to doing any actual work-related work. Oh, and he's not taking calls, which means I get to deal with all the irate clients waiting for their reports. And then, he called at ten this morning to let me know he had overslept. Know what, boss? How's about just getting your butt in here and doing some work, mmmkay?

2. The lady interviewed on the local news last night who was waiting in line for free food at a food pantry. With a bluetooth in her ear. How about cancelling the cell service and buying your own damn food, honey?

3. The nurse at the doctor's office yesterday who acted like she was doing me a big favor by deducting two pounds for my clothes when she weighed me. For the record, I am 5'-5" and weigh 112. Don't act like I'm overweight. Please.

4. The dude on the way to work yesterday who was slaloming his shitmobile in between cars like it was a skills course. Don't make me hold my breath waiting for you to crash, buddy.

5. Grumpy McGrumpAss, the repair guy, who apparently FAILED at replacing my toilet, as now the bathroom carpeting is soaking wet. Grrrrrrrr.........



Okay. I feel (a little) better now.

My White Trash Weekend

Okay, okay, so actually only one part of my weekend was white-trashy, but it was a doozy:





On Saturday, the repair guy came over to fix my malfuntioning toilet. I had successfully repaired it with a twist tie earlier in the summer, but this time it refused my efforts, and just ran and ran and ran. And the shut-off valve was stuck, so I couldn't even turn it off.

So! Grumpy McGrumpAss came over Saturday afternoon, and monkeyed and monkeyed, and finally said, "I'm going to have to replace this toilet".

Yay! So he went and got a new toilet, almost gave himself a heart attack lugging it up the stairs, and decided that rather than try and lug the old toilet back down the stairs, he would simply pitch it over the second-floor deck railing.

And so he did. Which is how briefly, on Saturday afternoon, I had a broken toilet in my back yard, with kittens crawling in and out of it. White trash, indeed.*

On Saturday night, the Boy Toy made one of his periodic phone calls. I haven't been screening my calls lately, so I actually picked up the phone. And I was polite, and spoke with him nicely, seeing as how he was calling at 9:30 p.m. instead of three in the morning like he usually does.


So! Guess who showed up on my doorstep Sunday afternoon? AAARRRGGGGGHHH. Time to start screening calls again.


And in kitten news, they're still doing the "bunny hop" down the stairs. Their front legs go right, left, right, left, down the stairs, but their back legs go hop hop hop together. It's the cutest thing.


Oh, and on Sunday morning, I don't know who was worse: Me, or my Mom. Me, for waking up twenty minutes before I was supposed to pick her up to go to lunch, or her, for being pantsless when I arrived.



But! The Bills won their fourth game in a row, giving them their best start in sixteen years, so all is well with the world.

Oh! And I just did the math, and it turns out that the Boy Toy is now ......... thirty-six years old. ** Which means that I really should come up with another name for him. "Man Toy" just sounds ...... skeevy. Any ideas?

*And let me tell you, that toilet left one helluva divot in the backyard.

** I first became "involved" (blleerrrch - I hate that word) with the Boy Toy when he was twenty-one. Which means I've been taking his three a.m. drunken phone calls for ........ fifteen years!?!?!. Oh my gaawwdd.

Happy Birthday, Texas!

Today is my sister Texas's birthday! I would like to take this opportunity to thank her for always being there for me. Texas, if you're reading this, you have no idea how glad I am that you're not just my sister, you're also my friend. My best friend.


Time for an old photo!





From left: Texas, my Mom, Ditzy and TIB. If Mom doesn't look too happy, that's probably because she was schlepping a bunch of kids around a Florida theme park. And yes, Texas has a cast on her leg. It's from a terrible car accident that almost killed her.


So, Texas, I'm so glad you're still around! And golfing up a storm! Happy, happy birthday!





P.S. Oh, and Texas? Push the button.

Adventures in Kittenhood

"Hey! HEY! Check it out! There's a hole! In the ground!"

