Lightning did something to Didge's television set yesterday. It did something to me, too - the lights dimmed, there was a loud POP from somewhere in my general vicinity, and I screamed bloody damned murder. Scared Totsi and the cats out of their minds, shook for about an hour, and had a headache for the rest of the day. And I swear that screech has everything to do with today's scratchy throat.
I really should consider switching to Sanka.
Anyway, Didge discovered last night that the POP might be related to the input/output ports on the back of the set. The front ones work, the back do not; they'll handle audio but not video. This is not a good thing for a gamer. NO PS2 + NO X-BOX = PISSY DIDGE. He hustled and bustled until about 3am trying to work something out. (And, yes, we're using a surge protector.)
Thank the gods he was victorious, kind of. Have you any idea what a gameless Didgeridoo Boy is like? Boredom is not his friend. His boredom is REALLY not my friend. He and I both need his games.
Off to do some baking (seriously), further my attempts to reclaim our future master bedroom, and finish compiling my Sally Beauty shopping list. Care to guess which of those I consider most vital?
31 May 2010
29 May 2010
There's just something about him...
This morning, Totsi the Dog and I sat by the windows looking out to the deck while I had my coffee. It's important for us to rest up after corralling cats; Foot Foot Kitty was especially determined to be pesky, and Foster the Cat was....Foster the Catting. Been there, talked about that, Goodwilled the t-shirt. Anyway, as soon as I took my coffee cup to the sink, Totsi decided it was time to go back upstairs and snooze with Didgeridoo Boy, or as she calls him, Daddy.
Yes, yes, time to go curl up with Daddy. And she gives hints, prancing around, going back and forth between where I am and the base of the stairs, asking if it's okay to go back upstairs to take a nap with Daddy. This morning, though, she seemed to be asking for more. She ran up the stairs when I told her it was okay, and stood at the stop. Stared. Stared. Stared. It's pretty obvious when Totsi is asking for something.
I asked, "Do you want the door closed?", and she ran to the bedroom.
It's as though she's trying to score some kind of one-on-one with Didgeridoo Boy, isn't it? Funny, I'd never thought of my dog as a needy woman; Didge is friendly and supportive, and certain types of women do tend to like to capitalize upon that kind of attention. But my dog? Now my dog? Et tu, Totsi? Where have I gone wrong in her upbringing? I thought I'd given her the foundation for strong self esteem, that she'd never be *that kind of woman*, the kind who will turn to a married man for (ahem) emotional support.
Sigh. I'm going to head out for the current issue of Cosmo and browse some self-help sites to try to find out where I might have gone wrong, as well as locate some tips on how to help her rebuild from where I went off course. It's the least I can do.
Yes, yes, time to go curl up with Daddy. And she gives hints, prancing around, going back and forth between where I am and the base of the stairs, asking if it's okay to go back upstairs to take a nap with Daddy. This morning, though, she seemed to be asking for more. She ran up the stairs when I told her it was okay, and stood at the stop. Stared. Stared. Stared. It's pretty obvious when Totsi is asking for something.
I asked, "Do you want the door closed?", and she ran to the bedroom.
It's as though she's trying to score some kind of one-on-one with Didgeridoo Boy, isn't it? Funny, I'd never thought of my dog as a needy woman; Didge is friendly and supportive, and certain types of women do tend to like to capitalize upon that kind of attention. But my dog? Now my dog? Et tu, Totsi? Where have I gone wrong in her upbringing? I thought I'd given her the foundation for strong self esteem, that she'd never be *that kind of woman*, the kind who will turn to a married man for (ahem) emotional support.
Sigh. I'm going to head out for the current issue of Cosmo and browse some self-help sites to try to find out where I might have gone wrong, as well as locate some tips on how to help her rebuild from where I went off course. It's the least I can do.
28 May 2010
Helping a Didgeridoo...
Didgeridoo Boy, as I might have mentioned, is addicted to Mt. Dew. I can't drink the stuff, as it makes me want to recreate Mary Lou Retton's legendary vault at the '84 Olympics at random, and the anti-freeze color of it scares me. So, you'd think a case of Mt. Dew would last a while, right?
Wrong. A case of Mt. Dew lasts about four days. So last night, after purchasing another case, I asked if there was any way to make this one last for at least a week. "Hide them from me.", he said. He was serious. But - how?
Didgeridoo Boy turns everything into a game wrought with supreme smartassery. He will tear this house apart "pretending" to hunt for his beverages. I know this about him. Plus, it's not as though our house is that large. Accomplishing this is going to require something akin to creating an Easter egg hunt for the world's most playfully evil jacked-up-on-Pixi-Stix seven-year-old genius. I can fully see him destroying things trying to find one....more....can every night after I go to bed.
Maybe I could bury them out in the back yard, or plop them (in daily allocation bundles) into the creek bed a few yards back from that. They might tuck underneath the mulch in the front flowerbed. The trunk of my car is far too obvious. And choosing obvious in-house options? He will figure that I selected those thinking he would not think to look in them. This is Didgeridoo Boy, darlings. He has perfected the fine art of being "slick" - which makes him exceedingly difficult to deal with. Compliance is not his strong point. In many ways, he is not to be trusted.
(And oh, look. Foster the cat is going on her morning search for a litter box alternative. Where's my spray bottle?)
(Sorry.)
In other words, Didge will play along only as much as he is willing. And I fear his willingness to play a little game is stronger than his willingness to limit his consumption of this technicolor, hyperactivity-inducing swill. He's also quite keen on thwarting every plan I make, which will only double his determination to root out every single can by 11.58pm tonight.
And I just realized that once he reads today's entry, the hunt will ensue, and he will blame it on the fact that I wrote all of this.
Wrong. A case of Mt. Dew lasts about four days. So last night, after purchasing another case, I asked if there was any way to make this one last for at least a week. "Hide them from me.", he said. He was serious. But - how?
