No matter how you slice it, THIS is funny!
This is going to sound very silly to most of you, but it’s kind of a big deal for me. So, please, be proud of me for accomplishing something amazing: I got my 12 Days of Christmas posts ready! Woo hoo!
I know, I know. You’d think it’d be easy and all that, but it’s NOT. Totally not. And I got on top of it early. Which is kind of impressive considering I’ve been (w)racked with pain (and let’s not even get into the correct spelling of “w/racked”, okay?) since Thanksgiving as the drive down to my sister’s was long and nothing but torture (and sadness because LD was going home to his dad’s). Sitting here on the computer is the last thing I’ve thought of doing lately. Getting these posts done? Major. MAJOR.
I was going to do all 25 days, but I figured I could cram all that goodness into just 12 days. Yeah, yeah. There’ll be days with double posts because I’ll find something I have to share. You won’t mind though, will you? That’s good. I knew you wouldn’t.
So let’s all celebrate my achievement and do a Dance of Joy!
I’ve been adjusting to another round of increased pain meds this week. Between P.T. and the drives to P.T. (really, driving makes my neck and back so much worse…and I’m just the passenger!), I’ve been having the worst time knocking the pain down to a manageable level. So, the doc has me on another two week course of Oxycontin to go with all my regular meds. It’s either that or I’m miserable. Except that I’m kind of miserable anyway, what with it making me sleep all the time. Poor King Arthur! He’s stuck with this lump of nothing all day long.
Also started reading a new book that’s rather interesting. “Life After Life” by Kate Atkinson. It’s very good and I’m having trouble putting it down. Kind of like the last book I read, which was “Code Name Verity” by Elizabeth Wein. Do yourself a favor and pick that one up immediately! “Verity” is simply heroic and joyous and heartbreaking and everything in between. It’s beyond words. I’ll have to let you know what I think of “Life” when I’m all through with it.
Been on a bit of a Stephen Fry tear again. I can’t help it! He makes me happy. As does Craig Ferguson. Sigh. I was supposed to go audition for Ferg’s new game show, but my back said, “No, No, Nanette!” Bother.
There’s a great piece on Joan Rivers over at Vulture. Man, she was the best! She was way ahead of her time. Always.
I’ve become the cat beacon once again. Fletch has returned to sleeping on my head, or at least nearby. Celia is often close, too. Perhaps it’s my pain level they’re sensing and are trying to comfort me through. Who knows? They haven’t left many clues as to the why.
OOOH! Also found a great article about a new Viking ring-fortress that was recently found in Denmark! Color me intrigued! P.S. I love that Viking kings had names like Bluetooth and Forkbeard (and yes, I knew this because I’m weird).
What else? Hmmm. Oh, yes. King Arthur and I went to his daughter’s to have dinner and see the baby. It’d been so long and she’s so big now! Doing a lot of cruising and crawling and eating and being adorable. I miss those days with my kids. They really were great babies and they’ve grown into great adults. So very proud of them. Just as KA is proud of his daughter.
Finally, I’ll leave you with this weird dream I had yesterday: King Arthur and I were at Burning Man (he was watching a doco on it when I fell asleep), but we were there early to set up and had faire garb with us (hmm, could be because faire is coming up again and we have to get ready for that). At some point, KA did something mean and had me in tears and I refused to go to meet up with our group because I didn’t want them to see me crying. Somehow or other, I ran into him at a beer stand (??) and he wept profusely and begged me to forgive him. I was still upset and set off to distract myself with entertainment. I passed Par1s Hi1t0n (???!?!?!!) who was dressed like a total hooch in the middle of the desert on my way to see Derek Trucks and Susan Tedeschi (????!) on the big stage. Eventually, I went back to our car because my back hurt so much (yes, even in my dreams I hurt…which is normal, except for last week when I was dreaming of my life before I got hurt) and began freaking out because I couldn’t find my medication anywhere. Talk about crazy ass dream! I’d like someone to sort that out for me. Also include an old high school boyfriend, a former LV boyfriend, Shemar Moore, a brother I have never had, and some unknown people who were in two groups: either hassling me or exceedingly kind to me. Oh, and a sculpture I made out of trash and recyclables for my Burning Man art project (because you MUST participate). If anyone can make heads or tales out of that nonsense, please do tell!
