Public Service Announcement

Just so everyone is aware... By decree of Larry, President of Catifornia, tomorrow, March 1st, is Feline Appreciation Day.

I have it on good authority that those of us who are owned by cats are expected to provide an appreciable amount of shrimp, fish, crab, or other dead things that smell really bad, and we are expected to lavish disgusting amounts of attention on the little furballs.

I, for one, will comply, because Max has no problem with walking up and biting the crap out of me.

For your own sake, please observe Feline Appreciation Day. Let's not give our cats any reason to organize a mass revolt.
Apparently, it's not fatigue related nausea.
Thumpa be sick.

There...I shared.


Warning: Whine Fest Ahead

There. You’ve been duly warned. I’m feeling especially whiny today and decided I would share it with the world. And I do so knowing full well I’ve complained about whiners numerous times in the past. No one said I could never be a total hypocrite whilst blogging for the whole world to see. Or at least the 5 of you who seem to check daily to see if I have spewed forth anything, worthy of reading or not.

I need sleep. I need several nights of uninterrupted, really deep, pain free and neighbor free sleep. And cat free, too, though Max seems to be better about not standing in the bathroom hollering his fool little head off at 3 a.m. He saves his little feline chit fits until about 7:15 a.m., when the neighbors upstairs start stomping around.

Yes, they stomp. And they bang things, too. Doors, cabinets, headboards… They do this at 1 a.m., they do this at 4 a.m., they do it at 7 a.m. And they frequently run their damned vacuum at 7:30 in the morning. To Max’s little brain, if anyone is up after 7 a.m., the everyone must get up, or at least someone needs to feed the kitty. He’s taken up tap dancing, and I seem to be his favorite dance floor.

So I get extremely interrupted sleep (I am not a morning person, not at all) which is made worse lately by the fact that the Vicodin is not helping. There isn’t a comfortable spot on the bed. I move, and I feel it, a burning pain in my lower back. I settle onto my side, and my hip screams at me.

I am very tired.

And when I get very tired, I get nauseous.
And whiny.

So here I sit, whining, nibbling on crackers, with nothing better to do than complain.

Well, okay, I have better things I should be doing, but come on. Who would rather work than whine?

Those of you who are sleeping, I suppose…


It’s time to get your geek on.

I have a not-so-old Sony Vaio computer running Windows XP. It has the tendency to reboot itself (usually at an inopportune time) and it recently developed the very rude habit of closing down any programs I have running. When it does this, no matter how many times I’ve saved whatever I’m working on (usually a manuscript) everything reverts back to how it was when I booted up the computer for the day.

I’m getting ticked off.

I did a full system restore not too long ago, hoping that would fix things; it didn’t.
I made sure it’s not overheating.
There doesn’t seem to be any correlation between the problems and new/old software.

So I come to you, the intelligent of the computer world.
What’s wrong, and is it terminal?
Do I need to euthanize this POS?



I actually worked today.
The world will tilt on its axis...


It’s nearly 65 degrees outside.
The sun is shining.
There’s no wind.
It’s beeeeeauuuutiful.

So why am I sitting here inside, trying to make myself work? Why aren’t I outside, in the car with the top down, tying to make up errands that need to be run? If I tried hard enough, I could invent places that I needed to go… I could absolutely find shopping that “needs” to be done, and sights that “need” to be seen.


This is the lameness of my life.
Not that I’m complaining.
I just want to go outside and play, when there’s work to be done.

If the car wasn’t so bouncy, I’d be out of this house in a flash. Well, maybe not a flash, as that implies speed, and at my age and weight I’m not so speedy anymore. But you get the idea.

Spring hath sprung, and I want to go out and revel in it, adding the exhaust from my car to the pollution levels of Solano County.

But here I sit.
Boring you with my indecision.

If everyone, or just 55 of you, would send me $500, I bet I could get a new topless car, and there would be no future indecisions. Go’head. Send me money. Lots and lots of money. I’ll be offline more and out of your cyber hair. Those are the benefits to you.

