It took us long enough, but we finally toured the Jelly Belly Factory. For someone who loves Jelly Belly Jelly Beans and no other jelly bean on earth, it’s Nirvana.

Sadly, there was glass and about twenty feet in height between us and the candy-in-progress. So there was no touching of the Confectionary Holy Grail, no wabbit prints on any of the Very Cherry or Berry Blue flats of almost-finished beans. No diving head first into a giant vat of Lemon and Tangerine and Dr. Pepper flavored tasty treats.

But it was still fun. I got to see my favorite candy in the process of being made, and there were free samples at the end.

And if you’re hungry, there’s a Jelly Belly Café, where one can munch upon a jelly bean shaped burger or pizza, or suck down an oddly shaped hot dog and some fairly bland french fries (ok, I liked the tour, was not impressed with the Café and it’s mediocre high priced foods…)

My back was not as impressed with the 40 minute walking tour as the rest of me was, but it was worth the pain. I’ll make myself feel better with a few of the 3 pounds of jelly beans we felt obliged to purchase on the way out…


William Shatner.
A spoken word CD.
After his releases in the 70’s, who’da thunk he’d try it again?

So…recalling seeing him on the Mike Douglas show ‘singing’ Lucy In the Sky With Diamonds when I was around 13 years old, and the resulting rolling on the floor howling with laughter, I had to get this.

After all, laughter is the best medicine and I can always use a little of that.

But damn.
It’s good.
Really good.

And I defy anyone who is not completely emotionally unavailable to listen to the 1:43 track What Have You Done and not have your heart squeeze into your throat, even for just a little bit.

You might even find a tear rolling out the corner of your eye.

And Has Been…well, it’s a song unto itself. For anyone who’s ever had that thrown at them: you can’t be a has been if you’re a never was…


I’m so smart that when I die, my brain should be put in a jar and kept out on display somewhere, like maybe the Smithsonian, so the whole world can admire it. It should even have its own special place, in a room on a pedestal with enhanced lighting, and with a surcharge to enter the Arena Of Thumper’s Brain. Because I am that smart.

My intelligence is evidenced by the fact that it is 3 a.m., and I am still wide awake. Because I am so smart, I decided that I would go without my nightly dose of Benedryl for a while. Why? Because somehow I worked up to a dose of 100mg a night, twice what I used to take, and it was making me a little sluggish in the morning. I figured if I just cut the dose back, it wouldn’t make me sleepy at all, so the answer was to go without it entirely. Then after a few nights, I could go back to the 50 mg dose and sleep like a baby. You know, a baby who's been dosed up with one of those little plastic medicine cups filled with grape Dimetapp.

See, it takes someone very intelligent to come up with that plan.

Never mind the fact that this is night 2 of No Benedryl and I’m not sleeping. Never mind that last night I did fall asleep easy, but I woke up 7 or 8 times. I had the Perfect Idea! Because I’m smart! I’m so smart I did not factor FMS into the equation! Let’s just forget the reason I take Benedryl in the first place is to address the sleep issues that go with having that, and when I don’t sleep well, I get achy!

It's frightening, having this level of intelligence.

Yep. I am so smart, you’re lucky I don’t charge admission to my blog.


Thank you for all the happy birthday wishes; I had a very nice day, capped off with some really cool presents and CAKE. The Spouse Thingy and I played a few truly horrible games of pool in the afternoon, during which we were majorly distracted by the fire department in the parking lot (a good excuse for playing so poorly,) where they were trying to break into a car to get the hood up in order to rescue a kitty that had somehow gotten under there. We can only surmise that the kitty belonged to the lady that was in the van parked next to it, since she seemed the most frantic, and if it had been her car, she would have just opened the hood herself…at least that makes the most sense to me. We’re not sure where the car’s owner was.

I was kinda thrilled to see that the fire department AND a cop would come out for a kitty rescue. When we first noticed them we thought maybe a kid was locked in the car, but after several minutes of musing and surmising, we decided we really wanted to know what the heck was going on, so the Spouse Thingy wandered outside just as they were getting the hood open. So :::hand clapping::: kudos to the Vacaville Fire Department for not blowing it off as some random kitty stuck where it would eventually either climb out on its own, or die from the heat and/or when someone started the car.