Every once in a while, I go into the spare bedroom to grab clothes or put clothes away. Fletch follows me in. Celia is not allowed in there. Fletch is pretty easy to extract. Celia is not. So I do everything possible to keep her out of that room.
While Mojo was here a few weeks ago, we had gone into the spare room and Fletch had followed us. As we were getting ready to leave, Fletch had basically set up camp in a corner where I couldn’t reach him, and from where he chose not to respond when I called him. So Mojo and I walked out of the room and closed the door on him, with me fully intending to go back in a few minutes to let him out. Well, we got to fixing lunch and talking and then began to play games and it wasn’t until probably two hours later that I remembered he was in there. No fuss or anything from him to remind me. Noooo, that would have been too easy! So I go in and expect to see him sitting by the door, giving me the look of disgust for leaving him in there, and I see him, instead, atop the tallest dresser, lounging as if this were the best damn thing he ever thought of. I pick him up and coo my most sincere apologies to him and he really just couldn’t care less. (Although, to be fair, he did give me a couple of little kisses.) Horrifying “locked in a bedroom for hours” ordeal over. You’d figure he’d be wary of the room. Ha!
This morning, just before King Arthur went out, he’d gone back into the room for something, not checking to see who was behind him and not closing the door as he walked into the room. (I know nothing of this at the time, just filling in the audience as a good narrator should.) King Arthur leaves for his lunch meeting with his investment counselor. I’m doing laundry. I get caught up in a show. I eat some lunch, awaiting King Arthur’s return from his lunch, and I wonder where my Fletch could be. I see Celia, but no Fletch. I call for him, look around to see where he might be hiding. Nothing. I hear no distress cry or scratching, so I figure he’s just napping and “vants to be alone” a la Garbo.
Couple hours later, King Arthur returns home and I’m still puttering around the house. No sign yet of the Fletch monster. Finally, after much discussion, it’s determined that he simply has to be in the back room (or perhaps, in the closet in our bedroom, which is another story for another time) and I head back there, open the door, and there he is! King Arthur’s insistent that he’s not been back there for anything. I know I haven’t. And we’re pretty certain Fletch hasn’t learned to open doors quite yet. Turns out, that, yes, King Arthur HAD been back there before he left the house. Ay yi yi! This is about the time I start planning signage for the door along the lines of: “Check for cat before entering room. Shut door before he enters.” “Check for cat before leaving room!” “Check for cat! Always check for cat!”
Once again, Fletch made it out of there sans trauma. In fact, I’m pretty sure he thought it was simply independent play time in the special Fletch playroom.
Since then, we’ve been playing with bubbles, which he LOVES! He catches the between his paws. He bites at them. He stomps them with his furry little paws. And then he looks up at me, expectantly, awaiting more. Always more. More. More. More. Please, more bubbles! More. Please! I like bubbles!
Best damn 25 cents I even spent at a yard sale.
Maybe the next one will have signs for the bedroom door.
I don’t know how I managed to get all the way through the week without writing something. Okay, yes, I do know. It’s called laziness. It’s called avoidance. It’s called books I got caught up reading. It’s all that and more.
But it is Friday! FRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIDAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!
For most people, this indicates the last day of the week they trudge into work/school, mumbling, grumbling, watching the clock, counting down the hours until they are free to spend two days doing things they don’t get to do during the week. Including a list of things they don’t want to do, much like work. But it’s their weekend and they can shirk their responsibilities at home if they so choose since their paycheck/report card doesn’t reflect their level of effort or lack thereof.
Me? It signals the day when the owner of the bar I visited last weekend for a show will walk into his club and determine whether or not my lost phone is still there. Until that time, nothing much matters. I need to know if the phone is there. Pleaseohpleaseohpleaseohpleaseohpleaseohpleaseohpleaseletitbethere!
I’m sort of lost without my phone. It has all my doctor’s info, including appointments on it. All my friends and family are carefully entered into the address book contained therein. Basically, my life is at a standstill without my phone.
Please all cross your fingers that my phone is found because that is the only way I can begin breathing again. Trust that my headache is now rather significant at this point as my oxygen level is severely depleted.
