shiz.ca

It's official

The cat has chosen a candidate.

Caught in the act: A story in pictures

"I please can has eats plastics?"

"But plastics is so yum!"

"This light bulb is warming my tush."

Is it wrong that I love this a little?

Thanks, Oakies.

For this:

Leap/crash

Q: How is it that a 7-pound cat can break a perfectly good toilet?

A: She knocks the lid off the toilet tank, breaking said lid, and it's so rare you'll probably have to REPLACE THE WHOLE TOILET.

Greeaaaaaat.

I RAN right into this one ...

So I was playing with the cat last night, waving one of her kitty toys around, and she was really into watching and chasing it. At one point I moved my head in closer to watch her, and she stopped watching the toy and looked at me.

"Why are you looking at me," I said, indicating the madly whirling toy, "THIS is the thing that is crazy."

About four seconds passed before the husband snickered, then I realized what I'd said, because I certainly qualify as "the thing that is crazy" on even my best of days. It was like the pot calling the kettle crazy.

Poor Kitty

Why didn't she meow?

Huh?

So I slept IN, LATE, and it was AWESOME.

And I woke up at 11:30 and Willow was on the bed. But the sun was shining, so she went into our big bedroom window. And in a minute so did Brie.

And I heard voices outside, and saw finger-shadows on the window. And two men were talking, and "petting" the cats through the window. This is not totally unusual.

And a voice said, "Yeah, they always come out. I feel sorry for them."

It was the landscapers, who we already KNOW Willow loves to flirt with. And they feel sorry for the cats. Pourquoi? Because the cats have such a TOUGH LIFE and are so MISERABLY LONELY? Because sleeping on the bed with me all night is such a CHORE, especially when they wake up to brilliant sun in the window that they can BASK in?

Cats like WINDOWS, dude. They LOVE windows. Window-sitting does not mean that they are miserable.

It don't make no sense. No kinda sense at all.

(That was a lot of ALL CAPS for NO PARTICULAR REASON.)

Houston?

So this morning I thought,

I should pick up some of those crackers that the cat likes.

I have a problem.

Another Cat Post

Ok, I have to tell you what Willow did this morning.

I scooped the cats' litter and put a bunch of fresh on top of the old litter. We use "The World's Best Cat Litter" because even though it's pricey-ish, it is a good litter and it doesn't smell like chemicals and it's totally flushable and biodegradable. It's made out of corn.

Willow is always the 1st cat in the new litter. She loves checking it out even if she doesn't have to go, BUT today I saw her walk over and put her front half in the box and sniff around, and I went on with other things until I saw Brie "get in line" behind Willow. I looked over and Willow is STILL standing front-half only in the box, several minutes later, so I said, "Hey, doesn't your bottom half need to go in the box there too, kitty?" And then I went closer and heard ... soft licking?

As near as I can tell, she was eating the litter. I looked around her mouth and inside her mouth and there were traces of it. It makes sense I guess, she eats Bran Buds and Special-K. She was eating the clean litter on top, which there was a generous amount of, but does she ever eat dirty litter? She always seems healthy, but ... EWWWWW.

My cat is weird. Should I let her be? I've never caught her doing that before. Maybe she's corn-deficient?

SO. WEIRD.

WEIRD KITTY.

WEEEEEIRD.

On Lurching and Leeches

REWRITE:

My husband is in Addis Ababa, so I spent the weekend with friends in British Columbia’s Fraser Valley, and on Sunday evening, when it was time to return home, they drove me to the King George Skytrain station.

Vancouver's Skytrain is an ALRT, an Alert Light Rapid Transit system. I remember this because in 1986 the transit company sent representatives into the school system to explain how the Skytrain worked. Our representative explained that the trains are run by computers, not people, and that in spite of this the train is very safe.

The other thing that he told us was not to fall onto the train tracks because you could be electrocuted.

So Sunday I was on the train, tired. I'd taken the train a million times. I was used to the rhythm of it. I was used to the three-toned hum the trains make when they leave a station, to the swishing and the rocking, and to the sound of pulsing wind when a train traveling the other direction passes yours.