"OMFG! There IS a hole! In the GROUND!"

"Hey! Let's check it out! Me first!"

*sigh*. Little boneheads.

Should Be An Interesting Day ......

The hillbillies who live in the house next door to our office building have been trying to live-trap a woodchuck who lives in their yard.

When I pulled into the parking lot this morning, there was a full-sized skunk caught in the trap.


Updated to Add: I should point out that the fine folks next door are idiots. None of them are employed, and if you put all of them together, you'd come up with someone who had the intellect of a moron. Their previous attempts at woodchuck eradication included blocking off one of the woodchuck's holes with a cinderblock and waiting around the other hole with sticks, so they could ......... hell, I don't know ......... jab it to death?

The Name Game

I got married in 1984, two weeks before I turned twenty-two.

(Go ahead ......... do the math. I'll wait. La la la la la ............ All done? Yes, I am officially that old.)

I left my husband in 1989. I'm not going to go into details; I packed my stuff and left. I think that the last time I saw him was maybe ...... 1990? I'm not sure; I don't remember.

I did not ask for alimony; hell, I'm lucky that he didn't ask for alimony from me. (I made more money than he did, which is almost laughable, considering the piddly amount I was making at the time.) As a matter of fact, now that I think about it, we never even officially divorced until 2000, due mainly to the fact that he refused to pony up his half of the divorce fee, which he had agreed to when I left. So, in 2000, eleven years after I left him, I finally went ahead and paid for the divorce.

ANYWAY, when I married him, I took his last name. And after I left him, people kept asking me if I was going to take back my maiden name. And I would always say, "I don't know", because really, I didn't care very much either way. My maiden name was a very common one; my married name was a very common one.

But lo these many years later, people STILL sometimes ask me if I'm going to take back my maiden name. And I'm kind of like, why bother? I've had my married name now longer than I had my maiden name. What's the dif? Who cares?

But I've gotta ask, are you SUPPOSED to take back your maiden name when you divorce? I mean, I always thought it was optional, but I didn't think it was a necessity. But some people seem to think it ....... well ...... odd that I still use my married name.

Oh well. It's no odder than lots of other stuff I do on a daily basis, I guess. Heh.

Freak Out!

Awww.... le freak ...... c'est chic!


(Anybody besides me remember that song? Anybody?)


So, the cats had to go to the vet's last night for a check-up and more vaccinations (rabies, feline leukemia, distemper). And all was well throughout the exam, until it was time for the actual shots themselves.

And those cats went insane.

Little Girl spat and snarled and hissed and shot halfway across the room when the first shot was attempted. So they tried again. They wrapped her in a towel, the vet tech gripped her firmly, the vet went in with the needle, and ......... FAIL.

And The Runt wasn't much better, when it was his turn. It took several attempts to get those shots into those cats.

The vet reassured me that it was okay, they saw this every day, it was part of their job, the cats were frightened, blah blah blah, but I have to say, I have never seen a cat react that badly to getting shots. And we have to do it all again in three weeks. *sigh*.

But! The Runt is up from four pounds to six (!), and Little Girl is up from three pounds to four. All in less than a month. And I swear, there's not an ounce of fat on these guys. They're lean, mean, kitten machines ........

And I got sent home with a ton of swag, courtesy of Purina.

Oh! And there's a technical name for googly eyes! I asked the vet why their eyes sometimes seemed to wander off in different directions (yes, it's as disconcerting as it sounds), and she explained that it was due to the muscles around their eyes, which may strengthen as they get older. The technical term is divergent strabismus. I prefer "googly eyes".

Don't Make Me Break Out The Whistle

One of my jobs here at work is to answer the phones. And yes, it sucks just about as much as you would imagine that it does.

But the thing that sucks the worst about answering the phones is the telemarketers. They call, and call, and call and call and call, and nothing I say or do seems to deter them. Oops, wait a minute, the phone's ringing ........