Didgeridoo Boy turns everything into a game wrought with supreme smartassery. He will tear this house apart "pretending" to hunt for his beverages. I know this about him. Plus, it's not as though our house is that large. Accomplishing this is going to require something akin to creating an Easter egg hunt for the world's most playfully evil jacked-up-on-Pixi-Stix seven-year-old genius. I can fully see him destroying things trying to find one....more....can every night after I go to bed.
Maybe I could bury them out in the back yard, or plop them (in daily allocation bundles) into the creek bed a few yards back from that. They might tuck underneath the mulch in the front flowerbed. The trunk of my car is far too obvious. And choosing obvious in-house options? He will figure that I selected those thinking he would not think to look in them. This is Didgeridoo Boy, darlings. He has perfected the fine art of being "slick" - which makes him exceedingly difficult to deal with. Compliance is not his strong point. In many ways, he is not to be trusted.
(And oh, look. Foster the cat is going on her morning search for a litter box alternative. Where's my spray bottle?)
(Sorry.)
In other words, Didge will play along only as much as he is willing. And I fear his willingness to play a little game is stronger than his willingness to limit his consumption of this technicolor, hyperactivity-inducing swill. He's also quite keen on thwarting every plan I make, which will only double his determination to root out every single can by 11.58pm tonight.
And I just realized that once he reads today's entry, the hunt will ensue, and he will blame it on the fact that I wrote all of this.
27 May 2010
From the vault....
You already know what's happening in Casa Didgeridoo, so I won't bore you with another mention of Foster the Cat. Here's an entry from eight years ago, in the first GoKittenGo blog (still there, but locked so I can whip out surprises). I was living in a really cute apartment over what can only be described as a ... *cluster*. There. I'm being nice. They never ran their a/c, and heat rises. The issue finally wore my a/c unit out, and I skip-to-my-lou'd right out of there once the lease was up. Let's go back into the moment, shall we?
Hot
15 June 2002 | 4:50 pm
First, allow me to say that I feel people have a right to live as they see fit in their own homes. Now, let me say that I feel my downstairs neighbors are severely limiting my ability to do so.
Given: They have a right to not run their air conditioner. However, It’s 100 degrees Fahrenheit outside, and the heat from their place is rising into mine. This is a sad norm, last summer my electric bills were upwards of $200.00 per month because my air conditioner runs non damn stop. With the thermostat set to sixty, it’s steadily at least eighty degrees in my place. Those bastards are on the last nerve I no longer have, and I’ve no idea how to remedy the problem.
It’s so frustrating, standing on the furniture to check the vents only to find that cold air is indeed blowing, and that a layer of cool air exists well over my head. (It’s really odd! Perhaps I should put the dresser on the bed, and put a chair on top of that and just stay until October?) It blows so hard that it spins the ceiling fan in the sun room, which is located just under one of the vents. The problem isn’t my air conditioning unit. It’s the Jerry Springer episode I’m doomed to live above. (Please forgive me, the heat has rendered me incapable of positive thoughts!)
The property managers cannot make them run the a/c, can they? I’m considering root work; this is the deep South, and practitioners can be found. (Great God, I’m going delirious.) What about if I festoon my porch with chicken bones, and add a decorative sickle? I can tell them to address me only as Mistress Doomwench, and scare them into turning the fucking thing on.
I’ve turned off the air conditioning, as it does no good anyway. I am wearing a tank top for the first time in my natural life. (It was a Christmas gift a few years ago. I didn’t actually purchase it, darlings.) Strategically positioned in front of a fan, I am plotting their downfall and chucking the occasional heavy object floorward. (Oh, boxes of books, boxes of shoes, a headboard or two, those ought to do the trick) Shake ‘em up, and hopefully move ‘em the hell out at month’s end.
Granted, they don’t complain when I have a glass of champagne or ten and listen to the embarrassing variety of tunes I’m prone to listen to while intoxicated at 1.00am (my last spree was to Information Society and the Sugarcubes). And they’ve yet to complain about all the noise that results from me jumping off my bed repeatedly in fits of rage over the oven my apartment becomes. I don’t think they notice. To be honest, they seem positively oblivious to everything.
They’ll sit outside and stare at the parking lot for hours on end. Sometimes they have beer. Other times they grill, and please don’t get me started on how close that gas grill sits to the wooden apartment building. Sometimes they block the stairs completely and good naturedly fail to even so much as offer to move as I try to leave. But the real issue is the air conditioning, or lack thereof. Santa Claus will, please, bring them a Ryder truck and haul them the hell away.
Don’t you damn dare tell me this builds character.
Not one whit of that is an exaggeration - I really jumped off the bed and threw boxes, and they really did just *stare* out into the parking lot all the time. I especially like the part about the tank top, which I've since released my fear of. But this was during my posh-retro-Jackie-O phase, during which things like that simply were not done.
I don't know what became of those people, but I'd be willing to wager they sweated out their next upstairs neighbors, too. I never knew what to make of the situation. Sometimes an assortment of men would show up at odd hours demanding to see the woman who lived there. Sometimes her mother would show up demanding to know about the men. Although a sauna, it could prove entertaining on Friday nights.
Hot
15 June 2002 | 4:50 pm
First, allow me to say that I feel people have a right to live as they see fit in their own homes. Now, let me say that I feel my downstairs neighbors are severely limiting my ability to do so.
Given: They have a right to not run their air conditioner. However, It’s 100 degrees Fahrenheit outside, and the heat from their place is rising into mine. This is a sad norm, last summer my electric bills were upwards of $200.00 per month because my air conditioner runs non damn stop. With the thermostat set to sixty, it’s steadily at least eighty degrees in my place. Those bastards are on the last nerve I no longer have, and I’ve no idea how to remedy the problem.
It’s so frustrating, standing on the furniture to check the vents only to find that cold air is indeed blowing, and that a layer of cool air exists well over my head. (It’s really odd! Perhaps I should put the dresser on the bed, and put a chair on top of that and just stay until October?) It blows so hard that it spins the ceiling fan in the sun room, which is located just under one of the vents. The problem isn’t my air conditioning unit. It’s the Jerry Springer episode I’m doomed to live above. (Please forgive me, the heat has rendered me incapable of positive thoughts!)