But this time the train lurched and braked violently. We were thrown; about half of the passengers gasped loudly.

We were stopped above a Safeway store. It was getting dark. I wanted to be outside, to be on the ground. We were trapped; how long would we be trapped?

There's a rumor among transit-takers that train delays are caused by suicides, and that is all I could think of: someone had just died. Was he hit? Or did she get electrocuted?

I told myself to relax. Maybe a teddy bear had fallen onto the tracks.

But I couldn’t relax with that thought; I imagined a panicked mother, clamoring after her track-bound, teddy-bear-retrieving daughter. What an awful feeling.

The train ws mostly full, but we all sat silently for a few minutes. No one knew anything. My body kept remembering the lurching feeling, the break-neck stopping.

It was nearing nine o'clock and I wanted to be at home. I wanted to return to my cat-children and take off my shoes. I wanted to have a glass of water, put on sweatpants, and hold my pet-children in turn -- first Brie, the one who hates to be held but purrs while you do it, then Willow, a people-friendly cat that constantly squirms. I would grab the nearest cat and flop onto the bed with her. Maybe I would fall asleep like that. It would be good to sleep like that.

The train was full of garbage; I'd never seen it like that before. We started moving.

I was thrown like that when my Nissan was rear-ended. I had been stopped at an intersection, waiting to turn. And then I started screaming, and afterwards it dawned on me that I had been hit from behind, hit so hard that my fully-stopped vehicle was thrown an entire car-length and had to be written off. I spent three months taking Advil and massaging my temples.

I was also thrown like that in 1993, when a bus I was on abruptly stopped. A woman across the aisle from me began to shriek, and I remember thinking that she was panicked for no reason, until I learned that the bus in front of us had hit a child. We all sat in the windows, staring out at a freaked-out little boy, covered in a veil of orange blood.

In hindsight, my life has felt a lurch like that every time I've had severe depression, which was so often and for such long periods that I don’t know when one episode ended and another one began. I felt a lurch when my friends Bethany and Jill died, both very young, or when my grandfather died of lung cancer. My life lurched when I was falsely accused and almost fired, and another time when I was mistreated at work and actually fired. My life lurched when I had depression again, this time as a married woman, and the world stopped again. But the world doesn't really stop, it goes on and you stop. It's like getting hit by a car. You scream, a few come to help, maybe somebody watches; most others keep driving.

Last night I dreamed that a friend killed himself and that my husband and I were forbidden from telling his family. We had to wait until they found out some other way, probably by finding his body. It was another lurch. I woke up upset, terrified and angry and shocked. It was midnight. I touched the cats; they are my touchstones. They had not had the same dream. Their good vibes would quiver along their furs, touch my hands, and shoot like good electricity into my bones, veins and heart. I would be revived.

It didn't work as I had hoped. I was left with the nightmare imprinted in my mind and the soft feel of fur on my fingertips. Each cat acknowledged her stroke with a sleepy half-gesture. They selfishly retained their good vibes.

I felt another lurch in a dream when I was first getting counseling for depression. In the dream I was driving and a bright orange roadblock appeared out of nowhere. I gasped and braked and it woke me.

Things have been going so well for me that I subsequently worry that the Worst Thing Ever is just about to happen. Perhaps I'm a fatalist, though I've never thought of myself that way before. I'm still jarred by things that happened seven years ago, or seventeen, or twenty-seven, and sometimes I feel that I'm living my life as a person in shock, that life is one wreck after another, and the only reason we try to recover is to brace ourselves for the next pileup. Maybe I'm so used to coping that I can't imagine life being good and staying that way. I know that hard times will come no matter what I do and there’s no need to lure them in sooner with my moods, but it seems like there's an emotional-spiritual kink in my neck that's a throwback to old whiplash, reminding me of whiplashes to come, of heartbreaks and pains and soul-sucking days. And I rub that kink like an old, silvery scar.