Didn’t think so.
I so suck at cyber-begging.

I never have figured out how Karyn (oh wait...original sit is here) did it, getting total strangers to pay off her credit cards. Though if I ever do figure it out, I’m not stopping for just a car. The world can pay off all my credit cards and medical bills and old tuition still not paid off.

I should get back to work.


I was going to take a picture and show you me owie, but it’s already gone.

I really figured there would be a big gaping hole surrounded by a massive bruise, but I took the bandage off, and…nothing. I can’t even find the little hole where the needle was jabbed through my oh-so-sensitive skin.

It’s almost disappointing.

I mean, you wait for 45 minutes or so in a waiting room filled with old people, sick people, sticky people, and twitchy people, and then you let some 18 year old med tech take a five foot long needle and stab you in the back of the hand to draw half the blood out of your body, and you expect something.

Yep, blood comes out of the back of my hand now, because my other veins are pretty much used up. And not from the drugs. Just from all the blood work done over the past few years, I suppose. The tech poked her finger over the crook of my elbow and declared all the veins there to be “superficial.”

I tried to not take that personally. More than my veins have a tendency to be superficial from time to time. Hopefully the nice thick vein in the back of my hand won’t collapse and become as superficial as the rest of me, ‘cause I know they’ll want more blood next month.

It might be easier if they just punch me in the nose and soak it up from there.

But…no owie. And I so wanted to show it off, and get all kinds of sympathy.


You’d think that two college educated people would have at least a tiny iota of common sense.

You’d think.
And you might be wrong.
Probably, you’d be wrong.

Most of the time, the Spouse Thingy and I can reach those inner reserves and at least fake it. We know that, while the idea of sparks and Don King like hair might be kinda cool for 2.3 seconds, sticking a fork into an outlet would not be the brightest of moves. And we realize that while the cat enjoys it so much, there would be repercussions for letting him scarf down on as much shrimp as his little tummy can hold.

We’re not stupid.

So with some foundation of proof that we do have the capability of demonstrating common sense, we watched the Weather Channel this afternoon as it appeared a severe storm was moving through the area; Sacramento had already had a tornado warning (which did produce funnel clouds later declared to be The Real Thing) and we were “only” warned of impending rain and wind and hail. Of the Severe Variety.

So while the weather man was telling people to stay indoors and move to the safest part of the house (note to TWC people: most of us in northern CA don’t have basements, thusly, we cannot go to them) the Spouse Thingy and I did something else.

We went outside to watch.

We stood there, out of reach of the rain, and watched it pour. We watched lighting bolt across the sky. We watched hail fall and dance in the grass, boiling between the blades, popping up like…um…popcorn. We enjoyed the feeling of the wind and the sudden drop in temperature. We were as far from the safest part of the apartment as we could get without actually leaving the vicinity of the building.

Yep. We’s smart.

We’ve demonstrated this level of common sense before: in Illinois, as the guy on TV was screeching at people to take cover because a tornado was coming through, we stood by the big picture window in the living room and watched as the sky turned green. In North Dakota we stepped outside a few times to marvel at the force of the blizzards moving through.

Yep. That’s a college education for you.

Someday, someone will walk by my grave and read my tomb, and it’ll say simply, “Well, Hail!”


How To Get Out Of Work Without Even Trying

1. Have a bad back. This keeps people from asking you to lift heavy objects, such as moving boxes and mattresses and desks.

2. Have 3 sleepless nights. You look like hell, and no one wants you around.

3. The morning when the work is to be done, crawl back into bed and sleep until it is completed.

4. Marvel at how much good that nap did you, as everyone else sits, all sweaty, looking stupefied.

The Boy has moved his stuff into what was my office; I was the Good Mommy and slept while he and the Spouse Thingy loaded the truck and did the rest of the grunt work. When the came home, I remained the Good Mommy and stayed out of their way. And when the truck was unloaded, I suggested pizza for lunch.