This is the same FD that rescued a dog locked in another car while we were shopping a few weeks ago. :::more clapping:::

We went out for dinner and as soon as we got home the Boy made me a birthday cake (white with chocolate frosting, my favorite) and then I got PRESENTS. The Boy gave me a couple of CDs (Weezer and Modest Mouse; he’s helping me expand my musical horizons) and a book I’ve wanted since it came out in 2000 (Philip Roth’s The Human Stain.) Spouse Thingy gave me a couple of t-shirts and a Van Gogh print. I already have Starry Night; he found one in the Starry Night series I had never seen before, and had it framed to match my other one. There’s one more in the series I want, Café Terrace, and I may just go out and get that one myself :)

Even the cats decided to give me something for my birthday: they did not spend half the night running up and down the hall chasing each other; there was no wrestling, no talking to each other, no fighting, no backsides plopped down on my face in the middle of the night, and no midnight bathroom singing. They were quiet. And isn’t that what everyone tells their kids when asked what they want for their birthday? “Peace and Quiet.”

I got that and cake!

I have to admit, I spent a good deal of the day thinking about Anne, wondering how her family was coping on her first birthday away from them. But a big part of me thinks that she’s up there with our mutual friend Moe, raising a little hell, whipping all the pets waiting at the Rainbow Bridge into a playful frenzy and having loud, laughter-laden arguments about the New York Yankees and Sheffield Wednesday.

But I had a terrific day, and there’s leftover cake. I might even share.


Overheard while standing in line at the BX:
[behind our esteemed Wabbit is a mother with an overloaded shopping cart, and a boy, about 7 years old]

Boy: (not whining, asking nicely) Can I have a candy bar?
Mom: (slightly incredulous) I’m already spending four hundred and fifty dollars!
Boy: (not missing a beat) Then what’s fifty cents more?
Mom: (pauses for several seconds) Yeah. Okay. (laughs lightly) Sure, go ahead.

I love a kid that can think on his feet.


What the heck is wrong with Pat Roberts? He’s known for spouting some pretty stupid things—things that do more harm to the Christian cause than help it—but lately…?

A couple of weeks ago (maybe a month--?) he’s on TV praying for a vacancy on the Supreme Court so that someone more conservative and like minded would be appointed. While he may have been thinking “Come on, retire, one of you old bags,” in my head it was “Dear God. Please let one of the justices die so I can have someone on the Court that I like better.”

And now he advocates assassinating the Venezuelan president???

Garsh. What Would Jesus do?

Something is wrong with the man. There has to be. I’d hate to think that someone who is in a position of leadership of millions of religious faithful—people look to him for guidance on matters of faith—would be coming out and saying the 6th Commandment doesn’t apply because he doesn’t like the Venezuelan president’s politics… I’d rather think there was something wrong with him than believe he’s thinking quite clearly and really wants someone to go out there and blow someone else up.

I am so creeped out…


I don’t know what to think right now. Honestly, my head is all over the place, my stomach dropped and it hurts, and my heart aches. It’s like the flu, without the barfing. But with tear-rimmed eyes.

When I was diagnosed with Fibromyalgia, I somehow found the FMS newsgroup; it was amazing. Thousands of people who were going through what I was. While it was not always the most fun place to play—because when you have so many people in varying degrees of pain, once in a while a whole lot of them are very cranky—it was the right place for me to be. I learned a lot: what I had, what I didn’t have, and how to cope.

I made some friends there, as well. People who, over time, became my very good friends. People I could argue with as well as laugh. From whom I learned a lot and care for deeply.

Like Anne.

About six months before I found out I had the brain tumor, she found out she had breast cancer. And roughly the same time that she was given an all clear, I found out my tumor was benign and likely to never recur.

Since then we’ve both had Good News when it comes to our respective diseases. All gone. Vanished. Hasta la vista, baby.

She got the convertible I coveted before I did, but she deserved it.

When we were in North Dakota and the Spouse Thingy could not fine the English teas that he loved, she sent him some. The Real Thing. From England. If he ran out, all had to do was mention it, and the next day more was on the way.

