Thought Bombs

  • If you drop something, and then let loose with a mighty fart when you bend over to pick it up, don’t get all teary eyed and embarrassed. Just stand up, say either “excuse me” or “damn dog followed me here, didn’t he?” and then walk away. Your gaseous anomaly isn’t going to offend me nor will it kill me.

  • Go ahead and follow me around the parking lot, hoping I’ll lead you to a really sweet parking spot. Chances are I’m going to walk between cars to the next aisle, simply because you’re creeping me out.

  • I still want to be on The Biggest Loser but I’m hoping by the next time audition tapes are accepted I won’t come close to qualifying.

  • When I said I was ready for a cold snap, I didn’t really mean it.

  • Feliz Navidad is already stuck in my head…

  • The apartment is finally empty and clean. You may all now rejoice.

  • The house, however, looks like the apartment entered, threw up, and then left without cleaning up after itself.

  • Chocolate needs to be a diet food.


11 November 2005

The One Where I Go On And On And On…

In my daily blog surfing and hopping and general use-blog-reading-to-avoid-real-work, I’m finding lots of discussions about how to handle the whole Santa Claus thing, and when kids should be told the truth. Or should they be told at all, maybe they should figure it out. Or should they ever be allowed to believe in the first place. Maybe credit should be given to whomever is actually buying those gifts right from the start.

Apparently, Paris Hilton believed in the Jolly Old Elf until she was 17.


I think I was 7 or so when I figured it out, and I don’t think believing that some old guy was sneaking into my house, leaving gifts, ever tormented me. Stumbling onto the truth was not some psyche-scarring experience, either. It never ruined Christmas for me, although it might have put a dent in my sisters’ experience since I was the youngest and the last to lose that belief—as soon as I did they knew they weren’t getting any extra Santa gifts, either.

My son was allowed to believe. I don’t remember when he made it clear that he knew the truth, but his excitement over the whole thing didn’t wane because of it. When he was very little he wrote letters to Santa, left out milk and cookies (one year he left a beer; Santa left a note explaining that because he had to drive the sled, he couldn’t drink, so he put the beer back in the fridge and took a Dr. Pepper instead…) and he simply Believed.

I suspect he knew sometime around age 8, and by age 10 he was saving money and buying toys to donate to Christmas toy drives. You have to figure if a kid realizes that other kids aren’t getting anything because of poverty or other family situations, he knows Santa isn’t exactly hitting up every house in the world for a reason.

He was around the typical age for figuring the whole thing out. I don’t remember if he ever announced it or asked. But he knew.

So—with permission from his parents—let me tell you about Alex.

Alex is the oldest child of a friend who hasn’t updated his blog in 30 million years. He’s one of those kids who is scary-smart, and it was obvious from the time he was 6 months old or so. He was speaking words around 8 or 9 months, was potty trained before he was 11 months, and could carry on a toddler-type conversation at a year. He could count, knew his colors, and was reading some by age 2. He demonstrated unique displays of logic at 2.

Like I said: scary-smart.

When Alex was 3, He Who Never Blogs took him to the mall to do some Christmas shopping. Their goal: find the perfect present for Mommy. On the way in they encountered a Salvation Army bell ringer and Murf gave Alex a few dollars to put in the bucket. When Alex asked what they did with the money, Murf explained that they buy things for people who don’t have a lot of money of their own, like food and clothes.

Alex was content with the explanation.

They shopped for a bit, and at some point they saw the Marine’s Toys For Tots booth; Alex wanted to know what soldiers were doing there with a bunch of toys.

Collecting them to give to kids for Christmas. No, not all kids, just the ones whose Moms and Dads can’t afford to buy toys themselves.

Alex was quiet for a moment; then he sank to his knees and began crying wildly. It took a stunned Murf several minutes to calm him down enough to understand what the problem was. He sat on the mall floor, people walking around them, with Alex in his lap, trying to wipe his nose and listen at the same time.

