A Road Trip for Miz Izz, The Gene Pool Needs Chlorine, and Entropy Can Be Entertaining


15 is ancient, if you’re a cat.

I had to take poor Miz Izz to the vet on Saturday.  I did so with a bit of trepidation, because when a cat’s 15, anything can be the prelude to the dirt nap.  She has a funky condition on the pads of her front paws called plasma cell pododermatitis or what is commonly called “pillow foot.”  The paw pads swell up and sometimes even crack and bleed (this was the reason I took her to the vet.) Weirdly enough, it’s not a particularly dangerous condition, but given Miz Izz’s age, it can’t be surgically corrected.  The risk of surgery on a 5#, elderly cat is not worth the potential benefit, because it’s neither painful nor life threatening according to the vet.  It can be managed with occasional steroid/antibiotic injections and scuttlebutt has it that essential oils and Vitamin E can be helpful as well.  So she’s back on the fish oil and Vitamin E supplement which I probably should not have stopped giving her.  It does make her coat nice and shiny, and she doesn’t object to the taste, so if anything I don’t see where it would do any harm.

Most cats go ballistic in the car and have meltdowns in the vet’s office.  Not Miz Izz.  She will sit on the exam table quietly and let the vet do her thing.  Isabel was cooperative even when she was very young.  I can just zip her up in my hoodie and carry her around with no problem.  Jezebel also lets me just put her in my hoodie, and is just as laid back about the vet and riding in the car as Isabel is.  Fanny freaks out.  She is well near impossible to transport and has to be in a carrier.  I’ve not had to attempt transport with F.B.   F.B. is usually quite sanguine, but she does put up a wicked struggle over getting her flea treatment.


Some people are very easily entertained.

The photo above is further evidence of the devolution of mankind.  Fifty years ago these people’s grandparents would have been engaging in the fine pastime of ballroom dancing:


All I can think of is how bad those skirts have got to ITCH!

Every time I go to WalMart, I am reminded of how badly the gene pool needs chlorine.  Either that, or it might help to provide more full-length mirrors in public places so people can see how bloody ridiculous they look.  When your ass is the size of a Toyota Corolla, Spandex pants and a halter top are not sensible wardrobe choices.

It also doesn’t help to try to put camo pants over rhinoceros size butt cheeks.  The camo effect is lost when you’re working with that much surface area.

I ended up having to go home this afternoon with a nasty sore throat.  Yes, I went and had a strep test because it came on rather suddenly (the preliminary test was negative) so I am in bed swilling tea and wishing Jerry would shut up about not being able to find anything in the kitchen.  I’m not fetching anything for him.  I’m trying to get this shit to go away because I really don’t want to call off work tomorrow.  I have the vacation time, and the thought of a whole day of drinking tea and watching History Channel could be interesting, but I really hate taking days off (especially unplanned) because I end up having to fix nine kinds of disasters when I get back.


I have, but dammit, I’m sick!

I Have My Fanny Back!, Transcendental Redneck Moments, and a Beer (in a tree…)

I love double entendre, but no, I’ve not managed to misplace my ass.  Yet.

Fanny, for the occasional reader, is my 15# silver tabby and white cat.  I named her whilst listening to a classic song by Queen: “Fat Bottomed Girls.”  Fanny was only a 12 week old kitten when I rescued her from the side of the road in rural Fairfield County, (way out in BFE)  and I didn’t think her to be terribly large at that time, but the name took on a life of its own as Fanny grew.  It seems rural barn cat type cats grow really well on premium cat food and relaxed, climate-controlled indoor living.  By the time she was old enough to be spayed, even the Vet commented, “This is going to be a BIG cat.” 

One of the reasons I like our Vet is that she is very seldom wrong.  She was not at all wrong about Fanny being a behemoth.  I wish she were wrong about how difficult it is to treat Lilo’s (our crosseyed and bowlegged GSD/Chow mix) allergies.  Lilo absolutely hates the baths in the special shampoo, but it does help keep her skin from getting all nasty and crusty.  Seborrhea really sucks.  It is manageable with good diet and frequent baths (and occasional cycles of Prednisone) but I wouldn’t wish it on any poor dog.  Especially Lilo, because she is very sweet.

