Tag: TV

Crankypantsing, Meta

Tha Limpix

Shelly

I haven’t paid too much attention to the Olympics coverage so far, partly because I’ve been busy with other things and partly because there hasn’t been much of interest to me so far. Men’s figure skating is on right now, though, and oh wow. Japan was allowed one men’s skater and good lord was he ever amazing. He fell and screwed up his score, but even so, he was absolutely breathtaking to watch. Just beautiful.

I think I’m done fiddling with the blog template. Finally! It’s very nearly exactly what I had in mind, which is Good Enough. Coppermine is not being so accommodating, though, so I’ve got some more tweaking to do there. I need to delve into the help fora to find info on customizing headers. That dude lurking at the top right has got to go, and the grid pattern and stripes are ugly, too. So, no more unscheduled blog ugliness (ya-hoo!), but if you go to the gallery and are struck blind by the hideousness, I apologize in advance (boo-hoo!). I suppose I could take it off-line while I tweak, but with my luck, I’d forget to re-set it. Yes, I suck, that way. I suck in other ways, too, but we won’t speak of that right now.

Art

The Raising of an Old Hope

Shelly

Vessels: The Raising of an Old Hope
Vessels: The Raising of an Old Hope
oil pastel on 90lb Stonehenge paper with bones, hair, brass brads, and copper wire
11 1/4 x 9 1/2 inches

I meant to play around with making a pinhole lens for my 35mm camera, but I didn’t end up getting to it. The weather turned kind of gross–cold and grey and snowy–so I stayed inside and made art. Not that it was terrible out or anything, not like what the east coast is experiencing (25 inches of snow?!), but I just didn’t feel like doing much of anything. Instead, I spent the day drawing while watching some awful movie about a 16th century Venetian courtesan on WB (ah, apparently it was called Dangerous Beauty) and a biography of Anne Boleyn on PBS. That was an odd juxtaposition!

And, now, the weekend is over. Hrmph. They always speed by too quickly, and there is never enough to show for the time spent.

Art

Vessels: Six Secrets

Shelly

Vessels: Six Secrets
Vessels: Six Secrets
Prismacolor and Caran d’Ache Neocolors II on 90lb black Stonehenge paper with vertebrae and copper wire
11 1/4 x 9 1/2 inches

Someone in one of my art groups asked about drawing with Prismacolors on black paper, and I remembered a stash of black Stonehenge paper I’d gotten a while back. My intention was to use it for oil pastels, and I will, but there’s plenty of it to play around with. It’s been years since I’ve played around with Prismacolors. They’re fussier and more time consuming than oil pastels, which is probably why I don’t use them much. And, while they’re somewhat finger blendable (I just cannot seem to keep my fingers out of whatever I’m working with), once you’ve built up enough layers, they aren’t as easy and fun to move around on the paper as oil pastels.

While I was working, I watched the last DVD of Freaks and Geeks. Good grief! I laughed, I cried, it was way better than Cats. Truly. It reminded me so much of the preppy high school I went to in 9th grade.

Crankypantsing, Meta

Mutant Roommates

Shelly

In a mad fit of obsessive compulsiveness, I cleaned the microwave last night. This morning, when I went to heat up water for tea, I nearly dropped my mug. The whiteness of the clean microwave was blinding! So that’s what it looks like under all the gunk? Who knew?!

Today’s daytime teevee observation (really, I do have a job, only today is MLK Day, so I’m off work): I wish Delta Burke would get a hobby. She’s hawking some sort of medication delivery service. Apparently, she’s been “living with diabetes” and is really excited about having her syringes, etc. delivered to her door. And, who wouldn’t be? It’s just that I object to that phrase, “living with X.” It makes X sound like some sort of mutant roommate. “Hi, I’m Delta Burke, and this is my platonic life partner, Diabetes.”