The property managers cannot make them run the a/c, can they? I’m considering root work; this is the deep South, and practitioners can be found. (Great God, I’m going delirious.) What about if I festoon my porch with chicken bones, and add a decorative sickle? I can tell them to address me only as Mistress Doomwench, and scare them into turning the fucking thing on.
I’ve turned off the air conditioning, as it does no good anyway. I am wearing a tank top for the first time in my natural life. (It was a Christmas gift a few years ago. I didn’t actually purchase it, darlings.) Strategically positioned in front of a fan, I am plotting their downfall and chucking the occasional heavy object floorward. (Oh, boxes of books, boxes of shoes, a headboard or two, those ought to do the trick) Shake ‘em up, and hopefully move ‘em the hell out at month’s end.
Granted, they don’t complain when I have a glass of champagne or ten and listen to the embarrassing variety of tunes I’m prone to listen to while intoxicated at 1.00am (my last spree was to Information Society and the Sugarcubes). And they’ve yet to complain about all the noise that results from me jumping off my bed repeatedly in fits of rage over the oven my apartment becomes. I don’t think they notice. To be honest, they seem positively oblivious to everything.
They’ll sit outside and stare at the parking lot for hours on end. Sometimes they have beer. Other times they grill, and please don’t get me started on how close that gas grill sits to the wooden apartment building. Sometimes they block the stairs completely and good naturedly fail to even so much as offer to move as I try to leave. But the real issue is the air conditioning, or lack thereof. Santa Claus will, please, bring them a Ryder truck and haul them the hell away.
Don’t you damn dare tell me this builds character.
Not one whit of that is an exaggeration - I really jumped off the bed and threw boxes, and they really did just *stare* out into the parking lot all the time. I especially like the part about the tank top, which I've since released my fear of. But this was during my posh-retro-Jackie-O phase, during which things like that simply were not done.
I don't know what became of those people, but I'd be willing to wager they sweated out their next upstairs neighbors, too. I never knew what to make of the situation. Sometimes an assortment of men would show up at odd hours demanding to see the woman who lived there. Sometimes her mother would show up demanding to know about the men. Although a sauna, it could prove entertaining on Friday nights.
26 May 2010
I know you're sick of hearing about this....
Foster the Cat shit in the shower. I shit you not. Yes, the bathroom door was open. But that doesn't matter - if it's shut, she pees in the hall.
Oh, happy day, happy day. I took pictures. I won't post them, but I was so mad I wanted photographic evidence to show Didge. "Look! Your cat! And her doody, doody, doody, dude!" Ugh. I'm disgusted, distressed, and everything in between.
I have to say, though, other than the obvious problem of kitty turds on tile, life's pretty darned good. During those blissful days of bedroom retreat, I decided to do a six week "reboot" to get myself out of the rut I've slipped into. As nonsensical as this might sound, I realized my life really wasn't keeping up with all of the changes that have taken place, and it was time to catch up. So far, so good. I'm happily plugging along through morning cardio, have taken up a renewed Kundalini Yoga practice, and am FINALLY getting enough sleep. I dove in and took an intensive study of my wardrobe, which I'm not happy with, and have figured out how to get it back to where it makes me happy. (My time as housewife to a yuppie did nothing for it. Who the hell was I kidding?) I have HUGE plans for the blog. It's not all happening as quickly as I'd hoped, but I'm happy with how everything is coming along. Finally. The best part is realizing that there will never be a dead-set finishing point and that the world won't end because of that. How is THAT for keeping my mind off this literal cat shit for a few minutes?
(Hey, it's a start.)
Okay, that's enough self help talk, but let's try a more positive approach to the matter at hand. I'm very please to report (yes, that issue again) that Joy brand dish soap gets the smell of kitty cat offal out of showers. And Pro Pet brand waterless shampoo is very efficient at ridding carpet of those odors. Of course, there is still that spot in the hall that I can't quite locate, that I noticed when I came downstairs this morning. Hm.
I'm going to stop while I'm ahead.
Oh, happy day, happy day. I took pictures. I won't post them, but I was so mad I wanted photographic evidence to show Didge. "Look! Your cat! And her doody, doody, doody, dude!" Ugh. I'm disgusted, distressed, and everything in between.
I have to say, though, other than the obvious problem of kitty turds on tile, life's pretty darned good. During those blissful days of bedroom retreat, I decided to do a six week "reboot" to get myself out of the rut I've slipped into. As nonsensical as this might sound, I realized my life really wasn't keeping up with all of the changes that have taken place, and it was time to catch up. So far, so good. I'm happily plugging along through morning cardio, have taken up a renewed Kundalini Yoga practice, and am FINALLY getting enough sleep. I dove in and took an intensive study of my wardrobe, which I'm not happy with, and have figured out how to get it back to where it makes me happy. (My time as housewife to a yuppie did nothing for it. Who the hell was I kidding?) I have HUGE plans for the blog. It's not all happening as quickly as I'd hoped, but I'm happy with how everything is coming along. Finally. The best part is realizing that there will never be a dead-set finishing point and that the world won't end because of that. How is THAT for keeping my mind off this literal cat shit for a few minutes?
(Hey, it's a start.)
Okay, that's enough self help talk, but let's try a more positive approach to the matter at hand. I'm very please to report (yes, that issue again) that Joy brand dish soap gets the smell of kitty cat offal out of showers. And Pro Pet brand waterless shampoo is very efficient at ridding carpet of those odors. Of course, there is still that spot in the hall that I can't quite locate, that I noticed when I came downstairs this morning. Hm.
I'm going to stop while I'm ahead.
24 May 2010
Steam...