Anne and I share a birthday; I’ve always taken a certain amount of joy in reminding her that regardless, she would always be several years older than I. I spent part of the week contemplating the e-card I was going to send her on Friday. Something appropriately insulting, but sure to make her smile.

So you can imagine how surprised I was to hear this afternoon that she died.

She was fine. They said she was fine. They said her cancer had not come back.

They were wrong.

I’m angry. I’m hurt. I feel like I’m bleeding for her husband and two sons. And I don’t know what to think, because she was supposed to be fine, and I was going to send her a Ha Ha Ha You’ll Always Be Older Than Me card.

But she won’t be, because now she’s gone.


Well, since I’m thinking about pet peeves, let’s examine my psyche and delve into the other things that just plain annoy me. Aside from the aforementioned shopping cart peeve.

  • People who use the handicapped stall in restrooms when they have no legitimate need to. Having a kid with you is not a legitimate need. Mothers and fathers have managed for decades to take their kids to the restroom without resorting to the lone handicapped stall. The only time it doesn’t twist my shorts in a knot is if there are only 2 stalls, or if waiting for the next available regular stall means the loss of intestinal fortitude…

  • Special parking for pregnant women, or parents with strollers. Pregnancy is NOT a disability, and unless there are accompanying conditions, walking the extra few feet is not fatal. Those premium slots should be left for those with a legitimate need for accommodating parking.

  • The presumption that people without wheelchairs or walkers don’t need use of special parking. Qualifying disabilities are not always visible.

  • People who wear polka dotted underwear beneath their thin white slacks. Only because I find it disturbing.

  • Someone my size wearing skin tight lycra capri pants. If other people can count the dimples in your cellulite, the pants are probably not a good idea.

  • People who pay attention to what other people are wearing… =snort=

  • Sitting across from someone who stops in mid-sentence to put more food in their mouth, and then continue on speaking. Swallow and then talk to me.

  • Likewise, watching someone shovel more food in before they’ve swallowed the three bites the already took.

  • The fact that fat camp for adults is like $30,000.

  • Hot bodies on guys far too young for me to ogle. Not that I’d ogle. I am married, after all.

  • Whining. Especially when I catch myself doing it.

  • People who stand in the middle of the grocery store aisle with their cart turned sideways, while they seem to not notice the people trying to get around them. This is especially prevalent in military commissaries, and the guilty are invariably older retirees. I do not say anything to them—I just wait—because they don’t intend to be in the way, and some of them may have taken a bullet or two in the name of my freedom. But it still annoys me.

  • Songs that get stuck in my head. Especially commercial jingles. I’m stuck on Band Aid, my ass…

  • Eye doctors with halitosis.

  • Grocery stores that don’t make those cart corrals convenient.

C’mon…what annoys you? Besides someone else’s overly long list of pet peeves…


How Lazy Are We All Now???

One of my pet peeves is people who leave their shopping carts in the middle of parking lots. It doesn’t take great effort to roll it to a cart corral or even back to the store. You do that one simple thing and you save some else the effort, and potentially save someone else’s car the ding that could result from just leaving the cart there. And if you need more incentive, pushing that cart a little further burns an extra 3.5 calories. Seriously. I read it online somewhere once.

I had to run to the store to pick up a couple of things, and a woman parked right next to me was just closing her trunk as I was tossing my lone bag into mine. She rolled her cart to the front of her car and just left it there. Twenty feet from a cart corral. A ninety year old man with arthritis, emphysema, and six missing toes could have walked to it and back. She parked it there—blocking the opposite parking space—and got in her car.

Being the bitch that I am, I closed my trunk, got the cart, and walked the few feet necessary and put it away.

I tried not to look at her as she drove past, but I couldn’t help it.


I put the cart away that she was too lazy to bother with, and she flipped me off. Granted, I intended to make a point, but I didn’t expect that. Embarrassment maybe. Eye rolling and the look of “oh you think you’re so wonderful, don’t you?” (for the record, yes. Yes I do.) Sneering, rolling down the window and calling me a liberal commie punk even. But that upright middle finger…no.

If I were a puppy, I think she might have tried to run me over.


He won’t take a real bath, but he will get into the bathtub with the right incentive.

Fortunately, this time the laundry in the basket was dirty…he usually prefers clean. He’s even happier if he can find the basket filled with clean white clothes.