Mostly Alex wanted to know: are there really kids out there who don’t have any toys? The thought tore at him; Murf knew he wanted to be told that of course all kids have toys to play with, but Alex was never the typical toddler and would know it if he wasn’t told the truth. So Murf told him, as gently as he could.

Yes, sadly, some kids don’t have toys. Sometimes their Moms and Dads don’t make enough money to buy any, not even at Christmas.

And Alex knew. Sitting on the floor of the mall, wrapped in the safety of his father’s arms, he knew about Santa. He stared at the Marines and said “Santa is a pretend game?”

Yes, Murf admitted.

The soldiers get to pretend to be Santa for kids who don’t have money?


Is it fun for them?

The most fun they’ll have all year.

They have money?

They need people to buy toys and give the toys to them. That way everyone who wants to can feel like Santa.

Can we buys toys and give to them?

Right now, if you want. We can buy lots of toys.

Alex got up, grabbed Murf’s hand, and headed for the toy store. He loaded a cart with his favorite things, and happily gave them to the Marines manning the Toys For Tots booth.

Then Murf asked if he wanted lunch.

You gots money?

Enough to buy some lunch. And a present for Mommy.

We have food at home?

Yes. Do you want to just go home?

You give your money to the man outside with the bell.

You need to eat something, Alex.

No I don’t. How much money you got?

Enough to buy you lunch, get Mommy a present, and still give money to the man with the bell.

Give him ALL your money, Daddy!

But we need to buy Mommy a present. If I give him all my money, I can’t buy something for Mommy.

Yes you can.


Use a check.

Murf left the mall with an empty wallet and a hungry kid. As he buckled Alex into his car seat, Alex asked, “Are you my Santa?”

Yes, I am.

I won’t tell Rachel. Does Mommy know?

Mommy knows. Are you okay about this?


Will Christmas still be fun for you?

I still get presents?

Yep. Lots of presents.

Buying toys was fun.

Buying toys is always fun.

I can help buy toys for Rachel?

And so it went… At three years old, this little guy figured it out. Instead of being destroyed by it, he turned it into something fun for himself. He’s 10 now and every year he goes shopping with his dad, buys as many toys to donate as he possibly can, and makes sure that Murf leaves the mall without any cash on him.

I think 17 is a little old to not know the truth…but in the grand scheme of things, I don’t think Santa is a harmful lie. Most of us grew up with the idea of Santa and we remember the excitement, not the disappointment of figuring it out.

I also don’t think there’s anything wrong with choosing to not tell your kids about Santa. The holidays are fun with or without him.

I think there’s everything right when you can take whatever you teach your child and turn it into acts of compassion and generosity. Alex grasped at 3 what most of us don’t really get until we have kids of our own: playing Santa is fun. Giving to others just feels good. And if you can combine that fun with doing something that feels good and right, all the better.

Whether he exists or not—yeah, there is a Santa Claus. A whole lot of Santas. Marines. Salvation Army soldiers. Little kids who just want to give. And they’re having the best time…



A black and white tuxedo cat jumps onto the lap of a very tired looking middle aged women. She is holding a book; the cat head butts it out of his way so that he can look directly at her face.



Meow meow meow meow.
I want something to eat.

You had dinner already. You don’t need anything else.

Meow meow meow!
Yes I do!

Can I just read my book?

Meow. Meow meow meow meow meow.
No. Get up and feed me.

There’s dry food in there, you know. Go eat that.

Meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow.
If I want crap, I’ll graze in the litter box.

(she tries to lift the book so that she can read; the cat pushes it away)
You hate me, don’t you?

Meow meow meow. Meow meow.
I tolerate you. Feed me.

(Max rubs his head on the edge of the book.)

Meow, meow meow meow.
See, I’m being cute.

You’re adorable. Go play with Buddah.

Meow meow meow.
Feed me first.


(She picks the cat up and puts him on the floor, then heads into the kitchen, where she makes herself some toast. Max follows.)