Wow. What a morning. I got up, Didge informed me he'd found another solution to the cat problem, and I asked him to take Foster to the litter box before going to bed (he'd stayed up all night in preparation for working tonight). He didn't. He went to bed, Foot Foot kitty went on patrol, I chased Foot Foot and Totsi the Dog up the stairs, and Foster started looking around for a spot for her morning business. Then she went back up on top of the fridge. I tried to lure her to the litter box with a piece of a hot dog, didn't work. On the top of the fridge she sat. (I get severe contact dermatitis if I touch cats, so I can't pick her up to carry her. Had I mentioned that part yet?)
I threw the mother of all fits. It's been a long time coming, and I found it almost immediately relieved the past week's (or is it two?) lingering headache. And I really don't give one flying damn if I scared the cats and the dog. They'll get over it. I have more than had it, as I've expressed in here on more than one occasion. Being calm about it didn't work, so I kicked it up a bit. I'm sick and damned tired of having to tiptoe around a cat, plan a house around a cat, fret about the well-being of a cat while the other cat and the dog have to sit, be very quiet, and be scolded. And I am really sick and tired of the smell of cat pee emanating from the drain of the downstairs shower. (Thus far, nothing's worked to get rid of it.)
The cat even peed on Totsi the Dog's most favorite toys. They had to be thrown out. That was really the point when it dawned on me that the two happiest beings in this house are Didge and Foster. The other three of us are living around them, on their schedule, staying out of their way, and keeping them happy. Not a fucking option, sweet cheeks! I am an animal lover, my dog is like my child, but I have never seen anyone let anything like this happen.
Great gawdamighty, I was furious. The whole neighborhood probably knows it now. It's been an hour, and I'm still a little shaky from it.
Throwing the laundry over the balcony really helped. I needed it downstairs anyway, and now it's all sorted in neat little piles for a therapeutic laundry day. I dare, absolutely dare, anyone to cross me. Princess Badvibes is on the loose, and she's not feeling charitable.
I threw the mother of all fits. It's been a long time coming, and I found it almost immediately relieved the past week's (or is it two?) lingering headache. And I really don't give one flying damn if I scared the cats and the dog. They'll get over it. I have more than had it, as I've expressed in here on more than one occasion. Being calm about it didn't work, so I kicked it up a bit. I'm sick and damned tired of having to tiptoe around a cat, plan a house around a cat, fret about the well-being of a cat while the other cat and the dog have to sit, be very quiet, and be scolded. And I am really sick and tired of the smell of cat pee emanating from the drain of the downstairs shower. (Thus far, nothing's worked to get rid of it.)
The cat even peed on Totsi the Dog's most favorite toys. They had to be thrown out. That was really the point when it dawned on me that the two happiest beings in this house are Didge and Foster. The other three of us are living around them, on their schedule, staying out of their way, and keeping them happy. Not a fucking option, sweet cheeks! I am an animal lover, my dog is like my child, but I have never seen anyone let anything like this happen.
Great gawdamighty, I was furious. The whole neighborhood probably knows it now. It's been an hour, and I'm still a little shaky from it.
Throwing the laundry over the balcony really helped. I needed it downstairs anyway, and now it's all sorted in neat little piles for a therapeutic laundry day. I dare, absolutely dare, anyone to cross me. Princess Badvibes is on the loose, and she's not feeling charitable.
23 May 2010
So, other than the cats...
Yes, I actually do have a life beyond chasing my husband's cat out of the downstairs bathroom, which she has chosen as her litter box. (Had to do that again this morning, incidentally. I opened the door to go in to put in my contacts, and she dashed in and went straight for the shower.) At least I think I have a life outside of this. To be honest, it's been fairly all-consuming this week, along with trying to figure out how to shuffle the house around in a way that won't result in the carpet being destroyed by an obviously angry cat. I'm talking about it again. This was supposed to be a therapeutic entry that didn't involve the issue of Didge's cat peeing all over the house.
Let me sit here and blink for a minute. I need to reset my brain.
(blinking)
I can't reset my brain. Frankly, I'm furious, fed up, and everything in between.
Here. Have some more music while I continue blinking.
Let me sit here and blink for a minute. I need to reset my brain.
(blinking)
I can't reset my brain. Frankly, I'm furious, fed up, and everything in between.
Here. Have some more music while I continue blinking.
22 May 2010
I have nothing to say.
Seriously. And why is that? Because the one thing that is embedded at the forefront of my mind is the fact that Foster the Cat....breathing...
Foster the Cat is on a mission to pee in the shower. This is fully deliberate. She was on a mission to get in there this morning; I'd turn my back, and she'd go missing. Where would I find her? Bathroom. Shower. She peed in it yesterday. She was trying to pee in it again.
Actually, I do have something to say, with full apologies to Samuel L. Jackson. Enough is enough. I have had it with this mother fucking cat and this mother fucking pee. Everybody strap in. I'm about to open some fucking windows.
Really. I am. Have you ever smelled cat pee?
Here. Have some music. It's not related, but the thought just popped into my head, and proved a welcome distraction from what I am no longer thinking about. Damn it.
Foster the Cat is on a mission to pee in the shower. This is fully deliberate. She was on a mission to get in there this morning; I'd turn my back, and she'd go missing. Where would I find her? Bathroom. Shower. She peed in it yesterday. She was trying to pee in it again.
Actually, I do have something to say, with full apologies to Samuel L. Jackson. Enough is enough. I have had it with this mother fucking cat and this mother fucking pee. Everybody strap in. I'm about to open some fucking windows.
Really. I am. Have you ever smelled cat pee?
Here. Have some music. It's not related, but the thought just popped into my head, and proved a welcome distraction from what I am no longer thinking about. Damn it.
20 May 2010
Fostered half to death...
Remember Foster? The cat with the unusual face who likes to surf down countertops on pot holders? Let me refresh your memory:
Isn't she something? Isn't she glorious? All things in this house revolve around Foster. As I've mentioned before, this is Foster's universe, and we are but her subjects. We can't move into our master bedroom (currently storage) because she's taken up residence in a chair. And while we've finally convinced her that she can share a litter box with our other cat, Foot Foot (aka Psycho Calico), and she consented to have said litter box moved to a convenient, private closet? I'll get to the point. The cat is peeing all over the damned house.
