Step into the Wayback Machine with me: 5/4/2008 Stoo-pid is as stoo-pid does. -OR- Life is like a box of cat poop.

My cat is so stoo-pid.

[Audience choruses] How. Stoo-pid. Is. He.

He so stoo-pid, he chewed the cord on the LitterMaid, gave himself a pretty good jolt, and is now afraid of his own litterbox. In his feeble mind, The Potty Bit-ted Me On My Mouf.

A couple weeks ago, the LitterMaid stopped working with the pooper-scooper arm extended all the way across to the pooper keeper. I played with the cord a little bit, and discovered that it had been chewed and now had a short in it. If I fiddled with it, it would make a little connection and move about an inch and stop. It was now officially junk.

Meanwhile, one of the cats peed smack in the middle of our bed. We figured it was Elmer and that he was pissed-off [everybody groans] about something, maybe because I wasn’t scooping as often as the box used to (c’mon, I don’t care who you are, you can’t scoop every time 10 minutes after the cat leaves the box). We had to strip the bed and clean it which is a great big, pain-in-the-ass job and about as popular around here as a root canal and forgoing anesthesia for hypnosis.

I scooped old-skool fashion for a couple days and Elmer peed on the bed again. I sent Hunky to the store for a new LitterMaid and a Bissell Little Green Machine. He cleaned the bed and the BLGM worked much better than rags and a ShopVac. I dismantled LitterMaid I (AKA LandfillMatter), set up LitterMaid II, and I declared “all good in da ‘hood”. But I kept checking the new box periodically and it seemed like the cats weren’t generating as much stinky stuff as usual. A week went by and the pooper keeper hadn’t even filled up yet. Elmer peed on our bed a couple more times, necessitating stripping and cleaning AGAIN. Well, you know I was about ready to send Mr. Elmer to Kitty Orphanage, because if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s for my house to stink like cat pee.

The proverbial last straw came when Hunky was having a lovely nap on the couch. Elmer had been enjoying his favorite activity, which is laying on the top of the couch, keeping watch over his front yard; the people walking by, and the birds and squirrels brave enough to venture into his territory. I saw him out of the corner of my eye as he rose and jumped down to Hunky’s lap.

As I watched first in confusion then in abject horror, manymanymany things happened at approximately the speed of technology.

Hunky’s eyes fluttered, then opened, and his eyes got rilly, rilly big.

He jumped up off the couch holding Elmer by the scruff of the neck, an arc of pee still streaming from Elmer.

He was yelling like a Tazmanian Devil. I couldn’t tell a single word he was saying.

I jumped up and yelled, “What do you want me to do?!” mostly because I had to yell over him to make myself heard.

He continued his Tazmanian Devil impression on the way to the basement door where he tossed the cat (he didn’t hurt him; don’t sic the ASPCA on us) down the stairs.

Doors slammed.

Cat mmmrrrOOOOWWWWed.

Much yelling and groaning and gnashing of teeth.

It wasn’t pretty. At all. By any stretch of the imagination.

Something had to be done.

In a last ditch effort, I bought a cheap, simple litterbox in a different color than the Scary Potty. I filled it up for him and showed him where it was, and right away he got in and hunkered down. Well, now I’m all, mentally high fiving myself and doing a little victory dance in my head, chalking up Dory 1, Elmer 0. But he sat there for over a minute, and I’m thinking, day-um, that’s a lot of peeing. But then he got up and walked away and there’s two tiny little drops for all of his effort. Now I’m thinking, ok,now he’s stoo-pid and broken.

Hunky took him to the vet. When I picked him up, the vet explained that he had a nasty bladder infection. Every time he tried to pee for about the week prior, it must’ve burned horribly. She gave me antibiotics and some special food that cost more per pound than a nice New York Strip steak. I ordered this cranberry medicine from 1-800-Pet-Meds to go in his steak/food. So now Elmer is on the mend, I guess. He’s still not peeing much yet, but his course of antibiotics isn’t finished.

So here’s my theory: when his Potty Bit-ted Him In His Mouf, he started holding his pee to avoid it, and consequently developed a bladder infection.

He’s still terrified of the litterbox, of course. We’ve tried a cardboard box filled with shredded paper shavings. We’ve tried holding him close to the new cheap litterbox and offering treats or scratching his neck just like he likes. But he still won’t use it.

