Grr.
My car bufed the pooch and enjoyed it today—right in front of the dealership! The damn catalytic converter completely exploded, or some shit that shouldn't be happening to me right now, since I just bought the hematite-coloured beast last year.
I love hematite; did I mention that? I am such a pathetic girl sometimes that I find it revolting. I make fun of Girls Like Me. Maybe it is self-loathing.
Butsoanyway.
So all of a sudden, I’m driving a diesel semi, and so I swing a right instead of going straight, and go to the dealership. This isn’t my original dealership from last year—I’m not talking to them, ‘cos they suck—this is my adopted dealership. :-) Some of the Service Whatevertheycallits are cuties.
As I was saying…
So ever since I bought this car, I’ve had nothing but despair. I had to replace the brakes earlier this year ($350), then a servicing thing ($450), and then something else, I forget, but I have the receipt in my glove compartment, and then I had two oil changes, and now the catalytic converter exploded ($693, but covered by warranty), and I’m told that I need a new clutch (around $800). This is what I get for being a stupid, pathetic GIRL who picked a used car (2003) over a new one (’04 or ’05; they had ’04 in stock, and I would have been on a waitlist for the ’05, but I didn’t want to wait for the ’05, and the ’04 was in a lighter colour and didn’t have the little cargo net thingy on the ceiling) ‘cos she liked the colour. Fucking pathetic.
Oh, and plus the nitrogen in the tires, but that was somewhere in the neighbourhood of $25, and that doesn’t count.
Okay, okay—I lied. I had nine whole months of No Despair. Whatever.
So I am pissed off now. I mean, I am truly steaming. I have been sold a raging lemon. I love the car—really I do—and, like all the cars I have ever had, I have beaten it into submission (in record time, too!). To those that would scoff, I hold up as proof the fact that my car waited (after having been driven for over an hour) until I was *right* in front of the dealership to break down. If that isn’t obeisance, I am at a loss to come up with what is. Good piece of shit car. Pat, pat.
I am so very calling Ford—the company, not the stupid Motor Credit Division, it’s not their fault— tomorrow and giving them as large a piece of my mind as I can spare without drooling on myself. Bastards. And I will cry if I have to. Grr.
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
Monday, November 28, 2005
do it all yesterday, or else!
I live! Everything is great, with the exception of having two major projects both due on Friday, along with an analysis due by oh, *yesterday*. :-) And a minor article review, also due on Friday. Whee. Thank god this is almost over.
Thanksgiving was actually fun. And The Most Shoppingest Day Of The Year was awesome. And I even managed to go gambling with Meg over the weekend. How I managed to pull so many hours out of my Weekend Butt, I still don't know. :-) If I can get a little bit ahead this week, such that I can justify the time, I'll write about it.
Bleah! Bwaah! Blecch!
Ok...back to work.
Thursday, November 24, 2005
At least I'm not Mac and Cheese with Grapes.
Ok...now I'm going to bed for real.
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| You Are The Stuffing |
 You're complicated and complex, yet all your pieces fit together. People miss you if you're gone - but they're not sure why. |
Corrigendum
The link I included left out some of the funnier ones, and misspelt 'Riesling'. So here.
Though I did think 'Mogen Darryl' was *hilarious*!
Though I did think 'Mogen Darryl' was *hilarious*!
Ancodia's Berry Scary (pre-) Thanksgiving
About two years ago, a friend of mine moved here from Minnesota. Well, in reality, she’s more Meg’s friend than mine, but whatever. And even though she’s extremely religious, we get along ok enough. My philosophy is that I ultimately don’t give a damn what anyone believes, and I think her philosophy is that, though she likes me—mostly—here on Earth, I’m annoying enough that the thought of All Eternity away from me isn’t all that heartbreaking. :-) She’s saving her vacation time and money to go back to MN in December, so this year we are doing Thanksgiving with her. I think I’ll call her Amelia; it’s more amicable than Minnesota-Friend, and she’s an “Amelia” type—farm-girl looking, long hair, wears dresses that usually have flowers on them…you know. I think she does not wear pants much because of some religion thing, but I dare not ask; the last time I was in Minneapolis, I got into a religion discussion with her at a pizza parlour downtown, and I regretted it about two minutes into the conversation. But the food was great. I can’t remember the name of the pizza parlour, but it was fantastic; it’s a big, two-storey one near the hospital, if I remember correctly. Or it might be by the convention centre. Or both. Who the hell knows. But sort of cafeteria-style, two-storey pizza parlours are probably hard to come by, so if you’re ever in Minneapolis and see one, try it out. Just don’t talk about religion.
Butsoanyway.
I was going to go do Thanksgiving with Son-Friend (who maybe one day I will get around to naming also, but I have to re-name ‘Pants and RCG first), but a few weeks ago, gf of S-F’s daughter (who just had a child eight months ago, out of wedlock from a one-night stand with a biker she picked up in a bar, and no I am not kidding…I can’t make stuff like this up) moved back in with them, and she’ll be there, with child (she’s both frustratingly stupid and breeding…do I need to say more?), and gf of S-F also invited two people from where she works, one of whom I have met before and think is weird, and the other I don’t know, but is alone this Thanksgiving because her husband just left her. As if I could deal with that for three or four hours. Or would be able to handle Mom and That. And she’s bringing her dog. And Son-Friend has invited a friend of his (really more like “a guy he knows”) who is an alcoholic (albeit a peaceful, happy drunk), because the alkie wanted Son-Friend to spend Thanksgiving with him (which means probably at a bar, not that Son-Friend drinks) because no one else would, since the alkie’s divorced and his children hate him. Not that I can blame them; they probably got tired of hearing him tell the same story three times an hour. Every hour. Whether you want to hear it, or not. So I told Son-Friend that there’s only so much I can take without the cushioning afforded by a serious IV drug habit, and begged off. He understands; at this point, he wants to beg off, too. I don’t blame him.
Eh, I’ll wander over for leftovers in the next day or so, once I’m back to being not fed on a regular basis.
Butsoanyway.
So Meg was the one who offered to spend Thanksgiving with Amelia and bring Mom, and asked me if I wanted to come. We’re going to do it at Amelia’s place because she doesn’t know her way around the city very well (we’re talking someone who makes a triangle from home to work to church to home), and wanted to play hostess anyway. Ok, fine. I told Meg that I would come only under a couple of conditions: (1) Meg has to go shopping with me today; (2) Meg has to not only make stuffed eggs for me, but she has to give me the recipe. Mom’s recipe from my grandmother was lost, and Meg found one that is damn close if not exact, and I want it. I’ve searched, I can’t find it, and Meg’s just being a bitch; (3) Meg has to go shopping with me on The Most Shoppingest Day Of The Year. All day. All of it.
Ha-HA! She agreed! Woo-hoo! Score!
I promise that I’ll post the recipe just as soon as I get it from her.
So we went shopping today, and I found a *cool* PWP at the Elizabeth Arden counter. It is a purple bag that you get for free with a $35 purchase and then you can buy the matching purple makeup bags and makeup for $40. I bought their 3-in-1 cleanser (it works really well!) and a lipstick, and I made Meg buy Millennium Energist, ‘cos she needed a moisturiser, and I was happy with how ME held up in snowy weather…it feels greasy, but it isn’t, which is weird. But whatever. We both agreed that the bags and makeup would be useful for trips. And then I bought a few presents, and made Meg buy some decent hair stuff. I used to have to fight her, but now she gets All Soft on her own (she has very different hair from me), and I bought a yellow tube of Redken glop for tricoloured blondes like Meg that smoothes out her layers. Let’s just hope she uses it, ‘cos she needs it. Don’t tell her I said that. :-)
So we stopped to pick up something to watch tomorrow if necessary, and then I had to come back home really quickly for an online class meeting. God, I hate that class. I hate group work. Actually, hate isn’t really strong enough a word. So I sat online chatting about something that’s due next Friday for an hour, and Meg ran to the store to get stuff for tomorrow. At the end of my hour, I somehow ended up getting assigned all of the hard parts, just like I have for the last three projects, but who fucking cares. It’s the god damned holiday season.
Ok, well, I care, but I can’t fix it now, and I didn’t feel like arguing too much. It just takes too much work.
So then I get ready to go to do my part of the shopping; I am making the stuffing (which isn’t being stuffed as god intended it, in deference to Amelia’s belief that it isn’t clean to do and makes the bird harder to cook, so I guess it’s actually dressing, but whatever), and was going to make two vegetables, and some other stuff. I am making two different stuffings; one regular, and one oyster. Mom offered her help to me, but she likes to put weird crap in stuffing, and I can’t deal with that, plus I am enjoying my “away time” from her when I can get it. Plus, I don’t want to find pieces of pear or whatever in there. I can deal with oysters, chestnuts…*normal* stuff. But nothing about Mummers is normal; she tries to make every kind of dressing, all at once. Or she gets “creative”. Sometimes it’s hard to tell which one she’s doing. She’d make some sourdough-cornbread-brown bread stuffing with raisins, giblets, apples, eggs, mushrooms, celery, Jell-O, and pineapple, and then toss in a couple of tomatoes for variety. Or make it out of mac and cheese. With grapes. That woman is dangerous in a kitchen. So no nouvelle Mommy cuisine this year. Nope.
Butsoanyway.
So I jumped in my car, threw in a Horrorpops cd, and worked on getting into the Thanksgiving spirit. Woo-hoo.
The shopping trip was horrible, and in reality the only thing that kept me from losing my crackers was composing a blog post in my mind (now how pathetic is that? Kind of like I feel more removed if I’m narrating it?). But I have no one to blame but myself, ‘cos I was late in getting off shopping from the stupidass online festival I had with our group’s feckless leader, and so I gave in and drove twenty minutes for my inaugural trip to the new frickin’ Welly-Mart instead of my regular supermarket because I figured Normal Grocer would be closing soon, whereas the new Welly-Mart is a 24-hr supermarket. And I know I’m being nasty. I don’t care.
Oh…my…god. First off, the place was a god damned disaster area. It looked as if a bomb had gone off in there. I want it noted—really attended to—that the produce section was virtually untouched, though. Go figure. Maybe none of them have ever seen Super Size Me. So I made off with some pretty good green beans (I am *so* very looking forward to cleaning all of those tomorrow morning!), and some really nice yellow squash and zucchini. I wanted to get baby potatoes and do them up in olive oil, salt, and rosemary, but Mom can’t eat that, so I did without. Sniffle. I am also doing without onion gravy, but we won’t address that. So I had my produce, and was feeling all optimistic. Silly me. It took me forever to find decent stuffing, ‘cos they’d hidden it on the bottom shelf underneath shelves full of weird things, and the display they had set up had been decimated, and I wasn’t desperate enough to pick through thrown boxes just yet. These poor Wal-Mart employees (Wal-Martians?)…I wonder if they have to clean up like that every night, or if Thanksgiving is just a special box-and-can-flinging festival. Anyway, whatever.