First it was Totsi the Dog's bed. She did that more than once, in plain view of my husband. Then she peed all over Totsi's blankiepillow - it's a blanket rolled up like a pillow, and had been placed to the side of the bed while the bed was being cleaned. She peed on the bathroom counter, right at the sink. And two days ago, she peed on a bathroom rug - even going so far as to bunch it up when she finished as though burying what she'd just done. *Soaked* that mofo with a vengeance, too - just after having been to the litter box. Had I mentioned that she'd JUST used the litter box?
(Note - this isn't always related to having just used the litter box. It's happened at random, too. And it doesn't have anything to do with the litter box being moved - she took this up a few weeks beforehand.)
This morning, Foster went to the litter box, took care of her business, came back inside, and proceeded to try to take care of a little more business in the bathroom. I shut the door, and she strolled into the kitchen for breakfast. Once full, while lounging on top of the fridge, evidently it dawned on her she'd not yet christened the hallway. Hopped off the fridge, waltzed into the damned hall, and assumed the position. I'm glad I was suspicious enough to follow, otherwise I'd still be scrubbing. Upon catching her, I performed a lively interpretive dance for her with the water bottle I seem to always be carrying. Then she went into what's to be our master bedroom, and tried to do the same in not just one, but (now, get this) THREE places. Once she finally registered that my head was about to explode, she looked very upset (we can't have that), so I changed tracks and singsong cussed out the cat while trying to lure her back out to the litter box with a piece of cheese. ("Tum onnn, Foss-terrrrrr, git deh FUCKING cheeeeeeeese.....TUM ONNNNNNN, kitty kitty, cheeeeeeeese, FUCKING yummy cheeeeeeeese....") She cooperated, kind of. Stepped into the litter box, turned around, and came back out.
Which is leading me to wonder if she actually did something somewhere that I didn't manage to catch. I have a headache.
Isn't she something? Isn't she glorious? All things in this house revolve around Foster. As I've mentioned before, this is Foster's universe, and we are but her subjects. We can't move into our master bedroom (currently storage) because she's taken up residence in a chair. And while we've finally convinced her that she can share a litter box with our other cat, Foot Foot (aka Psycho Calico), and she consented to have said litter box moved to a convenient, private closet? I'll get to the point. The cat is peeing all over the damned house.
First it was Totsi the Dog's bed. She did that more than once, in plain view of my husband. Then she peed all over Totsi's blankiepillow - it's a blanket rolled up like a pillow, and had been placed to the side of the bed while the bed was being cleaned. She peed on the bathroom counter, right at the sink. And two days ago, she peed on a bathroom rug - even going so far as to bunch it up when she finished as though burying what she'd just done. *Soaked* that mofo with a vengeance, too - just after having been to the litter box. Had I mentioned that she'd JUST used the litter box?
(Note - this isn't always related to having just used the litter box. It's happened at random, too. And it doesn't have anything to do with the litter box being moved - she took this up a few weeks beforehand.)
This morning, Foster went to the litter box, took care of her business, came back inside, and proceeded to try to take care of a little more business in the bathroom. I shut the door, and she strolled into the kitchen for breakfast. Once full, while lounging on top of the fridge, evidently it dawned on her she'd not yet christened the hallway. Hopped off the fridge, waltzed into the damned hall, and assumed the position. I'm glad I was suspicious enough to follow, otherwise I'd still be scrubbing. Upon catching her, I performed a lively interpretive dance for her with the water bottle I seem to always be carrying. Then she went into what's to be our master bedroom, and tried to do the same in not just one, but (now, get this) THREE places. Once she finally registered that my head was about to explode, she looked very upset (we can't have that), so I changed tracks and singsong cussed out the cat while trying to lure her back out to the litter box with a piece of cheese. ("Tum onnn, Foss-terrrrrr, git deh FUCKING cheeeeeeeese.....TUM ONNNNNNN, kitty kitty, cheeeeeeeese, FUCKING yummy cheeeeeeeese....") She cooperated, kind of. Stepped into the litter box, turned around, and came back out.
Which is leading me to wonder if she actually did something somewhere that I didn't manage to catch. I have a headache.
19 May 2010
Small what the hell?
If you grew up in the 70's and 80's, as Didge and I did, you might remember Clairol's Small Miracle conditioner. I hadn't thought about this product since then. So imagine my surprise when I woke up this morning and remembered dreaming about Didgeridoo Boy making an appearance in one of the ads.
The suit, the purple, everything. He was flying around in my dream, though, smiling knowingly at the camera while shaking his hair around to show it off after relishing every split second of the process of taking off his helmet. Yes, he was holding a bottle of something; no, he was not drinking it. It was this stuff, and my husband was the space-borne model hawking it's miraculous properties.
The subconscious is truly amazing. I'm an admitted pop culture junkie, but where my mind got the thought to head to this reference (no pun intended) and apply it to Didge is beyond my reach at the moment.
The suit, the purple, everything. He was flying around in my dream, though, smiling knowingly at the camera while shaking his hair around to show it off after relishing every split second of the process of taking off his helmet. Yes, he was holding a bottle of something; no, he was not drinking it. It was this stuff, and my husband was the space-borne model hawking it's miraculous properties.
The subconscious is truly amazing. I'm an admitted pop culture junkie, but where my mind got the thought to head to this reference (no pun intended) and apply it to Didge is beyond my reach at the moment.
18 May 2010
Something about marriage...
Actually, that should read "something about cohabitation...". One of the most wonderful features of living with someone is that if one gets sick, nine times out of ten, so will the other. Case in point, Didgeridoo Boy and me. We're both sneezy and headachey. Neither of us can hear very well due to stopped up ears - so the neighbors probably think we're fighting all the time due to our shouting conversations. This joint malady seems to have been spurred by my ransack cleaning the dining room on Saturday - so maybe we're just having dust-spurred allergies. Whatever. We are not happy campers.