I’ve seen larger cats- somehow our Vet ends up with the same sturdy barn cat types like Fanny, and she’s had some males that have been over 20#, but female cats tend to be smaller than males.  Fanny is probably in the 90th percentile of cat size.  She is large-framed, but she does have some big meat on those big bones too. 

One thing Fanny likes to do from time to time is to sneak out the door when the dogs go out.  Usually I catch her- she’s not a fast runner by any stretch- but if I don’t see her slip out I can’t catch her.  Thursday night I have to admit I was not at my most aware.  Between camping out at Children’s Hospital with the kids and a very sick baby girl, and trying to keep up with the end of the month rush at work, I was pretty strung out at 11PM.  I’d been up and running since 4AM.  I remember letting the dogs out.  Friday morning I realized Fanny must have sneaked out with them as she wasn’t readily available to suck down her morning portion of wet food.   Fanny does not normally miss out any sort of feeding opportunity, and has been known to shove dogs out of the way to get what she has coming.  Fanny backs down to no dog.

I was so preoccupied with my granddaughter that I really didn’t get too worked up about poor Fanny.  By the time the baby was released from the hospital Saturday I was an exhausted mess, and such a sorry sack of shit that I didn’t even go out to try to find Fanny.  I did make some excursions out back Sunday but was unsuccessful.  By yesterday (Monday) I was really getting frantic that she hadn’t appeared at the back door acting as if she were starving to death, so I made yet another foray into the back lot behind the fence under the junk truck and in the middle of the burr bushes.  Finally I heard a weak little mew (for a large cat Fanny has a very tiny voice) and saw her pointy little head peek out from under the truck.   She simply hunched down and let me scoop her up.  So I am delighted to get her back even though I was covered with those damned burrs.

I think I’m going to have to collar and microchip that cat even though she despises a collar. I don’t know where her head is at getting out- there’s no food, the ferals absolutely hate her, and they chase her off before she can even get to the food scraps we throw out for them. 

Just a transient thought- I hate pompous assholes who think they know it all and their shit doesn’t stink, but who go to great lengths to rub other people’s noses in their mistakes.  Never mind that the person who is getting ripped on is the one who actually does something other than fart off and run their mouth about sports and other stupid shit.  The only reason people like that don’t appear to screw up is because the only things they bother to do is showboat, nitpick those who are doing their jobs for them (because they’re either too lazy or  too stupid to do their own work) and bitch about what other people are doing and nosing about in their business.  These same people who seem to be first to make a mountain out of a molehill are always willing to let me do their work as well as my own while they fart off and get into some stupid assed discussion about sports or gambling or other stupid shit.  I really, really, really hate that- although I won’t mention any names.  I would like to engage in some passive-aggressive revenge, but even that’s not worth it.  Those sorts of people are just not worth the effort or the aggravation. 

I know, I know, the best thing I can do is ignore such commentary, and usually I do.  I can take criticism a lot better from those who aren’t lazy snobs who are obsessed with sports, and who admit that from time to time they screw up too.  Dad always said if you never screw up it’s because you aren’t doing anything.  No shit.  Maybe it’s my own fault because I never got interested in sports, but I don’t have the attention span for such bullshit. It’s just too much of a waste of time.  I do really want to throttle the pompous asshole who I am being kind enough not to name….must…think…of…something….else.

On a brighter note, The Bob and Doug McKenzie version of the 12 Days of Christmas has got to be one of my favorite holiday themed songs.  And a beer in a tree indeed.   I love the visual:


Funky Wiring Has Its Advantages, The Un-Birthday, and Please Practice “Safe Text”

I have to laugh.  As I was reviewing my birthday request list , I noted to my dismay that I didn’t even get the 12-pack of Diet Dr. Pepper.  No cougar cruise, no waterpark fun day, no three pack of Hanes Her Way hi-cut granny panties, no gas card, but it doesn’t surprise me.  My oldest sister, the childhood sadist, sent me a redneck themed card, because she gets such a hoot out of the fact that I married into the Most Redneck Family Ever.   Apparently she doesn’t understand that when you go fishing without appropriate bait you catch whatever bottom feeder the hook manages to snag.  At least she was lucky enough to look good from the neck down and was able to land a decent man.  Ironically, she treats him like shit.  It doesn’t surprise me. Apparently in relationships someone has to be the shitter and someone has to be the shittee.  I know all about #2- literally.