Thanks. I appreciate it.
I’m so very exhausted and sore from two weekends of faire that I’m declaring the next few days as Reboot days.
Talk amongst yourselves. Enjoy. Topic: Cats. Domestic Lovebugs or Feral Terrorists.
While I’m away, please go forth and enjoy this silly bunch of distractions, particularly the very silly hot guys/cats part, as well as the adorable Prince George gifs and the newly titled Disney movies (based on current movie naming trends).
No one can sing about Prejudice the way Tim Minchin can.
With any luck, my doctor appointment WILL happen today as scheduled.
With any luck, my next nap will be free of nightmares.
With any luck, Celia will eat without us having to carry her food to her. The scaredy cat diva.
With any luck, I will make it through today on just a single dose of pain meds.
With any luck, I’ll get my photos from this weekend uploaded.
With any luck, I’ll remember where I left most of my marbles.
Celia has taken to sitting in the window or at the door, growling. She’s protecting us from the evil that lurks outside. You know: stray cats and opossums. Maybe even the odd person walking by. It’s really pretty cute. She takes her work quite seriously. However, it does come with its downside. The window next to my chair is currently open a bit and that is a beacon to her. She sits on the arm of the chair, long furry tail in my face or on the computer keyboard, balancing precariously on the window ledge. That’s where my pen and notebook, my water bottle, cell phone, earrings, hair accessories, and other things reside. I have everything in reach. But she knocks it down while she’s up there. And the tail in my face tickles. So, I keep trying to redirect her attentions elsewhere. It takes nothing short of ten lift and relocations to get her to let up. (She really is very dedicated to her job.)
I’ve also closed the other window she guards enough so that she still gets fresh air but can’t get too feisty and push the screen out. I opened two other windows on that same side of the house the same little amount so that we still benefit from the breeze (which we need as it’s been rather warm [we actually had THE hottest temp in the country on Sunday]).
Right now, Celia is perched, again precariously, on the tiny bit of space in front of the TV. Fletch has done this a few times, but never Celia. Apparently she likes General Hospital. Or maybe it’s just part of her night-time “crazies”. (I don’t know what else to call them. She only gets into things and gets goofy late at night.)
Fletch, my little darling, he is snoozing on the sofa. Resting his head on what has become his pillow. But, of course, he’s sensed that I’m blogging about him and moved closer to where I am. He does this. He always knows when I’m writing about him. My smart little furball.
About a week ago, our friends came over with their 11-month-old daughter. We didn’t know how things would go with her and the cats, but there was only one way to find out. So, we introduced her to Fletch and let her pet him. We also had her pet Celia once she came out of hiding (she pretty much walked away after and ignored us the rest of the night). But Fletch! Savannah crawled around in the kitchen and Fletch would play peekaboo with her. She would crawl after him for a bit and then get tired and stop. Then he’d come crawling after her for a bit. They’d peek around the corners at each other. They kept their eyes on each other. And they both seemed to have a really fun time of it. It was not only cute, it was quite sweet. Oh, and when Savannah saw the catfood on the floor by their bowls (we collectively held our breath), she would pick it up and put it back in the bowl, looking up at us with a big ol’ grin, as if to say, “I’m a good helper, aren’t I?”
We took the cats to the vet last week. What a fucking adventure that was! It was stressful getting them into their carriers. On them and on us. I walked out of the house looking as though I was part cat myself; covered head to toe in copious amounts of cat fur, I even coughed up a hairball.
At the vet’s, we found out that Fletch is weighing in at about 13 pounds. Lovely Celia is a mere 6 pounds. Frankly, I was surprised she weighed that much! She’s really very light. Picking her up is like cradling a bubble in your hands.
Celia freaked out and hid under the sink in the office. There was just enough room for her climb through the opening above the cabinet door. Fletch later tried the same thing but failed, 1) because he’s too damn big to get through the same opening, and 2) because he’s not exactly adept at gracefully scaling certain surfaces. To that end, he also managed to bring down the cat tree at home as he was attempting to scale it. He got up to the top by digging his claws into the rope-covered posts once before, but on his second attempt, he went slower and the entire thing just fell over on him. Why he couldn’t climb up from the couch, I don’t know. He just had to do it his way. (He goes up to the top from the couch now, though.)