Another thing about cohabitation/marriage is dealing with each others' air conditioning preferences. I almost put a foot up Didge's backside last night. He closed one of the vents in the living room, resulting in near tropical conditions (I am hot natured). Of course, he hadn't told me he'd done that, so for several hours I worried that something was wrong with the a/c - visions of open windows, fans, and swearing danced through my head. Once he 'fessed up, saying he knew I wouldn't notice, I informed him I had and pitched a token princess fit. That was wrong of me. Of course, he did neglect to check that the other vent was open. It was not. Another token princess fit. I'm already sick. Hot, too? No, no darling. Princess Badvibes will most certainly surface under those conditions, and she is not nice. She paid quite a little visit at that point. But that was wrong of me, again. I should not have carried on so. But - - never the hell mind that Didge should have done what he never mind should have. Both vents are open now. A piece of folded card stock is Scotch taped over one side of the vent he'd closed off, preventing the issue of chilly Didge. Princess Badvibes is back in her tower.
Now, care to discuss litter box patrol duties? I'll be right back. I need to make sure the locks on the tower doors and windows are secure.
Another thing about cohabitation/marriage is dealing with each others' air conditioning preferences. I almost put a foot up Didge's backside last night. He closed one of the vents in the living room, resulting in near tropical conditions (I am hot natured). Of course, he hadn't told me he'd done that, so for several hours I worried that something was wrong with the a/c - visions of open windows, fans, and swearing danced through my head. Once he 'fessed up, saying he knew I wouldn't notice, I informed him I had and pitched a token princess fit. That was wrong of me. Of course, he did neglect to check that the other vent was open. It was not. Another token princess fit. I'm already sick. Hot, too? No, no darling. Princess Badvibes will most certainly surface under those conditions, and she is not nice. She paid quite a little visit at that point. But that was wrong of me, again. I should not have carried on so. But - - never the hell mind that Didge should have done what he never mind should have. Both vents are open now. A piece of folded card stock is Scotch taped over one side of the vent he'd closed off, preventing the issue of chilly Didge. Princess Badvibes is back in her tower.
Now, care to discuss litter box patrol duties? I'll be right back. I need to make sure the locks on the tower doors and windows are secure.
15 May 2010
Surprises are nice...
And I have such a nice, nice surprise in store for Sleeping Beauty, aka Didgeridoo Boy. I've drafted a seven day ransacking reboot of this place, future guest room excluded, that I'm starting on as soon as I've recovered from my morning cardio. Oh, yes. Yes, yes, it is going to suck. I'm not even going to delude myself. And he is going to try to take over and put the whole process off until the last minute, at which point he will try to accomplish my entire plan in five minutes (he's admitted this is his pattern), but I am not going to have it. This is going to go down according to plan - I am in WIFE mode, and will not be coming out until some time after August, when the house is painted (starting in July) and the texture wall is in place, blissfully accented with just the right mini lights.
Wimping my way through this hasn't worked worth a damn, and has only resulted in this place more and more reflecting Didgeridoo Boy's preference for the "Candy Wrapper Nut Can Sonic Cup with Star Wars Accents" theme. I can't keep up with him doing things the way I am currently trying to do them. Cleaning up after myself is a big enough challenge - with him in the mix? Holy hell. So, what I'm about to embark upon can be likened to a very necessary controlled burn - I'm going to destroy pretty much everything so something good can come in its place, and to avoid the impending disaster that I can see taking form. It's the only way to go.
Wimping my way through this hasn't worked worth a damn, and has only resulted in this place more and more reflecting Didgeridoo Boy's preference for the "Candy Wrapper Nut Can Sonic Cup with Star Wars Accents" theme. I can't keep up with him doing things the way I am currently trying to do them. Cleaning up after myself is a big enough challenge - with him in the mix? Holy hell. So, what I'm about to embark upon can be likened to a very necessary controlled burn - I'm going to destroy pretty much everything so something good can come in its place, and to avoid the impending disaster that I can see taking form. It's the only way to go.
11 May 2010
Mountain Did...
Last night, Didgeridoo Boy tried one of the new, (I am assuming) limited edition flavors of Mountain Dew. The green one, to be exact, that tastes like fizzy sweetened lime with a hint of the peel. Anyway, he was working on his Alien model, and planned to listen to Coast to Coast AM when I went to bed.
We had a few beers in the refrigerator, and I should have realized those were being done away with when I smelled cigarette smoke coming from the living room around 3am. That's not supposed to happen, but I was to sleepy to bother with getting up and saying anything about it. Honestly, having a couple of drinks and slipping up with regards to having a cigarette in the house isn't so bad - I mean, there are always things that could be much, much worse. Yes, I was pissed off when I had to clean up after him, but that was before I'd had my coffee.
Before I headed downstairs, though, I had to deal with Didge's sleepy adventures. Actually...before THAT, I had to deal with him collapsing on the bed so hard that he bounced the dog and me into the air. A few hours after that, Didge began to holler. Nothing specific word-wise, just general hollering, lots of "WHA's" and "HUH's:, with the occasional "NOG". I decided to hold off a bit on getting up, as the situation proved interesting. He got REEEALLY active, thrashing around a bit, and hollering a little bit more. And then he said, and I quote, "Yoyoyoyoyoyoyoyoyooooo...". You figure that one out. Imagine the trololo song being rapped. He then thrashed around hard enough to substantially whack his hand into the wall, and shouted, "Owwwwwwwwwwwwww!"
Just a couple of minutes later, he was up. He walked, stork-like, across the hall to the bathroom and straight into the bathroom counter. Right up to the right-hand sink, to be exact.
Care to hazard a guess as to what Didgeridoo Boy did then?