Mom didn’t get me as woefully inappropriate a gift as the cookie cutters.  I still don’t get why anyone would think a diabetic would want cookie cutters.  Why not the whole cake decorating kit and the candy thermometer too while you’re at it?  Mom got me a particularly nice pair of Isotoner driving gloves that actually fit my big meaty man-hands- which is surprising as it is difficult for me to find womens’ gloves that fit.  That is a useful gift.   I did get a phone call from my illustrious offspring, to remind me that February is a short month and he needed his rent money.  Although he and Jerry share no DNA whatsoever, they are both blissfully ignorant of dates.  Unless of course, there is money involved.

Dad finally remembered that he forgot my birthday last night (28th) and asked me (in all seriousness) how I liked being 44.  I reminded him that I’m only 42.  Apparently he is 23 years older than me and more senile than I am.  Now I see what I have to look forward to.  Mom at least knew she would probably forget and gave me the gloves the last time I was up there.

I happened upon a most amusing website today which really cracked me up.  Steve-o and his friends communicate almost exclusively through texting.  Steve-o is a particularly poor speller.  Most technicians are dismal spellers and poor writers- but as a trade-off, they generally have mathematical and spatial skills that far surpass mine.  It was always fun to interview techs, if only to critique the fashion and hair faux pas.  GQ, these guys ain’t.  I should have actually requested them to fill out their resumes using crayons and a Hello Kitty coloring book  just to make reading them more entertaining.  I almost always ignored their resumes, took face to face interviews with a grain of salt, and hired techs off of whatever good recommendations I could find from others in the business, combined with whether or not they could pass a BMV check.  It worked better for me that way.

This being said, I have to laugh at those who use auto-complete or other spell-check features on phones.  Those features for the lazy or inattentive generally suck- but they suck in occasionally hilarious ways.  Damn You Auto Correct is a nice little site where people post all the ridiculous ways that “smart” phones fill in the blanks. 

My funky wiring gives me a few advantages- such as speed-reading and an uncanny ability to spell correctly almost all of the time.  I don’t use auto-complete or spell-checks because I generally don’t need them.  If I really am in doubt over the spelling of a word I will usually verify it on Merriam-Webster’s site, because I truly want to be correct.  I  wouldn’t generally refer to myself as a spelling and grammar Nazi, but I do try to maintain a high personal standard.   The irony of the auto-complete and spell-check programs is that to use them effectively one has to have some sort of idea of the correct spelling or usage, otherwise one may end up with an entirely different meaning to one’s message.  Therein lies the humor.

I think double-entendre to be the most hilarious of the forms of humor.  The more off-color the reference the funnier I find it, even though it may be puerile and sophomoric.  Everyone needs a hobby, and the more things I can find to laugh at, in the depths of my pathetic life, the better. 

I have to wonder, as I troll the Damn You Auto Correct site, what the hell are the people who program the auto-correct and/or spell-check software thinking?  Is English their first language?  Or do they have as dark a sense of humor as I do?  I’d like to think the latter.  We geeks are masters at passive-aggressive revenge, and what better way to exact passive-aggressive revenge on neurotypical society than to humiliate those who struggle with the written word? Why not transform their  attempt to spell “penne” (as in pasta) to “penis?”  Who wouldn’t want to be invited over for “Salad with Vinagrette and Penis?”  I’d make a special trip for that.

Does anyone ever proofread their texts, even a little?  Or do you just hit “send” with wanton glee?

How about a little “safe text?”  Or not.  It’s funny when it gets screwed up!

Dear God: I like to be lazy and watch tv and eat food




This kid’s prayer is positively hilarious, which is why I had to pass it along:

I like to be lazy and watch tv and eat food.

Oh, Steve-o… are you sure this lady didn’t get your sermon note by mistake?