Okay, I'm back. And that was an ACTUAL CLIENT. Thank God.

Here's the thing: There are ways to tell when it is a telemarketer calling. The "000-000-0000" on the Caller ID is a dead giveaway. For those, I just pick up the handset and hang it back up again. "Unavailable" is usually a pretty sure bet, but not always; some of our clients have programmed "Unavailable" as their Caller ID. (Which makes me wonder if they're in the Witness Protection Program or something, but whatever ........)

A "state", such as "Massachusetts" or "California", on the Caller ID is a pretty sure tipoff, but again, not always, as we do business with some state agencies, and you don't want to piss off the guy reviewing your project by picking up the phone and hanging it right back up on him.

Dead silence on the line when you first pick up is a pretty sure Telemarketer indicator. However, we have some ..... erm ........ older clients who take a minute to get their shit together when they dial a number and somebody actually answers their call, so I can't rely on the dead silence thing.

So, inevitably, sometimes my screening fails, and I end up actually talking to a telemarketer. For as long as it takes to discern that they ARE a telemarketer, anyway, and then I tell them we are not interested, and hang up the phone.

And then they call back. Again. And again. I once evidently pissed off this telemarketer in New Jersey, because she told all her co-workers in their little dungeon to CALL MY NUMBER, and the phone rang off the hook for two days. Seriously, like every twenty seconds, FOR TWO DAYS, the phone rang and rang and rang and rang. And you can't just, you know, switch off the phone, in case an actual client calls.

Oh, and you know what kills me? When you politely (through clenched teeth) tell them you are not interested, and as you are hanging up the phone, you can hear them yelling, "Well, F*ck you, bitch". Charming. Often it is ME who would like to be swearing at THEM, but I'm not sure how well that would go down in an office environment. Although judging by the amount of profanity my co-workers and MY BOSS use, I'm pretty sure they'd be okay with it.

And what totally slays me is when they claim to be legit. Telemarketers call ALL THE TIME claiming to be an account rep from the phone company we use. When I ask them which account number they are calling regarding, they stutter and stammer and say, "Oh, well, I'm not actually FROM the phone company ............" Grrrrrr. I want to KILLLLLLLL them.

So! What I really want to do is get a whistle, and blow their little eardrums out. But I know that some of them are just trying to make a buck the best way they can, as opposed to the telemarketers who are truly evil (i.e., F*ck you, bitch). I need to figure out how to differentiate between the two .....

The Way You Curl Your Tail .......

Both kittens can curl their tails into little circles, which cracks me up. And they're multi-taskers - this is Little Girl simultaneously planning her assault on the finch feeder and curling her tail at the same time.

(And yes, that is a deck railing she is perched upon. A second-story deck railing. *Sigh*.)

Weekend Pics

On Saturday, I went to a local nature preserve, where the deer are very friendly:

I could have reached out and petted that deer, which does not bode well for her future come hunting season. The deer are safe in the preserve, but if they go off the property, they're fair game. And believe me, the adjoining property owners have put up tree stands mere feet from the property line. Which hardly seems sporting, somehow: Wait for the deer to step over the line and KA-BLAM!!

This is a fall crocus that one of my former neighbors planted several years ago. The neighbor is long gone, but the crocus keeps blooming:



On Sunday, I went to a nearby state park. The turtles were busy soaking up the last of the summer sun.

"Grandpa, what was it like when you were a little turtle?"

Finally, a butterfly. Because it's pretty.

Quick Question

I need to send some long-distance flowers next week. I used FTD the last time and got hosed. Can anybody recommend a good long-distance florist? Is Teleflora any good? How about 1-800-flowers?

Better Late Than Never

A while ago, I promised an exciting tale of flip-flops and Aldi's bags! And then I got busy and I may have forgotten and ....... um ......... erm .......... Here it is!