They have a huge—HUGE!—section of “ethnic” foods (only it is throughout the whole store), and for once, I’m not a targeted ethnicity. I apparently don’t even register as a blip on their radar. Oh, don’t give me that…this is not “white girl cries ‘boo-hoo’”; I used to have to pick my supermarkets carefully to make sure that they had my halvah, and my everything matzohs, and if I wanted anything more Ancodia-ethnic than Jewish, I had to go to Mom-n-Pop places, if there were any, or make it my damn self. So I don’t want to hear it. And I’m not being intolerant; I don’t care what stores carry, or people do, as long as I can get *my* stuff. Which I couldn’t completely in this place, because apparently Eastern European Jew and dotty Canadian-descended white girls are a minority that can be ignored. So I was pissed. Just like any minority, I don’t like being blown off by merchants, and, just like any minority, I have the right to get my panties in a wad over it. In addition to not giving a flip about Jews or Northerners, they also don’t give a flip about the Russians, the Poles, the Czechs, the Romanians…I could go on. But whatever. Back to the shopping.
I tried to ask one of the employees where the Reynolds’ wrap/aluminum foil was, but she didn’t understand me. No, I am not kidding. So I kept looking on my own, and finally had to grab a pharmacy worker and ask him. Geez-o Pete. Why, it’s right next to the dog food, of course. Go figure. So I get my crap, and get home, and Meg tells me (over the phone, so I can’t hit her) that she has picked up the squash and zucchinis, as well as a few other things I thought I was picking up. Argh. So I don’t even unbag them; I jump in my car crank up Walk Like A Zombie, and go straight back to return all of the duplicated items, ‘cos I don’t know what Wal-Mart’s policy is on that, and I want to give it a try before my register receipt’s ink dries.
So I go to Customer Service, and have to stand and wait for a manager for ten minutes because the Customer Service girl thinks that the zucchini I am returning are cucumbers and wants to give me less than what I paid for them…until she notices that I didn’t buy any cucumbers on my receipt; then she says she can’t take them back at all (without a receipt). She had to call a manager—even though I had the receipt that *said* ‘zucchini’!—and get him to explain to her what a zucchini is. Oh, shoot me.
Perhaps she was confused because they aren’t normally found in cans. That’s my working hypothesis, at least. I have observed that Wal-Mart grocery shoppers shun fresh produce, and am speculating that it may extend to their workers, as well.
Butsoanyway.
So I got home and set everything to cooking and gelling and marinating and transmogrifying and everythinging that needs to be done tonight; I will finish the rest tomorrow morning. And I will *maybe* try Wal-Mart supermarkets again. Maybe. Their regular stores are ok, but…I’m not sure about the whole adding-in food thing; I feel silly trying to pantomime an oyster to get help in finding where they hide the canned oysters because the employee I am speaking with doesn’t understand what I am asking for. And I know (ideally) that I should not do canned, but I was stuck. And lazy.
And it will all be good. Somehow—not that I have any clue how, but I have faith—it will all be good. I believe that in my heart. No, really. And if it is not, I will just write about it here and deal.
It really *is* funny. And so is this.
:-) Happy Thanksgiving.
Butsoanyway.
I was going to go do Thanksgiving with Son-Friend (who maybe one day I will get around to naming also, but I have to re-name ‘Pants and RCG first), but a few weeks ago, gf of S-F’s daughter (who just had a child eight months ago, out of wedlock from a one-night stand with a biker she picked up in a bar, and no I am not kidding…I can’t make stuff like this up) moved back in with them, and she’ll be there, with child (she’s both frustratingly stupid and breeding…do I need to say more?), and gf of S-F also invited two people from where she works, one of whom I have met before and think is weird, and the other I don’t know, but is alone this Thanksgiving because her husband just left her. As if I could deal with that for three or four hours. Or would be able to handle Mom and That. And she’s bringing her dog. And Son-Friend has invited a friend of his (really more like “a guy he knows”) who is an alcoholic (albeit a peaceful, happy drunk), because the alkie wanted Son-Friend to spend Thanksgiving with him (which means probably at a bar, not that Son-Friend drinks) because no one else would, since the alkie’s divorced and his children hate him. Not that I can blame them; they probably got tired of hearing him tell the same story three times an hour. Every hour. Whether you want to hear it, or not. So I told Son-Friend that there’s only so much I can take without the cushioning afforded by a serious IV drug habit, and begged off. He understands; at this point, he wants to beg off, too. I don’t blame him.
Eh, I’ll wander over for leftovers in the next day or so, once I’m back to being not fed on a regular basis.
Butsoanyway.
So Meg was the one who offered to spend Thanksgiving with Amelia and bring Mom, and asked me if I wanted to come. We’re going to do it at Amelia’s place because she doesn’t know her way around the city very well (we’re talking someone who makes a triangle from home to work to church to home), and wanted to play hostess anyway. Ok, fine. I told Meg that I would come only under a couple of conditions: (1) Meg has to go shopping with me today; (2) Meg has to not only make stuffed eggs for me, but she has to give me the recipe. Mom’s recipe from my grandmother was lost, and Meg found one that is damn close if not exact, and I want it. I’ve searched, I can’t find it, and Meg’s just being a bitch; (3) Meg has to go shopping with me on The Most Shoppingest Day Of The Year. All day. All of it.
Ha-HA! She agreed! Woo-hoo! Score!
I promise that I’ll post the recipe just as soon as I get it from her.
So we went shopping today, and I found a *cool* PWP at the Elizabeth Arden counter. It is a purple bag that you get for free with a $35 purchase and then you can buy the matching purple makeup bags and makeup for $40. I bought their 3-in-1 cleanser (it works really well!) and a lipstick, and I made Meg buy Millennium Energist, ‘cos she needed a moisturiser, and I was happy with how ME held up in snowy weather…it feels greasy, but it isn’t, which is weird. But whatever. We both agreed that the bags and makeup would be useful for trips. And then I bought a few presents, and made Meg buy some decent hair stuff. I used to have to fight her, but now she gets All Soft on her own (she has very different hair from me), and I bought a yellow tube of Redken glop for tricoloured blondes like Meg that smoothes out her layers. Let’s just hope she uses it, ‘cos she needs it. Don’t tell her I said that. :-)
So we stopped to pick up something to watch tomorrow if necessary, and then I had to come back home really quickly for an online class meeting. God, I hate that class. I hate group work. Actually, hate isn’t really strong enough a word. So I sat online chatting about something that’s due next Friday for an hour, and Meg ran to the store to get stuff for tomorrow. At the end of my hour, I somehow ended up getting assigned all of the hard parts, just like I have for the last three projects, but who fucking cares. It’s the god damned holiday season.
Ok, well, I care, but I can’t fix it now, and I didn’t feel like arguing too much. It just takes too much work.
So then I get ready to go to do my part of the shopping; I am making the stuffing (which isn’t being stuffed as god intended it, in deference to Amelia’s belief that it isn’t clean to do and makes the bird harder to cook, so I guess it’s actually dressing, but whatever), and was going to make two vegetables, and some other stuff. I am making two different stuffings; one regular, and one oyster. Mom offered her help to me, but she likes to put weird crap in stuffing, and I can’t deal with that, plus I am enjoying my “away time” from her when I can get it. Plus, I don’t want to find pieces of pear or whatever in there. I can deal with oysters, chestnuts…*normal* stuff. But nothing about Mummers is normal; she tries to make every kind of dressing, all at once. Or she gets “creative”. Sometimes it’s hard to tell which one she’s doing. She’d make some sourdough-cornbread-brown bread stuffing with raisins, giblets, apples, eggs, mushrooms, celery, Jell-O, and pineapple, and then toss in a couple of tomatoes for variety. Or make it out of mac and cheese. With grapes. That woman is dangerous in a kitchen. So no nouvelle Mommy cuisine this year. Nope.
Butsoanyway.
So I jumped in my car, threw in a Horrorpops cd, and worked on getting into the Thanksgiving spirit. Woo-hoo.
The shopping trip was horrible, and in reality the only thing that kept me from losing my crackers was composing a blog post in my mind (now how pathetic is that? Kind of like I feel more removed if I’m narrating it?). But I have no one to blame but myself, ‘cos I was late in getting off shopping from the stupidass online festival I had with our group’s feckless leader, and so I gave in and drove twenty minutes for my inaugural trip to the new frickin’ Welly-Mart instead of my regular supermarket because I figured Normal Grocer would be closing soon, whereas the new Welly-Mart is a 24-hr supermarket. And I know I’m being nasty. I don’t care.
Oh…my…god. First off, the place was a god damned disaster area. It looked as if a bomb had gone off in there. I want it noted—really attended to—that the produce section was virtually untouched, though. Go figure. Maybe none of them have ever seen Super Size Me. So I made off with some pretty good green beans (I am *so* very looking forward to cleaning all of those tomorrow morning!), and some really nice yellow squash and zucchini. I wanted to get baby potatoes and do them up in olive oil, salt, and rosemary, but Mom can’t eat that, so I did without. Sniffle. I am also doing without onion gravy, but we won’t address that. So I had my produce, and was feeling all optimistic. Silly me. It took me forever to find decent stuffing, ‘cos they’d hidden it on the bottom shelf underneath shelves full of weird things, and the display they had set up had been decimated, and I wasn’t desperate enough to pick through thrown boxes just yet. These poor Wal-Mart employees (Wal-Martians?)…I wonder if they have to clean up like that every night, or if Thanksgiving is just a special box-and-can-flinging festival. Anyway, whatever.
They have a huge—HUGE!—section of “ethnic” foods (only it is throughout the whole store), and for once, I’m not a targeted ethnicity. I apparently don’t even register as a blip on their radar. Oh, don’t give me that…this is not “white girl cries ‘boo-hoo’”; I used to have to pick my supermarkets carefully to make sure that they had my halvah, and my everything matzohs, and if I wanted anything more Ancodia-ethnic than Jewish, I had to go to Mom-n-Pop places, if there were any, or make it my damn self. So I don’t want to hear it. And I’m not being intolerant; I don’t care what stores carry, or people do, as long as I can get *my* stuff. Which I couldn’t completely in this place, because apparently Eastern European Jew and dotty Canadian-descended white girls are a minority that can be ignored. So I was pissed. Just like any minority, I don’t like being blown off by merchants, and, just like any minority, I have the right to get my panties in a wad over it. In addition to not giving a flip about Jews or Northerners, they also don’t give a flip about the Russians, the Poles, the Czechs, the Romanians…I could go on. But whatever. Back to the shopping.
I tried to ask one of the employees where the Reynolds’ wrap/aluminum foil was, but she didn’t understand me. No, I am not kidding. So I kept looking on my own, and finally had to grab a pharmacy worker and ask him. Geez-o Pete. Why, it’s right next to the dog food, of course. Go figure. So I get my crap, and get home, and Meg tells me (over the phone, so I can’t hit her) that she has picked up the squash and zucchinis, as well as a few other things I thought I was picking up. Argh. So I don’t even unbag them; I jump in my car crank up Walk Like A Zombie, and go straight back to return all of the duplicated items, ‘cos I don’t know what Wal-Mart’s policy is on that, and I want to give it a try before my register receipt’s ink dries.
So I go to Customer Service, and have to stand and wait for a manager for ten minutes because the Customer Service girl thinks that the zucchini I am returning are cucumbers and wants to give me less than what I paid for them…until she notices that I didn’t buy any cucumbers on my receipt; then she says she can’t take them back at all (without a receipt). She had to call a manager—even though I had the receipt that *said* ‘zucchini’!—and get him to explain to her what a zucchini is. Oh, shoot me.
Perhaps she was confused because they aren’t normally found in cans. That’s my working hypothesis, at least. I have observed that Wal-Mart grocery shoppers shun fresh produce, and am speculating that it may extend to their workers, as well.
