14 November 2022


I post a lot of memes on Facebook. I have 126 albums loaded with somewhere between 200-215 images each, just things I've run across online over the years. These memes might amuse me, confuse me, upset me, or a mix of all. They might be intended to spur discussion, or they might be there because I know someone in my friends' list will get a kick out of it.

I used to post 2-3 times a week, and for a while during the COVID lockdowns I posted daily. Now I'm down to once a week or so, but...not intentionally. My intention is usually to upload what I've saved to y computer at least twice a week, but the day slips by and next thing I know I'm in bed thinking, "Damn...well, I'll do it tomorrow."

Yeah. By the time I do, I have 50+ memes to share.

Aside from what that does to my notifications the next day, there's a downside to it. Facebook bots tend to snoop and deem a meme here and there to be against their standards. I protest, usually win, and we all get on with things. Only one time have I been penalized, and that was to take away my ability to buy ads for 30 days.

I've never bought an ad, so...sure, I learned my lesson.

Still, my wrist gets a little sore from being slapped so often, and I figure it's a matter of time before they lock up my profile as punishment for sharing things created by other people, that have been shared so often that finding the OC is damn near impossible (like, I'd give credit if I knew where they were born, but...) 

I've mused about and tongue-in-cheek threatened to start another FB account, just so I have a place to land when the inevitable happens, but so far I haven't pulled the trigger. I have a few friends who have done just that, and it seems to work for them, so maybe this week... maybe. I'm not sure why I'm dragging my feet on it, but I'll get it done eventually.

A while back a friend of a friend commented on one of their posts, and I truly dug their name...and then was told it's the Australian nickname for Karen. It was like the heavens opened up and poured sunshine all over my coal-black soul, and the only downer was that I had not known that 50 years ago when I begged my parents to let me change my name.

I was totally ahead of the curve on the whole hating-Karen thing. The difference is I didn't hate the people or ascribe poor behavior to it...I just loathed the name. 

I still hate it. I regret not changing it when I became a legal adult, but by then I didn't want to hurt my parents, and after they were gone it felt too late. Too many people are just used to using it, and asking them to change felt unfair. And now? Holy hell, y'all know what a clusterphk the name has become. Try ordering in Starbucks and having that name called out.

It's not comfortable.

My reluctance to impose upon other people doesn't mean I can't have a new FB profile with essentially the same name, just one from another country. Ms. B Fug...I'm stealing your friend's name.

So if you get a friend request from a Thompson named Kaz in the next few weeks, it's totally me. I'll make sure the profile picture and header make it clear; I'll do 90% of my usual stuff on my usual account, but sooner or later I am not going to win a protest against the FB bot, and I really do need that connection to my friends.

Also, totally not related, 2 news shorts posted to The Lost Boys of EveryWhen. Along with links to download them to your favored e-reader. 

Also also totally not related, I had pie tonight. Just sharing.


13 November 2022

He's been gone 2 years, today. Which means Buddah has been gone 2 years, 5 weeks. Yes, I'm still keeping track. I will for a few more years, I think. I miss them horribly, still, and I don't think you ever get over the loss of your heart pets. 

I had pets before these two: Ataturk, Dusty, Hank, and I loved the hell out of them and miss them, too, but there was something about Max and Buddah. Their loss has been like recovering from a sword wound to the gut. There's a massive scar and it's probably always going to hurt.

So no, I won't get over it. But I think I did get through it. While I'm still grieving, I am inching ever closer to wanting 2 more cats. And yes, it would definitely be 2 right off the bat, because I am never again going through what we went through with adding Buddah to the mix when Max was pushing 4 years old.

I'll never know if it would have gone better had Max not gotten so sick from whatever URI Buddah brought into the apartment, but there's no denying that for a long time it was not good, and Max suffered for it. I'm hoping that getting litter mates or a bonded pair will help.

Then again, I also want a dog.

I thought Butters' loss would push me away from that; granted, it made those 5 weeks even worse, but oddly, where I was in this "well, it might be cool" kind of place for the last few months, now it's more like, "for sure I want one, if we come across the right dog at the right time."

The right time won't be until after the holidays, but still.