Back to the vet story.
The vet fell in love with Fletch. I even heard her saying (through a closed door) “if they don’t want that little orange tabby, I’ll take him. He’s just such a sweet boy!” No way, Doc. You’re really nice and all, but he’s OUR sweet boy! We love him way too much to ever want to be without him. Surprisingly, Celia, who normally goes through stress-induced whacko scratching with people she doesn’t know, was sweet as hell whenever anyone picked her up. She was even very good during her blood draw and pet-i-cure and teeth exam, stool sample, temperature taking, etc. However, by the time she got back into the room, she was quite shaken. She sat on the floor, making herself as small as possible, and trembled. (Fletch had already been through it all and was back to his curious and somewhat uber-chill self.) I picked her up and cuddled and calmed her as much as I could. Finally, seeing Fletch stretched out on the floor — in the corner under the exam table, but still…being chill — I said, “Celia, why don’t you go lay down with your brother? You two can comfort each other.” Honest to God, she walked over to him and laid down with him! It was almost as cute as the two cats out in the adoption center who were curled up together, the one with his paws around the other’s neck. Almost that cute. Surprising as hell, because she tends to keep her distance from Fletch, except when we’re not paying attention and then they sleep together.
After all was said and done, cats went back into their carriers (much easier at that point because they were just wiped out!), vaccinated, examed stem to stern, swabbed, probed, and pet-i-cured and we began the check out process. It took ages, but we finally got out of there, arms loaded with cats, food, treats, five containers of medication, instructions, and a stack of paperwork from the visit.
Both cats have to go back to have their ears rechecked after we finish two weeks of ear drops and flushes. Their ears were infected and filthy like you wouldn’t believe! Twice a day we piss them off by swabbing the upper outer ear and then deposit three drops per ear per cat. If we don’t spell out (literally) what we’re going to do, Celia runs and hides, making it quite the chase and crazy ordeal to get her over to the meds. Fletch, well, we just walk up to him and scoop him up. Sometimes I can do it all by myself. Other times, it’s a two-person operation. Afterwards, they both look at us with murder in their eyes. Or at least, on Fletch’s part, great derision. He gets over it very quickly, though. She holds a grudge. In the morning, she will go lie under the rocking chair for a few hours, glaring at us in between naps. Otherwise, they’ve been fairly cooperative and fun to have around.
Celia’s post-vet behavior change has made her seek more loves from us and she is almost always on the chair with me (when she isn’t at the window or door protecting us from the world). Fletch has become even bolder in just about every other way. He always did like to check out the shower when I was getting in, but he now has actually allowed me to gently run water down his back and tail. Before long, I imagine him simply taking a full shower with me.
They’re weird cats, but they’re OUR weird cats. And we wouldn’t have it any other way.
When I had to go into court against the insurance company a couple weeks ago, we saw a naval ship off the coast at Camp Pendleton, practicing loading and offloading of gear. The haze and the sun and the angle of our vehicle made it look rather ghostly, as if it were floating up in the thin clouds. By the time we pulled over at the rest stop, it looked a little less ghostly, but I took a few photos anyway.
I couldn’t leave well enough alone, so I separated myself from the crowd (who were also out shooting with cameras and snapping with cell phones), wandered behind the one tree that stood off to the side, and figured I’d play NCIS agent to get the next two shots. King Arthur had the same idea and was trying to find me certain angles, which didn’t work so well because he’s taller and, guess what? I’m not. So I stuck with my range of view.
Yeah, I’m a total geek when it comes to making something easy a lot more difficult. I think they turned out okay. Sadly, I had no DiNozzo to slap upside the head, although I think I called KA “probie” in keeping with the NCIS theme. (I’ve already admitted I’m weird. No need to say it again, unless you absolutely must.)
This past Christmas I actually made lots of cookies with King Arthur, Lady M, Lord R, KA’s stepson Lord B, and Lord B’s kids, Miss K and Mister D. It proved to be a little messy, but was tons of fun. The kids, especially, enjoyed the process. Mister D had a great time rolling out dough and deploying the cookie cutters that Lady M had given me as a Christmas gift. Even the adults had a good time with the decorating, except for King Arthur, who thought there was too much work involved. In the end, he liked how they looked.