Butsoanyway.
So I got home and set everything to cooking and gelling and marinating and transmogrifying and everythinging that needs to be done tonight; I will finish the rest tomorrow morning. And I will *maybe* try Wal-Mart supermarkets again. Maybe. Their regular stores are ok, but…I’m not sure about the whole adding-in food thing; I feel silly trying to pantomime an oyster to get help in finding where they hide the canned oysters because the employee I am speaking with doesn’t understand what I am asking for. And I know (ideally) that I should not do canned, but I was stuck. And lazy.
And it will all be good. Somehow—not that I have any clue how, but I have faith—it will all be good. I believe that in my heart. No, really. And if it is not, I will just write about it here and deal.
It really *is* funny. And so is this.
:-) Happy Thanksgiving.
Monday, November 21, 2005
Pass The Cataflam and Courvoisier
In Other News, I had my gyn appointment today. So I am all crampy and scratchy and yucky-feeling, and I am also still in a holding pattern on everything else. He wants some time to look at everything. Fine with me. When I call him next Monday, I am going to tell him that I will only come back into his office before next November *IF AND ONLY IF* I see *nothing* that remotely resembles a speculum. If I see one, I’m leaving. Why do those things have to hurt so damn much??? Whatever happened to “better living through chemistry”, and all of that shit? I want to see some Wonders of Modern Medicine up in here! I mean, *damn*! It has been over ten hours, and I *still* feel like I just came off an eight-hour stint at the Mustang Ranch whilst the Shriners were in town, and I am being as polite as possible. BLECCH. Ouchy. Whine.
Butsoanyway.
In Funnier News, we had our usual banter:
HIM: “So do you have a boyfriend yet?”
ME: “No”
HIM: “Girlfriend?”
ME: “No”
HIM: “Don’t you want one?”
ME: “No”
HIM: “’Codia, you still aren’t dating at all?”
ME: “No”
HIM: “Don’t you want a boyfriend, or a husband, or at least a Special Someone?”
ME: “No”
HIM: “Would you consider that maybe you don’t have one ‘cos you say ‘no’ so much?”
ME (giggling): “No”
I’ll maybe get to the rest later…I have crap to type, a snotty nose, and a Berry Scary Thanksgiving coming up.
And I know that I just maligned Shriners, and as a former Jobie I shouldn’t do that, but I couldn’t think of another loud and raucous group. Sosumi.
Butsoanyway.
In Funnier News, we had our usual banter:
HIM: “So do you have a boyfriend yet?”
ME: “No”
HIM: “Girlfriend?”
ME: “No”
HIM: “Don’t you want one?”
ME: “No”
HIM: “’Codia, you still aren’t dating at all?”
ME: “No”
HIM: “Don’t you want a boyfriend, or a husband, or at least a Special Someone?”
ME: “No”
HIM: “Would you consider that maybe you don’t have one ‘cos you say ‘no’ so much?”
ME (giggling): “No”
I’ll maybe get to the rest later…I have crap to type, a snotty nose, and a Berry Scary Thanksgiving coming up.
And I know that I just maligned Shriners, and as a former Jobie I shouldn’t do that, but I couldn’t think of another loud and raucous group. Sosumi.
the Ancodia at the end of this Post
Hello, everybodeee!
Some sun-on-a-beach has bestowed a loofly rhinovirus upon me. Bastard.
I tried to catch the kittens over the weekend, but no luck. I don’t remember how old I thought they were originally, but I think I was being retarded; Squoosh was 4-5 weeks old when I found him, and he was a teensy little thing (he is currently ginormous). These kittens are easily twice that size, so I am guessing they are two or three months old-ish. Regardless, they will not have anything to do with me; they will not even come near the food I put down until I have cleared the hell away by at least ten to twenty feet, and if I even start to make a move towards them, they dash. All three are still there and so is Momcat, but none of them will let me near. One will stand and look at me from a distance, and I would like to think that is her way (I think she is a girl) of telling me “thank you for the food”, but she will not came closer—not for food, not even if I dangle something to play with. No way.
I am having no luck with any cat rescue people. Here comes the suck part. Originally, right after I first saw the kittens, I was talking with Dee, one of our security guards. Dee mentioned that a year or so ago, a “bunch” of “animal rescue people” came and took one of Momcat’s litters. Calling some such group had already occurred to me, and I asked Dee if she knew who they were, or how to contact them. She didn’t; the guards have the number for Animal Services, or whatever, who will graciously come out, catch them brutally, and kill them, ‘cos no one would put time into trying to tame them. No thanks. So I called around, and emailed, and called, and emailed. I have been abandoned; not even the crazy pet rescue lady I have dealt with before will return my calls.
I’m not being mean…she really *is* a crazy pet rescue lady; picture Albert Einstein with no moustache and a bad dye job, wearing a flowing caftan and a lot of plastic jewellery. But she’s good people. *Crazy* people, but good people.
Butsoanyway.
Dee even said that she could not understand why the people that came out and took the litter did not take the Momcat. Me either. I have talked to Dee about it a few times, and asked her to ask around amongst the guards to see if any of them have any ideas as to who this feline benevolence association might be. Finally, on Saturday evening, I got a chance to talk with her again, and she had a little more information. The guard who says he saw it told Dee that he was not sure exactly when it was, but it was a long time ago. He said that they were over in our North lot, luring the kittens into a large cat carrier with canned cat food. He wrote it up in an “incident report”, ‘cos they were not employees (because they were not wearing badges), but let them be because he thought it was good for the cats to be taken. He says they came a few times, but he does not know what group, and they didn’t have any official van, or markings, or anything, just a regular car. But, he said, they stayed out there a long, long time, and when they were gone each time, there was canned cat food left all over.
In our North lot? With a large cat carrier and canned food? With scads of cat food flung all over afterwards?
Ummm…that would have been me.
I had changed clothes and took off my badge so that I didn’t get stinky cat chow all over me. It was earlier this year, not “a long time ago”. I guess the rest of my “group” are the other employees (about ten or so of them) who, as they left work, all tried for a few minutes (one or two at a time) to help me, bless their hearts.
At least I now know why “they” didn’t get the Momcat.
Shit.
And you were so hopeful! I told you and told you there was nothing to get your hopes up over.
Oh, I am so embarrassed…
Some sun-on-a-beach has bestowed a loofly rhinovirus upon me. Bastard.
I tried to catch the kittens over the weekend, but no luck. I don’t remember how old I thought they were originally, but I think I was being retarded; Squoosh was 4-5 weeks old when I found him, and he was a teensy little thing (he is currently ginormous). These kittens are easily twice that size, so I am guessing they are two or three months old-ish. Regardless, they will not have anything to do with me; they will not even come near the food I put down until I have cleared the hell away by at least ten to twenty feet, and if I even start to make a move towards them, they dash. All three are still there and so is Momcat, but none of them will let me near. One will stand and look at me from a distance, and I would like to think that is her way (I think she is a girl) of telling me “thank you for the food”, but she will not came closer—not for food, not even if I dangle something to play with. No way.
I am having no luck with any cat rescue people. Here comes the suck part. Originally, right after I first saw the kittens, I was talking with Dee, one of our security guards. Dee mentioned that a year or so ago, a “bunch” of “animal rescue people” came and took one of Momcat’s litters. Calling some such group had already occurred to me, and I asked Dee if she knew who they were, or how to contact them. She didn’t; the guards have the number for Animal Services, or whatever, who will graciously come out, catch them brutally, and kill them, ‘cos no one would put time into trying to tame them. No thanks. So I called around, and emailed, and called, and emailed. I have been abandoned; not even the crazy pet rescue lady I have dealt with before will return my calls.
I’m not being mean…she really *is* a crazy pet rescue lady; picture Albert Einstein with no moustache and a bad dye job, wearing a flowing caftan and a lot of plastic jewellery. But she’s good people. *Crazy* people, but good people.
Butsoanyway.
Dee even said that she could not understand why the people that came out and took the litter did not take the Momcat. Me either. I have talked to Dee about it a few times, and asked her to ask around amongst the guards to see if any of them have any ideas as to who this feline benevolence association might be. Finally, on Saturday evening, I got a chance to talk with her again, and she had a little more information. The guard who says he saw it told Dee that he was not sure exactly when it was, but it was a long time ago. He said that they were over in our North lot, luring the kittens into a large cat carrier with canned cat food. He wrote it up in an “incident report”, ‘cos they were not employees (because they were not wearing badges), but let them be because he thought it was good for the cats to be taken. He says they came a few times, but he does not know what group, and they didn’t have any official van, or markings, or anything, just a regular car. But, he said, they stayed out there a long, long time, and when they were gone each time, there was canned cat food left all over.
In our North lot? With a large cat carrier and canned food? With scads of cat food flung all over afterwards?
Ummm…that would have been me.
I had changed clothes and took off my badge so that I didn’t get stinky cat chow all over me. It was earlier this year, not “a long time ago”. I guess the rest of my “group” are the other employees (about ten or so of them) who, as they left work, all tried for a few minutes (one or two at a time) to help me, bless their hearts.
At least I now know why “they” didn’t get the Momcat.
Shit.
And you were so hopeful! I told you and told you there was nothing to get your hopes up over.
Oh, I am so embarrassed…
Friday, November 18, 2005
Life is Good
The weather today was colder, overcast with a strong wind—in short, beautiful. Simply *beautiful*. It makes me feel as if I should be on a highway somewhere, travelling. Why? I don't know, and that's the beauty of it. Maybe I was once at just such a time, and the impression stuck. :-) Stranger things have happened. Or maybe I just want the wind in my hair and some time alone to drink coffee and listen to audio books. :-) I am far too easy to please. But there is something that is magnificently…indescribable about having nothing to do as you drive down the road on a cold overcast day. It somehow makes everything around more interesting… Or maybe I am just weird. :-) That could be it, too.
I used to love my old car. I love the car I have just fine, but on days like today, I miss the burgundy interior of my old car. It was such a contrast to the blue-grey-white of the outside that it seemed to be a defining a barrier, and not just a car. Sure, it is a car, but…that is not exactly what I mean. Sigh. Never mind.
Sometimes, I really, really want to ask people if the weather affects them the same way that it does me. There are some people that I think are similarly moved by weather, music, sounds, scents, and other things like that; actually, quite a few. But there are probably just as many that I don’t think let external, non-human things contribute to their moods, at least not very much. And it’s not really a *mood* that is being contributed to, but more of an…experience. And the experiences tie together to affect your mood. In a way. And I think, after a while, that some experiences join up together, and are just overpowering, and kind of carry you along with them. Mostly.
I probably am babbling, so…
Butsoanyway.
Came to school today, and got a good parking spot like, right off. That happens *never*. My school has the worst parking of anywhere on Earth; we have around 70,000 students, and six parking spaces. That's right, six. And before you go getting any wild ideas about there being any semblance of adequate parking, let me mention that three of those six spaces are reserved for faculty, and one is metered parking for visitors.
Okay, so I am exaggerating a little. We might have nine spaces.