I finally finished moving all my image files from Blogger to my domain. Boy, was that ever a pain in the behindermost! I would recommend to any Blogger users that, if you think it’s possible that you might ever, in your wildest dreams, want to skip town, have your images hosted at your own domain or by some disinterested third party (I unreservedly recommend Flickr). Otherwise, you will regret it.

I also added categories to all my posts. That was a time consuming pain in the arse, as well. One thing I learned is that I do in inordinate amount of crankypantsing. It’s by far the largest category, though that’s partly due to it being a bit of a catch-all.

That’s all for now. I think I may have a wee cocktail[1]. And, perhaps, do some arting.

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[1] If that’s not an obscene word, I’m the Pope.

Crankypantsing

TeeVee Commercials

Shelly

I’m home sick again today[1], so I thought I’d share a few thoughts on daytime television commercials. First, Wilfred Brimley needs to learn how to say diabetes. The word has four syllables, not two, and the last one is long, not short. It gives me flashbacks to when Kate Jackson was the spokesperson for Mercury cars. She used to pronounce it Mer-cree, which annoyed the shit out of me. What the hell did she think that u was for, decoration?

Another commercial that makes me cranky is the laundry product (dunno if it’s for detergent or fabric softener) that features the song Baby Boy. The mother (it’s always a mother) picks up her son’s clothing while the song plays in the background. She sniffs it and wallows in it, in a manner that screams “Innappropriate!” and “Bad Touch!” Squick!

And, speaking of all things squicky, the new Hardee’s taco salad commercial is bad, bad, bad. No one eats their food like that unless they’re being paid to do so, IYKWIM AITYD[2]. I’m sorry, but if that’s your kink, it is Not Okay. Please get help and God bless.

In totally unrelated news, a couple of dump trucks of gravel were delivered this morning, so it looks like our alleged driveway will soon be mended. Again. It could be fixed for real, but that would take time, money, and an ass load of work, so I’m not holding my breath. In lieu of actually fixing it, Ralph occasionally throws gravel at it as a stop-gap cure.

Anyway, I’ve been meaning to get out there and take pictures of just how spectacularly messed up it is, so I figured I’d best hop to it before it was covered up with a new strata of rock[3]. While I was out, I also took some photos of the surrounding landscape that I haven’t photographed before (I really hope they turned out, because they’re quite pretty in a barren, wintery sort of way). I’ll resize and upload them as soon as I finish brunch and I’ve cleaned the kitchen.

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[1] It never fails that I get some sort of respiratory plague after I’ve been around the barbarian hordes. I don’t know whether it was going to the ISM on Monday, or that I was in a car for three hours with someone who was sick, or if I caught it from someone at work, and it really doesn’t matter. All I know is that I may never leave my house again. It’s just not safe out there!

[2] If you know what I mean, and I think you do.

[3] Ahh, yes, here comes Load o’ Gravel #3.

Art, Crankypantsing, Meta

I’ll Take Potpourri for $200, Alex

Shelly

Here’s a look at marginalia.

I have had about a million discussions about the proper care and handling of books, both from the perspective of a caretaker and an owner. A common sentiment among bibliophiles is that modifying a book in any way is an act of vandalism. Book ownership as a trusteeship; we should preserve our books for future generations, so that they might experience those books as they were originally published. I don’t buy that argument, though. A book is a living thing. The very act of reading it transforms it. From oils in your hands, which over time develop into stains, to creases along the spine, a book that has been read bears scars that testify to its life’s travels. When further transformed, by the addition of annotations, a book becomes a unique and priceless historical document. Not that my marginalia have any pretensions to such importance, but I think they are a far cry from vandalism.

One of my favorite high school teachers said that, if you hadn’t written in a book, you hadn’t truly read it. I don’t know that that’s strictly true, but being given the permission to write in text books dramatically changed the learning process for me. From that point on, I underlined, bracketed, highlighted, dog-eared, and took notes in the margins, all with great glee and abandon. Books became living things I interacted with, instead of passive things that simply existed to be read. Thank you, Mrs. Taylor, for that, and for a whole lot of other stuff. You were one of the bestest teachers EVAR.