Because his feeble mind, My Potty Bit-ted Me In My Mouf AND Has A Scary Mean Monster Hiding In It That Bit-ted Me In My Junk.

Too bad there’s no medicine for stoo-pid.

Where’s the research grants for that? Surely it’s as big a problem as erectile dysfunction.

I bet we all could think of a lot of folks that would benefit greatly from some IStoopidium DA.

Time for some Blog Stew

10 days went by without me posting, and you know what that means, Mah Peepull! It’s time for another heapin’ helpin’ of Blog Stew!

• • •

I got The Plague. As you can see, I lived to tell the tale. It was a very close call.

While I didn’t get the tummy part of it (Thank GOD!) I did get the body ache part, and I’ve never had it so bad, EVER. I stayed in bed for almost an entire day straight and then moved very carefully for the next couple days. I managed to not share The Plague with Hunky and boys.

I did, however, manage to generate about 7 quarts of snot. (I may tend toward hyperbole. Just sayin’.)

I can be a huge baby when I get sick. If I have the strength, I contact close friends to say goodbye and if applicable, reveal what I’m bequeathing them with in my will.

I just realized that I may have already told you this. It was The Plague followed by the hotel weekend. Did I already tell you this or did I just post it as a status update on Twitter/Facebook?

I have no idea what I’m doing. Someone should take away my blogging license.

Oh, look! Something shiny!!!

• • •

I’ve been a lot more active on Twitter lately. I think it may be true what they say about tweeting something and wasting a good idea for a post. I’ve caught myself a few times tweeting something that I really should flesh out into a decent post.

If you tweet it and don’t post it… using that one good idea to put a tweet out there that has decent substance gets more attention on Twitter and goes a lot farther in developing relationships and finding readers.

If you tweet it and also post it… I think it could show bad form to tweet something and then also use that idea to post. I’m not judging people who do that, I’m just saying it doesn’t feel right to me. I may change my mind; it’s not out of the realm of possibilility. After all, bumper stickers and tshirts all over the world assure me that it’s my right as a woman. Oh, another downer: If you do both, it shows up multiple times in feeds like FriendFeed, Buzz, Seesmic, etc and you run the risk of irritating people and having them unsubscribe.

I guess what I’m saying is… it’s a trade off.

And I may have put way too much thought into this.

• • •

A friend at work just got a new MP3 player and was asking if I would put some of my music on his player. Sure, no problem, right? Right. Actually, for a change, it worked the way it was supposed to. Amazingly. He gave me some money and I downloaded a couple albums for him from iTunes, and I didn’t even have to burn them onto a CD and re-import into iTunes to get the protected files to work on his player. I just plugged it in, drag-n-dropped them onto the player that mounted onto my desktop, and voila! He had tunage. I love my Mac. LOVE. LOVE.

The only problem, and it wasn’t a big one, was when he wanted a couple songs that iTunes didn’t carry. See, I was one of those freaks that was downloading a much as humanly, or more accurately, computer-ly possible the last four hours that Napster was up. Then, scared off by the press about people getting fined thousands of dollars, I quit. But when I couldn’t get him the music he wanted on iTunes, I went looking for it. And I may or may not have gone a little nuts looking on Billboard charts for one hit wonders from the 70s 80s and 90s. I may or may not have acquired such greats as Feel Like Makin’ Love, Shake Your Groove Thang, Rock Me Amadeus, Too Shy, Sledgehammer, and West End Girls as well as around 250 others. You know, I think I’ll just leave it at that so I don’t incriminate myself any further. Both in the music taste department, and the downloading music source department.

I fear it’s too late; you’ve lost respect for me already. I don’t blame you. I judge me.

And I’ll be rockin’ my air guitar along to Pour Some Sugar On Me as I do it.

• • •

I’ve been doing quite a bit of reading at work in the last couple months.

Last week I finished The Runaway Quilt which was #4 in a series by Jennifer Chiaverini. I started that series that inspired me to do the sampler quilt I started in July. (That was the ugliest, messiest sentence in the history of EVER.)

I just finished My Sister’s Keeper by Jodi Piccoult. For the most part, it was a good read. There’s a lot of the story that reads almost poetically; I love the way she used some similes to illustrate small details. But there were other sections that read a little to cliche-ish-ly. Shut up. That’s totally a word.

