The Strangest Week In Review Yet.

Last weekend, I ended on the sour note of my furry friends having diarrhea. The treatment for The Puppy included giving her Pedialyte, but being a connoisseur of all things in a bowl, The Fluffy One drank some. Do you know you can develop diarrhea if you don't already have it when you drink Pedialyte? YES.

Now that we have the gastric disturbances settled, I can get back to just dropping the names of movies I've seen.

The Number 23...on 2/3. OMG. And you know what? My birthday is the 23rd. OF JUNE. 2x3! Okay, I'll stop now. It was good, really.

Just about every single thing I've done since October caught up with me and I managed to get a record breaking flare that took my voice, made my backhair turn into hot knives and even showed the rest of the world I was really sick in the form of a 102° fever. Now that I'm not dead from it I can say I like when I have visible symptoms. I mean more visible than falling on the floor, because that's never taken the right way.

Super Bowl XLII came and went, and we just happened to tune in at the exact moment the Patriots scored those 7 points. This was followed by a trailer for Wanted, and so I had a good Super Bowl. Then we switched to Puppy Bowl and the European figure skating championships. What? I'm a girl!

On Monday, I continued to be sick. I mailed my Uncle Gene a couple of pages of my comic strip because he wasn't feeling at all well and I was trying to make him as happy as he can make me. No, really, Uncle Gene has been known to make me laugh during funerals and surgery.

While I was busy being sick, Emmis Communications decided to change the format of the last different radio station, the smooth jazz station Pa and I used to listen to while we played pool. Now the station sounds like it wants to be three other stations at once.

The rest of my week was just a blur of high-grade fevers and inability to speak, or walk for more than two feet, or speak, or talk, and as of writing this I still don't have my voice back, and while you would think I'd be amused by the things people do when I can't tell them to stop, for some reason the humor is lost on me.

Saturday morning my Uncle Gene died. I would rather he was still alive, watching sports with Pa, like they did in the '80s. Maybe they are. Maybe it's me who's missing out on all the fun.

The Strangest Week In Review Yet.

Another Week And This Is All I Have To Show For It

Last Saturday, we finally got to see Blade Runner: The Final Cut. I bought it with my Christmas money, for some reason I feel I need to explain how I'm allowed to have nice things, and this thing...it's nice. The movie was so clear I felt like I never saw it before. Fabulous.

The U.S. National Figure Skating Championships were on all weekend, and that's one of the two skating events I still try to catch when it's on. Nice to see we've got some good skaters coming up, even though I only recognized about five of them and event hough two of the three female medalists can't go to the Worlds because they're too young to skate internationally or something. Would Mahai Nagasu spread the cute? Is that a danger? NBC has stolen the coverage from ABC Sports, and as a result they've now got ten different commentators, and Bob Costas, who keeps breaking into baseball jokes in a desperate attempt to stay macho. I wish I could laugh, but all I wondered was who would come out alive if Bob Costas and Robert Osbourne were locked in a room for three years.

Monday mum had her Unna Boot changed, and we all know how that went (seriously, scroll down to an earlier post).

Tuesday we realized it had been five days since The Puppy ate willingly, and she'd been having a runny bottom, so we made an appointment with her doctor. This may or may not have contributed to my total major crack-up that had me wanting to drink caustic things or take more than the recommended dosage of allergy pills. Either that or it was the fact that I don't like being yelled at by people who should have more sense than me. (WARNING: hey kids, don't drink caustic things or take more than the recommended dosage of any kind of pills. You probably won't die at first, but it will make you wish you had.)

Rudy Guiliani dropped out of the presidential race. My soaring joy over this was cut short as John Edwards also dropped out. So while we won't have President 9/11, we also will have to put up with those increasingly horrid drug ads. It doesn't matter now, John...someday. Someday.*

*EDIT FROM THE FUTURE: No, John, never.

The night before taking Miss Poopsalot to be checked out, we left on a movie called S.S. Doomtrooper. It's...not Band of Brothers as much as Altered Beast meets Call of Duty. Or something. It was hilarious, if the Nazis making mutant monsters on top of being Nazis can be hilarious.