I went up to Watkins Glen this past summer and took a guided tour of the gorge. The first day I went, we met up with the tour guide at the bottom of the park just as the clouds started to darken and it started to sprinkle and thunder started to rumble. And still, people were walking past our group and starting up the gorge trail.

Our tour guide (whom I may have had just a little bit of a girl crush on; she was adorable and cute and looked JUST like Reese Witherspoon, except without the alarming chin) said that we should wait to see if the weather cleared before we started up. Someone asked her if it was safe to be in the gorge when it was storming, and she was like, "well, no, the rocks get really slippery, and when lightening enters the gorge it tends to ricochet around, and, well, actually, it's REALLY REALLY DANGEROUS ......", and all the while people were walking past us and starting up.

So! Our tour was postponed until the following day. I had just started out of the park when the skies opened up and it was lightening-ing like crazy and the rains were pouring down ........ and I wondered how all those poor idiots people made out who decided to go up the gorge in the storm.

The next day I went back, and took the tour. There were about fifteen people in our group, but of course there were lots and lots of other people there too, just enjoying the gorge. I had on hiking boots, as did a lot of other people, and some people had on sneakers, and ........... some people had on flip-flops. To hike a total of three miles round trip, on a trail that included eight hundred shale steps which get extremely slippery when wet (which is basically all of the time; spray from the falls keeps them that way.)

And! There were women wearing heels! And people with babies in strollers! Yeah, I want to haul a flippin' stroller up eight hundred steps. And I guess I'm being judgmental, but jayzus, show some common sense here, people. Especially since there were signs ALL OVER THE PLACE alerting people to the fact that they were about to climb up a gorge.

Lots of people had day packs to carry their water and stuff. But this one couple really took the cake. Flip-flops? Check. Baby in stroller? Check. Day pack? Oh, nooooo. These guys just crammed a bunch of crap into a plastic Aldi's grocery bag for their little trip up the gorge. I was gonna take a picture, but I didn't want to be, you know, rude or anything. (ha!)

But! I did take a picture of this little guy:

He was just hanging out on the cliff wall, right on the main trail, watching hundreds of people walk by. And nobody noticed, except this one guy who stopped to take a picture of the seemingly-not-particularly-interesting side of the gorge wall, which alerted me.

I wonder why his momma picked that particular spot for the nest - talk about life in the public eye!

Look at Me; I'm as Helpless as ...........

........... a kitten up a tree?

Yep.

Last week, it was Little Girl; last night, it was The Runt.

I need some meds.

I Need a Bailout

Dear Federal Government:

Unlike all those predatory lending agencies and related firms who are discovering that maybe giving out all those NINA (no income, no assets) mortgages wasn't the best idea in the world and are now crying bailout, I have actually been very fiscally responsible. However, rising fuel and heating prices mean that soon I may be having trouble making ends meet.

Unlike AIG, I do not find myself $85 billion in debt. I am not in debt at all, but I may be in the future, so just send me a couple mil and we'll call it good, okay?

Kthnxbai!

Movie Review - "Into The Wild"

Caution, there are MAJOR spoilers ahead! Do not read further if you don't want to know how this movie ends!




Okay, you've been warned.

I really liked this one. The soundtrack (Eddie Vedder, I believe) and cinematography were excellent. As far as the (true) story goes, well, in one way this guy was doing what we all dream of doing from time to time - ditching it all to go exploring.

Unfortunately, he headed into the Alaskan wilderness with basically just a parka and a knife, and he starved to death. Ooooops.

In a way, this guy really pissed me off. I mean, at least take some food or something, will ya?! But then again, I guess his "point" was to see if he could make it with no supplies. And it wasn't clear (to me, anyway) if this guy had all his marbles or not. By the end it seemed like he was pretty much off his rocker, but that might have been the starvation talking.

So! This was basically a movie about a guy who did what he wanted to do, and died doing it. But really, it wasn't sad at all. You just felt bad for the poor kid. You really wish he'd made it, just to see what he would become.