We had a few beers in the refrigerator, and I should have realized those were being done away with when I smelled cigarette smoke coming from the living room around 3am. That's not supposed to happen, but I was to sleepy to bother with getting up and saying anything about it. Honestly, having a couple of drinks and slipping up with regards to having a cigarette in the house isn't so bad - I mean, there are always things that could be much, much worse. Yes, I was pissed off when I had to clean up after him, but that was before I'd had my coffee.
Before I headed downstairs, though, I had to deal with Didge's sleepy adventures. Actually...before THAT, I had to deal with him collapsing on the bed so hard that he bounced the dog and me into the air. A few hours after that, Didge began to holler. Nothing specific word-wise, just general hollering, lots of "WHA's" and "HUH's:, with the occasional "NOG". I decided to hold off a bit on getting up, as the situation proved interesting. He got REEEALLY active, thrashing around a bit, and hollering a little bit more. And then he said, and I quote, "Yoyoyoyoyoyoyoyoyooooo...". You figure that one out. Imagine the trololo song being rapped. He then thrashed around hard enough to substantially whack his hand into the wall, and shouted, "Owwwwwwwwwwwwww!"
Just a couple of minutes later, he was up. He walked, stork-like, across the hall to the bathroom and straight into the bathroom counter. Right up to the right-hand sink, to be exact.
Care to hazard a guess as to what Didgeridoo Boy did then?
10 May 2010
I can see clearly now...
Alright, I'm not really going to sing that song. But I have new contacts and actually CAN see clearly now. And I really need to stop before that song gets stuck in my head.
But speaking of brain searing, here's a treat for the ears AND eyes!
Brilliance. Just - - brilliance. And I will be back to actually writing tomorrow.
But speaking of brain searing, here's a treat for the ears AND eyes!
Brilliance. Just - - brilliance. And I will be back to actually writing tomorrow.
08 May 2010
Flashback...
"We should probably go over to the show."
"Anybody have a flier? I can't remember where it is."
"Who's playing? Who??? Are they any good? Oh."
"Look. Those guys are here. Bummer. I hope they don't vandalize the place and get us kicked out."
"Is that the guy that always smells like spray paint?"
"Yeah. I think it's his shoes."
"What's the deal with them?"
"Poseritis, man."
(pause)
(whisper)
"Hey......just tell then it's somewhere else, like, really far away....."
And a good time was had by almost all.
"Anybody have a flier? I can't remember where it is."
"Who's playing? Who??? Are they any good? Oh."
"Look. Those guys are here. Bummer. I hope they don't vandalize the place and get us kicked out."
"Is that the guy that always smells like spray paint?"
"Yeah. I think it's his shoes."
"What's the deal with them?"
"Poseritis, man."
(pause)
(whisper)
"Hey......just tell then it's somewhere else, like, really far away....."
And a good time was had by almost all.
07 May 2010
I'm a little bit random...
This was one of my favorite songs when I was about twelve or thirteen:
And it popped into my head while I was trying to decide precisely which neon pink polish to put on my toenails.
Lame entry, I know, but I'm sick today. Cut me some slack, pretty please and a cupcake with Nutella frosting?
And it popped into my head while I was trying to decide precisely which neon pink polish to put on my toenails.
Lame entry, I know, but I'm sick today. Cut me some slack, pretty please and a cupcake with Nutella frosting?
06 May 2010
WON-derr-full...
Is there a miracle product for getting Manic Panic dye out of a bathtub?
Background - I have waist-length, color treated hair that has been color treated for a long time. It's also blown dry. I am not going to change this. In the interest of not having it turn into a cloud of damaged frizz, I color it with Clairol Natural Instincts "Midnight". Just one problem: That color is what I refer to as "mousy black". Black hair is black hair, like I'm sure I've said before. "Deep, warm espresso" is NOT black. It is brown. And for a good while now, I've been sick and tired of running around with a head full of seemingly-faded "black" hair. But at least it wasn't getting damaged, right?
And then I decided that I want my hair to reflect my favorite color combination in the entire universe: Black and pink. I debated this for months - in order for it to work, the black would have to be taken to honest-to-goodness, proper black. And what would be pink would have to be bleached beyond recognition. Ouch. I pondered and debated and procrastinated, and finally decided to be a bit of a poser about the pink and go with clip-in extensions. (Shut up. I love my long hair and don't want it to break. I earned the right to wear these things by having a 20-inch tall mohawk in 1990 in Augusta, GA.) That left me with the black. By this point, I was all but hating that damned "natural black" nonsense.
I was browsing the Manic Panic site when it hit me: Use "Raven Black" as a top coat over the Natural Instincts stuff that does such a great job hiding my (cough cough) gray. (AAAAAAAAAAAGH!) And last night I did just that. My hair is now gloriously proper black and shiny. I am a happy camper. Seriously, I stood in the mirror for a good fifteen minutes swishing my head around like some chick in a seventies conditioner advert.
But the tub in my upstairs bathroom? Well....it's not so much black as it is a purply brownish. Something tells me it's not feeling as pretty as I do. Praise the hair gods and pass the Zud, baby, and let's hope this works.
Background - I have waist-length, color treated hair that has been color treated for a long time. It's also blown dry. I am not going to change this. In the interest of not having it turn into a cloud of damaged frizz, I color it with Clairol Natural Instincts "Midnight". Just one problem: That color is what I refer to as "mousy black". Black hair is black hair, like I'm sure I've said before. "Deep, warm espresso" is NOT black. It is brown. And for a good while now, I've been sick and tired of running around with a head full of seemingly-faded "black" hair. But at least it wasn't getting damaged, right?
And then I decided that I want my hair to reflect my favorite color combination in the entire universe: Black and pink. I debated this for months - in order for it to work, the black would have to be taken to honest-to-goodness, proper black. And what would be pink would have to be bleached beyond recognition. Ouch. I pondered and debated and procrastinated, and finally decided to be a bit of a poser about the pink and go with clip-in extensions. (Shut up. I love my long hair and don't want it to break. I earned the right to wear these things by having a 20-inch tall mohawk in 1990 in Augusta, GA.) That left me with the black. By this point, I was all but hating that damned "natural black" nonsense.