At the beginning of the week, I was dreading Friday, merely because the past two times I've taken Mum around to the shops on a Friday, bad things have happened to me. By Wednesday, I sort of hoped I'd be happy to see Saturday, provided we all weren't dead or anything. By Thursday night, I was over the moon with glee because all was right with the world again and I was once again reminded that I chose a fabulous vet. The Puppy began eating and stopped pooping a lot, and the world was a delightful and sparkling place...until The Fluffy One developed a runny bottom on Friday.

Also on Friday, it rained. A lot. It rained and warmed up and the crocuses began to poke through the ground and it was cloudy and there is no way in hell a groundhog or a snake or The Virgin Mary or Brigid saw shadows in the state of New York. Winter never even began. The euonymus scale is still all over the leaves, there are little leaves showing up all over the trees, I've been waking up after two hours of useless sleep, but the Cailleach, that's still asleep. SPRINGTIME IS NOW.

Stay tuned next week when my weather forecasting abilities will be buried under ten inches of snow. (See, now either way the weather goes, I win.)

Another Week And This Is All I Have To Show For It

I Should Have Expected This.

Microwaves, they have motors. Not quite the pitch of a vacuum, but a motor nonetheless.

My dog hadn't eaten for two days because we'd put her dinner down, then go off to reheat bit of our own dinners, like the easy fries...easy fries are fabulous, you know. But the microwave, it terrifies The Puppy. She stands in the middle of the kitchen with her ears flat against her head, her tail bravely tucked between her legs, and she toughs it out, the terrible 15-second reheating of my noodles and cauliflower.

Tonight, I knew it was dinnertime because The Puppy ran upstairs and tried to get under me.

(She finally ate tonight, btw, don't worry. We made sure she ate long before we even opened the microwave door.)

I Should Have Expected This.

Happy Birthday, The Puppy.

Keep making me laugh, thanks for not eating me this year, and thanks for rescuing your brothers' furry butts with your pouncy skills.

Happy Birthday, The Puppy.

Sunday still sucks.

I can't actually recall last Sunday now, but I'm pretty sure the general idea of me being of little to no use to anyone is alive and well. For instance, it is well-known that our dog is a lunatic. Her reaction to me being asleep involves knocking over my grandmother. On cement.

For roughly three days I have awoken to my grandmother crying, and still I fall for the idea that perhaps my mother's leg fell off during the night. But no, it is always The Puppy. Who, while covered in hair, has Nan convinced that she will freeze to death if left out in the 40° yard, where she stands like a deer in the headlights, refusing to move...until someone goes out there.

Our Woman, Holly, bless her, she didn't mess with Nan. No, Nan was her friend, Nan didn't leave her places to have parts removed, so Nan was safe with Holly. This one? All are alike to her, she will knock you over and eat you if she detects that you plan to feed her, walk her, play with her, give her a vitamin, bring her indoors, let her outside, give her a drink of water or otherwise prevent her from dying.

She fits in perfectly with this family, of course.

Sunday still sucks.

Cat Protests Gardening, Film at 6!

I like to put a silly video here every week, and I thought this would be ready for last week, but I found out that it's much easier to show off other people's videos. Other people's videos may even be way funnier, but this...this one's of my little furry children.

There are many things I can brag about from this video, and my giant Smurf booty is not one those things. It's all about the furry children, this. Look how well they all get along now, how adorable my Fluffy One is fighting off my attempts to prune anything, how cool The Slinky One is around The Puppy, and how The Puppy walks on all her legs and doesn't kill us anymore.

Cat Protests Gardening, Film at 6!

How to properly travel with little ones.

First, use drugs. Uppers for the driver, downers for the passengers.

Second, all passengers must be securely strapped into the vehicle.

Third, use of a mixtape is encouraged.

Fourth, dress accordingly.

Fifth, document the event.

(This is no exaggeration.)