I mention this, because it relates to my next altered book project. I still don’t have anything concrete enough to share, but it shall be forthcoming. Soon!

A Festivus for the Restivus? I used to dislike Seinfeld, but then I moved to the Land of No Cable, and discovered that when there’s nothing else on television, Seinfeld isn’t so bad. In fact, it’s occasionally damned good. There’s rarely a day that goes by that something Seinfeldian doesn’t crop up. Right now, as it’s the Solstice Season (Bill O’Reilley can kiss my fat ass), I feel like work is nothing but a revolving staff party. I hate staff parties. I don’t go to them, it makes me cranky to get the inevitable food sign-up memos, and I especially hate the twelfty gabillion e-mails counting down the commencement of the inevitable party. The worst, though, is when higher-ups go around corralling and shaming anti-social folks like me into attending. That especially pisses me off.

So, a co-worker called this morning (I’ve mentioned that I’m the only one who seems able to answer the phone?), asking me to go downstairs to meet her at the loading dock with a book truck, so that she could deliver goodies for this afternoon incarnation of The Party. I was not amused. Not amused in the least. It’s enough to make the Baby Jeebus cry. And, if that doesn’t do it, maybe this will? I mean, who wouldn’t want a menorah made out of tampons?

If you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly brimful of the Holiday Spirit, whatever the hell that is. Not even the Viggo Mortensen Advent calendar has been able to ungrinchify me.

And now for a quick game of Statstacularity. I have to wonder if the folks who get to my blog or websites via a search engine bother to read the accompanying descriptive text. Because, somehow, I don’t think they do. Otherwise, the person searching for “ejaculating penis photos” probably wouldn’t have bothered visiting. I’m just sayin’… Also, “n.u.d.e. celebrity photos.” And, what’s up with acronymization? Is it supposed to be some sort of super s33kr1t code? I’m still getting lots of hits for puggles and “winter sky,” though singly, not in combination. There’s a thought, though. Imagine a Pug x Beagle, ears outstretched, soaring majestically through the brooding winter sky.

And since I’m in the mood to pick nits (whenever am I not?), the Maya people speak Mayan. There is no -n on the end of the word when it refers to the people themselves, or when it refers to their artifacts. It’s one thing for regular folks to get it wrong, but there is just no excuse for news editors not knowing the difference. That said, this mural is pretty damned cool. What’s special about it is that it dates from ~100BCE, which is 200 years before the classic period. These may be the earliest Maya wall paintings to be discovered.

Mural paintings in San Bartolo

This portion of the mural depicts a king making a blood sacrifice by piercing his penis. The practice was common among Maya rulers, who bore responsibility for the well being of their subjects. The genitals or tongue would be pierced using either an obsidian blade or a stingray spine. Pieces of bark paper were soaked in the blood, or, in some cases, ropes made of bark paper were pulled through holes pierced through the skin. The blood-soaked paper would then be burned in an offering to the gods.

To the ancient Maya, blood sacrifice was necessary for the survival of the gods, who in turn provided the Maya with everything they needed. The gods could not exist without the Maya, and the Maya could not exist without their gods.

I’m all blogged out, but since I invoked Viggo up there somewhere, I’ll leave you on this note:

I’m not anti-Bush; I’m anti-Bush behavior. In other words, I’m against cheating, greed, cruelty, racism, imperialism, religious fundamentalism, treason, and the seemingly limitless capacity for hypocrisy shown by Bush and his administration.
— Viggo Mortensen

Art, Photography

Winter Ramblings

Shelly

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After last week’s episode of Adventures in Driving, I ended up staying home all weekend for an extended snow holiday. I wish I could say I got lots of important stuff accomplished, but mostly, I slept, played with the dog, slept, read books, slept, played with the dog, and slept some more. Also, I slept. And played with the dog. Apparently, I had a lot of sleeping to catch up on, which was good, because I ended up staying up way past my bedtime last night. I had to watch the finale of Survivor, dontchaknow?