I Need Some Coordination Here, Please

On Saturday, I was playing with the kittens in the kitchen. I made a grab for one of them just as the other one squirted between my feet, making me lose my balance, and the next thing I knew, I had CLONKED my head so hard against the corner of the stovetop that I saw stars, and a giant goose egg instantly rose on my forehead.

And my poor forehead was SO SORE that I couldn't even put ice on it. I can't even TOUCH my forehead, at all, without extreme pain.

Oh yeah, and I've got a REALLY ATTRACTIVE giant bruise on my forehead. Thank God for bangs; at least I don't have to try to explain to anyone how I almost KNOCKED MYSELF OUT playing with kittens.

*sigh*

Worst Job Ever?

I worked for a few (okay, okay, several) years in fast food. And really, I enjoyed it. It was not a bad job. If it didn't pay so piss-poor, who knows? I might still be working there. God forbid.


But there used to be a guy who would come to the restaurant a couple of times a year. We called him "the etcher". Because his job was to come in at night just before we closed. He would spend the night cleaning the grout in the tile floors with muriatic acid. Which will eat your flesh down to the bone in a heartbeat if you are not careful.


And I always thought that had to be the worst job ever. You're there, all by yourself, in a closed restaurant, in the middle of the night, using highly corrosive stuff to clean several hundred square feet of tile grout. And then you move on to another restaurant and do the exact same thing the next night. And the next.


So I got to thinking about what my "worst job ever" was, and I have to say it was working for my Dad when I was right out of high school. He owned a machine shop named, I shit you not - Progressive Tool. Hahahahahahaha!


I started out at the bottom, in the deburring room. Basically, deburring involves taking a more-or-less flat piece of metal which had lots of holes punched in it and was usually about the size of your hand or a little bigger, and using a grinding wheel to take the sharp edges off. It took a while to get the hang of it, but once you did, it was absolutely mindless work.


And here's the thing: You would get in a new order, and you'd grind the first piece, and each piece took a set amount of time - maybe fifteen seconds, maybe five minutes, depending upon the complexity of the part. And each order would be for thousands of the exact same part. You could sit there for weeks doing the exact same thing, over and over and over again, for eight hours a day. And at the end of the day, you would have tiny little metal shavings in your clothes, in your hair, in your nose ....... you get the picture.


And the people in the deburring room had worked there for years. The woman who trained me, Doris, worked there basically her entire adult life. I have no idea how she stayed sane. I lasted just a few months before I couldn't take it anymore and quit. (Sorry, Dad.)


I know that there are worse jobs than that, but that's my personal "worst job ever". What's yours?

9/11/01

I was at work, at the exact same place, same desk, same chair, where I am right now. It was a beautiful morning; bright and sunny.

I turned on the radio around quarter to nine, and they were saying something about a sight-seeing plane flying into the World Trade Center. I knew that one of my co-workers listened to a different station (me: news/talk; him: RAWK), so I walked back to his desk to find out what he'd heard, which was basically the same thing (small plane; possibly sight-seers). We were the first two people in the office that morning.

There was a TV in the boss's personal office, so my co-worker and I hooked it up and turned it on. And we sat down and stayed there for the rest of the day. As the rest of the co-workers and the boss trickled in, we all sat down together and watched. Nobody went home until quitting time.

At the time we had a couple of projects under review by the Port Authority, who had offices in the trade center. We wondered if any of our reviewers were killed.

We could only get one channel on the TV, and their coverage had kind of a bad angle of the buildings, and the commentary was spotty and confusing. So when the second tower came down, we were all, "but wait - Where's the first tower?" We couldn't see that it had already fallen until the second one came down.

After the news came on about the Pentagon, I wondered how many more targets would be hit. At the time, I had two sisters living in or near major metropolitan areas, and I wondered if their cities would be attacked. And if so, how. By planes? By bombs?