I was browsing the Manic Panic site when it hit me: Use "Raven Black" as a top coat over the Natural Instincts stuff that does such a great job hiding my (cough cough) gray. (AAAAAAAAAAAGH!) And last night I did just that. My hair is now gloriously proper black and shiny. I am a happy camper. Seriously, I stood in the mirror for a good fifteen minutes swishing my head around like some chick in a seventies conditioner advert.
But the tub in my upstairs bathroom? Well....it's not so much black as it is a purply brownish. Something tells me it's not feeling as pretty as I do. Praise the hair gods and pass the Zud, baby, and let's hope this works.
05 May 2010
Zippity damn doo da...
Monday? Errands in the muggy rain in an a/c-free car. Tuesday? Same, plus taking my car to my cousin's shop to get the a/c repaired. Today? Going to pick said car up. And my cute white creepers?
Damned budgeting. I need new contacts, and thanks to federal law cannot just have them brought to me via 1800contacts dot com because my prescription is more than a year old. I have to get a new prescription. Which means an exam fee. Which means I'll need to wait until next month to get my cute white creepers. Well, I could get them, but then I would be going outside of the limits imposed by the budget I am trying to stick to. (It's funny - I was about to click the order button a couple of days ago, and had a gut hunch to hold off.)
But least I will be able to see them ever-so-clearly when they arrive!
Damned budgeting. I need new contacts, and thanks to federal law cannot just have them brought to me via 1800contacts dot com because my prescription is more than a year old. I have to get a new prescription. Which means an exam fee. Which means I'll need to wait until next month to get my cute white creepers. Well, I could get them, but then I would be going outside of the limits imposed by the budget I am trying to stick to. (It's funny - I was about to click the order button a couple of days ago, and had a gut hunch to hold off.)
But least I will be able to see them ever-so-clearly when they arrive!
02 May 2010
Win some lose some...
And it's not a loss, it's a pause. Didge finally couldn't stand it anymore, and bought a pack of cigarettes yesterday. We'd been using the dining room as a "smoking lounge" of sorts, but I decided (to make it more challenging for both of us - high stress and cocktails, remember?) that it's time to go to a no-smoking-in-the-house rule. How to enforce it, I don't know - Didge has very little respect for such things. And I can tell he's going to ignore this as soon as I'm in bed because he ignored me when I informed him that I'm quite serious about this a few minutes ago.
He employed his signature innocent tone when I asked him about it just now, and sang a little song about rong dong donga donga. Rebellion is imminent.
This week, I will be contacting my physician about a prescription for Xanax. It's either that or I'll be on the roof in a lawn chair popping the neighbors' backsides with a BB gun while reciting "Rime of the Ancient Mariner" in Portuguese. And I don't even speak Portuguese.
He employed his signature innocent tone when I asked him about it just now, and sang a little song about rong dong donga donga. Rebellion is imminent.
This week, I will be contacting my physician about a prescription for Xanax. It's either that or I'll be on the roof in a lawn chair popping the neighbors' backsides with a BB gun while reciting "Rime of the Ancient Mariner" in Portuguese. And I don't even speak Portuguese.
01 May 2010
Much better...
In spite of the fact that "Yub Nub" was played, loud, and never minding the fact that a Superman impression took place on a bar stool during which Didge got stuck and wobbled precariously while swearing, today is much better. I'm even in the living room! This is unreal! He's even popping his own popcorn, and I'm shopping for cookbooks and white or clear medium-gauge guitar picks in bulk.
Why white or clear? They will not leave marks on the pick guard and pickups of my cute little pink guitar. Didge had a jam session using red and yellow, and it looks like somebody got their rock and roll on Crayola style. Yes, I am being a princess about this, and I'm fine with that. And why bulk? Oh, how we wander around with guitar picks. I'm as guilty as Didge. They're supposed to be in a Hello Kitty coin purse in my guitar case, but that hasn't gone according to plan.
No more shoe shopping! The white "Lolita" creepers from TUK will be with me soon. There was a brief moment in which I nearly betrayed them for some pink suede ones by Demonia, but my heart belonged to those girly white creepers at first sight.
On a more serious note, I'm just beginning to put my toes in the waters of photography, and something's come to my attention pertaining my fair/carnival photos - the ones you can see in the Flikr gadget to the right. If you would like to use those, please ask me. My husband and I gave permission to three entities, and that's it. Those people know who they are. If you are the person(s) blatantly ripping off one of those entities, all the way down to their copyrighted logo? You're the lovely, lovely person who prompted this little bit of nastiness. Have a nice day, and as we say in the South, bless your heart!
There. I think I'll have a chocolate chip cookie and an iced coffee now. Shopping and asserting oneself calls for an enlivening hit of yummy.
Why white or clear? They will not leave marks on the pick guard and pickups of my cute little pink guitar. Didge had a jam session using red and yellow, and it looks like somebody got their rock and roll on Crayola style. Yes, I am being a princess about this, and I'm fine with that. And why bulk? Oh, how we wander around with guitar picks. I'm as guilty as Didge. They're supposed to be in a Hello Kitty coin purse in my guitar case, but that hasn't gone according to plan.
No more shoe shopping! The white "Lolita" creepers from TUK will be with me soon. There was a brief moment in which I nearly betrayed them for some pink suede ones by Demonia, but my heart belonged to those girly white creepers at first sight.
On a more serious note, I'm just beginning to put my toes in the waters of photography, and something's come to my attention pertaining my fair/carnival photos - the ones you can see in the Flikr gadget to the right. If you would like to use those, please ask me. My husband and I gave permission to three entities, and that's it. Those people know who they are. If you are the person(s) blatantly ripping off one of those entities, all the way down to their copyrighted logo? You're the lovely, lovely person who prompted this little bit of nastiness. Have a nice day, and as we say in the South, bless your heart!
There. I think I'll have a chocolate chip cookie and an iced coffee now. Shopping and asserting oneself calls for an enlivening hit of yummy.
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