Meow meow meow meow? Meow meow meow meow meow?
What are you doing? Are you getting yourself food?

Sucks to not have thumbs, eh?

Meow meow meow, meow meow meow meow meowvv meow meow meow meow meow meow.
I hate you, and while you are asleep I am going to eat your face off.

Don’tcha wish you were a person and could get a snack whenever you want?

Meow. Meow meow meow.
Die. Die right now.

(reaching into pantry)
Here. You can have a little treat.

Meow meow meow.
Don’t patronize me.

(shakes a few out into her hand)
If Buddah hears, he gets some, too.

Meow meow.
Bloody hell.

(setting the treats on the floor)
Happy now?

(inhales treats)
Meow. Meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow. Meow meow meow meow meow meow, meow.
No. But at least your pillow will be poop free tonight. No guarantees about keeping your face, though.

Yeah, I love you, too.

Meow meow meow meow. Meow. Meow meow. Meow.
You may go away now. Go. Right now. Leave.

(Thumper wanders back into living room)

5 minutes later

(the cat re-enters the living room)

Meow meow. Meow meow. Meow meow meow meow…
I’m hungry. Feed me. Feed me right now…


It’s not quite 10 a.m., the Boy and the Spouse Thingy are still asleep (the former because he was up very late, the latter because he has to work tonight) and I’m sitting here trying to figure out why the cats seem to feel some pressing need to speed through the house as fast as they can, up and down the stairs, down the hall and into a bedroom, over and over and over, sounding much like I imagine a thundering herd of elephants would.

For the last 15 minutes I’ve hissed “Stop it! Calm down! Do I have to lock one of you up?” as they race past me, worried the sound of their collective 24 pounds beating on the floor will wake the Spouse Thingy. Do they care? Max paused once and looked at me like, “Lady, you wanted us to get along and play, so shut up and let us play.”

Buddah glanced at me once as he zoomed past, but I’m pretty sure all he was thinking was “Wheeeeee!”

We did not forget about the little furballs yesterday; since no turkey was being prepared at home, I slid a piece to the side of my plate at Denny’s last night and brought it home for them; Max gobbled his up, Buddah took a few bites and then walked away as if he didn’t understand what the big deal was. Eh, turkey. Dead bird. Max was more than happy to finish off what the little guy obviously didn’t want.

The theater yesterday wasn’t as packed as I expected it to be; we left the house thinking we’d see Walk the Line but when it appeared that there wouldn’t be 10,000 screaming kids to deal with, we paid for Harry Potter tickets instead. The Boy didn’t like it (he hasn’t read the book) and I could pick the movie apart, but for the sake of my holiday enjoyment, I won’t. I went into it knowing they had to pare a 700+ page book down to 2 and a half hours, so a lot was, of course, going to be left out.

Still…I kind of hope they get a different director for the next one. Maybe the guy that did the first two…?

Denny’s wasn’t crowded at all, either. We didn’t get the best of service—the lone server was a little slow to take our order and she kept forgetting to bring a part of my order to the table—but the food was good and it beat the heck out of cooking and then doing all those dishes afterwards and then trying to decide how many Vicodin it was going to take to make nice with my back.) And since we’ve had that server a few times before (how sad…we’re becoming regulars at Denny’s) we know it wasn’t because she’s a bad waitress; she was just having an off day, and it happened to be a holiday.

Sure, it affected her tip; instead of the $20 I was planning on leaving we left $10, but that was still 25%. I still had a nice dinner (I can’t speak for the guys; the Spouse Thingy seemed happy enough but I’m pretty sure the Boy found the whole day to be one giant holiday disappointment) and being in the restaurant a little longer than expected was no big deal.

10:20…and quiet. The cats have stopped running and the guys are still asleep. If I had an air horn, now would be the time to use it…


It snuck up on me this year. I didn’t even realize how close Thanksgiving was until last week. It felt like it was eons away, like Halloween hadn’t been here and gone and Christmas still feels like a long way off.