It is also a good idea to ensure that what you are leaving the house for actually will be at your destination. For instance, if the trip involves vaccinations, call ahead to see if there are enough virulent vials in stock. We've made this error once; it will not happen again.

A side note to all animal care facilities: when the appointments for the day mention vaccinations and you have run out, call. It helps. As nice as your staff may be, we don't go there merely to socialize.

Oh, and in case you guys all rely solely on me for up-to-the-minute news, avoid pet food with wheat gluten. Also, Italy won the World Cup, someone you know may be a Cylon, there's a chance of rain tonight with temperatures in the mid-40s, and alternate side of the street parking is in effect. Next time, find out which big-time rapper was seen out on the town with a Hollywood hottie!

How to properly travel with little ones.

It's solid ice.

Solid ice is surprisingly easy to run on.

It's solid ice.

The strangest picture I have ever taken.

My subconscious must be really busy, because I don't know how this ended up on the floppies from my camera:



It was on the same disk as this:



Now, I had always said that the day The Puppy walked on her repaired leg, I would play Mr. Blue Sky by ELO at the highest volume my ears could stand, but really...usually when I'm taking pictures of the sky, something is happening in it, like weird cloud patterns or blimp fights. It was like part of my brain was working that day and said, "You know what would kick ass? A picture of a clear blue sky to represent how cool everything is right now."

I might have been aiming at a bird. Silly bird, getting out of frame before I'd focused.

I know of at least two members of the clan who would have rathered a less mobile puppy and more photos of juicy, juicy birds.



No, I kid. They're very happy the hopping has ceased. There are few things more frightening than having someone three times your size hopping awkwardly in your direction. Except maybe choking, but that's another story for another time. As of this moment, nothing but blue skies do I see.

Oh kittens, I'll see you in bed. Sexy, sexy sandwich of love.

The strangest picture I have ever taken.

Repression...recession...it's all the same thing, man.

On many autumn days, I can be seen doing two things: wearing my insanely green hoodie, and raking leaves. I am a rebellious little punk. No, really.

England has banned people from wearing hoodies and baseball caps inside of stores in case of crime. A requirement to wear unique, bold numbers on all clothing is pending.

I don't hold up well under direct sunlight, as you may know, and I have a few hooded jackets that I wear. The most socially alarming one is of course the black UV-resistant cover-all that I wear during summer. I've been followed by security in Stop & Shop because of my jacket, which becomes really amusing if you know how I look in public and hold the image of me trying to perform "terrars" with a tissue wrapped around the handle of whatever weapon I smuggled in under one mesh armpit of the cover-all while my plummeting blood pressure keeps me from damaging anything more than a few floor tiles.

So my choice in jackets is dangerous, at least in the U.K. and Boston. Closer to home, however, I'm guilty of far worse.

The NY Department of Sanitation wants everyone to put their raked leaves in brown paper bags. This would not be a problem if there was a store in all of the area that carried brown paper leaf bags. Five free bags are available at our local leaf collection center, the location of which is a mystery, even to the Department of Sanitation. Judging by the map, it appears to be floating in the East River. I don't live near the East River, but I've heard it's pretty. The only route to the fabled land of leaf collection involves the Bruckner Expressway. I'm sure it's a delightful road, however I really want to waste gas on something more useful and exciting than five paper bags.

We bought a leaf eater years ago, but we also have respiratory systems, and I think I still have some gum tree leaf dust in my upper right sinus from 1998. This year, though, I think The Puppy came up with an excellent solution to our decaying leaves. She dug us a hole over the summer which expanded to roughly the size of a shallow grave. Not having any bodies to stash this season, we're stuffing the leaves in the hole. Every now and again we turn it, just like compost on TV, and little by little our worm buddies digest us some new soil.

So, New York cannot have my leaves, because I am a hippie gas-saving, hoodie wearing punk with a puppy who can tunnel faster than Roger Bushell on a sugar high. This autumn is gonna rock!

Repression...recession...it's all the same thing, man.

Recipe for the absurd.