Then I found out that I received a 97.whatever on my Midterm/Final from Hell. I can live with a 97. :-)
Mom has the flu, but at least she is behaving. Somewhat. Romeo helped me type an email explaining an idea that I had. I told him that he is my best helper, and he said that he knows. :-) Son-Friend received a partial check, and paid me back enough that I am willing to say, "Screw it" and call it even. It is not even--by far--but the world is an imperfect place, hmmm? What is important is that he is happy and feels empowered, and I am satisfied with the amount, which I am. Especially if I don't have to keep coughing up more from here on in. :-)
I have a kick-ass idea. I am actually looking forward to getting quals over with now. Before, it just seemed like a pain in the ass to have to review all of that stuff so that it is fresh in my mind, but now I want it over like, yesterday.
I feel like I am actually progressing for once, and it's not for any particular reason. :-) But I am not going to complain.
Yay.
I used to love my old car. I love the car I have just fine, but on days like today, I miss the burgundy interior of my old car. It was such a contrast to the blue-grey-white of the outside that it seemed to be a defining a barrier, and not just a car. Sure, it is a car, but…that is not exactly what I mean. Sigh. Never mind.
Sometimes, I really, really want to ask people if the weather affects them the same way that it does me. There are some people that I think are similarly moved by weather, music, sounds, scents, and other things like that; actually, quite a few. But there are probably just as many that I don’t think let external, non-human things contribute to their moods, at least not very much. And it’s not really a *mood* that is being contributed to, but more of an…experience. And the experiences tie together to affect your mood. In a way. And I think, after a while, that some experiences join up together, and are just overpowering, and kind of carry you along with them. Mostly.
I probably am babbling, so…
Butsoanyway.
Came to school today, and got a good parking spot like, right off. That happens *never*. My school has the worst parking of anywhere on Earth; we have around 70,000 students, and six parking spaces. That's right, six. And before you go getting any wild ideas about there being any semblance of adequate parking, let me mention that three of those six spaces are reserved for faculty, and one is metered parking for visitors.
Okay, so I am exaggerating a little. We might have nine spaces.
Then I found out that I received a 97.whatever on my Midterm/Final from Hell. I can live with a 97. :-)
Mom has the flu, but at least she is behaving. Somewhat. Romeo helped me type an email explaining an idea that I had. I told him that he is my best helper, and he said that he knows. :-) Son-Friend received a partial check, and paid me back enough that I am willing to say, "Screw it" and call it even. It is not even--by far--but the world is an imperfect place, hmmm? What is important is that he is happy and feels empowered, and I am satisfied with the amount, which I am. Especially if I don't have to keep coughing up more from here on in. :-)
I have a kick-ass idea. I am actually looking forward to getting quals over with now. Before, it just seemed like a pain in the ass to have to review all of that stuff so that it is fresh in my mind, but now I want it over like, yesterday.
I feel like I am actually progressing for once, and it's not for any particular reason. :-) But I am not going to complain.
Yay.
Thursday, November 17, 2005
Slugs And Snails Are After Me
I love days like today.
I spent the whole day with a sky that looked as if snow was imminent. I know it isn’t, but it is nice to pretend. Then somehow, the setting sun managed to poke its snout through the cloud cover a little bit. So that’s what I am looking at now out of my window as I type this damn critique that is due tomorrow and I forgot about until this afternoon, when I was having lunch with Meg and her friend that also teaches at her school. Sigh.
Ironically, this article is about electronic memory aids. Go figure.
My original title was, “Hey! You calling me FAT?” before I got way off track. :-) In reality, *this* sentence is the last one I am writing; cool, huh? “Hey! Are you calling me FAT?” was the theme of our lunch today; not two minutes after I had sat down, Meg’s friend, in response to something I said, turned to Meg and said, “Know who your sister reminds me of? Kirstie Alley.” To which I held up my knife, and said, “Hey! Are you calling me FAT?” :-) For the record and from what I have seen of her, I think Kirstie’s gorgeous, at least most of the time; I was trying to be funny. Well, it stuck (mainly because, unbeknownst to me, one of Meg’s students had made a similar comment a few days ago—the ‘you calling me FAT?’ part, and so my saying the same thing really struck her as funny), and for the rest of the lunch, we were responding to each other every so often with, “Hey! Are you calling me FAT?”
And for what it’s worth, Meg started saying I remind her of Kirstie Alley back when she was doing all those commercials about how great it is to shop; I only saw one or two of them, but Meg watches way more TV than I do, and mentioned it about a thousand times. But apparently Kirstie’s got new commercials now for Weight Watchers where she does the same shtick. I should sue her for attitude infringement. ;-)
Butsoanyway.
In Other News, I am happy with the way that the Feliway behaviour modification spray and the Bitter Apple (on the wallpaper, once I found all of Squoosh’s secret wallpaper-eating spots) spray are working. It *looks* like he’s quit. I hope. Poor Squooshable; I am certain he feels as if no one understands him, but I don’t think there is any other way out of this situation than to be temporarily mean and frustrating to him.
And yesterday, I had a kind of epiphany-thing. Although I am jumping the gun a little bit because I don’t take qualifiers/comprehensive exams until this coming Summer (and then with my luck, re-take them this coming Winter, ha, ha), I think I have worked through the underlying theme of the next Magnificent Octopus. This is cool, because it gives me a domain (so to speak) on which to intellectually pee so that others don’t get any bright ideas about doing what I am doing. Not that I think they would, but…it never hurts to clearly stake out what you are doing; I’m looking to reduce confusion later. So that’s cool. And I don’t get forced into doing something that I don’t want to do, a fate that has befallen one person in my group because of their procrastination and other forms of foot-dragging.
And I have a new “stupidest thing I have ever heard”, or at least a new member of my Top Ten. I do feel for the poor girl, but good lord; how dumb can people be? That transcends gullible—and I am, at times, pretty gullible. This is either really funny, or really sad…I can’t figure out which.
And speaking of really sad, last evening I heard the NPR broadcast about lobotomy as I came home, and it really was overwhelming. I feel for Howard Dully, and it is a testament to his intelligence and humanity that he did not let what happened destroy him. I am distressed whenever I think of all of the “miracle cures” we are offered today, and how it seems that few remember that something as insane as lobotomy was once a “miracle cure” as well. It is upsetting to think of something like the sanctity of the human brain, personality, and life spirit being—literally—hacked up as if it were a nuisance, with the casual attitude of ordering breakfast. Revolting. Frightening. Although it might be necessary in some instances, at some point (though I am not sure I would want to speculate on *when* that would be), something like that should be an avenue of last resort and with all solemnity, not something that is conducted on a whim, with such an air of showmanship, as they say that Freeman did; if what they say is true, then he probably was a sociopath. At least in my book.
And it is things like this that just make me wonder; how can something like lobotomy be—or have been—“ok”, but something like abortion be “not ok”? It is *exactly* things like this that make me feel as if the stork accidentally dropped me off on the wrong planet. That is completely backwards, and horribly misled; abortion should be, although not a preferred state of affairs, something that is a less-than-pleasant fact of life, whereas the human mind (of already existing humans) should be sacrosanct. In my world, Freeman would have been considered a mass murderer…or worse, if there is anything worse. To *me*, being a lobotomist (the way it was done) is being worse than a mass murderer…but then again, I am an extraterrestrial in this respect, it seems. Whether or not one believes in a soul, the human brain is the seat of all that is, well…human. And it should be revered. Accidents like what happened to Phineas Gage aside, the intentional destruction of a personality is far worse than simple murder (and yes, I realise that murder includes the destruction of a personality, but that is a by-product of the act, and not the *intention* of the act itself, as is a lobotomy). To me, this conversation by the Moens is more frightening than anything Stephen King could cook up, and more vile than any politician you can name. Same goes for Rosemary Kennedy. “Depraved indifference to human life” falls short of adequately describing this mutilation.
And as many people as were suckered in by this “miracle cure”, you would think that we would have learnt to be more wary of panaceas. But no…you still have people like Son-Friend’s g-f, who would take anything that promised to make her happier, thinner, bigger-boobed, taller, blonder…whatever. People who would mutilate their body (and probably their brains too, if that were an offered and easily accessible surgery) to lose weight, or whatever. People who…oh, I’m freaking myself out, and I don’t want to fall back on the “those who refuse to learn from history are condemned to repeat it” adage (or however it goes…wasn’t that, in an amazing feat of double-jointed irony that I’m sure only happens once every Quadrillinneum, one of Jim Jones’ favourite sayings?). :-) But it seems that people like that outnumber people like me. I am actually *scared* that so many people think that the FDA is a nuisance, for example. And, as far as “miracle cures” go, what can you really say to an adult who needs to be told *this*??? I see headlines like this, and think, “Why go on? Let’s just kill everybody right now, put them out of their misery, and hope that Nature has better ideas next time around.” What *are* you supposed to say to this? I mean, I personally have found that saying, “Well, fucking DUH!” is ill-received. For some reason, lines of reasoning such as this actually are *not* intuitively understood by many people.
But I guess I am getting off-track.
The Readers’ Digest Version is this: lobotomies are bad, mmmkay? The human brain/mind is SACRED, mmmkay? Be afraid of miracle cures, mmmkay? Anything worth having is going to take time and work, and anyone who says otherwise is lying to you, and is probably a very bad and evil person who doesn’t give a fuck about you, mmmkay? Happiness does not come in a pill, or via surgery; it never has, and it never will, no matter how hard you wish it would, mmmkay? Oh…and, in a truly just world, Howard Dully’s evil witch whore stepmother would have been drawn and quartered, mmmkay?
Butsoanyway.
I have nattered on for longer than I had meant to, and need to finish this critique so that I can move on to the next almost-overdue thing. :-) Back to work. Pfft.
I spent the whole day with a sky that looked as if snow was imminent. I know it isn’t, but it is nice to pretend. Then somehow, the setting sun managed to poke its snout through the cloud cover a little bit. So that’s what I am looking at now out of my window as I type this damn critique that is due tomorrow and I forgot about until this afternoon, when I was having lunch with Meg and her friend that also teaches at her school. Sigh.
Ironically, this article is about electronic memory aids. Go figure.
My original title was, “Hey! You calling me FAT?” before I got way off track. :-) In reality, *this* sentence is the last one I am writing; cool, huh? “Hey! Are you calling me FAT?” was the theme of our lunch today; not two minutes after I had sat down, Meg’s friend, in response to something I said, turned to Meg and said, “Know who your sister reminds me of? Kirstie Alley.” To which I held up my knife, and said, “Hey! Are you calling me FAT?” :-) For the record and from what I have seen of her, I think Kirstie’s gorgeous, at least most of the time; I was trying to be funny. Well, it stuck (mainly because, unbeknownst to me, one of Meg’s students had made a similar comment a few days ago—the ‘you calling me FAT?’ part, and so my saying the same thing really struck her as funny), and for the rest of the lunch, we were responding to each other every so often with, “Hey! Are you calling me FAT?”
And for what it’s worth, Meg started saying I remind her of Kirstie Alley back when she was doing all those commercials about how great it is to shop; I only saw one or two of them, but Meg watches way more TV than I do, and mentioned it about a thousand times. But apparently Kirstie’s got new commercials now for Weight Watchers where she does the same shtick. I should sue her for attitude infringement. ;-)
Butsoanyway.
In Other News, I am happy with the way that the Feliway behaviour modification spray and the Bitter Apple (on the wallpaper, once I found all of Squoosh’s secret wallpaper-eating spots) spray are working. It *looks* like he’s quit. I hope. Poor Squooshable; I am certain he feels as if no one understands him, but I don’t think there is any other way out of this situation than to be temporarily mean and frustrating to him.