I’m not sure if that’s because it’s been so warm here, or because we’ve been so busy with the move, or both.

We’re sticking close to home this year; my back just isn’t going to allow the car ride to spend it with family, nor is it going o allow me to spend a lot of time in the kitchen, standing there to chop and slice and heat things up and cook a turkey. So…we’re going to a movie and then to Denny for dinner.

Hey, they have turkey, too…

Hopefully it’ll just be a nice day spent with the Spouse Thingy and the Boy. I’m sure I’ll be guilted for there being no leftovers for a while, but it won’t be fatal. And there won’t be dishes!

Have a terrific Thanksgiving! That’s, like, an order.


Once again...

Nor is it "Kath."
Nor is it "Kat," though that's actually closer, at least in initial terms.

When in doubt, call me "Thumper."
Or address email to "K.A."

Let's break it down.
I've never heard of anyone with a last name of "ompson," so that pretty much eliminates "kath."

So. Most people should be able to guess the "thompson" part. At least I hope so. That would leave "ka." And there aren't to many people named "ka" (or, horror of horrors, "kaka") so I would think one might assume those are initials.


Say it with me, boys and girls.
"K.A. Thompson"

If you're still not sure, look at the graphics in the sidebar, the little book covers. My self pimping displays my name. Or at least the name under which I write. You have to look very closely, but it's there.


In all fairness, I am related to a Kathy, and she's a very nice Kathy at that. She wears the name much better than would I. And if you get right down to it, the translation of my name and hers is the same. But my name is not Kathy.

..and no, it doesn't bother me that much, but I'm bored and somewhat in pain [not moving any more boxes, nope, the guys will finish that part of everything] so I feel a wee bit snarky. And pimp-like. readmybooks

Happy Monday.


You know things don't bode well when you think "This is a Vicodin kind of evening" and it's only 9:30 in the morning...

My back is now in revolt; it has been for a week or so and is steadily getting louder in its complaints. I'm pretty sure what it's saying is you take one more box up one more stair and I'm going to make you wish you were never born...

Well, it also mutters something that rhymes with "witch," but I'll be delicate here.

For once.


How To Make A Wabbit Feel Better On A Bad Weigh In Day:

1. Walk up.
2. Say "Hi."
3. Look surprised.
4. Say "You've lost a lot of weight!"

That will do it.


  • I’m not sure where Tuesday and Wednesday went, but I’m pretty sure they were lost to doing everything except what I should have been doing.
  • Like taking care of the still-not-completely vacated apartment
  • Or hanging pictures, emptying boxes, etc here
  • Check out dulldulldulldull
  • No, it’s not mine.
  • I found it on the 2nd or 3rd day it started
  • It made me snort Cherry 7Up Plus out my nose.
  • I’m dreading weighing tomorrow
  • Because that’s the day it “counts.”
  • I started Christmas shopping today.
  • Don’t tell the cats, but I bought them something.
  • While I am enjoying this extra car-top-down weather, I won’t mind when it gets cold.
  • I have a couple of spiffy jackets I want to wear.
  • But I do not want snow; the Evil People can have it all :)
  • Yes, I am mean.
  • Karma will get me in the end.


Ya Gotta Love CA

Who'dve ever thought that in the middle of November, it would be nice enough that I'd be able to drive around with the top down on the car?


I woke up this morning without a furry-skinned bag of bones weighing me down. Neither did I have one wedged between my knees, stealing warmth like a crack addict burglarizing the mini-mart for his next fix1. This is the first morning since we moved in here that I’ve been able to roll over and get out of bed without having to gently manipulate a slumbering feline off to one side, trying hard to not disturb His Majesty too much2.

Max was curled up in his bed; he hasn’t slept in it since he was so sick (preferring the closet for whatever reason,) but now that it’s colder he’s appreciating the fact that he has a nice, squishy bed placed just under a heat register. Buddah has a bed, too, but he doesn’t know what it’s for. He seems to think it’s just something Max steps through to get to where he’s going to curl up and sleep. Buddah apparently believes that I am his bed, and spends the night in various positions chosen specifically for their ability to impede my rolling over now and then.