• • •

I had a dream that I called my local Apple guy to get my beloved iMac, my Edgrr, my five-and-a-half-year-old buddy, out of the hospital. My guy said Edgrr needed a new logic board (that much is really true) and that Apple had a new program to trade in old Macs for new Macs and that Edgrr’s trade in value was currently $1655.

What? I told you it was a dream. I started with, I had a dream. Did you think I was doing my MLK impression? I don’t have one of those.

Related: I want an iPad. The way you want a drink of ice water after you’ve been tanning next to the pool for six hours. In Arizona. In a desert.

• • •

I’ve been kicking around the idea of starting another blog with no identifying information so I can tell some of the stories that I come across at the shelter. You would be inspired by some some of the people that come through here. I never get tired of listening when they want to tell me where they’ve been, what they’ve learned, and where they want to go.

Well, almost never.

Some people just talk too freaking much.

• • •

I guess I SOLD OUT TO THE MAN or whatever. Over there on the sidebar is an Amazon dealio with some of my favorite books. If you click over to Amazon from there and buy something, I get, I don’t know, something. Probably enough to fulfill my lifelong dream of stopping at the gumball machine on the way out of the grocery store. And getting two gumballs. If you clicked over and bought, like, a car or something like that, I might be able to get a temporary tattoo of a dragon with a rose in its mouth.

I signed up for Google AdSense but I haven’t exactly figured out how it works yet, so you have a while before you have to ignore the Google Ad boxes. Mostly, I just signed up because Blissfully Domestic (Oh, why, yes, I DOOO write for Blissfully Domestic!) said I should. Something about getting revenue from the clicks on my articles over there. So you can blame all this AdSense nonsense on them. Or me. Whatever. *shrugs*

As long as you’re willing to listen to me blather on and on, I might as well take the clicks from the search engine traffic, right?


That’s the sound of me searching my soul.

• • •

I’ve talked about this before, but Oh Em Gee, it drives the proofreading portion of my brain to distress when I see contractions used incorrectly. IT’S = It Is. ITS = possessive. Sound it out.

This concludes the Blogging Public Service Announcement. (Paid for by the Typologically Anal Retentive Association With A Stick Up Their Big Old Butt.)

• • •

About six weeks ago, I wrote channelled my inner angst-y teenager and blubbered about my disappointment with the blogosphere.

I sucked it up and realized I CAN’T CHANGE THE BLOGOSPHERE.

Wow. What a concept. Brilliant, Dory.

But I can change myself. I sat back and thought about what I could change about the situation.

This is what I came up with.

I’m mad at the blogosphere, so obviously I need more blogosphere.

I told you, um, duh. See also: Sarcasm above, i.e. Brilliant, Dory.

Anyway, I went and got more blogosphere. I went through a very popular, big-girl-blogger’s followers and one by one, added people and doubled who I was following just to see who would follow me back so I could meet some new twits twats tweeple.

It worked.

Hi, new tweeple! *waves*

I like the blogosphere again.

• • •

I guess that’s about all the damage I can do this time.

Rip it, roll it, and punch it, dude. Word.

Can I ask a quick question or two or eleventy-seven?

Have you seen my Google Friend Connect toy over there in my sidebar? Have you clicked Follow yet? Why not? What did I do? Did I rain on your parade? Did I pee in your Wheaties? Did I hock a loogy in your chock ‘o hoogy? Can you tell it’s margarita night? Is it that obvious? Do you have an balcoholic average too? No? Just me? Have you clicked follow yet? Why not? If you do, will I shut up? Would you like to find out?

Coming soon to a sarcastic inappropriate greeting card line near you!

Just in case you hadn’t noticed, I am a talented and very serious artist.

I call this… Mixed Message.

(Only click through if there are no bosses, kiddies, kitties, members of the clergy, Dakota Fanning, or baskets of fluffy chicks and goslings present.)

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The One Where She Narrowly Avoided a Punch in the Throat a Little Bit

961203_092217So, My Writing Mojo has been MIA for a couple months now. I came just short of putting out an APB when she flounced in unceremoniously this morning, dropped her bag on the floor, flopped on the couch with her feet up on one arm, and turned on the TV.

After I picked my jaw up off the floor, I said the only thing I could think of. “Where the hell have you been, young lady?! I’ve been worried sick! You could have been dead in a ditch somewhere! What, they don’t have phones where you were?!” I spun my mental Rolodex and searched my memory for other similar admonishments my own mother had used on me. “You are SO grounded, missy!”