Because, you know, we all worked so hard…

In other news, the cat had shrimp two days in a row, and his Younger Human is here. If there’s a feline 7th Heaven, he has achieved it.


I fell asleep.
Unintentionally, but it was a nice 45 minutes.
Nice except for Oprah.

I don’t mind Oprah. Once in a while I turn on the TV and watch her, if the topic is something I might be marginally interested in. Granted, that happens less often these days, but I’m not getting up on an anti-Oprah horse with a crop in hand, beating all the Oprah fans about the head and shoulders for having the audacity to still be fans. I understand her appeal. I appreciate the respect she’s earned. Heck, I’d have lunch with her. Well, her and enough other people that I wouldn’t have to carry on the conversation, because I truly suck at that.

But Oprah invaded my dream this afternoon, and it bothers me.

Today on Oprah…Thumper is seated at a table and told she will be presented with a choice between two things. Whatever she chooses has the capacity to make her life incredibly happy, incredibly stressful, or a combination of both.

After hearing this, Oprah puts two things on the table: a basket filled with cash, $250,000 tax free, and a basket with a large, squirming, kicking lump covered in a blue blanket. He is only 2 days old and has no name.

“Pick whichever you think will make your life more complete,” Oprah tells me.

Now, theoretically, this is a no brainer. I’ve had my kid. He’s been raised, he turned out fine, and while I’m looking forward to grandkids some day, I’m not looking to take up diaper duty and potty training again. I’m pushing 44 freaking years old. And I could really use the cash. Get out of debt, put a down payment on a house, set something aside for the future. It would make us very comfortable.


My brain sometimes works in circles, so I ask Oprah, “What happens to the baby if I don’t choose him?”

She shrugs and says that I don’t get to factor in that part of the equation. I don’t get to know.

“But if I know that in choosing the cash I’m condemning this kid to be snatched by a pack of wolves, even theoretically, that has to factor in. And what if I chose him, thinking I would be saving him, when outside the door is the perfect younger couple who would give their lives before they’d let anything bad happen to him, who want him so much they’re already in love with him and will be hurt forever if they don’t get him? And what if I would be the Big Bad in his life? What if I chose him and he wasn’t ever really happy, because even though I tried to give him the absolutely best life I could, he could feel some undercurrent of resentment? Could I take the money and use it to help someone who truly deserves the honor of raising him buy their way through the legal system to adopt him? All I really want is to do what’s right for him.”

“Just choose.”

“The money doesn’t even matter. I have to know what’s right for that kid.”

“Just choose.”

This freaking sucks, because life is nothing but a series of choices…and I was paralyzed. I had no idea what to do. When I woke up, my head was in my hands, and I felt utterly, completely lost, and more than a little bit sad.

And I was really pissed off at Oprah.
She owes me a nap.
Oh, man, talk about disappointing. Where’s all the fun in taking Vicodin? Where’s the rush? The thrill? The high?

I popped one last night—the idea being a pain free night makes for a good night and a good night means sleep—and nothing. No fun. No thrill. No high.

Really. No high!
What’s the point?

Seriously, I took it and got nothing out of it. The pain was certainly still there, and I didn’t sleep well because, well, I couldn’t sleep. I wound up getting out of bed and playing online until 3:30 in the freaking morning, hoping that doing puzzle after puzzle would lull me into drowsiness.

I wouldn’t have minded the not sleeping if there had been some Fun Time Benefit to taking the Vicodin.

I didn’t want the meds to begin with, but I agreed to it. So where’s my freaking fun? I want my fun!!!

In other news, Thumper obviously needs some sleep. Past experience tells me I will sleep like the proverbial log tonight, and in the morning the cat will have to stick something up my nose to get me out of bed to feed him.

:::wanders off, shivering with anticipation:::


There’s no magic pill to fix my back.
Mostly because they still don’t know what the problem is :/

The x-rays showed a normal lower spine and right hip, so the next step is an MRI. Earliest available they had for that is March 8 at 9 p.m. Yep, 9 at night. So it’s good news that the x-rays didn’t show anything horrendous, bad news that I still don’t know what the hell the problem is.