And no, as tempting as it was, we did not turn the shower on…


File Under ‘What The @$#* Was I Thinking?’

Ok, so we bought the Swedish TempurPedic bed, and I was miserable on it at first. So miserable I spent the first night reminding myself over and over that we could send it back. We didn’t have to keep it. We could return it, get our money back, and spend it on some other trendy bed.

Then in a light bulb moment, I remembered the sales guy saying he thought his was more comfortable without the mattress cover, and a few reviews at Epinons supported that.

So we took the all-mattress-encompassing cover off, and voila, it was tolerable. It took almost 2 months to break in, but then I was sleeping so well I declared it would have to be pried from my cold, dead hands before I’d give it up.

So last night, in a fit of “Hmmmmm,” I asked the Spouse Thingy to help me put the mattress cover back on.

Just because.
Just to see how it will feel now that it’s broken in.
Just because I was obviously dropped on my head as an infant.

My mantra last night was I’m an idiot, I’m an idiot. (No, you don’t have to agree with me.) So today I will consume mass quantities of caffeine to stay awake, mass quantities of Motrin to stay somewhat mobile, and chocolate Just Because.


You know what I did…I jinxed the mattress. It is now going to be the mattress from hell, and it’s too late to return it…


What Goes Through My Head At 2 a.m. When I Can’t Sleep…

Holy Mother of…. (looks at clock) It’s already two? Did I have caffeine tonight? I know I didn’t drink anything with caffeine and I was dead tired when I went to bed so why am I not sleeping?

Wait…I haven’t seen or heard Buddah since the Boy got home. God, he didn’t slip out when the Boy was coming in, did he? Why the hell does that cat seem to think there’s something better on the other side of that door? Every freaking time…wait, he has snuck out before but we’ve always seen him before we could get the door closed. What if the Boy didn’t see him? Buddah is out there all alone and he’s just a baby. And there are all those other cats outside. He would want to play and they would want to fight. I wonder what happened to that super-friendly black and white cat that was here when we first moved in. I hope he didn’t get run over. Oh crap, Buddah might be out there and now he’s probably dead because he’s jet black and no one can see him in the dark.

Cripes, I hate not being able to see in the dark. It would be so freaking nice to be able to drive around at night after it’s cooled down. Put the top down on the car, go out for a smoothie. Or even to the grocery store. Wait, do we have bread? I think we used the last of the bread and I never went to get any. I know we have pudding.

Man, the buffet place in Ohio had the best pudding. I miss that place. But I don’t miss the old guy who barfed all over the place. I’m sure he has his clone out here. If Max were dead I don’t think I’d clone him. I don’t get the whole trying to replace one pet with one that looks identical, anyway.

I haven’t heard Max for a while, either. Last time I saw him he was on top of the tower with his head hanging off. That has to hurt. I’m surprised he can breathe that way. Wait…was he breathing? Oh God Max is dead and I just left him there. In the morning he’ll still be there and we’ll have to peel him up. What do you do when you get up in the morning and your cat is dead? You can’t just throw them in the trash and we don’t have a backyard to bury them in. Call the vet? I wonder if you get charged for euthanasia even if they’re already dead. Did we get charged for Dusty’s euthanasia even though she died before the vet could stick the needle in? He’d already done the prep and had the pink stuff on the syringe. But I don’t think we had to pay for it.

We paid for Hank, I remember that. Sheesh, three hundred freaking dollars. But, considering how much pain he was in I suppose it was worth it. Poor guy could barely breathe anymore. He snored almost as badly as the Spouse Thingy. Wait, I don’t hear him snoring. Did he stop breathing? Holy crap, did he just up and die in the middle of the night? He’d better start snoring again so I know he’s alive. Because if he’s not I’m going to be super pissed.

Did I write down the amount I used the debit card for at the grocery store?

Oh man, it’s almost three in the freaking morning. Maybe I should just turn the TV on. I’m hungry now. And we have pudding. Should I get up and have a pudding cup? No…but damn, that sounds good. If I’m still awake in half an hour, I am getting up and having pudding…



Single wide.
Two bedrooms, 1 bath.
For a mobile home!