Morbidly, I remember wondering how many more people would have been killed if the hijackers had waited another half-hour or so. Lots of people don't go into work until nine.

But the thing I remember most clearly was how damn nice people were to each other in the days to follow. You'd try to merge into traffic and someone would wave you in, instead of flip you off. Cashiers would smile when handing you your change. A weak, wavery smile, but a smile nonetheless. People said, "excuse me", and "thank you". That I remember.

Oh, I remember it all. Or at least I think I do. Memories are tricky things.

DVD/VCR - The Saga Goes On

So! I wrote earlier about my purchase of a DVD/VCR that turned out to be defective, as opposed to me being too stupid to figure out how to use it.

I returned that one to Crapmart, and then went to Target and picked up one made by another manufacturer. I got that one home, opened up the box, and started looking at the instructions before I took the unit out of the box. (I may be a slow learner, but I do learn.) Nowhere in the instructions could I find any info about VCR timer recording, so I called customer service (and once more got someone who spoke English - it's amazing!), and sure enough, this unit did not timer record. SIGH. And at this point I'm starting to think, "Oh, for Christ's sake, just cough up the money for a DVR and crawl out of the Stone Age, already." Yet! I resisted.

Oh! And while all this DVD/VCR shuffling was going on, there was a movie I wanted to watch. So I hooked up my old DVD player to watch the movie. Which got STUCK in the DVD player. Seriously. When I went to eject it after watching the movie, the little shelf would not come out of the player. I ended up having to disassemble the DVD player to get the damn DVD out. And all the while, I'm panicking, because it was a Netflix DVD, and OMG they would send the DVD police after me if I couldn't get it out of the player. Waaaaaaaah!

And I also managed to kill two alarm clocks during this period. I think I'm emitting some kind of weird electronics-destroying force field.

But! Back to the story! So I took DVD/VCR #2 back to Target, and picked up yet another model by yet another manufacturer. This time I had a salesperson open up the box in the store, so I could look through the instructions and see if it would timer record. (See? SEE? I am LEARNING!)

Yippee! This unit did offer timer recording, so I bought it, took it home, hooked it up, did a timer recording, and ............ yeeesssssss!! It works! I'm so excited! Now I can once again tape those pesky Austin City Limits shows that don't come on until eleven!

Oh, and by the way, right now I have a TV, a cable converter box, an RF modulator, and a DVD/VCR combo all hooked up happily together. And I am pretty sure that there is more wiring in my living room than there is in the nose cone of the space shuttle.

Recently Read

As usual, feel free to skip. But make sure to scroll down below to view the tale of Texas beeeeeees!

Zombie by Joyce Carol Oates - Novel about a serial killer, from his point of view. Creepy, but interesting.

The Motel Life by Willy Vlautin - Novel about two guys in trouble - This one was good, but not as good as Northline (another book by Vlautin).

All the Fishes Come Home to Roost by Rachel Brown - Memoir about growing up in an ashram in India - okay.

The Worst Hard Time by Timothy Egan - Nonfiction - About the Dust Bowl in the thirties - This one was very good. I have no idea how some of those farmers hung on in an absolutely barren land, year after year. And I keep wondering, why didn't they move away? Their crops died year after year, their babies were dying of dust pneumonia ..... yet they stayed put. Most of them cited their "connection" with the land, but come on! Go connect with some land somewhere else, for Pete's sake! (I know this is a gross oversimplification - it just frustrated me.)

Fall On Your Knees by Ann Marie MacDonald - A great big ol' fat family saga. This woman's not afraid to tell a great big story, and that's super.

Tobacco Road by Erskine Caldwell - I talked about this one in another post. Interesting, but odd.