And yesterday, I had a kind of epiphany-thing. Although I am jumping the gun a little bit because I don’t take qualifiers/comprehensive exams until this coming Summer (and then with my luck, re-take them this coming Winter, ha, ha), I think I have worked through the underlying theme of the next Magnificent Octopus. This is cool, because it gives me a domain (so to speak) on which to intellectually pee so that others don’t get any bright ideas about doing what I am doing. Not that I think they would, but…it never hurts to clearly stake out what you are doing; I’m looking to reduce confusion later. So that’s cool. And I don’t get forced into doing something that I don’t want to do, a fate that has befallen one person in my group because of their procrastination and other forms of foot-dragging.
And I have a new “stupidest thing I have ever heard”, or at least a new member of my Top Ten. I do feel for the poor girl, but good lord; how dumb can people be? That transcends gullible—and I am, at times, pretty gullible. This is either really funny, or really sad…I can’t figure out which.
And speaking of really sad, last evening I heard the NPR broadcast about lobotomy as I came home, and it really was overwhelming. I feel for Howard Dully, and it is a testament to his intelligence and humanity that he did not let what happened destroy him. I am distressed whenever I think of all of the “miracle cures” we are offered today, and how it seems that few remember that something as insane as lobotomy was once a “miracle cure” as well. It is upsetting to think of something like the sanctity of the human brain, personality, and life spirit being—literally—hacked up as if it were a nuisance, with the casual attitude of ordering breakfast. Revolting. Frightening. Although it might be necessary in some instances, at some point (though I am not sure I would want to speculate on *when* that would be), something like that should be an avenue of last resort and with all solemnity, not something that is conducted on a whim, with such an air of showmanship, as they say that Freeman did; if what they say is true, then he probably was a sociopath. At least in my book.
And it is things like this that just make me wonder; how can something like lobotomy be—or have been—“ok”, but something like abortion be “not ok”? It is *exactly* things like this that make me feel as if the stork accidentally dropped me off on the wrong planet. That is completely backwards, and horribly misled; abortion should be, although not a preferred state of affairs, something that is a less-than-pleasant fact of life, whereas the human mind (of already existing humans) should be sacrosanct. In my world, Freeman would have been considered a mass murderer…or worse, if there is anything worse. To *me*, being a lobotomist (the way it was done) is being worse than a mass murderer…but then again, I am an extraterrestrial in this respect, it seems. Whether or not one believes in a soul, the human brain is the seat of all that is, well…human. And it should be revered. Accidents like what happened to Phineas Gage aside, the intentional destruction of a personality is far worse than simple murder (and yes, I realise that murder includes the destruction of a personality, but that is a by-product of the act, and not the *intention* of the act itself, as is a lobotomy). To me, this conversation by the Moens is more frightening than anything Stephen King could cook up, and more vile than any politician you can name. Same goes for Rosemary Kennedy. “Depraved indifference to human life” falls short of adequately describing this mutilation.
And as many people as were suckered in by this “miracle cure”, you would think that we would have learnt to be more wary of panaceas. But no…you still have people like Son-Friend’s g-f, who would take anything that promised to make her happier, thinner, bigger-boobed, taller, blonder…whatever. People who would mutilate their body (and probably their brains too, if that were an offered and easily accessible surgery) to lose weight, or whatever. People who…oh, I’m freaking myself out, and I don’t want to fall back on the “those who refuse to learn from history are condemned to repeat it” adage (or however it goes…wasn’t that, in an amazing feat of double-jointed irony that I’m sure only happens once every Quadrillinneum, one of Jim Jones’ favourite sayings?). :-) But it seems that people like that outnumber people like me. I am actually *scared* that so many people think that the FDA is a nuisance, for example. And, as far as “miracle cures” go, what can you really say to an adult who needs to be told *this*??? I see headlines like this, and think, “Why go on? Let’s just kill everybody right now, put them out of their misery, and hope that Nature has better ideas next time around.” What *are* you supposed to say to this? I mean, I personally have found that saying, “Well, fucking DUH!” is ill-received. For some reason, lines of reasoning such as this actually are *not* intuitively understood by many people.
But I guess I am getting off-track.
The Readers’ Digest Version is this: lobotomies are bad, mmmkay? The human brain/mind is SACRED, mmmkay? Be afraid of miracle cures, mmmkay? Anything worth having is going to take time and work, and anyone who says otherwise is lying to you, and is probably a very bad and evil person who doesn’t give a fuck about you, mmmkay? Happiness does not come in a pill, or via surgery; it never has, and it never will, no matter how hard you wish it would, mmmkay? Oh…and, in a truly just world, Howard Dully’s evil witch whore stepmother would have been drawn and quartered, mmmkay?
Butsoanyway.
I have nattered on for longer than I had meant to, and need to finish this critique so that I can move on to the next almost-overdue thing. :-) Back to work. Pfft.
Monday, November 14, 2005
You are in an uncanny valley of twisty little passages, all alike, and getting very annoyed at your alleged fellow humans.
This weekend was, well, busy.
I did not manage to catch any of the cats; they just run too fast, and they will not come close to me. However, I am leaving Iams Kitten food for them every day, so at least they are not hungry, and I am still calling and emailing around to see if anyone can help me catch them.
Which makes me wonder…where are all the fucking bunny-huggers when you need them? I am so very not donating to any of these animal agencies anymore if I cannot rustle up some help here. This is beginning to piss me off. I get all kinds of crap from animal groups, always asking for money, and I usually give at least a little something; in addition, every time I have had a pet pass away, I have made a donation in that pet’s name. And they keep sending me crap. I have umbrellas, coffee mugs, letter openers, mouse pads…I could go on. Save *my* money, stop sending me this shit, and come out and help me catch four damn cats that I’m not asking you to take care of, anyway! *I* am going to get them spayed or neutered, *I* am going to get them placed; but *I* am only *one* person, and when these kitties are hiding in the shrubbery around my building, it is *impossible* to anticipate where they’ll dart to next when I try to catch them! I need MANPOWER—not coffee cups, you bleeding-heart buttmunches! Surely some of the groups I have contacted have a handful of seal-hunter hating, Birkenstock-wearing, no-meat-eating do-goodniks that would be willing to spend an afternoon failing college by helping me grab helpless kittens instead of hanging out at Coffee-Cool-O-Rama doing nothing but reading each other’s bad poetry about how Modern Man tramples Nature whilst wearing golfing cleats dripping with Orca blood, or whatever. BWAAH!
Not that I am bitter, becoming disillusioned, or feeling frustrated in my efforts, or anything. Let us move on. I will keep working on the kittens-thing.
And what triply sucks is that I had wanted to talk about a whole lot of other things, but I have run out of time. A lot else has gone on, but I am cat-obsessed. And I should get some sleep. I think that, even though I still feel for the kittens, this time is different from last time because these three are older than Squoosh and Crew, whatever bad that was going to happen has already happened to the others (and I try to not think about that, so that I don’t become overwhelmed with guilt), and this litter is in a safer place (in the bushes/courtyard area surrounding our flag. Squoosh’s litter was practically in the parking lot. And I was literally *obsessed* with them. It was *bad*. At least I don’t have to go through that this time; even if I’m not wholly certain of why it is different, it is, and it’s less painful for me. I am no less motivated, it is just less stressful internally.
Speaking of internal stress, one of the people that I used to think had some redeeming qualities (but was sadly mistaken…yes, I am talking about RCG) called me over the weekend to (in a nutshell) enlist my help in cutting corners on something he has to produce. I shan’t bore with details, but what he’s trying to do—just like Sophie—is called “cargo cult science”, and Feynman had a few choice words to say about it. And I wholly agree with those words. Not that I expect Doofus (or Sophie) to have ever consulted any authority on research design, or ethics in particular. I have grown. Man, have I grown. Five years ago, I would have been all like, “Oh, let me help you cover up your incompetence by staying up all night and doing it all myself and giving it to you to claim as your own work! No, really—I insist! It’s the least I can do!” Thank god that period of my life is over, ‘cos I can surround myself with losers faster than you can snap your fingers. Plus, it’s doubly good that co-dependent part of my life is over, ‘cos it’s way more goth to just smirk and say “drown; I’d find it entertaining”. I could never get that saying “drown” part right… ;-)
But whatever. Of course, I told him to go jump in a lake. My name is already on something with Sophie from early last year, and I regret it. I may not even put it on my CV; I’m still deciding. It *sounds* good, and Sophie didn’t really participate, I did (it was given to her as a kind of sign-on prezzie), but I am concerned for what Sophie is going to produce going forward; I may not want to be affiliated in any way with crap she churns out ten years from now. I could reel off a list of sins, but…just trust me; it’s bad. Cargo cult. Completely.
But what’s even funnier is that this was something Doofus was trying to throw together at the eleventh hour. I guess that is why he tried to enlist my help—he came to a point where he was lost, attempted to cogitate on it for thirty seconds, then threw in the towel and called me to do it…errr…for help. What crap. Ummm, no.
And I went ahead and took the week of Thanksgiving mostly off (well, off from Eviljob) so that I could spend time with Mom. Well, that, and have the Most Shoppingest Day of the Year off again. Somehow this escalated into Meg wanting all of us to go to a tournament at the Borgata (I think it was the Borgata), and I was sweating trying to work that entire thing out, and finally she decided it was not a good idea. Thank god. I am just not up for anything like that right now. I need rest.
I will spend tomorrow finishing something that in theory is supposed to be A Big Deal tomorrow, and I will write more. I need to vent about a lot of things. Especially an online test that I took for fun. Sigh. :-) And the fact that my gyn keeps having to cancel my appointments, and every time I reschedule, it gets earlier and earlier in the morning. Augh.
And if I offended any bunny-huggers, I apologise. But please—speak to your kinsmen and get them to return my calls. Pleez? For the kitties?
I did not manage to catch any of the cats; they just run too fast, and they will not come close to me. However, I am leaving Iams Kitten food for them every day, so at least they are not hungry, and I am still calling and emailing around to see if anyone can help me catch them.
Which makes me wonder…where are all the fucking bunny-huggers when you need them? I am so very not donating to any of these animal agencies anymore if I cannot rustle up some help here. This is beginning to piss me off. I get all kinds of crap from animal groups, always asking for money, and I usually give at least a little something; in addition, every time I have had a pet pass away, I have made a donation in that pet’s name. And they keep sending me crap. I have umbrellas, coffee mugs, letter openers, mouse pads…I could go on. Save *my* money, stop sending me this shit, and come out and help me catch four damn cats that I’m not asking you to take care of, anyway! *I* am going to get them spayed or neutered, *I* am going to get them placed; but *I* am only *one* person, and when these kitties are hiding in the shrubbery around my building, it is *impossible* to anticipate where they’ll dart to next when I try to catch them! I need MANPOWER—not coffee cups, you bleeding-heart buttmunches! Surely some of the groups I have contacted have a handful of seal-hunter hating, Birkenstock-wearing, no-meat-eating do-goodniks that would be willing to spend an afternoon failing college by helping me grab helpless kittens instead of hanging out at Coffee-Cool-O-Rama doing nothing but reading each other’s bad poetry about how Modern Man tramples Nature whilst wearing golfing cleats dripping with Orca blood, or whatever. BWAAH!