Max has taught him well.

But I woke this morning, started to roll over and realized I had no feline companion to avoid squishing, muttered a brief thanks to Whomever convinced the cats to sleep elsewhere, and started to sit up. Max grunted at me from his warm little bed (“It’s about freaking time you got your butt out of bed,”) and Buddah bounded in from where ever he’d been with a squeal that sounded a lot like “MOMMY!” 3

That’s what it sounded like, but I’m pretty sure what he actually meant was “You’re up! Now make the bed so I can stretch across the fuzzy blanket without having all your lumps and bumps in my way! But first let me jump on your lap and stick my butt near your face so you can get a whiff of eau’d What Buddah’s Been Doing For The Last 3 Minutes!”

I got dressed, made the bed—and for that I had lots of little black furry help—opened the window shades when Buddah indicated that’s what he wanted, and sat back down on the edge of the bed to put my shoes on. Buddah4 looked out the window for 1.3 seconds, then jumped back to the bed where he curled up next to the pillows.

Max stood, stretched, sat down and looked at me, and grunted. His gaze was a fixed stare that said it all.

“We own you. Don’t ever forget that.” 5

1 No, it doesn’t have to make sense to anyone but me.
2 It doesn’t matter which cat is it; they both think they’re royalty and entitled to special treatment. And I’m whipped just enough that I try to leave them somewhat comfy as I slink out of bed.
3 I swear, that cat has a meow that sounds like he’s trying to say Mommy…realistically I know it means “I want to eat your face off,” but it sounds like “Mom!”
4Yes, I know we don’t spell his name “correctly.” He doesn’t care.
5Eh, I just like the super script tag...


It’s November.

That means thousands of writers are actively involved in NaNoWriMo.

That means thousands of writers are banging their heads on their desks, chewing and spitting out fingernails, wondering why they decided to give it a whirl, and possibly even coughing up almost 2,000 words a day as they peck their keyboards toward success.

Last year I signed up, thinking it’d be a kick. And I finished. 50,000 words by the end of the month. The manuscript was “done” but not finished. I added a good 30,000 more words, edited out a whole lot more, and in the end there was something publishable.

I wanted to do it again; I have an idea tumbling through my mind and it will either make a terrific story or just great personal therapy, but I didn’t sign up to NaNo this year because with the move I was certain I wouldn’t have the time or the energy.

Turns out I was right. I could carve out the time, but my creative energy is at an all time low right now. I’m a very tired Thumper these days, my mind cluttered with thoughts of “Well where the hell with that thing go in this house?” and “Holy moly, that apartment is not going to clean itself…maybe if I ignore it, it will go away.”

The want is there; the energy is not.

So I envy those who are doing it. I found it to be a wonderful exercise; the end result doesn’t have to be any good, and it doesn’t have to be something you’d want to share with anyone else. It’s just a good tool for getting words out of your head and onto (virtual) paper. It helps create a writing habit.

In bopping around the blogosphere, I’m seeing posts from people who started the month with good NaNo intentions, but they’ve either already quit (“I can’t do this!”) or they’re so stressed about the quality of the work they’re producing that they’re stuck.

Don’t quit. It’s not failure if you don’t have 50K by the end of November. You just don’t get the spiffy PDF certificate. You do wind up with the bones of something, “finished” or not. That’s a victory any way you look at it.

Try to gut it past the “ohmygod this sucks so much!” feelings. It all sucks in the first draft. Try not to edit; the time you spend editing is time you could be writing, and there’s always time to edit later.

Just Write.

It doesn’t matter if it sucks. It doesn’t matter if you’re on track with your daily word count. It doesn’t matter if, at the end, what you have is an embarrassing heap of mindless chatter.

