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?
Happy Thanksgiving to one and all!
May you be blessed with much, loved by many, and go hoarse from all the praises you sing today.
As I said last year:
Today I forgive the idiocy and cruelness. Today I focus on the kindness and love. And today I offer my thanks all those around me for being a part of my journey.
That should be my mantra each and every day. Maybe I need to start making Thanksgiving resolutions instead of waiting until January 1.
And it wouldn’t be Thanksgiving without some form of this:
LD, who missed his train and had to take the next one, arrived safely. We’ve had a good day.
We had game night. We played a new game called “Quick Wit”. Found it on Ebay while looking for Chinese Checkers. My particular version is dated 1938. And it’s FUN! At some point, there were tears, laughter, spontaneous belching and farting, and lots of shouting. I’m surprised the cops weren’t called. All that fun was loud and thoroughly enjoyable.
The premise of the game is simple: there are 50-some cards with letters of the alphabet (excluding X and Z) with prompts for categories. The first person to shout out an answer that fits the category gets the card. The player with the most cards at the end of the game wins. I did okay. And I think I was the loudest. Imagine that.
Tons of fun for a couple bucks. Hours spent laughing with family and friends…PRICELESS.
All we need now is a regular table (we have bar-height and stools) so I don’t kill my back during game time and meals and we’re in the money!
Bonus: The Garden Wife is in town and we’ll be meeting up tomorrow. Woo hoo!
Hope you’re all having a great weekend!
Mr. Quimby: So, you agree to start your great climb to success, your climb to the very top?
Norman Phiffier: I’m ready to climb!
Mr. Quimby: By starting at the very bottom?
Norman Phiffier: Right down below the depths of the bottom, deep, lowest place where I am, I’ll start.
I love Jerry Lewis movies and I ain’t afraid to say it.
Because they ARE refined creatures, you know.
Shakespearean insults + cats = truth
And this is yet another reason I say bacon should be its own food group.
Here’s a really funny video clip of comedian Jim Gaffigan doing a bit about bacon on Late Night with Conan O’Brien. Transcript below.
“I just had some bacon. Anybody ever had bacon before? It’s good. Oh, my greasy lover, bacon. It’s the best!
You wanna know how good bacon is? To improve other food, they wrap it in bacon. If it weren’t for bacon, we wouldn’t even know what a water chestnut is. “Thank you bacon. Sincerely, Water Chestnut III.”
And bits of bacon, bits of bacon are like the fairy dust of the food community. “You don’t want this baked potato? Brrring! Now it’s your favorite part of the meal. Not interested in the salad? Bibbity bobbity BACON. I just turned it into an entree.”
But once you put bacon in a salad, it’s no longer a salad. It just becomes a game of ‘find the bacon in the lettuce’. It’s like you’re panning for gold. Eureka!
There is something dishonest though about putting bacon in a salad – it’s kind of like smoking while you jog. “I want the BLT, but I’ll just get a salad with bacon and tomato. Can you put it between two pieces of toast and stick a toothpick through it? That’d be great…”
It’s amazing the shrinkage that occurs with bacon. You start with a pound, you end up with a bookmark.
I never feel like I get enough bacon, at breakfast it’s like they’re rationing it. “Here’s your two strips of bacon.” “I want more, more bacon!”
Whenever I’m at a brunch buffet and they have that big metal tray filled with the 4000 pieces of bacon, I always think, “If I was here by myself…I would eat only bacon. I would steal this tray, go lay down, and eat bacon all day.”
But you can’t eat bacon all day, cause it’s horrible for you. You know bacon’s bad when a healthier choice is a donut. And we’ve known bacon is bad for thousands of years. It’s literally a restriction on entering certain religious. “Our rules: No Killing, No Cheating on Your Wife, No Bacon.” “Oooh, what was that last one?” “No Bacon.” “Aaah, I’m in the wrong line.”
“How many bacon jokes is he gonna do? It’s like, come on!”
But bacon is that good. I bet if you put bits of bacon on a strip of bacon, you could travel back in time. It’s like a tasty vortex.
And fat back, supposedly fat back is like bacon on steroids, you know. I’ve never tried fat back, probably because it’s called ‘fat back’. I don’t know what creeps me out more – fat or back. Why don’t they just throw in hairy while they’re at it? “That’s some good hairy fat back. That reminds me, your mother called.”
“That’s gotta be the end of the bacon jokes…”
I even like the name Bacon. You can’t tell me the success of Kevin Bacon isn’t somehow tied to his name. You’re not going out to see a Kevin Hot Dog movie. “Who’s in this movie?” “Kevin Bacon.” “Sounds good.”
Thank you very much. You’ve been like bacon.
Today started early, was busy, and now it’s wonderfully quiet and calm.
King Arthur and I went out to get orchid food for the orchids we have in our bathroom (we threw out the bamboo that was dying very rapidly [without reason, I might add]) and thus Home Depot seemed like a good place to get it. We walked out of Home Depot with orchid food, 4 tubes of caulk, a bottle of pest spray, a flat of lobelia, a big pot of cannas, a medium sized pot of blue salvia, a big pot of red Mandevilla, and a free cutting of some sort of bromeliad. Oh, and a huge bag of potting soil.
Tomorrow is planting day. Hip hip HUZZAH!
We ran our purchases home, unloaded, and then the King dropped me off to get my hair cut. I had the gal take three inches off. Still plenty of hair left on my head and it’ll grow back quickly enough…now that the dead ends aren’t dragging the rest down.
From there, we hit Walmart to pick up baking supplies. Yeah, I’m gonna be doing some baking this weekend. King’s mother and sister and cousin are going to be coming over this weekend for dinner, so I need to contribute something. I’m making lemon squares. And a blueberry pie.
Now, about the crows…
Two days ago, King and I watched from the porch as two crows flew in, one landing in the street and the other landing on the roof of the house in front of us. The crow on the ground quickly hopped over to some rocks and plucked himself a tasty snack of a lizard. The roof bird noticed this and hopped down to the ground. Whenever lizard bird would be messing with the lizard, roof bird would hop closer, stealthily. When lizard bird would stop and turn around to see what the other bird was doing, roof bird would look away all non-chalant-like. And then the games would start up again. This went on for a good ten minutes (with us narrating the events, laughing our asses off) before lizard bird decided he’d had enough and flew off.
So much for our entertainment that evening.
Much like tonight. We’ll probably head out to watch the planes as they fly in to land at various airports. We missed, however, our regular entertainment of fireworks at Disneyland. We’re close enough to hear them, but just slightly too far away to see them. Sigh. But I close my eyes and imagine them and enjoy myself nevertheless.