Not that I am bitter, becoming disillusioned, or feeling frustrated in my efforts, or anything. Let us move on. I will keep working on the kittens-thing.
And what triply sucks is that I had wanted to talk about a whole lot of other things, but I have run out of time. A lot else has gone on, but I am cat-obsessed. And I should get some sleep. I think that, even though I still feel for the kittens, this time is different from last time because these three are older than Squoosh and Crew, whatever bad that was going to happen has already happened to the others (and I try to not think about that, so that I don’t become overwhelmed with guilt), and this litter is in a safer place (in the bushes/courtyard area surrounding our flag. Squoosh’s litter was practically in the parking lot. And I was literally *obsessed* with them. It was *bad*. At least I don’t have to go through that this time; even if I’m not wholly certain of why it is different, it is, and it’s less painful for me. I am no less motivated, it is just less stressful internally.
Speaking of internal stress, one of the people that I used to think had some redeeming qualities (but was sadly mistaken…yes, I am talking about RCG) called me over the weekend to (in a nutshell) enlist my help in cutting corners on something he has to produce. I shan’t bore with details, but what he’s trying to do—just like Sophie—is called “cargo cult science”, and Feynman had a few choice words to say about it. And I wholly agree with those words. Not that I expect Doofus (or Sophie) to have ever consulted any authority on research design, or ethics in particular. I have grown. Man, have I grown. Five years ago, I would have been all like, “Oh, let me help you cover up your incompetence by staying up all night and doing it all myself and giving it to you to claim as your own work! No, really—I insist! It’s the least I can do!” Thank god that period of my life is over, ‘cos I can surround myself with losers faster than you can snap your fingers. Plus, it’s doubly good that co-dependent part of my life is over, ‘cos it’s way more goth to just smirk and say “drown; I’d find it entertaining”. I could never get that saying “drown” part right… ;-)
But whatever. Of course, I told him to go jump in a lake. My name is already on something with Sophie from early last year, and I regret it. I may not even put it on my CV; I’m still deciding. It *sounds* good, and Sophie didn’t really participate, I did (it was given to her as a kind of sign-on prezzie), but I am concerned for what Sophie is going to produce going forward; I may not want to be affiliated in any way with crap she churns out ten years from now. I could reel off a list of sins, but…just trust me; it’s bad. Cargo cult. Completely.
But what’s even funnier is that this was something Doofus was trying to throw together at the eleventh hour. I guess that is why he tried to enlist my help—he came to a point where he was lost, attempted to cogitate on it for thirty seconds, then threw in the towel and called me to do it…errr…for help. What crap. Ummm, no.
And I went ahead and took the week of Thanksgiving mostly off (well, off from Eviljob) so that I could spend time with Mom. Well, that, and have the Most Shoppingest Day of the Year off again. Somehow this escalated into Meg wanting all of us to go to a tournament at the Borgata (I think it was the Borgata), and I was sweating trying to work that entire thing out, and finally she decided it was not a good idea. Thank god. I am just not up for anything like that right now. I need rest.
I will spend tomorrow finishing something that in theory is supposed to be A Big Deal tomorrow, and I will write more. I need to vent about a lot of things. Especially an online test that I took for fun. Sigh. :-) And the fact that my gyn keeps having to cancel my appointments, and every time I reschedule, it gets earlier and earlier in the morning. Augh.
And if I offended any bunny-huggers, I apologise. But please—speak to your kinsmen and get them to return my calls. Pleez? For the kitties?
Friday, November 11, 2005
Yay!
Test done. Mom lives. Squoosh fine. Meg grumpy. Romeo grumpy as well. Son-Friend doing great. Weebie headbutting me.
And there was much rejoicing.
Yay.
This is one of the funniest things I have heard in a while. I'm dying to know what in the hell she's talking *about* as she robbed the bank.
I haven't been able to round up any help at all in catching the kittens (and Momcat), so I am going to have to wing it myself tomorrow. What sucks is that I am going to have to go it after dark, 'cos that's the only time I have to do it. I guess we'll see how it goes.
I think I need a hobby, or something. I don't know why things like this bother me so much, but it's not like I can stop it. Sigh.
Found out on Wednesday that Squoosh is up to 7.5 lbs., by the way. :-) At least I do *some* things right.
I need to make a firm rule that I can't take on any more stray cats...or stray people. I need to make a firm, iron-clad, no exceptions rule. I almost tried to adopt someone today. Then I had to ask myself if I was just doing this 'cos Son-Friend is taken care of now (for the most part), and I'm bored, or something. Because I'm *not* bored.
Ok...I have to eat something like, now. Argh. :-)
And there was much rejoicing.
Yay.
This is one of the funniest things I have heard in a while. I'm dying to know what in the hell she's talking *about* as she robbed the bank.
I haven't been able to round up any help at all in catching the kittens (and Momcat), so I am going to have to wing it myself tomorrow. What sucks is that I am going to have to go it after dark, 'cos that's the only time I have to do it. I guess we'll see how it goes.
I think I need a hobby, or something. I don't know why things like this bother me so much, but it's not like I can stop it. Sigh.
Found out on Wednesday that Squoosh is up to 7.5 lbs., by the way. :-) At least I do *some* things right.
I need to make a firm rule that I can't take on any more stray cats...or stray people. I need to make a firm, iron-clad, no exceptions rule. I almost tried to adopt someone today. Then I had to ask myself if I was just doing this 'cos Son-Friend is taken care of now (for the most part), and I'm bored, or something. Because I'm *not* bored.
Ok...I have to eat something like, now. Argh. :-)
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
gonads, strife, Squooshtum, and suckass tests
I can hear the guy in the Energizer commercials: Still going! I'm on the "here are twelve essay questions; pick eight".
I took a break today to take Squoosh to Dr Vet 'cos no yarn had emerged from either end. I decided to err on the side of caution, and so they did radiographs of his tum and intestines. They're kind of cute intestines. But then, I'm prejudiced.
And as I'm standing there, holding Squoosh in the hall whilst looking at the inside of Squoosh on the little monitor, Dr Vet notices before I do that Squoosh has started eating one of the files that is in a bin on the wall! He moves fast, I tell you. We got the paper out of the little Squooshmouth, but he had already put holes in it; it looked like someone had attacked it with a staple remover. Sigh.
The short of it is that Squooshable is fine. Dr Vet said that he saw nothing unusual, which leads him to believe that either (1) Squooshable didn't eat the yarn, but instead hid it where I wasn't able to find it (I feel that to be unlikely), or (2) Squoosh digested it at least enough that it passed out the back end in some undetectable form (maybe, but I have really been looking...but maybe), or (3) Squoosh gnawed the tail off first, then shredded it and ate it, and it passed out in tiny fibres (of the three, I'm finding this the most believable. Squoosh just loves to shred things; it really thrills him. Shred, eat...shred, eat. *Totally* Squoosh. I have no problem picturing this at all, and don't know why I didn't think of it myself.). So he's doing fine, and he has a cute little tummy and liver. :-)
Christ...and strong lungs. When they held him still for the x-ray, I heard this *loud* MAWWWWRRRPPPP! from in back. WAY in back. I'm glad he has a good enough self-esteem to insist upon his rights that way. :-)
Butsoanyway.
So I came back home just in time to listen to NPR as I type, and I heard this cool story about an Italian cookbook that was just translated...so I bought it. The ricotta and spinach gnocchi alone looks like it will be worth it. Plus, I have been trying to mimic a few of Son-Friend's crazy Sicilian mother's dishes forever, and I figure that this will maybe give me some insight.
No, I am not Son-Friend's only relative, but that's a long story, and I'm not even really a relative.
Butsoanyway.
Like what I won't do for distraction at this point, eh?
So I ordered on Amazon via NPR so that they get some of the money, or whatever. I believe I am probably the fastest sell they've ever had (if not the fastest check out); I was clicking before the story was over. Well, just *look* at that gnocchi!
I am not the fastest check out because when I went to check out, it had this big blinking hyperlink that said "CLICK ME TO FIND OUT WHY YOU DIDN'T GET FREE SUPER SAVER SHIPPING, 'CODIA!!! NOW!!! NOW!!!".
Okay well, it said something like that. I think. So I did. It was 'cos I didn't spend enough, my order being under (I think) $30 or whatever. *Just* under. Now, I look at it this way: I will spend $3.99 in shipping, but I could get *free* shipping and use that $3.99 to buy something I actually wanted from Amazon. Right? Right.
And I realised about thirty minutes and six mystery novels later that this was probably their evil plan all along.
Bastards.
Now I have to figure out when I am going to read all of this...I don't *want* to wait for Break. I want to go read for pleasure right fricking now, in front of a fireplace, with a huge ass mug of cocoa (or, melted marshmallows with a dash of cocoa, as Meg says I make it). And I want a nap. And I want...
Argh. Ok, ok...I'm going to go finish now.
Oh! One last thing...the week Mummers had her heart attack, I had a test. I just got back the grade for it (I was half-dreading this one), and I have a full-credit A! That *really* made my day; that prof is a bit more strict with her grading, and in addition to the regular stuff, we had to critique quotes--like actual quotes, not articles or anything. There was one from Samuel Johnson, B.F. Skinner, and I don't remember who else, but it threw me for a loop, because that is all so subjective and plus there's the issue of who in the hell am I to be commenting on any of these people and everything, and on top of everything else, it requires a modicum of creativity or original thinking or whatever to not just come up with something like "Golly, that Mr Johnson's just aces with me!", and I really wasn't in that frame of mind, so... I'm surprised. So that was cool.
Ok--now I really *am* going to get back to work.
Weeeee! Well, it makes me happy.
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
Phuuuk...must...have...air!
Ho, boy.
Now, I will admit this is a blow-off class. So does my prof. It's a required class because yet another set of TPTB (that run my program) think that by the time we get to this level, we couldn't go through everything G.I. Jane did for a month straight with the exception of eating and sleeping, and then, once allowed to sleep, be awakened in the middle of REM rebound by a rifle butt to the head and reel off the rotogravure of our trade. Seven stages? Here. Hierarchy of Needs? There. What happened on Old Olympus' Towering Tops? Right back at'cha, Bucko. Bios? You want bios? I can tell you what Ray Cattell ate for freaking *breakfast* on 3 February, 1998*. I can tell you what James Cattell told his grad students to do on 21 January, 1944**. I can tell you the who, what, when, where, and why of....well, pick it. Hoo-hah.
And, granted, I read and study fairly obsessively...usually. There may be some who need a refresher on this stuff (and I could name names, if we want specifics)...but it isn't Our Girl.
But, nevertheless, this is required. So fine. Fine.
So I am in the middle of the Take Home Test From Hell. HELL. Not because I don't know it, but because, since this is a blow-off class, we have no real projects, or anything else. Our prof wants to go on break early (thereby thumbing his nose at TPTB's mandate that holding class during finals' week is compulsory even if there is no final--since that pack of TPTB had no luck in their attempts to make having an *actual* final that is administered during finals' week mandatory), and so he is getting us done halfway through his lectures.