I have a scar from a routine mole-removal. The doctor who did it chose to cauterize the area, and now the scar is of burnt tissue, smooth and watery and flat, and it occasionally itches. One time I unknowingly scratched it so hard that I drew blood. And that’s a good comparison for me, me and my kink in my neck, my spiritual scar, reminding me of the wounds, of the lurching and surprises and the hard times. Sometimes that scar itches, and if I scratch it could bleed.

And then I have to breathe.

I tell myself to enjoy life, to enjoy what I have, and to do what I feel is right. I can't ward off depression or sickness or heartache or death. These things will happen -- or not happen -- independently of what I think. Pretending that the Worst Thing Ever is just around the corner does not keep it away; it only causes undue stress.

My husband is in Addis Ababa. I know that he is safe. He is going to Awassa, too, and will be safe. He is going to Entebbe and Kigali and Gisenyi, and will be safe. I know to my roots that he'll be safe.

But I still have that scar, so I miss him fondly and pray.

How to Offend a Cat

1. Notice that the kitty smells a little bit like poo.

2. Pinpoint the odour to the derriere.

3. Using a wet washcoth, liberally wipe stinky area.

CONGRATULATIONS! Your kitty is now offended.

An aside, tho. MY kitty chose not to groom her derriere, but to allow it to air dry. Whenever she or her sister have been bathed before, or get wet for some other reason, they've both been all over the licking. What is with the air dry?

Dork Alert

I made a MySpace page for my cat, Willow.*

Because I am a dork.

* Brie will eventually have a page, too; but MS is definitely more of a Willow thing.

A good thing I didn't try to kill them

I had insomnia the other night, and at 1 am I returned to bed yet again, and as I was getting to the bedroom door I saw something on the dark wood floor, but barely. It looked like something white - or two somethings, so I took closer look. The items sort-of looked like those fur mice that the cats play with, but I could still barely see them because it was very dark, so I went to touch one of them to see if it was a toy mouse after all.

And it was soft and fleshy and WARM, and I gasped and recoiled and said "Oh my God!" because it seemed like it was a real mouse: warm and fleshy but not scurrying - so I thought maybe it was half-dead or something, but still warm.

I stood there bewildered for a moment. And then ever so faintly my eyes adjusted to ... to see ... to see something else, something like, maybe a very faint cat nose.

I had been looking at my black cat Brie's white-tipped rear paws. I hadn't seen ANYTHING else because it was so dark.

My exclamation woke up my husband. When I told him what had happened, he laughed.

Vómito de Gato

Brie

Sleepy

VARIOUS HOUSEHOLD SCENTS AS REVIEWED BY WILLOW THE CAT

That Spot On The Floor Over There

Hmmm. Interesting. A number of nuanced fragrances going on here. Yes, there’s a lot going on over here. Oh! A bug!

Ham Sandwich

Ok, now here is a good smell. I need to get closer to this smell. Just a little bit closer. Maybe I could rub my face in this thing. I think I need to salivate on this to get a better sense of what this smells like. And maybe a bite. Or two. Yeah. This is a great smell. Mrff. Yummy smell. Delicious.

Books

Smells ... dusty. Going back to ... ’78, I’d guess. Nice one.

Ladies’ Deodorant

SWEET LIVING CATNIP, WHY DON’T YOU JUST SMACK ME FULL FORCE WITH THE BACK OF YOUR HAND?

Used Matches

This makes my nose tingle. No, not a good smell. Paws down.

Banana

MMMRPH, THIS IS DELICIOUS. MRRRF, YUMMY!

Running Shoes

One of my favourites! This is a smell I can REALLY get behind. SNIIIIIIFF. SNIIIIIIIIIF. Mmmmm. I think I need to rub my head in here, too. Oh yeah, that’s a good smell. Paws totally up.

Toothpaste

Ok, now you’re just being mean. Stop it. Why must ANYTHING smell like that?

The Window

This is the best smell, EVER. I think I will sit here for all of my days. Ahhh! Flora and fauna. And littering drunks. Perfect.