Are You There, Vodka? It's Me, Chelsea by Chelsea Handler. She is a stand-up comedian, and it seems like these essays would have been funnier in that format (stand-up) than as a book. I have the same problem with her as I do with David Sedaris - I have no idea which of their stories are true (the books are, after all, classified as non-fiction) and which are made up. It drives me crazy. (Oh! And speaking of driving, Ms. Handler writes about her dad driving her to school in a '67 Yugo, when in fact Yugo did not start selling cars in the U.S. until 1985. I can't believe I fact-checked that. NERD.)

Duma Key by Stephen King - I haven't liked most of his recent work, but this one was pretty good. The spooky woo-woo stuff didn't kick in until page 350 or so, which is good, because I like King best when he's just writing about ordinary people, not about haunted china dolls or whatever. But his recent stuff seems to show an author whose editor has long since stopped actually editing his work. And once the scary woo-woo stuff gets started, things get really confusing in a big hurry.

Driving to Detroit by Lesley Hazleton. Essays about cars and car culture. Meh.

Beeeeeeeees

My sister Texas, who lives you-know-where, had a nest of ground bees by her front door. She stuck a garden hose down the hole and turned on the water, thinking she could drown them. When she went back and pulled the hose out of the hole, the bees swarmed the hose, and a couple of them started after her! One of them stung her on the ear (ow ow ow ow), which promptly swelled up like a balloon.

So! She called her pest control company and they sent a guy out. He took one look at the hole, asked to be let in, and informed her that she had (dun dun DUNNN) killer bees.

That's right, folks; my sister got stung by a killer bee and lived to tell the tale. The scary thing is, the pest control guy was telling her that if the bees had swarmed her instead of the hose, she could have died.

But! She is fine (except for a sore ear), and the pest control guy killed the bees, and all is well.

And now she's got a great story to tell at cocktail parties. Waaaayy better than my cat-up-a-tree tale. Big sis wins again. *sigh*

And I Can Only Imagine What The Neighbors Were Thinking .........

.......... when I was out in their backyard in the dark last night, shining a flashlight up one of their pine trees, calling out, "Little Girl! Little Girl!"

Mmmmmmm ....... pine scented .........

Yesterday when I got home from work I let the kittens out to play. They played for a while, then came in and ate, then went back out and played, and then The Runt came back in, but no Little Girl. After a while I went out to check on her. I could hear her meowing, but I couldn't see her.

As it turns out, the reason that I couldn't see her is because she was about sixty feet up a neighbor's pine tree.

I went to the base of the tree and called to her, and she would meow piteously, but she wouldn't budge. The tree is huge and it has a ton of closely-spaced branches, so I knew she could get down if she tried.

I kept going out to the tree, and calling, and she'd meow, but she wouldn't come down. It was awful - she was meowing so loud I could hear her from inside the apartment, but still she wouldn't move.

Finally, after a couple of hours and after it had been dark out for a while, she showed up at my door, covered with pine sap but none the worse for wear.

At least now I know she can get down. But I swear these cats are gonna give me heart failure.

Maybe He Was Headed For The Pet Cemetery

I was out on the back deck yesterday when a squirrel crossed my backyard carrying a dead chipmunk in its mouth.

I shit you not. What the hell?!

Click Right Here

I have been staying out of the political fray, mostly because just thinking about the Republicans possibly winning this election makes me angry. How anyone with a modicum of intelligence could vote for John f*cking McCain is beyond me. (Sorry, Exador. Can we still be friends? Agree to disagree, and all that?)

But today, Chez at Deus Ex Malcontent has encapsulated my feelings perfectly. Please head over there and read this post. And after that, if you still want to vote for McCain/Palin, I am well and truly baffled.

The thing that gets me about this current crop of Republicans is that they would have you believe that being smart is bad. That being smart is somehow wrong. WTF?

Thanks, Chez, for saying it better than I ever could.

Rebuttal

HA!! Teh Human is lying!! We are gooooood kitties:

Calm kitties:

Nice kitties!

Do not listen to Teh Human!

Rust Never Sleeps

Lately, the kittens have eschewed their evening naps.


And I'm exhausted.