Because Lady M and Lord R are both graduates of UCLA, we snuck in some school spirit. At one point, we even took a dig at USC (because that’s how we roll around here). Also included, “pirates”. And, there is one cookie that is completely different from all the rest. It’s one from a batch of cookies my sister had made. See if you can guess which one it is.
I’d fully meant to post these photos sooner, however, I’m lame. Just…lame. But I figure this is a great time to post them as you probably need a break from cats, cats, cats. (I have so many more of those stories, too!)
After seeing these photos, I’m ready for a few dozen cookies. Gingerbread, sugar cookies, shortbread, and some of the chocolate chile cookies. I may need to bake this week or next. We’ll see how it goes. If you have a preference, let me know. I’d love to try some new recipes. My only request is: no nuts. Neither KA nor I eat nuts.
111,111,111 x 111,111,111 = 12,345,678,987,654,321
And, I know guy who knows a guy who knows someone who says that math is fun.
…til college football is over.
Don’t get me wrong, I like football. But, I’ve reached my limit on the Lisa Frank sticker books they call helmets these days. I know, I know. They’ve been doing this for years. The thing is, it’s gone too far. When you see helmets almost completely covered by stickers, it seems a bit overkill.
Seems to me this sticker reward system is out of control and needs to be rethought.
Okay, so let’s break this down.
In most cases, stickers are awarded for on-field outstanding plays. I get that. Some teams also award stickers for excellence during practice. Huh? Some award stickers for academic achievements. Uh, okay, though there are so few academic stickers. That still begs the question of why? WHY? It smacks of patting a child on the head for peeing in the potty. Or worse, trophies for everyone who just happened to show up. Or it’s like basketball. Too many points. If points are that easy to get, why not make the game more challenging so the points actually mean something? How about this as an example? Some poker tournaments tout the number of chips in the millions (which don’t equal actual dollars). At some point, once you get over x number of chips, they lose meaning. 34,820,109 chips! Ooooh! He’s betting all of ‘em! Yeah, but what are their actual value? And that’s where these helmet stickers now reside. In Excess Land.
Again, it seems to me this sticker reward system is out of control and needs to be rethought and revised.
Look, we’re talking about GROWN MEN here. Collecting stickers. Why not just go whole hog and really get Lisa Frank rainbow farting unicorns for the helmets? Teams could buy in bulk and schools could save lots of money that could then be used on other programs…or lower tuition.
If you’re going to award stickers to players, make ‘em count. Use them for extraordinary achievements on the field. Not practice. Not the classroom (that’s for parents and teachers to do). And don’t call catching a ball or scoring a touchdown “extraordinary” because, let’s face it, a football player is SUPPOSED to catch a ball, score touchdowns, protect the quarterback, tackle, etc. Extraordinary achievement on the field stickers should be awarded for actions that aren’t part of normal play. Like, perhaps, carrying a teammate off the field after he’s been hard hit. Reviving a downed player. Preventing a drunk fan from getting in his car and plowing into someone after the game. Okay, that, technically, is off-field, but if the player climbed into the stands during the game, I’d go along with that.
Coaches, let’s be real. No player really needs these stickers. No player really earns these stickers when all they’re doing is THEIR JOB on the field.
In the everyday world, the vast majority of us don’t get stickers for simply doing what we’re meant to do. If we did, mothers, fathers, teachers, doctors, nurses, cops, firefighters, our armed forces, etc. everywhere would have to wear entire suits made of stickers for what they accomplish each and every single day.
Let’s leave the stickers for children who need incentive to use the potty, read a book, clean their rooms, or go a whole day without pulling someone’s hair or biting a friend.
Until this sticker trend is revised, I’m only going to root for teams who DON’T use them. So, college teams, you’re on notice. If you want this gal cheering you on, you have until next year to get this shit figured out.
First off, if you like these things, good for you. But, puhleeeze! What is the possible appeal of furry leg warmers?
I’m watching the morning news and they have models in lingerie (yes, on the morning news!) with these insipid furry leg warmers on. WHY? They look ridiculous. Are women who wear them subconsciously wishing they were Clydesdales?