One and Two

ONE:

The Brie-cat SAT IN MY LAP TODAY. She NEVER does that! She SAT! IN! MY! LAP! And purrrrrred.

Full Moon.

TWO:

I was up at 1 AM taking care of my husband. He's fine. But I FREAKING HATE DIABETES. Plus, it was difficult to get back to sleep afterwards.

Time for my spanking

I am a delinquent blogger.

Baaad Shiz!

I think it all began when I started being careful about what I wrote about, namely, excluding TMI about work. Work was fun to talk about! It's great fun to gripe about! But whatevah. I'm going to have to change my ways.

While I was absent, several things happened. My bro and his wife came for a visit, my whole immediate family came for dinner, my cat Willow munched savagely on my beautiously coloured flowers, and I visited breifly with one of the world's top actors.

My bro P and his wife A are semi-regular readers of shiz.ca; that said, I don't know that they get very much out of it. (Then again, what do YOU get out of it?) They live in Minnesota and God only knows why, because they could live in Canada where it snows about 80 times less frequently per annum. That said, they seem to LIKE Minnesota, so whatever. D and I had a great evening lounging about with them, and had no one gotten sleepy, we probably could have talked well into the following morning and then the next night. It was THAT good.

A few days later, the two of them and my 'rents came over, and in honor of my vegiphobe daddy I served a huge tray of vegetables and I think he *may* have had more than one half of one piece of the smallest piece on the platter, his previous record. Don't worry madam nutritionist, there was whole wheat bread and lean meats to go with. And strawberries for later. And very little to cook, prep, or clean up afterwards. Score!

And Willow, yes, she savaged the pretty flowers. What else is new? Though I have discovered that with roses she prefers the greens. Bring on the roses!

We also had a visit from our dear friends who were married in Florida a month back. We love them. They took us to dinner at the Boathouse, where my hubby got sick and gave me a scare (but more on that later ... ). Lisa and Dane are two of the very best people on the planet: big hearts, great conversationalists, and lovers of booze and food. What more could you want in a friend? We are so very thrilled that the two of them have each other.

The actor I met is named Douglas Campbell, and you've probably never heard of him, as I really hadn't. But I volunteer with the Flard on the Fleach theatre company here in my hometown, and DC is a major player both with Flard as well as with Ftratford in Ontario, and honestly with both theatre and Flakespeare in general. He is the kind of person that people in the know speak of in hushed tones when he's nearby, and after my backstage tour on Saturday I had a moment to chat with him. It was kinda cool.

So anyhoo, I'm sure you REALLY want to hear the tale of How My Husband Excused Himself From Dinner and Gave His Wife a Fright. Here it goes:

D has diabetes. He has juvenile diabetes; his pancreas makes faces at the ultrasound machine. His is the type where his body makes no insulin, so he takes shots and tests his levels regularly. Pretty straightforward. And he never wants me to fuss over him, which I do about 75% less than I feel the urge to do, and about 90% more than he'd like. So I try to leave him be, especially in public. I know by now that if he's coherent, he's able to take care of himself.

After dinner he excused himself for some fresh air. He wasn't feeling well. In about 10 minutes, I thought I should go check on him outside the restaurant.

He wasn't there.

This is the VERY RESPONSIBLE spouse, the one who is an example to ME about when to call home, etc. The one who, when he travels in North America, calls or emails me at least once a day, sometimes 2 or 3 times. I looked along the block in one direction. I walked the block in the other direction. I looked into the alley. No D.

I went inside and told the hostess, and asked her to have a man check the restroom. There was a man in the stall, she said, but they didn't ask if it was him.

It's been 15 minutes at least. D doesn't just take off. I knew he was probably fine but the mystery, coupled with his being sick, having diabetes and WHERE THE HELL IS HE started getting me anxious.

I returned to the table. Dane looked in both restrooms. No D.

We were all pretty sure he was fine, but did not know his whereabouts.

The 3 of us paid the bill and went outside. Dane, ahead of us, found D lying on the grass at English Bay, across the street. It made sense to me, in fact I might have looked there earlier if it hadn't been farther than the distance he usually goes.