I did walk out of there with pain meds; I honestly did not want them, but the doc pointed out that my sleep was interrupted, and I need some pain free or pain reduced sleep. She also, after I whined about having gained back a few pounds because I haven’t been able to work out, recommended non-weight bearing stuff. So the next day off the Spouse Thingy has, we’re checking out a local gym and see how good their pool looks (the apartment has one, but it’s too freaking cold…)

And the worst thing? I didn’t get to see my x-rays, so they might have been animated, and now I’ll never know…


And The Award For Best Animated Short Goes To...

Tomorrow is the Big Day. Yep. Really Big Day. I go in and find out what the x-rays say about my back and my hip…

(Sorry to disappoint you…such is my life, that a trip to see an x-ray is a Big Deal.)

Now…given my dream a while back, I am going to be seriously disappointed when the doc sticks that film up on the special white box and it’s not animated. I know there will be no spinning pieces of macaroni flying off my spine, but still. After the contortions they put me through to take the freaking pictures, there should be some residual entertainment value.

It’s terrible, but a part of me wants there to be something not-so-terrific showing on the x-rays. Not that I want there to be anything terrible wrong with me—I want it to be an easy fix, give me a pill and make it all better kind of fix—but there needs to be something tangible to show what’s causing all the pain.

My doc—being new to my medical woes—does not know that I have FMS, and I’m not volunteering the information. The last thing I want is to have some doubtful physician make assumptions about my sanity and placate me with “Oh, it’s just your FMS…”

I know what FMS feels like. This does not feel like that; this feels like shards of macaroni spinning at 10,000 rpm.

I just want it to be over with. And better. With no effort on my part.
Because I’m lazy that way.


Hey... Sharon over at Adventures Of A Domestic Engineer could really use some high energy Mojo and Good Thoughts... Even if you're not a regular reader, might be nice if you plopped in and sent some Get Healthy Fast wishes her way. Please. I'll beg if I have to.

I do not remember going back into the bedroom this morning, but I woke up there again at noon…

This is going to be a totally unproductive day.

Join me.
It’ll be fun.


Happy Valentine’s Day.

Hopefully you’re not standing in those long lines everywhere, doing the last-minute-gift thing. Or standing in the middle of WalMart tearing your hair out because you can’t find the right box of chocolates (because there are none left) or the right romantic CD (because they’re remodeling the danged electronics area and you can’t find a freaking thing anyway.) And I especially hope you’re not the guy I saw in the grocery store, on his knees, pleading with his 3 year old “Please tell me what Mommy said she wants…”

This kid had his finger up his nose, but I’m pretty sure that’s not the hint Mommy must have dropped.

I am going to spend my Valentine’s Day saying bad words to my work computer, which has decided it will not play nice with the Internet (yay for the laptop as a backup, even though parts of it died a long time ago), listening to CDs (yay Steve Miller Band and Bowling For Soup) and fighting with the cat over the flowers the Spouse Thingy sent me (yay for brain dense kitties that think if it’s green, it must be edible.)

The Spouse Thingy is the late guy at work today, which means I may not see him until 8 p.m. or so, but that’s okay, since there’s no way I’d want to fight the crowds at a restaurant tonight. He has Wednesday off; he can take me out for a killer pizza or to Burger City for the World’s Best Tri-Tip Dip ever created (you know it’s good when the first time you try it, you take a bite and moan “ohmygawwwwwwd!”)


Covered In Cat Hair And Nowhere To Go…

The cat picks now, when I’m wearing a clean white sweatshirt to get all snuggly and affection on me. This is the cat that allows petting in 3.5 second spurts, and three times a day maximum. I’m pretty sure he saw the white sweatshirt, thought “Score!” and jumped up in my lap with the Intent to Commit Shedding.

Now that I’m sufficiently all furred up, he wants nothing do to with me.