She smiled smugly in a way that made me want to punch her in the throat a little bit. “Yeahyeah, suresure. Whatever.”

“No, there’s NO whatever. You just disappeared without a trace and not so much as a warning shot for a couple damn months. AND you missed our bloggy birfday yesterday! I demand an explanation! Hell, our readers reader deserves an explanation! They’ve been putting up with only Wordless Wednesday and Tell Me Thursday posts, which are all well and good, but all alone they spell LAME, sister!” I fumed.

She didn’t bother glancing away from The View. “I wouldn’t figure you’re in any position to be demanding anything.” she huffed. “Do you have any Cheetos?”

“No, I don’t have any– Dammit– if I get you some Cheetos, will you fill me in?” I pointed and shot red laser beams out my eyeballs at her.

She gave me her best color-me-unimpressed expression and said, “Throw in a Mountain Dew and a pack of smokes, and you got a deal.” She directed her attention back to Whoopi and Elizabeth who were currently in a heated debate about saving beavers in the rainforests.

I threw my hands up in the air. “Oh, for the… I’ll be right back, you extortionist.” I was secretly pretty proud of her chutzpah; she had something I needed, and she didn’t let that go without making use of it.

As I drove down to the convenience store, my mind whirled. Where had she been? What had she been doing? Images of dirty carnivals and cold Taco Bell and jails danced in my head.

I came back in the house and tossed her first, the Cheetos and second, the smokes. She caught one with her left and one with her right, barely glancing my way.


“Oh, unclench. Where’s my pop?”

“In the freezer. Spill it, sister.

“Let’s go smoke.”

Twist my arm. I turned on my heel and walked out of the room.

On the way out to the deck, I snatched her pop out of the fridge and grabbed myself a Bud Light. At that point, I was so flustered, it was not a want; it was a need. I paused, thought better of it, and exchanged the Mountain Dew for another beer. Perhaps it would grease the wheels a little. We settled into lawn chairs, not looking at each other, but rather across the backyard and into the timber beyond. I handed her the beer and got a slightly surprised look in return. The expression left as fast as it came, and she directed her gaze back out into nowhere as she packed her smokes on her thigh before she opened them. I cracked my can open and took that best, first pull. She made the sign for “lighter” without looking at me and I lit her up. She took a long, hungry drag and picked at her fingernails.

I said, “I really could’ve used you all those hours I was on third shift instead of sitting there with my thumb up the internet.”

Almost apologetically she said, “Yeah, I figured. I felt kind of bad about that.”

I used one of my therapist’s favorite techniques and remained silent, not breaking the silence for her. Suck it, chivalry.

She risked a glance my way. “Yeah, January was great. We got a lot done, didn’t we?”

I didn’t answer, just took another pull on my beer and studiously avoided looking at her.

“February was bad. Teh Crazie scared me,” she remarked quietly, looking down at nothing.

I nodded slowly. “Me, too. I suppose I probably didn’t handle it as well as I thought I did. But I thought we had it under some semblance of control.”

“Well, then we were pondering The Girlbeater and I got really spooked.”

“That’s understandable,” I allowed. “But we have some important work to do. It won’t be easy.”

“I guess I knew that deep down. I suppose it’s what made me realize I needed to come back home.” She looked at me timidly, needing a pardon.

“Well, I’m glad you did. I kind of missed you, you crazy bitch,” I chuckled a little.

“Yeahyeah, suresure,” she shot me a mischievous grin.

“Are you ready to get back to it?” I wondered.

“Yeah, I suppose. I’ve got some great stories for you.”

“I bet! Gimme a taste, girl!” I sat back in the chair and put my feet up on the little end table between us, immensely glad to see her and thankful she found her way home.

“You asked for it!” She put her feet up on the other corner of the end table and held out her beer can. I gave it a clunk with mine, and extended my closed hand to invite a fist bump. She smirked and bumped. “So, there I was, in a dirty bus station in Utah, a used spark plug in one hand, a Red Bull in the other, and a drunk slumped onto my shoulder and mumbling about being on a porn set with Martha Stewart, some midget clowns and a Zamboni…” she began.

I settled in with the first of many, many beers and cigarettes, and some really fantastic stories. A couple hours in, some Chinese delivery was added to the equation.

It’s so good to have her back.