Last night, while surfing TV for something to kill half an hour or so, I stumbled upon the redneck version of Extreme Home Makeover. Trailer Fabulous. Instead of demolishing an entire house and rebuilding for some deserving family, these people go in and spend 48 hours redoing someone’s mobile home. It was interesting in a Rubberneck While Driving By An Accident sort of way.

I determined that if it had been my domicile, I would have been super pissed to come home to my former white not-so-bad-looking home painted bright green with yellow flames licking up the sides, but what the hell. It was noticeable and different, even if not my taste. And the interior was a subdued shade of Not Half Bad. The living room was a heck of a lot bigger than what we have now.

So in a pique of curiosity, I flipped through the classifieds and sought out local mobile homes for sale. It’s not that I have any burning desire to move into a single wide mobile home with just one bathroom, but I wouldn’t necessarily be opposed to a double wide with a bath and a half. With single family dwellings in this area pushing the $450,000 for a 3 bedroom in a less than desirable area, and better homes over the half million mark, I’m surprised more people don’t think in terms of the affordability of a mobile home (or maybe they do, and they simply don’t consult with me…)

But then I saw the prices on the few listed in the paper, and dang near choked on my Cherry 7Up Plus.

The last time I looked at mobile homes in the paper—not more than 5 years ago, same odd curiosity—a double wide was going for about $35,000.

But then houses were a lot cheaper, too.
Less than $200,000 for a decent sized 3-4 bedroom house.
Makes me wish we’d been in the position to buy back then.

Now we need to win the lottery—which means remembering to buy lottery tickets—or we’re going to be life-long renters. ’Cause I’m not paying $500,000 for something that in 5 years might only be worth $200K, and I’m sure as heck not spending over a hundred thousand on a tornado magnet…


Did you hear that squeal of excitement riding on the air this afternoon? That was me, when I was driving topless down Elmira Road in Vacaville, CA. We’ve caught a nice break from the 100+ temps; yesterday I think we only hit 82 and today it looks like we’ll top out at 85. But when I went out it was in the high 70s, perfect for a nice long joyride, zipping around with Green Day blaring from my stereo, the wind ruffling my now way too short hair…

I’d be perfectly happy if the rest of the summer stayed this way, nice breeze, low temps, me driving around with nowhere really to go other than here and there and occasionally everywhere.

I did see one guy driving around truly topless in his topless car, and all I can say is that it must be painful when your nipples get sunburned…


I just picked a book from the stack, eyes pretty much closed. Me Talk Pretty One Day by David Sedaris. Too freaking funny.

Next up: Animal Farm, George Orwell. Can you believe I'm nearly 44 and have never read it? The Boy got it from the library and is letting me read it before he does...which leaves all those other books sitting there on my bookshelf, feeling lonely and left out.

Tag, I'm It...

Because Blond Girl snuck up behind me and gave me a cyber wedgy...:

When did you move to the neighborhood? July 21, 2002. In terms of the blogging 'hood, that is. I started mine with the idea that if I was going to talk to myself, it might as well be on virtual paper, where people could find it and become as enamoured with me as I am with myself. Because I'm that brilliant, you know... ;)

What region of the neighborhood are you from? Currently, Northern CA. But the USAF made sure we saw a couple other neighboroods over the course of 20 years. Cyber wise, I reside at Blogger and the place where I pimp myself.

What is your favorite part of our neighborhood? The Blogosphere. I love hopping from one blog to the next, seeing what other people have to say, what they're thinking, what they're doing, and how normal they make me feel.

What is your favorite place to visit 'round these parts? I find tons of new people to stalk visit at Michele's She's responsible for the length of my blogroll. And of course, I have to check out what the PsychoKitty is telling the world. Heather makes me laugh, and I admire her writing. Sharon wows me every day with her insight and skill in weaving thoughts together. But sheesh, just hit up everyone on my blogroll; they're there because they amuse, entertain, educate, and make me tingly all over...

Since I just moved into a new house, I might want to take a short trip to a local place or area. Where would you suggest in your region? The Jelly Belly Factory. Heck, I've never even been there, but I hear it's a fun tour.


It's no wonder I can't get any real work done.

My crown--the thing which contains my thoughts and helps me get them out--has been mauled by a vicious black kitty bent on world domination.