Any minute now the Boy will be over here; he and the Spouse Thingy are heading over to the storage until we’re renting (you know, one of those places you pay good money to so that you can keep the crap you obviously no longer need) so they can rearrange its contents.

[The contents must be rearranged in order to accommodate even more crap; the Boy’s lease runs out this month and he’s going to move in with us (hence, the emptying out of my office to the bedroom, which is proving to be a sweet deal for me.) It’s just a chance for him to finish up the school year without having to work so many hours. And we have food here. He wants food again.]

I am not allowed to accompany them to the storage unit, because the Spouse Thingy has declared that I shall engage in no overt physical activity until my doctor’s appointment next week, when we’ll find out what’s up with my back. I volunteered to go supervise…but they don’t want me.

No one is being honest: they don’t want me to go, not because of my back, but because I will have to control every aspect of the rearranging, telling them where to put everything.

Well. Yeah.
Because I’m so good at that…
I can tell people where to go, and where to put things.
We all need special talents like that.

So…I have the afternoon alone in the apartment with nothing to do but blog surf and complain that I have nothing to do and nowhere to go…but damn, I look good all covered in PsychoKitty. I should be seen in public.


Instead, I am going to blog surf, eat pie, wait until the cat is snoozing and then jump on the bed, squealing “KITTY!” just to see the look on his face (and it’s payback for his 3 a.m. leap from the bookcase), play on JigZone some, yell at the TV for there not being anything good on, engage in an internal debate about whether or not it’s too late to drink a soda with caffeine—because there are a few cans of diet Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper in the fridge and I want one—look at VW bug ragtops online and drool, and if they’re not back by the time I’m done with all that…

Good thing there are so many blogs out there.


A while back I saw a news piece (I think it was a slow news day) on what the Internet might be doing to the English language. There were people claiming that kiddie speak and language shortcuts would stay within the Internet culture, people in a near panic because it was going to “destroy” the English language as we know it, and people who were indifferent, because, after all, language is not static; it’s a fluid thing and will change over time. We might as well accept it.

It’s definitely doing something; enter example visible to the left. This is a short snippet of a piece I received a year or so ago as a submission for publication. One hundred and fifty pages of an IM conversation; I found the idea endearing and the back story decent…but I couldn’t read it all. A person’s eyes can only take so much of a CoNsTaNt StReAm oF ThIs.

And my brain just can’t wrap around “u no it d00d!” and “oh u r so nt l33t.”

The story was good, it could have been very good if the author had chosen to minimize the shortcut language. He refused, however, because “this is how kids speak to one another, and they understand this.”

I get that. There’s no reason for kids to change the way they communicate online simply because the older part of the population doesn’t like it. Adults don’t need to understand it any more than our parents needed to understand our teenage slang. Colloquialisms exist for a reason—it’s supposed to give anyone over 35 a headache; we’re not suppose to read their IMs and email conversations.

But an entire book?
Is the world ready for that?
Should we ever be ready for that?


If you're on my blogroll, chances are I've checked your blog 10 times today.
Because you entertain me, and I don't want to do housework.


TMI =or= You Can Lead A Wabbit To Water…

…and if her DDAVP has worn off, she will drink. Copiously. She will drain whatever reservoir of liquid is available and want for more. She will take your beverage, drain it dry, and then will commence knocking old ladies and children onto their bee-hinds in order to take their drinks, too.

Okay, so I wouldn’t go that far. I’ll take the Spouse Thingy’s drink, but I tend to leave small children and adults out of my liquid frenzy when it hits.

And that’s been happening a lot more lately.* I used to have breakthrough on the medication once or twice a week; now it happens 4 or 5 times a week (and yes, I will mention this to my doc when I see him in March. It probably means nothing more than I’ll have to increase how many times a day I take it.)