It only matters that you keep on writing, because someday that jumble of words may come together in a giant flash of inspiration, and become something Truly Wonderful. Because the habits you’re creating by sitting down and pounding it out may be the habits that later help you create a future Oprah’s Book Club pick (and don’t be an ass and turn that down if you don’t like Mz. O...she can make your career.)

Thumper’s unsolicited advice for the day.

Keep the NaNo flowing.


The one we most worried about on this move was Max. He who does not handle stress well. Because he can—and does, especially at the vet—poop at will, and the upstairs carpet in the new house is mostly white…well, we were hoping that he would find other ways to vent his irritations at being uprooted yet again. You know: biting, scratching, drawing blood…

All during the packing he acted as if he knew what was happening, and he wasn’t the least bit happy about it. Buddah was in 7th heaven: there were boxes all over the apartment, and to him that meant things to explore and jump on. To Max it spelled out DOOM. On Saturday morning we locked him and Buddah in the (very large) bathroom; he looked at me over his shoulder as I closed the door, and the glare said loud and clear, “I know what’s going on. Bitch.”

Seven hours later they were let out to explore the now mostly vacant yet extremely messy apartment, and ten minutes after that they were in the car on the way to the new house. And I heard about it all the way there, the feline equivalent of Are We There Yet? Only I got it in stereo, first one cat meowing, then the other, the entire ride there.

Once let out, they began to frantically explore the house. There was much slinking from room to room on a furry little belly, much jumping at new sounds, much cringing from new smells.

Only the one slinking and jumping and cringing wasn’t Max. Max was fine: after fifteen minutes or so of “What the hell just happened?” he was happily checking out his new digs, scoping out each of the rooms and the stairs. Buddah, on the other hand, was almost completely freaked out, overwhelmed by the sudden onslaught of sounds and smells, and a floor layout he didn’t understand.

Buddah, in short, was one scared little kitty. And once Max got past the initial explorations of new places to nap and run, he noticed. Buddah would bolt from a new sound, and Max would quietly follow, and more than once I spied him rubbing his head against Buddah’s, and once found him quietly licking Buddah’s ears.

By Sunday afternoon Buddah was a little less skittish, and discovered the Joy Of The Stairs. By Sunday evening they were both taking full advantage of all the space available to run, chasing each other at speeds I haven’t seen out of Max in three years. Monday evening Max tossed Buddah down the stairs, and Buddah grabbed Max’s collar and pulled it off over his head.

Max is happy; Buddah is getting there.

Buddah’s existence was made a little brighter by his finding of the mouse. He was disappointed because it was a dead mouse he pulled out from under the stove, and because the Spouse Thingy took it away, but to an eight month old kitten, a dead mouse is better than no mouse.

Max and Buddah’s People are exhausted; by Saturday night, after two weeks of packing and hauling boxes and painting ceilings and walls, my body sent out a “No More” message. I could handle no more, and my back declared it to be a Vicodin kind of evening. I was mostly useless Sunday, and Monday found me crawling back into bed three hours after getting up.

The Spouse Thingy is tired, but he keeps pressing on, hauling stuff out of storage and getting things left behind at the apartment, hanging curtains at the house and dragging things up the stairs that I just don’t have the energy for.

But honestly, this move wouldn’t have happened as smoothly as it did without the Boy and his friends. They were the major muscle, loading all the big things onto the U-Haul truck, and then unloading and hauling it into the house…a good deal of it up the stairs, including my big assed desk and the washer and dryer. There’s no way the Spouse Thingy and I could have done it without them. And they did it without any major damage. Hell, the only damage was to a drawer that *I* forgot to secure; Paris and Drew lifted the cart and the drawer fell out; the face broke off but it’s entirely fixable.

So here were are…in the house, boxes littering the floor, the sound of cat feet thundering across the floor like a herd of wild elephants, and with little energy left to tackle the Cleaning Of The Apartment.

Really, I need a whole lot of energy for that; it looks like a bomb went off. You don’t realize just how dirty a place is until you get all the furniture out. Judging by the interior landscape of the place, we should be grateful no one from the Department of Health ever stopped by.