Now bear in mind that this guy rocks. He really does. He is cool to the coolthiest power, he knows everyone, has done everything, and actually personally heard many of the people we are studying lecture; he's been on panels, boards, and committees that I will never be able to touch with a ten-foot pole--we're talking bodies that might deign to read something I peck out one day as a courtesy due to my affiliation with him only (before they turn me down, of course). That's why he's been elected Timekeeper for our department (ie, he has to teach this class in addition to what he normally does). He's also Old As Hell, and they're probably planning on dragging him back to campus kicking and screaming as an emeritus if he ever manages to sneak off and retire. I'd bet my right arm. He says he still teaches 'cos he loves it (and us) so much, but I personally think that his meds haven't kicked in yet; once they do, I'm sure he's outta here. And I love him muchly. Rilly. He's wonderful, funny, and has the coolest and most extensive collection of ties I have ever seen. I like ties. He and I talk about his ties a lot. No, rilly--they all have stories and came from neat places, and/or are reproductions of cool art or space and stuff.
Now, bearing this in mind, this son of a b...errynicemamaI'msure has taken what has to be the ENTIRE test bank of questions from our text book and given them to us as our final. Are the questions hard? No. Are they stupid? Ohellyes. Are they long, tedious, and boring? Oyeahyoubetcha. Do they take long to answer? BWAAH!
We are talking about two hundred questions. Or more. I am about halfway through. I want to SCREAM. I know this was intended as an easy test, but...it takes *forever*! All you really have to do is look in the book (so that you don't get an answer wrong because the question--or answer--is ambiguous or the book was wrong and the test bank follows the book), but... BWAAH! And it is So Like Him to think that this is easier than a bullshit essay paper. Augh.
Just shoot me.
I had to take a break. This is driving me nuts.
In other news, Squoosh Popeil has failed to manufacture a viable Poop On A Rope, despite his best efforts. He's so weird. Romeo invented "Fetch"***, and Squooshable goes and invents Poop On A Rope. Sigh. I tried to ask Squoosh why anyone would *want* Poop On A Rope, and he just said, "'cos I invented it, Baby!". He wants to apply for a patent; I told him that the Patent Office would probably tell him that there's not much call for Poop On A Rope.
Well, I can't think of any uses for it.
I have to get back to this thing, but I am just dreading the hell out of it. Me no wanna type no more!
...did I say "BWAAH!" already?
I missed Showdown tonight, 'cos Son-Friend was too tired. He just moved. He has finally started receiving his Disability payments, so maybe things won't suck so badly soon. Yay. But since I missed tonight, I'm going to work until the online trivia chat I play comes on at midnight, and then go to sleep and finish this stuff after Eviljob tomorrow (if I don't already have it done).
Whee.
--------------------------------------
*Not a god damned thing; he died on 2 February, 1998. This is one of my favourite jokes. And yes, I made it up. Undergrads Upon Whom I Have Been Inflicted have failed to see how damn clever it is, the bastards. ;-)
**Absolutely nothing; he died on 20 January, 1944. This is my alternate to Joke 1. :-) And, in truth, I switch out people--I don't only pick on the Cattells.
***Yes, I know Measle didn't *actually* invent "Fetch", but seeing as how it's not as if he read about it somewhere, or picked it up at daycare, it *is* kind of like he invented it. He's a smart measle.
****There was no fourth footnote. :-D
Now, I will admit this is a blow-off class. So does my prof. It's a required class because yet another set of TPTB (that run my program) think that by the time we get to this level, we couldn't go through everything G.I. Jane did for a month straight with the exception of eating and sleeping, and then, once allowed to sleep, be awakened in the middle of REM rebound by a rifle butt to the head and reel off the rotogravure of our trade. Seven stages? Here. Hierarchy of Needs? There. What happened on Old Olympus' Towering Tops? Right back at'cha, Bucko. Bios? You want bios? I can tell you what Ray Cattell ate for freaking *breakfast* on 3 February, 1998*. I can tell you what James Cattell told his grad students to do on 21 January, 1944**. I can tell you the who, what, when, where, and why of....well, pick it. Hoo-hah.
And, granted, I read and study fairly obsessively...usually. There may be some who need a refresher on this stuff (and I could name names, if we want specifics)...but it isn't Our Girl.
But, nevertheless, this is required. So fine. Fine.
So I am in the middle of the Take Home Test From Hell. HELL. Not because I don't know it, but because, since this is a blow-off class, we have no real projects, or anything else. Our prof wants to go on break early (thereby thumbing his nose at TPTB's mandate that holding class during finals' week is compulsory even if there is no final--since that pack of TPTB had no luck in their attempts to make having an *actual* final that is administered during finals' week mandatory), and so he is getting us done halfway through his lectures.
Now bear in mind that this guy rocks. He really does. He is cool to the coolthiest power, he knows everyone, has done everything, and actually personally heard many of the people we are studying lecture; he's been on panels, boards, and committees that I will never be able to touch with a ten-foot pole--we're talking bodies that might deign to read something I peck out one day as a courtesy due to my affiliation with him only (before they turn me down, of course). That's why he's been elected Timekeeper for our department (ie, he has to teach this class in addition to what he normally does). He's also Old As Hell, and they're probably planning on dragging him back to campus kicking and screaming as an emeritus if he ever manages to sneak off and retire. I'd bet my right arm. He says he still teaches 'cos he loves it (and us) so much, but I personally think that his meds haven't kicked in yet; once they do, I'm sure he's outta here. And I love him muchly. Rilly. He's wonderful, funny, and has the coolest and most extensive collection of ties I have ever seen. I like ties. He and I talk about his ties a lot. No, rilly--they all have stories and came from neat places, and/or are reproductions of cool art or space and stuff.
Now, bearing this in mind, this son of a b...errynicemamaI'msure has taken what has to be the ENTIRE test bank of questions from our text book and given them to us as our final. Are the questions hard? No. Are they stupid? Ohellyes. Are they long, tedious, and boring? Oyeahyoubetcha. Do they take long to answer? BWAAH!
We are talking about two hundred questions. Or more. I am about halfway through. I want to SCREAM. I know this was intended as an easy test, but...it takes *forever*! All you really have to do is look in the book (so that you don't get an answer wrong because the question--or answer--is ambiguous or the book was wrong and the test bank follows the book), but... BWAAH! And it is So Like Him to think that this is easier than a bullshit essay paper. Augh.
Just shoot me.
I had to take a break. This is driving me nuts.
In other news, Squoosh Popeil has failed to manufacture a viable Poop On A Rope, despite his best efforts. He's so weird. Romeo invented "Fetch"***, and Squooshable goes and invents Poop On A Rope. Sigh. I tried to ask Squoosh why anyone would *want* Poop On A Rope, and he just said, "'cos I invented it, Baby!". He wants to apply for a patent; I told him that the Patent Office would probably tell him that there's not much call for Poop On A Rope.
Well, I can't think of any uses for it.
I have to get back to this thing, but I am just dreading the hell out of it. Me no wanna type no more!
...did I say "BWAAH!" already?
I missed Showdown tonight, 'cos Son-Friend was too tired. He just moved. He has finally started receiving his Disability payments, so maybe things won't suck so badly soon. Yay. But since I missed tonight, I'm going to work until the online trivia chat I play comes on at midnight, and then go to sleep and finish this stuff after Eviljob tomorrow (if I don't already have it done).
Whee.
--------------------------------------
*Not a god damned thing; he died on 2 February, 1998. This is one of my favourite jokes. And yes, I made it up. Undergrads Upon Whom I Have Been Inflicted have failed to see how damn clever it is, the bastards. ;-)
**Absolutely nothing; he died on 20 January, 1944. This is my alternate to Joke 1. :-) And, in truth, I switch out people--I don't only pick on the Cattells.
***Yes, I know Measle didn't *actually* invent "Fetch", but seeing as how it's not as if he read about it somewhere, or picked it up at daycare, it *is* kind of like he invented it. He's a smart measle.
****There was no fourth footnote. :-D
Monday, November 07, 2005
Hello
I fed the kittens in their home today. They seem to be doing okay. I have put calls in to several places to see if I can get some help grabbing them and Momcat; let’s hope *someone* takes pity on me. I have been feeding Momcat this whole time (and no, I *really* didn’t notice her pregnancy—she didn’t show), but she still won’t come near me, even after all these months. Sigh. If I had known about the kittens, I would have been feeding them too all this time; I feel guilty.
Had meetings today (whee) and then come home to find that Picakitty…errr…Squooshable had gnawed the damn string tail off the mouse that came with his purple peek-a-boo house, and eaten it! BWAAH! He did okay with the pheromone spray as far as licking his cat condo and stuff, but he seems to have switched to my hair and now the damn mouse. I think he is doing this for attention, or because he is bored, but I have not figured out which one yet.
I could go on, but I have too many things to write. Bwaah.
Had meetings today (whee) and then come home to find that Picakitty…errr…Squooshable had gnawed the damn string tail off the mouse that came with his purple peek-a-boo house, and eaten it! BWAAH! He did okay with the pheromone spray as far as licking his cat condo and stuff, but he seems to have switched to my hair and now the damn mouse. I think he is doing this for attention, or because he is bored, but I have not figured out which one yet.
I could go on, but I have too many things to write. Bwaah.
Sunday, November 06, 2005
If this is up, then I'm up
Oh, for crap’s sake.
Where do I start? First off, I overslept last night, and not only did I not find out if I was right about the naked mole rats, but I missed the next question. Grr. I guess that will teach me to take a nap so that I can play a trivia game at 2 a.m. after I have been at work all day (and have to be back early in the morning on Sunday). Pfft. So I went to sleep at about 10 to 11-ish, woke up at 3:40, got pissed off at myself, and went back to sleep. So I will have to pick the contest back up on Tuesday, which puts me behind a day. Pfft.
In addition, today as I am leaving for my lunch break, I see…more Squooshables. Three. About a month to a month and a half old. Two black tuxedo Squooshables and one grey tuxedo Squooshable.
This is all my fault.
I should have tried harder to get the momcat, damn it. So now I have three kittens to get and a momcat. I do not know how I am going to pull this off, especially with a final due on the tenth (yes, 10 November; that prof wants to take the back-end of this class easy and leave early this term…I love him; he’s a riot).
So one of my projects for tomorrow after my meetings is to find someone to help me round up Momcat & Co.; I hope to find someone—ideally a group or something—by tomorrow. I just cannot do it by myself and get them all. I lost two out of Squoosh’s litter and could not get the momcat, so we have seen how badly *I* can screw things up.
Sigh.
So on my lunch break, I instead went and bought Iams kitten chow. I swear to god, I did not know about them, or I would have done this all along. I feel so horrible now. Momcat did not *look* pregnant. A couple of times I had wondered, but I did not see her get bigger. I guess if she only has three, then that means that I lost some. I am not going to let that eat away at me. I will just work on saving these three. And Momcat. This is no life for her. She will not let me within three feet of her, but…I will figure something out.
Crapmuffin.
I left a HUGE pile of Iams for them, and I will keep doing it now that I know where they are—though hopefully I will not *have* to for more than a day or so. I hope. They are so cute! And Momcat is pretty, too. Antisocial, but pretty. She is a tuxedo cat too, with white whiskers and antennae. My Squooshable is all shiny black, with a stub of a tail, and black whiskers. :-)
And he barfed again today. This time, it was a wad of hair—his and mine. I think he is chewing on my hairbrushes. Or doing something. Argh. IF I ever have children, I am going to ship them off to kidlet boot camp between the ages of two and eight. I can’t take this Terrible Twos stuff. I know barfing in cats is not like barfing in people, but still I worry, especially since he is starting to do it a lot. Dr Vet has said that, ultimately, as long as it comes out one end or the other, everything is fine. So I know that I *shouldn’t* worry, but I do anyway. I always get scared when I throw up; I have no idea why, but it really scares me, and I would hate to think of Squooshable being scared if it maybe scares him, also.