Today I went out to get cat food. That’s it, just cat food. I got to WalMart (’cause they have PsychoKitty’s favorite cheaper than Safeway) and it hit me. I needed something to drink, and I needed it right that minute. I was in the pet department, eyeing the fish tanks with a longing usually reserved for massive amounts of chocolate. If there had been a hose nearby…

I bought a diet Coke and drained it in about 2.25 seconds.
No, I’m not kidding.

I got halfway home and realized…omg, if I don’t pee in the next 2 minutes, I’ll be swimming home. Then it occurred to me I hadn’t defrosted anything for dinner (no, I don’t know why that particular thought popped into my head) so I turned at the next street and went to Safeway.

Safeway has a nice restroom. Usually clean.

After I washed my hands I realized I needed something to drink again. Badly. Junky withdrawal badly. I rushed through the store, grabbing a ham and a soft drink, paid, and then sat in the car, guzzling that sweet, sweet diet soda.

We live less than half a mile from Safeway. No, I could not have made it home. And halfway between Safeway and home, I needed to pee again. I didn’t even put the top up on the car when I got home; I ran inside and headed for the closest bathroom. And I made it. Yay for me.

And then I drank. Guzzled. Complete with gross slurping sounds. Two diet Sierra Mists.
Yes, two.

And no, when the thirsties hit me (such as the Spouse Thingy refers to it) I don’t head for water. Water would make sense, right? But water doesn’t quench the thirst (nothing does) and I can drink too much of it too quickly. Since I hate throwing up—the inevitable result of drinking until your stomach can no longer hold any more—I drink diet soda. The fizz slows me down. And it tastes better.

So…being the wise wabbit that I am, after I belched loud enough to scare the cat, I took a hit of the DDAVP, and within 2 minutes all was calm. I have had only 12 ounces of fluid since then, and that was 8 hours ago.

In an odd way, when the DDAVP wears off in the evening and I just let it go (taking it just before bedtime, so I don’t have to get up in the middle of the night to pee) I like the thirsties and sucking down can after can of diet soda. For an hour or two, it’s a warped sort of enjoyable.

No, I never said I was sane.
But surprisingly, I am now thirsty…

*For those not tormented by previous long missives on the subject: Thumper had a pituitary tumor a couple of years ago that left her with diabetes insipidus, a condition that causes the brain to no longer manufacture the hormone Vasopressin. This is the hormone that tells the kidneys when to hold water and let it go. Without it, life is one long drinking and peeing fest. The medication for it, DDAVP, keeps the violently painful thirst and marathon peeing in check. Usually. The tumor was benign, and not a type likely to ever occur. In fact, being that I was 40 and my child was 19, and the tumor usually only occurs in women who have just had a baby, I shouldn’t have had it in the first place. Go figure.


I’m going to go out on a limb here and presume that most people online know how to read. And this presumption also lends itself to the idea that those who can read had some form of rudimentary education. So…put your school-brains back into your head and tell me what’s wrong with this:

Devon looked at the thing in his hand “you will never believe this he said to his brother who was sitting just to the left of him and to the right of the TV which was on with the volumn turned down low. His brother did not look up but grunted “yeah whatever and kept looking at the TV even though he probably couldn’t not hear it.

“Its kind of cool Devon said not caring if his brother was not listening. It makes all kinds of noises and lights if you press the right button. Way cool.”

I am not a grammar nazi.

I do not peruse other peoples’ blogs and comment on the way they spell or punctuate. For the most part blogs should be immune to that type of criticism. Especially mine.

However, the above is indicative of a manuscript submission I recently received. The storyline is actually quite good and worthy of publication, but by the time I finish correcting just the basic mistakes my eyes will be bleeding and my head might pop two or three times.

I wouldn’t think much about it if not for the fact that this is a fairly common trait of most manuscript submissions (and I won’t get into the AOL KiddieSpeak SuBmIsSiOnS or we’ll be here all day…) and if it weren’t for the fact that the author of the aforementioned example has a PhD. A doctorate. IN EDUCATION! That means that surely this person has an education.

Doesn’t it?