The 4 of us took a taxi home. It's less than a mile to our apartment but we all needed that taxi.

D was fine all night and felt better in the morning. But he still gave me a fright.

The WillowKitty, I cannot find her ANYWHERE

I've looked everywhere. Everywhere! Our place is less than 800 square feet, and I KNOW where she hides; where could she *be*?

Did I mention I've looked EVERYWHERE?

In the closet? No. I already checked the closet. See:

On second thought, let's check that closet again:

Nope. No WillowKitty there. Where IS she?

Baby don't write

I know.

I KNOOOOOW.

I last wrote an interesting post on July 2nd, 1768, which, is hard, man, as I wasn't even born for like, a thousand years from then.

So. Anyhow.

I went to Florida. I went to Pensacola. For two whole days.

Pensacola is: warm; friendly; home to a teeny-ish airport (12 gates in all); home to some beautiful beaches; a FANTASTIC place to out to eat; home to a lot of strip malls; humid.

The wedding (which we went for) was fantastic, and we love our new friends (HELLO Lyn and Patrice!) and had a great time hanging out with our already-friends and toasting their happiness. It was so good to see them happy and MARRIED. AND the bride is moving to Vancouver to be with her husband and hang out with all us Canadians.

Note: We Canadians sure can be snooty when talking to Americans. Well actually, we can be bitchy and try to pass it off as good-natured joking. I myself am American and lived in the US for six years. I have a lot of compassion for any American trying to make a new life in Canada, especially those Americans who passionately love their home country. L, I've got your back. Take no guff. Don't defend; kill em with kindness. Did you know that Canada pollutes MORE per capita than the USA? No. Guff. Alrighty.

Oh-KAY now, what else?

Well, the cat peed on the bed, which: Deep Fried Mars Bars on a Stick! Willow! Must you?

In her defense, WE, the owners, let the litter pan get to being smelly. It was scooped, but still smelly. Intoxicatingly smelly. Did you know that cat pee smells like ammonia? Yeah. And pungent. So, she did what any self-respecting kitty would do; she stayed the heck out.

I think we need to teach her that in case of emergency, she should go in the bathtub. How do I do that?

So we have a duvet to clean and a house to disinfect. Hubby got the new FRESH kitty litter. (The WORLD'S BEST KITTY LITTER, which apparently still means you have to CHANGE it. World's best my ass.)

Speaking of cat pee, have any yall seen THIS? It's a litter pan that you ROLL OVER and magically all of the clumpy bits fall into a tray that you simply dump. I'm in love.

I've been re-in touch with some friends from 12 years ago, and it's so great to swap emails. We've still kept mutual friends, but weren't able to stay in touch ourselves. It's been a good reunion. I sent them pics of my husband, one of us at our wedding, and told them all about my EXCITING. LIFE. They are so dear to me.

My new job is great, tho not without challanges, but without them what would life be like? And I mean REALLY. My coworkers are wonderful, which is what I wanted most out of this move, so I'm happy. In spite of the challenges, my stress level is low and I don't dread coming to work. Such a change over the past two years. GAH. TWO WHOLE YEARS. Yeah, I'm going to be wanting to make this work.

We also have a new favourite wine:

Outback Chase Cabernet Sauvignon, and I gather our local shops do not see it regularly, hence why it has a display but no spot on the shelf. BUT YOMMAY. If you see it, it is definitely worth picking some up.

And it's not a f*cking merlot!

The name eludes me, though. I forget the name every time. It's not a memorable name, to me, anyway. I always forget it, and I don't typically do that. Write it down. Maybe get a tattoo. Don't forget the name.

You know who cracked me up today? The pretty Amalah with her wicked profanity. Read on:

"I'll be leaving New York tomorrow, a thought that is making me increasingly sad, because hot fucking whores on a platter, I adore this city."

That. Is dirty. But she made me laugh muchos.