What happens when you mix Bollywood Superman with hours of caulk removal, Plexiglas cutting, and replacing gaskets to make a shiny new storm window? Last-minute Halloween costumes for my babies, made at 3AM the night before they were to go hitting up the family for treats. You may already know I'm a crazy cat lady, you may already know I have access to scissors and glue, but you still may not be ready for this level of crazy.
 


First up, Macadamia the mysterious, predicting the future. She helped make her costume, you know. She picked the feathers off a few toys she found in her brother's beds. She loves feathers.


0.8 seconds later, she predicts..."Get in my mouth!"


Are they birds? Are they planes? No, they're the Supercat twins! I'm not going to be the one to decide which of the guys are more super than the other. The Fluffy One has the power to land on 2-inch wide doors and tame the wild sticks in the grass.


The Slinky One can do the dance of enchantment and is able to hover for minutes on end. His Kryptonite comes in the form of Nabisco graham cracker boxes.


I went as a rather pasty-looking pirate. Really. You could tell by my earring and occasional yell of, "Arr!"

Recipe for the absurd.

My blood is stomach acid, my stomach acid has been replaced by Folger's crystals.

I started drinking coffee around the age of 8. You know the story, you want to fit in, but you throw up when you drink the harder stuff like tea with milk in it, next thing you have a three-cup-a-day habit heading into its 25th year, and you start to wonder where it all went wrong.

I drank my grandfather's decaffeinated Sanka for a long time, because he was the coolest person I knew, and he didn't go into coffee-fueled rages and take the closets apart looking for a pair of shoes. Oddly enough, I still took the closets apart. I never did find that last Crystal Barbie shoe. In my teens, I switched to that fancy International cappuchino, and I don't remember much of that time. I think I called someone "bitch" because she didn't like my hat.

Black coffee has no calories, so at the height of my retention problems, I switched to the drink I compare to my cats--hot, black, and easy. I drink Folger's instant coffee as that's what we have in the house and I have no interest in trying other coffees after the Eight O'Clock cup of feet episode, plus my sense of adventure can only manage getting me out of bed each day before it gives up and goes back to reading Highlights.

Today, my 37,894th cup of coffee was unlike any other. The Puppy was walking around on the table stealing napkins and playing Godzilla as she likes to do when she noticed my cup of coffee. I reached for the cup, but warm Corelle and cold vinyl placemats create fusion, so picking up the coffee while The Puppy's foot was on the placemat was not as easy as one would expect.

I am happy and rather grateful to report that the flavor of coffee does not change after having a dog's snout submerged in it.

My blood is stomach acid, my stomach acid has been replaced by Folger's crystals.

More videos.

These videos may appeal to a wider audience, seeing as the subjects are cute animals. They are the animals who chose to live with me, so of course I would say they're cute, but there is a ridiculous amount of cute contained in the following videos, and I warn you to avoid driving for at least an hour after viewing these.

First up, The Puppy.

Macadamia is a crazy drunken boozehound. Note the stylish tether of two leashes, designed to protect her from getting into things which will injure her. The gin had been hidden in the back of a cupboard, but how was I to know she's a liquor-sniffing dog?




Next up, JT, the fluffy one. He is usually the rock to which all of us cling, the unshakable, fearless scout. The hole The Puppy dug was new to him, however...and therefore he feared it and it and it must be rejected.




Slinky-bean's dance is not for the faint of heart. He will entrance you, and the next thing you know, it's 7AM and your head is covered in feathers.

More videos.

Two complaints on a rainy day.

Can someone explain why Adobe Reader 7.0.8 needs 64MB of my disk drive?

And what is with XXL dog clothes being a size that could fit my cats? I look up a perfectly cute pink polka-dot dress for my puppy, just so she can look cute as she's mauling us in the street, and the size wouldn't fit her head.

It appears as though I need to find me some PDF dog clothes patterns.

I have the fabric and the technology, I can do it.

I can humiliate my puppy.

And put that ridiculously bloated Adobe Reader to work.

Two complaints on a rainy day.