Honestly, I really don’t care if someone’s personal blog is riddled with punctuation errors (like mine never is… :::cough:::) and misspellings. Blogs are personal and generally conversational; if I can’t read past the run-on sentences and KiddieSpeak, I’ll just move on.

But peoples…if you’re hoping to become a Published Writer--the end product being a real book you can hold in your hand--be sure that the manuscript you submit is something that won’t make a first reader’s head explode. Or make the editor cry two or three times a day while trying to go through it line by line. Most of the time it won’t get past the first reader; if you’re lucky and it does—because the story is that good—the editor is just going to fire it back to you and “suggest” you fix it before re-submitting.

And if you simply don’t grasp the basics of spelling, grammar, etc. ad nauseum, go find your elementary school teachers and kick them in their collective shins, because a grave disservice was wrought upon your education.

I don’t want perfection in submissions.
I just want to be able to read them.

Some of you out there have incredible creative minds, able to weave wonderful stories that suck a reader right into the page…but yeah. Go find those teachers and give ‘em just one quick kick to the shin.

And keep writing…your grammar might suck but your stories do not.


Barefoot Principessa is doing a really cool thing: holding a raffle to benefit March Of Dimes Walk America.

So, your mission for today is to pop on over there and read her last couple of blog entries, peruse the list of prizes (it’s not up there yet, but a copy of Max’s book has been offered…) and then do whatcha gotta do… :::points finger::: You know whatcha gotta do.


Sometimes you just gotta share your email...

"I just read yesterday's post. You're a woman?"

I am so sorry to disappoint anyone... LOL


Who needs porn when you have the AutoRama to get all hot and bothered over?

Other women like home shows and craft fairs--me, I like auto shows. New cars, old cars, I don’t care. I just like to go look at the cars. No, I don’t know a dang thing about them, other than the shinier they are, the better. And convertibles are so much better than coupes or sedans.

I have my biases, for sure.
But I love car shows.
And this was an awesome show.

There’s an annual show in Dayton, and we went a couple of years while we were there, but that was really a new car show, a place for dealers to show off what they have coming into the showroom soon. And I liked that, but this…oh man. There were five buildings housing car after car, and most of them were frame up restorations of older cars. Everything from Model A’s to Corvettes. By the time we were done, I think we both had that “Oh I wish we were rich and talented and could have a car like that” feeling.

It was worth all the pain, too, seeing as how my back did not cooperate and I barely made it back to our car.

Well…I didn’t, actually. The Spouse Thingy had to get the car and pick me up at the entrance. I walk like a 90 year old right now… but it was worth it.

I better go wipe the drool off my chin.

Oh man, those cars were nice.


Truly, if men had cancer screenings the same way women do, there would be a better mammogram created and in wide distribution before most of us could blink.

:::wanders off to find some Motrin:::


How--how--did I make it to 43 years old without ever having had one of these???

Forget the typical Red or Golden Delicious variety.

This is the most amazing apple on earth.
Sweet as candy, juicy as…something very juicy.

I don’t even want chocolate…I just want a bagful of Fuji apples. And maybe some immodium. ‘Cause, well…you know.


What A Way To Start February:

And yes, I drove around topless this afternoon...
Ordinary bedroom.
Ordinary bed.
Ordinary bookcases.

However… I do not have an ordinary cat. What I have is a semi-psychotic furball who experiences a mostly normal life, with periods of inexplicable insanity. He howls his little head off in the middle of the night, just because he can. He stalks and attacks, running up behind his target, whacking them on the back of the leg or butt, after which he runs away. He enjoys sticking his nose up my left nostril. He stalks his water dish. He jumps up into someone’s lap, presumably to be petted, whereupon he sinks his teeth into the closest arm and then runs away. He can turn the bathroom lights on and off.

And now. Now he has bookcases right next to the bed.
He now has a new middle of the night activity.
If he could, he’d learn to shriek “Bonzai!” or “Germonero!*”
If he could, he’d paint a target on my stomach.

*Ask The Boy…