Oh, and 5 days without Internet access (or cable TV) really sucks. Cable people showed up this afternoon, after much prodding and involvement of a supervisor; turns out they actually showed up yesterday—to the wrong house. The techs made the effort, but they were given the wrong house number.


Quick post from the Vacaville library:

We're in the house. yay! The Boy's friends did a bang up job moving our stuff (well, not bang up as in breaking things...they done good) and all the big stuff is there as well as most of the little stuff. There's still a lot left in the apartment, and slowly but surely we're getting it moved.

But get most of the stuff out of a place and you see how dirty you really are. And we seem to be trashy, trashy people...

I should be writing this from home. We set up an appointment with Comcast cable two weeks ago to have cable and broadband set up as of yesterday. the appointment window was 12-4, and no one ever showed up. the Spouse Thingy was on the phone 5 different times, the first three he was told that for sure someone would be out there to at least start installation before 8 p.m. A littl after 8 he was told they had no idea what he was talking about, but a "supervisor" said she would find a tech to be there at 8 a.m. today, and would call him back within an hour to confirm.

By 10 p.m., no call. He called again; Um duh, whatcha talking about? Call again in the morning, we'll see what we can do.

And so it goes... He was stuck there all day yesterday waiting and will probably be stuck most of today.

We are not happy with the cable people. If not for broadband internet, we would be called the Dish people, 'cause there is a dish connected to the house...


Off to clean the apartment. Hopefully I'll have access again by tonight. Try not to miss me too much if I don't... ;)


I think we’ve moved all we’re going to move until the Boy’s friends haul off all the big stuff. Today we need to pick up the trash we’ve managed to create all over the place (we are very trashy people, it turns out,) do some general cleaning, etc. So what am I doing? I’m sitting here at the computer instead.

Having slept like crap last night (apparently, due to my own stupidity in thinking the Boy was still out at 4 a.m. on a weeknight, when he was actually in his room asleep, but I saw a light on and figured he hadn’t come home, so I laid there and worried and decided he was dead at the side of the road somewhere, but I didn’t get out of bed to check because, after all, surely someone would have called or come to the door if he was hurt…Turns out it was my closet light and not the light we usually leave on for him when he’s out at night. Eh, yeah, my own stupidity. I could make this aside a whole lot longer but I’ll be nice and spare you the gritty details of how my mind works t 4 a.m.) I feel worthless today. Oh, I took some trash out and sort of helped with some boxes that we took over to the house this morning, but other than that, I haven’t been of much use.

I doubt I’ll be much help tomorrow, either. My job will be to stay out of the way for the most part, perhaps playing traffic cop as I tell the guys what goes where as they bring it into the house.

The cats are taking the commotion rather well; Buddah is just curious about what we’re doing and he’s having fun with all the boxes. Max seems to know what’s going on and has a “God, not again! I am so totally going to poop on something!” attitude. When we lock them in the bathroom tomorrow, I think we’ll confirm his worst nightmare.

Party at my house Sunday. And wear old clothes. ‘Cause, well, you don’t want to get good stuff dirty, and I know this terrific party game called Put Thumper’s House Together. Its loads of fun and you’ll love it. Really you will.


  • I hate belts.
  • Hence, when my pants get too big, they will slide down.
  • Luckily, I kept lots of my smaller clothing.
  • However, I am in between sizes.
  • That’s not a complaint.
  • I will learn to love stairs.
  • Because I have to.
  • We have more than half the non-big stuff moved.
  • Yay for us.
  • I have consumed more fast food this week than in all the last 2.5 months combined, I think.
  • Yesterday I caved in to the call of a Snickers Bar.
  • Yet I still lost a couple pounds.
  • Yay me.
  • I love abusing the bullet tag.


You know you're getting old and you're out of shape when on just the 4th trip up the stairs with a box all you can think is that you really want to go back to bed...

The move hath begun.