I've also discovered Who In The What Now? (GENIUS name), a word-association blog run by one of my favourite internet gurus, Glark. Glark is wikid. Glark is kewl. Glark has cool friends. Glark is all over the freaking internet. And he hocks wikid shirts over at Glarkware.com, which, by the way, has the easiest shopping cart I've EVER USED online, and he's in cahoots with the Television Without Pity and Fametracker websites, doing their drool-worthy design.

ANYHOO, Who In The What Now? is a fairly simple concept where he posts a word and we all make a comment based on what we think about when that word comes to mind. It's pretty freaking cool.

Well, for word freaks.

So THAT's my recent bit-o goodly bits. Any questions?

HOW can someone SO DARLING pee the bed???

Honestly kitty, how could you?

Brie

She's purdy.

Photo by D.

Willow.

At Play on the Box of Cardboard

Taken about a year ago. They played with this box for days and eventually annihilated it. I love Brie's expression.

Mish-Mash.

My public awaits me.

That is, the husband wants a post.

FIRST, behold mine freaking eyes.

My eyes, my eyes, my eyes, how they burn with howling hot burningness, and also, how they taste like burning.

SECOND, I have just finished reading Bird By Bird by Anne Lamott. It has one of my favourite anecdotes ever:

My son Sam, at three and a half, had these keys to a set of plastic handcuffs, and one morning he intentionally locked himself out of the house. I was sitting on the couch reading the newspaper when I heard him stick his plastic keys into the doorknob and try to open the door. then I heard him say, "oh shit." my face widened, like the guy in Edvard Munch's scream. After a moment I got up and opened the door.

"Honey," I said, "what did you just say?"

"I said, 'Oh shit,'" he said.

"But honey, that's a naughty word. Both of us have absolutely got to stop using it. Okay?"

He hung his head for a moment, nodded, and said, "Okay, Mom." then he leaned forward and said confidentially, "but I'll tell you why I said 'shit.'" I said Okay, and he said, "Because of the fucking keys!"

But I love the book, and anybody - writer or not - can enjoy it. She speaks honestly of how jealous and angry and deranged and gin-drinking we are, and does it with such humor that you think, "I may be one step away from being a serial killer, but at least when I get there I'll be good at it." I like that.

THIRD, at my new job - rather the placement I'm at now with my new job - I have to climb sixty-six stairs to the fourth floor of my work's building. There is an elevator, but elevator-shmelevator and also? It's old and get stuck a lot. Many times a day. (Sometimes when my hands are full I take the elevator anyway and wonder if I'll get stuck. That would be GRAND.)

But anyhoo, the tread on the stairs is a black rubber-stuff with faux white-marbled markings on it, and I'm not a brilliant walker-not-running-into-walls-and-doorwayser to begin with, but this stuff, it's crazy-mad, and it messes with my depth perception and several times a day I feel like I'm falling down these stairs and rushedly grab at the railing to keep from plunging to my death, my most certain death.

And then I realize that I am standing still.

I get embarrassed even if nobody sees me do this. My mind plays a trick on me with this flooring, all the stairs run into each other until suddenly -- WHOA -- a step runs out and ATTACKS me out of nowhere and I'm as good as dead. Or, looking stupid, as the case may be.

It never improves. It's the end of my second week and I take the stairs many times a day, in particular because our floor has no bathroom (crazy!). And I am always falling, falling where there is no place to fall.

Ridiculous.

This is probably a good time to tell you - as good as any, at least - that I am afraid of the following: stairs, escalators, finding cold slimy slugs in the foot of my bed, and urban toilet snakes. Escalators especially. Well, I have turned on the bathroom light unecessarily on a LOT of mid-night peepee trips. But then sometimes I forget.

I've been working on my escalator fear, practically running up to escalators and getting on all hari kari-like (or is "willy-nilly" a better expression in this instance? God forbid I ever fear being too wordy), and I've been getting better. Going up is easier, but recently I got on a down escalator with a hesitation so slight that I think only I would have been able to detect it.