Butters was a wonderful dog, and I want that in my life again. I want another Hank, a goofy, sweet, loving soul who wants nothing more out of life than happy walks, and treats, pets, and attention.


Today marks 2 years since Max died, and I hope he's getting the Bridge Party he deserves. 

And hopefully I can get back to blogging happier thoughts...I swear, my life is not wrapped around pets no longer here. I mean, it's a whole lot of Animal Crossing and bikes, but in the grand scheme of things, that's pretty decent. I just need to add in a little more actual work, because there are 2 shorts I need to get online, and then a book to polish.



11 November 2022

 Thumper's moment of OMGWTF:

For background, it helps to know that Max was trained to weigh himself. If he went into the bathroom with me, which was pretty much every day, before I'd open the door to let him back out, he had to step on the scale. It was right next to the door; most of the time he did it because he was in a position to bolt out when the door was barely cracked open, but it created a habit that made it easy for me to keep track of his weight.

Buddah...nope. I tried to get him to sit on the scale and was met with growling, nipping, and him jumping up on the vanity where he growled and nipped a little more.

Max's self-weighing was a helpful thing in his last couple of years. There was a number we held onto, knowing he was hanging onto a healthy weight. A few months before he died, though, the number started going down, and a couple of weeks before, he dipped below 10, which is as low as the scale will weigh. On his last day, the vet weighed him at 8 pounds...the same weight he was when the Boy brought him home at 4 months old.

Now, here we are, nearly two years after Max left us. Yesterday I went into the bathroom and closed the door, because even though there's only one other person in the house and he was asleep...I do not need an audience, especially a surprise audience should he get up early.

After I washed my hands, I turned toward the closed door, and something caught my eye, so I glanced down; the digital scale was synching itself, though I had not been on it. Curious, I went into the living room to get my phone and checked the app.

GUEST 10.9 lbs

Make of that what you will.

Yeah, sure, maybe the scale was just doing what digital scales do, and if not for the registered weight, I'd have shrugged it off.

I'm not shrugging.

You never know...


10 November 2022

The wind sucked out of my blogging sails; I fully intended to blog as many days this month as possible, but then a Big Bad Awful happened, and my heart was not in it.

On Sunday, my son's dog Butters--known to Max's friends as That Damned Dog Butters--was helped on his way to the Bridge. The Boy knew several days ahead and took time off work to spend that time spoiling the hell out of him, which is what this wonderful pup deserved.

I mean, his life started out hard under someone else, and my son truly rescued him. Butters was afraid of men, but with Curt's patience and deep, unwavering love and commitment, Butters thrived. When Salina came into their lives, well, Butters got exactly what he needed, and was one happy dog.

Mid-September, they went to Mexico to celebrate their anniversary, and I got to stay with the pets. It was clear then that Butters was declining, but to me he just acted like an old man. Stiff, he needed help going down the stairs to outside, and he slept a lot, but otherwise he was just old.

He made me, as Max would say, 23 kinds of happy. He ate all the food I put in front of him, and asked for more (and damn right, I gave him as much as he wanted, and extra treats to boot.) And one wonderful afternoon after I brought him inside from some time spent in the back yard, he raced through the house, those ears bouncing, sending the cats running for the other room. There was joy in that, and that's the image I'm holding in my head. Butters on a Very Good Day.

The Spouse Thingy was able to spend a lot of time with him over those few days, too; lots of time spent outside, sniffing all the things. There were no walks, but there was couch time with pets and head skritches, and unlike the first time they met--when he was still afraid of men--Butters melted into his hand and loved the attention.

I think that's what he wants to hold onto; Butters enjoying him, not one bit afraid.

We knew it was coming, and braced ourselves Sunday morning, not wanting to leave the house, just waiting. And when the text came, we both broke. I spent the day crying, and the Spouse Thingy admitted he didn't dare go near any of the equipment in his wood shop because he couldn't see through the tears. I'd expected to be sad; I'd expected to cry. But I didn't expect it to burn.

We loved that puppy...Curt and Salina LOVED him. No one else could have taken better care nor loved him as well as he deserved than they did. I'll forever be grateful that such an amazing soul stuffed into that small body found his way to the people he needed, and who needed him. Butters was a big dog in a small body, and I can't imagine there ever being another one like him.