And then, to top it all off, I get my period today—after my gyn appointment was rescheduled for this Thursday. It’s not that it is *that* big a deal, but the last two times I’ve been pap’d, it has been during. He says it is not monumentally important, but I am not sure. I mean, I trust him, but…I do not know. I think he said that doing it during is more likely to result in a false positive for evil crap, but I am not sure. I don’t know. Grr.
But one good thing is that the trivia chat that I normally play in was called on accounta (on accounta the host didn’t show), and so I found a different one that I actually think that I like better. Though I don’t know if I can leave my regular one, ‘cos I would feel guilty. Or maybe the times would still work out; I would have to check.
Ok, off to sleep so that tomorrow I can go battle…well, everything.
Where do I start? First off, I overslept last night, and not only did I not find out if I was right about the naked mole rats, but I missed the next question. Grr. I guess that will teach me to take a nap so that I can play a trivia game at 2 a.m. after I have been at work all day (and have to be back early in the morning on Sunday). Pfft. So I went to sleep at about 10 to 11-ish, woke up at 3:40, got pissed off at myself, and went back to sleep. So I will have to pick the contest back up on Tuesday, which puts me behind a day. Pfft.
In addition, today as I am leaving for my lunch break, I see…more Squooshables. Three. About a month to a month and a half old. Two black tuxedo Squooshables and one grey tuxedo Squooshable.
This is all my fault.
I should have tried harder to get the momcat, damn it. So now I have three kittens to get and a momcat. I do not know how I am going to pull this off, especially with a final due on the tenth (yes, 10 November; that prof wants to take the back-end of this class easy and leave early this term…I love him; he’s a riot).
So one of my projects for tomorrow after my meetings is to find someone to help me round up Momcat & Co.; I hope to find someone—ideally a group or something—by tomorrow. I just cannot do it by myself and get them all. I lost two out of Squoosh’s litter and could not get the momcat, so we have seen how badly *I* can screw things up.
Sigh.
So on my lunch break, I instead went and bought Iams kitten chow. I swear to god, I did not know about them, or I would have done this all along. I feel so horrible now. Momcat did not *look* pregnant. A couple of times I had wondered, but I did not see her get bigger. I guess if she only has three, then that means that I lost some. I am not going to let that eat away at me. I will just work on saving these three. And Momcat. This is no life for her. She will not let me within three feet of her, but…I will figure something out.
Crapmuffin.
I left a HUGE pile of Iams for them, and I will keep doing it now that I know where they are—though hopefully I will not *have* to for more than a day or so. I hope. They are so cute! And Momcat is pretty, too. Antisocial, but pretty. She is a tuxedo cat too, with white whiskers and antennae. My Squooshable is all shiny black, with a stub of a tail, and black whiskers. :-)
And he barfed again today. This time, it was a wad of hair—his and mine. I think he is chewing on my hairbrushes. Or doing something. Argh. IF I ever have children, I am going to ship them off to kidlet boot camp between the ages of two and eight. I can’t take this Terrible Twos stuff. I know barfing in cats is not like barfing in people, but still I worry, especially since he is starting to do it a lot. Dr Vet has said that, ultimately, as long as it comes out one end or the other, everything is fine. So I know that I *shouldn’t* worry, but I do anyway. I always get scared when I throw up; I have no idea why, but it really scares me, and I would hate to think of Squooshable being scared if it maybe scares him, also.
And then, to top it all off, I get my period today—after my gyn appointment was rescheduled for this Thursday. It’s not that it is *that* big a deal, but the last two times I’ve been pap’d, it has been during. He says it is not monumentally important, but I am not sure. I mean, I trust him, but…I do not know. I think he said that doing it during is more likely to result in a false positive for evil crap, but I am not sure. I don’t know. Grr.
But one good thing is that the trivia chat that I normally play in was called on accounta (on accounta the host didn’t show), and so I found a different one that I actually think that I like better. Though I don’t know if I can leave my regular one, ‘cos I would feel guilty. Or maybe the times would still work out; I would have to check.
Ok, off to sleep so that tomorrow I can go battle…well, everything.
Friday, November 04, 2005
I say we take off and nuke the entire site from orbit. It's the only way to be sure.
What the hell to do about humanity…isn’t that always the question?
I am actually kind-of good only. I had something happen today that made me feel good at first, but it was at someone else’s expense, so I ended up sort of feeling bad and wishing I could go back and re-contribute a different half to the interaction, if only because I am a sucker-assed wimp who really in her heart hates to see *anyone* hurt, even if they deserved it. And damn, did they deserve it.
I like thinking that I am a Force of Nature sometimes. It makes things like this easier, having that point of view that you are just the reaction to someone else’s action, and you could have been seventy million different people walking down seventy million different streets, and the same thing would have come of our protagonist.
If you are a Force of Nature, you do not get to be a protagonist, also; you’re just scenery, like a tree branch that smacks someone in the face ‘cos that is what tree branches sometimes do, in accordance with Nature’s Plan.
I like thinking that there is some Natural Law that demands that most stupid people will get what’s coming eventually—it makes me feel better about not beating them to death myself. :-) Belief in this kind of makes up for the fact that, like a deprived child, I can’t just warm my cockles with the thought of them being relegated to some nonexistent Hell just ‘cos they are stupid and annoying.
Which, really, if you think about it, is some pretty strong evidence for the human origins of the Bible. I mean, think about it: If you were God—A God, *ANY* God—wouldn’t your very first exhortation to Your Flock be something along the lines of, “Thou art forbidden to be intentionally stupid, mean, rude, and/or lazy. Persist, and I will smite the fuck out of you.” Well? If there’s a more important and urgent message, I’d like to know what it is. All the bunny-hugging crap really takes a back seat, especially since my way implies a duty of individual accountability, and we all know how important that is.
But I digress. …constantly. ;-)
So I have a need to absolve myself of responsibility for things that aren’t my responsibility anyway by pretending that I am a Force of Nature. Or perhaps maybe I really am one, kind of like we all are at times. Or maybe this is like when a kid tries to avoid their parents’ horrible arguments by pretending to be a dinosaur. Dinosaurs are big and mean, and can smite the fuck out of damn near anything they want to, typically.
Well, being a dinosaur works for when you want to smite the fuck out of someone until you are old enough to think up the being a Force of Nature excuse. After that, I guess you just decide that you *are* god maybe, and do your smiting yourself; it’s like a constant progression. Or it could just be a continuum from immaturity to psychosis. :-)
Yeah, I lost track of what I was saying, too. I dunno.
So I am trying to decide if I feel guilty or not. Or, really, if the feelings of guilt that I do have are legitimate or not.
Heh.
Probably I will eventually decide no.
Buck Nekkid Mole Rats
Just as soon as I posted a plea for help, I found this: Nekkid Mole Rats.
So I'm cool. I haven't figured out how to not be googleable, so I put the previous post back into Drafts...I'll release it after the question is due for Sat's game.
After you look at them for a while, they're kinda cute. For poop eaters, that is.
So I'm cool. I haven't figured out how to not be googleable, so I put the previous post back into Drafts...I'll release it after the question is due for Sat's game.
After you look at them for a while, they're kinda cute. For poop eaters, that is.
Thursday, November 03, 2005
What am I?
please, help...peez? Does anyone know anything about mammals and biology stuff? Or zoology? Or sociobiology? Or...whatever?
Okay...I was thinking it was a naked mole rat, but I have been looking, and can't find anything that says that naked mole rats feed their children poop. Then I thought it might be a sloth, but sloth *moths* feed their children sloth poop, not sloth *moms*. Aren't you a better person for knowing that? I know that quality of *my* life has increased exponentially. :-) I have now run out of thoughts, and I need to finish this dumb paper I should be writing. Does anyone know what is:
1) A mammal.
2) Cold-blooded (poikilothermic)
3) Eusocial (lives like a social insect)
4) Grows food crops
5) Feeds feces to its young (I dunno *whose* feces)
6) Is as skilled a vocaliser as some primates
The eusocial mammal part totally points towards naked mole rats, but then there's that Pesky Poop Problem. And the crop-growing problem; I also cannot find where NMRs grow crops.
If anyone knows, you can email me: ancodia@gmail.com. Go 'head; you know you want to. ;-) If you know and just want to give me a hint, I can live with that if it's a *good* hint. If you want to tell me, I'll give you a present. It may take a little bit to coax Mummers to sit in a box for shipping, but I swear I'll give you a present. :-D
Okay, okay...I'll give a *nice* present. And no, you'll not be helping me cheat on school work; 'Codia's not like that. When I've sworn to be honest, I are exquisitely honest. This is for a trivia game I play, and as god may or mayn't be my witness, there are no rules prohibiting me from asking anyone. Truth.
:-*
tia!
Okay...I was thinking it was a naked mole rat, but I have been looking, and can't find anything that says that naked mole rats feed their children poop. Then I thought it might be a sloth, but sloth *moths* feed their children sloth poop, not sloth *moms*. Aren't you a better person for knowing that? I know that quality of *my* life has increased exponentially. :-) I have now run out of thoughts, and I need to finish this dumb paper I should be writing. Does anyone know what is:
1) A mammal.
2) Cold-blooded (poikilothermic)
3) Eusocial (lives like a social insect)
4) Grows food crops
5) Feeds feces to its young (I dunno *whose* feces)
6) Is as skilled a vocaliser as some primates
The eusocial mammal part totally points towards naked mole rats, but then there's that Pesky Poop Problem. And the crop-growing problem; I also cannot find where NMRs grow crops.
If anyone knows, you can email me: ancodia@gmail.com. Go 'head; you know you want to. ;-) If you know and just want to give me a hint, I can live with that if it's a *good* hint. If you want to tell me, I'll give you a present. It may take a little bit to coax Mummers to sit in a box for shipping, but I swear I'll give you a present. :-D
Okay, okay...I'll give a *nice* present. And no, you'll not be helping me cheat on school work; 'Codia's not like that. When I've sworn to be honest, I are exquisitely honest. This is for a trivia game I play, and as god may or mayn't be my witness, there are no rules prohibiting me from asking anyone. Truth.
:-*
tia!
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
Does somebody miss their mother?
No, not me---Squooshable. I haven't gotten a *chance* to miss mine yet; it won't go away.
I am still alive; Halloween was...interesting. I ended up having Mom over with me (I think she likes it here), and she tried to get into a candy fight with me on my driveway. Once I get more time, I will try to write about the whole fiasco. I guess she's feeling better. :-) She's a raging pain in the butt, though.
I have a large project due, and I'm behind. As usual.
Squoosh barfed *again*; this time it was a big wad of carpet fibre and dryer lint. I found a sealing container to put my dryer lint in, and called the vet to ask if there was anything I could do about this whole 'eating things that aren't food' thing. They suggested trying a pheromone spray that smells like a momcat, in case Squoosh is doing it because of separation anxiety or something, so I am picking that up tomorrow at Pet Supermarket. If that doesn't work,they said I could try kitty valium or something and he would prescribe it, but I am not crazy about that idea. I hope the spray works.
Bwaah! :-)
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