Escallators. Because you can step on the crack part and then it spreads apart and you break your ankle, fall down in front of Steven Spielberg, your dress winds its way up over your head and next thing you know your spleen is broken. BE CAREFUL WITH THE ESCALATOR. Especially going down, because, well, there's FURTHER to FALL and you may break your liver and pancreas as well as your spleen.

And mostly you'd probably twist your ankle and fall down, both of which would really hurt, and the falling down part would be mortifying.

FOURTH, I saw this girl play last night. She. Is. Awesome. She is also a friend. When her EP comes out, I'm counting on each of you to buy for two apiece. That way she'll at least sell four.

FIFTH, (Mac people only) what is with Spotlight on Tiger? It keeps coming up when I type the wrong keys, and yet I have NEVER used it, EVER, and like, why would I? And also, what does it do?

SIXTH, I promised, way back when, a review of this book besides just to say, "Yeah, it's all right," and nod in the corner like a cool cat. So I will work on that.

SEVEN, it's my bedtime. Talk amongst yourselves while I'm gone.

AWESOME!

Bathed both cats today. They look AWESOME!

You know, in the "wet rodent" sort-of way.

So my husband? He is in Africa.

Like, for real. He's in Ethiopia. In the Rift Valley. In Harrar. He's there taking pictures like mad and bopping along on his keester for the next three weeks in a Land Rover, along with two friends researching an authentic Ethiopian cookbook.

The cats sleep with me when he's gone. Last night they slept with me all night.

So I'm determined not to get boredy bored while he's away. I may be so busy that I cannot even blog for a while. Or actually, maybe too disinterested.

But if I can't entertain, at least I'll point you in the right direction. Have you checked this or this out yet? You haven't? What about this?

Corn chips are after all, no place for a mighty warrior.

Hiya

You know, I find it a source of rich blessing that even though I am too sick to eat Chinese noodles, I can still have mint chocolates and be fine.

It's day 3 of the tummy-watch, day three of eating crackers and arrowroot biscuits and rice and plain noodles and Special K and very plain cookies (no nuts or peanut butter!) and diluted apple juice and plain bread and eating THOSE THINGS ALONE all day every day and not too much of them, either. Yesterday I nibbled bits of a hot chicken wing bone of my husband's just to taste something other than WHITE FLOUR.

When I had this before, I was so sick at the beginning that I did not want to eat, but this time I caught on early and keep thinking I might be ok and venture a bit more and then the body says, "What? No. Noodles with sauce? You MUST be kidding." and gives me a whole load of reasons to not want to do that again.

But I had a bit of chocolate tonight, and that is sitting fine with me tummy.

Tonight I saw Diary of a Mad Black Woman and it was awful. I was fully prepared to enjoy it, but it was too bad for words. And I didn't hate it because the marketing made it seem that the main character and Mad Black Woman was Tyler Perry as Madea, and he is hardly in the film at all, and not the Mad Black Woman the film is about (though I do LOVE scrolling over his name on the cast and crew tab here, listening to that line over and over again). And I don't dislike the film because it's all-too-brightly-shining Christian values were a bit too omnipresent, and, well, obnoxious. And I didn't dislike the film because Tyler Perry looks bad in that dress that matches his coffee mug. I hated it because the story wove such a bizzare and jarring series of events that no natural-born storyteller could read aloud the tale and live, and because instead of the characters each having a character arc, they seemed to have a series of character hairpin curves in mad succession, and not in a good way, as though a series of character hairpin curves in mad succession could be good anyway. There were nice moments. And then would come the next scene, where someone would be so out of character it was jarring.

And the saccharine-laced love-lines? I could do without those, too.

Tyler Perry needs to make a great silly comedy without all the preaching and break-neck story lines. No one with a pacemaker should see this film. Also no one without.

I am also here to tell you that hey, if you're going to create a procuct to reduce hairball occurrence in felines, that perhaps you should not call it LAX•A•CAT. I cannot find it online, and I'mm too lazy to take a picture at the moment. But LAX•A•CAT? Please. Why not PUKE PREVENT or HAIR-EEZE or STOP HAVING THESE GODDAMN HAIRBALLS, ALREADY? LAX•A•CAT sounds like it's for the other end.