This is definitely a Dude Prayer. No female would write a prayer like this, especially one raised by an old school Catholic mother who made you feel guilty for not being thankful for day old tuna casserole served over burnt mashed potatoes with big black flakes in them.  (How many times did I hear,”You should thank God you HAVE food!” and Mom meant it.)  No female I know would have written this prayer, regardless of age, not even a girl raised in a more “Jesus loves me” type Protestant tradition.  

I remember if you were doing an assignment on prayer for CCD- first you would go with the standard rote prayers such as the Our Father and Hail Mary.  Those were Safe Prayers.  If you had to make up your own prayers, you pretty much came up with the obligatory prayers for the conversion of heathens (i.e. Protestants…) and for starving children in Africa.  If you had the gall to write a prayer asking God for a pony, or a prayer asking God to send your sadistic older siblings to Africa with the starving kids, then Sister Mary Refrigerator Perry (and I think she was actually bigger than the football player and a lot more ugly) would call your Mom and you would be dragged to Confession so you could tell Father Whoever Was Hearing Confessions That Day how evil and selfish you were.   

Father Furey was the only priest with a sense of humor.  Everyone wanted to get Father Furey at Confession time.  He would usually laugh and tell you to pray to the Holy Spirit to help you do better. I think if Jesus had been a priest He would have been like Father Furey.  He had a lot of compassion for human frailty, especially kids’.  The other priests weren’t usually as forgiving, and one in particular would go on and on about all the stuff you have to do to cut down your time in purgatory.  (I became a Lutheran in high school, BTW…Martin Luther had a point- 95 of them, to be specific!)

I would never have written out a prayer as an assignment in CCD that would make any insinuation that I might be proud of the fact that I occasionally indulge in any of the Seven Deadly Sins (Pride, Greed, Envy, Anger, Lust, Gluttony and Sloth), let alone both gluttony and sloth.  I did not want Mom to get a phone call from Sister Mary Refrigerator Perry (the director of Religious Education,) for any reason, and I tried to avoid going to Confession any more than the one time a month when Mom made us go.   My childhood prayers mostly consisted of asking God to forgive the sins I couldn’t remember doing so I wouldn’t die and go straight to hell, and asking Him not to send me to hell for wishing my sisters would either run away or drop dead.   I remember when I was reminded to pray, thanking God for puppies and kittens, and thanking Him for those few and far between days when my sisters didn’t have the opportunity to beat the hell out of me.  Hell was quite the ongoing theme in my childhood.  Prayer, and religion in general, to my childhood mind, was all about avoiding hell.

There is so much more to Christianity than avoiding hell.  I appreciate the kid’s honesty though.  Who doesn’t want to watch TV and eat? 

Jesus told the disciples to let the little children come to Him- not to scare them away with hellfire.  I believe there is a literal hell, and Jesus Himself said that apart from Him that’s where I would be headed,  but there is so much more to God and life and relating than simply avoiding hell.  I would rather come to Jesus just like this little boy did- honestly.  I am one of those people who has done a lot of theological questioning over the years.  Mom was none too thrilled when I joined the ranks of the “heathens” (to be fair, Catholics now refer to Protestants as “separated brethren,” which is a little nicer sounding than “heathen”) but I had to be honest with my own heart, my own relationship with God and how He is helping me understand it.  There were too many things specifically in Catholicism that I couldn’t reconcile in my heart and mind to honestly profess to be Roman Catholic.  I’m certainly not the model Christian by any stretch of the imagination, but my upbringing forced me to ask questions- to “seek, knock and ask” because I saw so many apparent contradictions between my very old school Vatican I Catholic mother and my very fundamental old time Baptist grandmother.  I come to find out that neither “side” is completely “right” or completely “wrong.”  They share far more in common than most people realize.  No one “side” has a corner on the truth- and the starting point is that of the little child.  Honesty.  The little child doesn’t get the starving kids in Africa.  I know I did wish a lot of evil on both of my sisters.  I liked eating and watching TV as much as the next person.  The cool part about this is God already knows that, but He wants to love and work through us anyway.  We come to Him as we are and then HE makes us what He created us to be.

Now that’s an honest prayer!