Until recently, the routine went like this: I would get home in the evening, the kittens and I would playplayplay, I would give them their dinner (nom nom nom), we would playplayplay some more, and then, around seven o'clock, the kittens would conk out until around, say, nine-thirty or so. Which would give me a couple of hours to rest up, until they woke up again, and it was time to playplayplay until bedtime.


But for the last week or so, the kittens have decided they don't WANT a nap time. They want to playplayplay(eat)playplayplayPLAYPLAY from the time I get home until the time I go to bed. And then they KEEP playing, on and off, all night long.


What's the problem, you ask? Just let the kittens play with each other, and do your own thing?


HAH. You obviously do not have kittens. Because if you did, you would know that if you don't voluntarily play with them, they will MAKE you play with them.


Which goes something like this: You're sitting there, watching TV, minding your own business, when you look down and notice a tiny paw reaching up through the space between the chair and the coffee table. Said paw will be waving back and forth, like some kind of underwater plant, right next to you. I DEFY you not to grab said paw, with mayhem ensuing.


Another patented kitten move is the aerial maneuver. Again, you're sitting there, minding your own business, when you notice a blur out of the corner of your eye. And before you even know what's happening, a kitten has launched itself at you, spun itself around IN THE AIR above your lap, and gone flying off in another direction. YOU try not chasing after the little acrobat (after you're done laughing, of course).


Parents of actual children, I have NO IDEA how you do it. Because these two kittens are wearing me out.

And last night, in my exhaustion, the one thing that kept popping into my head was that Madeline Kahn song from Blazing Saddles, "I'm So Tired."

"I'm tired ....... tired of pwaying the game ........ ain't it a cwyin' shame ....... I'm ....... so ........ tired."

I really need some sleep.

Movie Review - "Life After Tomorrow"

Oh, I really enjoyed this one. It's a documentary about women who were in the cast of "Annie" when they were kids.

It was just really sweet. And it was amazing how these women could still remember the choreography.

It Ain't Me, Babe

Last night I monkeyed and monkeyed and MONKEYED with that damn DVD/VCR, and finally realized it was time to call - dun dun DUNNNNN - the dreaded "customer service".

So I grabbed a beer and some food and settled in, 'cause you know how that goes - first you spend an hour on hold, then you try to explain your problem to someone who does not speak English. Good times!

I dialed Magnavox customer service, got put on hold, held for about five minutes - and then the call was disconnected. Oh no, Magnavox, you're not gonna get rid of me that easy.

I called back, got put on hold, and after about ten minutes, I got a real live person. Yay! And - get ready for this - he spoke English. A flippin' miracle!

So we went through the way I had everything all hooked up, and the way I was programming the unit to timer record, and the L1/L2 option, and the RF modulator hookup, and blah-di-blah-di-blah, and finally he said, "You've got a defective unit."

And I actually laughed, did a fist pump, and said, "Yessssssss!" Because, for once, it wasn't ME screwing shit up. It was the machine!

So I asked Carlos what my options were, and he explained that the easiest thing for me would probably be to just take it back to the store, but if that would be an inconvenience, they would SEND SOMEONE TO MY HOUSE to pick up the unit (all sixty bucks worth, mind you) and arrange to ship me a new one.

Oh Magnavox, I love you. Truly. Your electronics suck, but your customer service is aces.

Goddam *?!@*ing VCR

I got the DVD/VCR hooked up over the weekend.

I can watch DVDs. I can watch VCR tapes. I can timer record programs on VCR tapes.

I cannot, however, watch the programs that I have timer recorded. They will play; I can hear the machinery working. The TV just won't show the tape that is playing. And no; it's not a "Channel 3" thing; I just can't figure out what it is. Grrrrrrrrr.

I know it's time to call the 1-800 number. Unfortunately, I really don't feel like talking to someone in Bangladesh with extremely poor English language skills right now.

How was your weekend?

........ 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.