Okay, cat hairball remedy naming contest. FUR AWAY? HACK-ME-NOT? SLICKERY THROAT?

Okay, what about SLICKERY LICKERY? As in "Slickery Lickery Dock"? From "Hickory Dickory Dock"?

You people are sick.

I've also been told that it's virtually a sin to not have read the Thorn Birds, and was given my own copy and a sort of informational lesson having something to do with Richard Chamberlin. So I'll be reading that someday soon.

Okay, I have to get back to my Special K now. Yummy!

Goat, and goat.

I'm told the internet wants a post.

So this week David and I bought our goats. Two goats, to be precise. For the needy. Because the needy need goats. Goats provide milk, um, manure, and more goats. They're the gift that keeps on giving.

My thank-you e-mail and receipt came from World Vision and said, no lie, "Thank you for your gift of goat, and goat ..."

Tomorrow is the 1-year cativersary of bringing home Apricot Willow Huntington the Third, or Willow, for short. We will NOT be celebrating when Shiz freaked out and thought Willow had to go back because Alpha Cat was unhappy. She got over it and so did I, and now the two are good friends, licking each other's hard-to-reach places.

So because we bought goats, we opted not to get gifts for anyone else. So everyone I woulda bought a gift for? You're in for part of a goat. Doesn't it make you feel good? D and I buy gifts for each other - Christmas and birthday gifts - and leave it at that. Not even the kitties are getting loot this year. And? We're not doing stockings, because we tend to fill them with things that we could easily do without. I mean, radioactive x-ray glasses are COOL and all, but in the end, it's not like we live in neighborhood with a lot of hot people anyway.

We'll be hunkering down to watch It's a Wonderful Life tonight, because, well, I guess because we want to. And because every time a bell rings an angel gets its wings. And why is Zuzu's voice so grating? For real. I think it's a sign of change that I used to love the scene where George gets angry in front of his family and storms out of the house (big! dramatic! moment!) and now I'm more into the softer sides of the film.

I've already seen A Muppet's Christmas Carol and National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation this year, but have yet to put on It's a Wonderful Life, White Christmas, Elf or The Nightmare Before Christmas.

It seems like I'm forgetting some in there. I guess Little Women could go in there, but which version? I haven't seen the Katie H. version in so long; I think that may be my favourite; it's the one that feels most like Christmas. And of COURSE any Simpson's Christmas episode. Mmmmm, Simpsons.

This post is pathetic, I realize. It's a compilation of anything jettisoned from my head, but then again, does every post have to be perfect? I think not. I'm off now to fix dinner and set my mulling spices to "Mull a little longer," and maybe to wonder how those World Vision people are going to giftwrap my goats. I hope they poke holes in the box.

Pauvre, pauvre, pussycat.

Our little kitty, Willow, ran headfirst into our livingroom window yesterday.

She was entranced with something outside, so much so that she forgot the window was there. In attempting to chase it she hit the window pane head-on (making a very loud bonk, indeed), shook her head a moment, and immediately looked outside to see where her pray had gone. Darn window made her blink!

It was so funny and so very heartbreaking at the same time.

My husband, he is throwing cheese.

Bits of cheddar cheese.

At the cats.

He's had wine.

14% alcohol per volume Malbec wine.

He's cute.

Going geek: day one.

My new job is in 'puters an' stuff, so today was my 1st day of going geek. I loved it so much I think I'll go back tomorrow!

I did love it, though. LOVED. IT.

Another note: Brie's been with us for ONE WHOLE YEAR as of today! Happy cativersary, Brie!

It wasn't very good.

Probably not surprising when one considers that "Phoque" is French for "seal."

As a bonus, a picture of me half-dead-to-the-world, because aren't you in this for the embarrassing pictures?

Notice the sexy eyes. Shiz slept on the sofa that night because of her flu-ey husband.

Lastly, gratuitous cat photos:

Cat General Says War On String May Be Unwinable

Full story here.