Well, mostly he just likes to bite things...but he's put so many holes in the Great Crown of Wonder that it just doesn't work anymore.

It finally happened.

Something of mine met a toothy death.

I am in mourning, and may never get over this.


I’m quivering with anticipation.
Yes, quivering!
I can fricking see well enough to pick up a book and read now.

Granted, I did not want bifocals, but I have them, and now I can delve into this huge stack of books that I’ve collected but not yet read because of the giant headache that would have brought about.

But I also feel a sense of being overwhelmed. Which book to pick first? I think I have 20 sitting here, waiting to be cracked open and consumed. Something by David Sedaris? Elizabeth Berg? Augusten Burroughs? Orson Scott Card?

I feel like a three year old presented with a choice of 20 different shiny toys. How can I pick just one? I want to stomp my feet and make the Book Fairy figure out a way for me to read them all, and right now.

:::stomps feet:::

Yeah. I’m mature that way.
But at least I can SEE my (im)maturity!


Sheer boredom brings this...

Live from the medical center at Travis favorite (=cough cough=) thing in the whole wide world to do. I show up every 3 months (roughly) to say “see, I’m still alive” and tell the story of the brain tumor to yet another endocrinology resident, who will ooh and awe in all the appropriate places, then ask me about current symptoms (“Um, when the DDAVP wears off I drink a lot and pee like a fiend...”) He will take copious notes—because I am so interesting, after all—and then he’ll go get the Real Doctor, to whom I will have to repeat it all. Well, minus the whole tumor story, ’cause he wrote it down the first time I saw him, and he, too, took 650 pages of notes. He’s mostly interested in seeing if I’m still among the breathing, and how my meds are.

He’ll order blood work—for which I will have to come back in the morning, because it needs to be fasting blood work and I treated myself to a donut for lunch (yes, a donut. Hush…)—and in a week or two I’ll have to call back and see if there will be any would make a heck of a lot more sense if I got the blood work a week or so before the appointment, so he would have the most current results right there in front of him, but this is the military, after all. I keep meaning to call a couple weeks before these appointments to ask him to put the order for lab work in, but somehow I always forget. Conveniently.

Funny how that works, eh? Someone who hates the phone forgets to call.

Oooh, and something that has improved the whole sit here and wait iPod. I can still hear the people around me talking (I love to eavesdrop, dammit, and I admit it) but I don’t look like I’m listening. In fact, I look like I’m working. Tap tap tapping away on my spiffy PDA...I could be writing the next Great American Novel.

I should be writing the next Great American Novel.

Instead, I’m listening to Chris Botti and coughing up a play by play of this wonderful medical experience.

Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait...
This’ll teach me to get here half an hour early...
~ ~ ~
Yay, now I get to wait in the exam room. I just heard my doc introduce himself to someone in the next room, so I know it’ll be awhile...

Wow, there’s NOTHING to look at in this room. Usually there are posters of the inside of the body, all the bones or the intestines...SOMETHING. Even the doc’s personal stuff. But this room has bare walls. Not a thing to look at.

I want to be amused while I wait.

Oh, wait...there’s a pamphlet on bone health I could be reading. But that’s not nearly as enthralling as staring at a poster of my innards. I want to examine where my xyphoid process is, dammit! I want to look at L4 and L5 on the spine and see why my back hurts. I want to count ribs.

Ok, I don’t want to do any of that, really, but this is a freakishly boring exam room.

And hush, it’s not nice to mutter “so is this blog entry...” I’m SHARING, for Pete’s sake. (Who is Pete, anyway, and why do we do things for his sake? Is he offering some kind of prize at the end of it all? Like a car, or chocolate?)

I think they forgot about me. I’ve been here a while now, and people keep walking past, and my records—I just now noticed—are not in the little thingy on the door. But at least they HAVE my records, which took forever to get here from Ohio...

Um, yeah, that was my fault...
~ ~ ~
Well now, complain and ye shall receive. Less than a minute after saying I was forgotten, the resident walked through the door (as opposed to walking through the wall?), and I got to spin my tale of medical woe for him, and he got to enter it all into the new computer system. He was very good; friendly, knowledgeable, thorough. And he was kinda cute. And he (=snort=) touched my boobie (:::insert immature laughter:::) when he was listening to my heart.

Long and short, after seeing the regular doc, too, it was determined that I am stable (shut up, I am!) and he wants to see me the end of November (AND get the lab work EARLY!) and after that I’ll go to seeing him every 6 months instead of every 3. Yay. I’m graduating. AND I don’t have to get any blood drawn tomorrow.

Nope, tomorrow I get to go pick up my spiffy new glasses.
The bifocals.

On one hand, I’m excited because I want to read books again. On the other…bifocals.

Thus endeth my medical adventures for today. I survived and no blood was lost. Plus, I got to have a donut while I was on base.



I would like to offer the people of Northern California an apology. This is looking like it’s going to be the hottest summer on record, and to be truthful, it’s our fault. If we had stayed in Ohio, you would be enjoying much cooler temps, and more than the occasional delta breeze.

We know this is our fault because we have this nasty tendency to bring extreme weather or natural disasters wherever we go. We’ve brought drought to CA, flooding to Utah and Texas and Illinois. Huge amounts of snow followed by a flood of biblical proportions to North Dakota. Earthquakes to CA and UT. Where we go, ick follows.

This time, we bring heat.

While your lawns are turning brown and you’re chugging another bottle of Gatorade or 64 ounce Big Gulp, go ahead and swear in our general direction.

We really are sorry.


Because You Love My Cats SO Much...

Either Max doesn't mind that Buddah just plopped down on top of him, or he just didn't want to give up the comfy spot at the top of their climbing tower.

I'm thinking it's the latter, personally...


Obviously, Buddah was feeling fine last night. Either that or he faked it well. I presume it was the former, because he and Max conspired to invent a new version of Irritate The Holy Crap out Of The Woman last night. And they played it from 12:45 a.m. until 7:15 a.m.

It’s actually two games in one. Well, three if you count the Irritating Me part. Max plays Give Buddah A Bath Against His Will and Buddah plays Scream Like Flames Are Shooting Out My Ass at the very same time. Obviously, the goal of this game is to see how many times they can get me out of bed to tell them to knock it off, be quiet, or shut up before I lock you both in the dryer.

They are very good at this game. They first woke me at 12:45, and then every 15-20 minutes until 3:30, when they seemed to take a break. At 5:30 I woke to the sound of Buddah screaming at the top of his little lungs; Max had him on top of their carpeted climbing tower, and was sitting on him. I got out of bed, Max slid off, and they both looked at me like, “What? Is there a problem?”

Five minutes later, as I was again drifting off, they decided to have a nice little chat, right there on top of the tower, which is—stupidly on my part—right there in the bedroom.

“Meow meow meow meow!”
“Meow! Meow meow meow meow meow. Meow meow meow meow!”

Which, I believe, roughly translates into:

“Let’s screw with her!”
“Totally! We’ll sing in the bathroom. And make it stink!”

It has begun. The ganging up on the People. We are so totally going to lose…


Buddah survived the snippage. He didn’t seem terribly upset by it, and after a surge of FEED ME NOW mania, he settled down and snoozed the rest of the afternoon. Right now he’s tormenting Max, even though Max was nice enough to give him half his dinner (literally, he looked at Buddah and walked away from his plate; Max does not give up dinner easily.) The only worry now is that Buddah has been doing some seriously licking of the incision, so the whole area is looking kind of gnarly. We’ll call the vet in the morning if it looks swollen.

But for now…the rubbing of the testicles across my face and arms has come to an end.

I hope.


Things I Never Thought I Would Hear Myself Say

  • We don’t eat Jesus.
  • Please stop rubbing your testicles on my cheek.
  • My head is not a chair.
  • Poop does not belong on the bathroom walls.
  • Go sleep in the bathtub.
  • Go dig in the trash and find yourself a toilet paper tube to play with.
  • Get your face out of the garbage disposal.
  • Carpet is not food.
  • Stop trying to eat my bra.
  • If you don’t stop running your testicles on my face, I am going to twist them off.


Buddah turns 4 months old tomorrow.

Buddah has taken to jumping up on my lap, and rubbing his goodies up and down my arm.

Buddah jumped on my lap today, rolled onto his back, to show me his little kitty, um, “excitement.”

Buddah is getting neutered on Friday.