Anyway, the long weekend was a much-needed mini mental health holiday. I did finally get around to clearing the rest of the snow off the deck and car yesterday, before it could refreeze into a sheet of ice. Since I still haven’t bought a window scraper, I figured I’d better plan ahead. That was about the most constructive thing I did. Alas, it was only marginally helpful.

When I pulled in on Thursday–after unsticking myself after I slid off the road–I’d been waffling about leaving the car in 4WD. Should I or shouldn’t I? I finally decided on “should,” and was damned glad of it this morning. We’d gotten just enough sleet yesterday, then snow overnight, to make the lane close to impossible to navigate. It was that yucky almost-freezing slush that, when compacted (by, like, feet or car tires), turns to ice. So, of course, I ended up sliding sideways into the neighbors’ yard again. Did I mention that they’ve got a pond that is disturbingly close to the road? It’s not so scary when going up the lane, but coming down it, if you slide off in the right place–and, of course, I did–you feel like you’re aimed right at it. Luckily, it wasn’t as bad as it seemed. I was able to get myself out and get onto the public road without too much trouble, but even so, that’s not what I wanted to be doing at 5am.

I love cold and snow–truly I do–but (obviously!) I hate to drive in it. I also can’t stand the dreary Indiana winters. The sun finally came out today, which helped, but we’ll soon return to the endless monotony of grey, grey, grey. And more snow on Wednesday, too, likely mixed with sleet and freezing rain and all the vile crap that takes all the fun out of snowdays. Humph.

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So, about Survivor… I wasn’t really keen on any of the final contestants after Gary was voted out. It was more a matter of who I didn’t want to win (isn’t that usually the case?) As far as I was concerned, as long as Judd didn’t win, I would’ve been happy. Stephanie not winning was a bonus, though. I don’t know why, but I just didn’t like her. She was whiny and negative this time around. Or, maybe, she was always that way and I didn’t notice it previously? Either way, I wasn’t impressed with her.

Judd, though, was another matter. Talk about rude, obnoxious, petulant, mean, selfish, arrogant, and ignorant. I really can’t think of anything nice to say about him. He was a complete ass, to the point that I often had to turn the channel because I couldn’t stand the embarrassment factor. I had to laugh, though, when he had a melt-down because Stephanie had the audacity to not share information with him. Specifically, she didn’t tell him that she and the others had decided to vote him out. Can you blame her, after the shit fits he threw when others dared to cross him? Who in their right mind would want to invite one of his diatribes? Why on earth it came as a surprise to him that others–even those in his alliance–would perhaps not share all their cards with him, is a mystery to me. It happens in real life, and a competition such as Survivor is bound to intensify the behavior. No matter how well you know someone, trust them, and believe they have your best interests in mind, you simply cannot share everything with them. Aside from the fact that humans need a psychological buffer, it’s just not possible to share every waking thought with another person. Nor, if you’re trying to ultimately get an advantage over others, is it desirable.

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Speaking of things that make me go hmmm, there was a recent discussion in the Collage Museum group (I believe the archives are public) about art vs. craft. This is one of those topics that pops up regularly, and never fails to ruffle feathers and knot knickers. Why, I’ll never figure out if I live to be a gazillion. In this go-round–which produced some meaty food for thought–someone took offense at another person’s definitions of the two terms. Several others chimed in to define and explain their points of view. Then, for some mind boggling reason, someone else started tsk-tsking, and demanded that the subject be dropped, because it offended her. Yet another person also requested the subject be discontinued, because he is “very busy” and cannot be bothered to read voluminous posts covering such piddling matters. M’kaythen. Are these last two people adults, or what? If they’re busy, or offended, then stop reading. Don’t expect others to do your censoring for you. Would you walk into a party, decide you didn’t like the music, and proceed to demand that the hosts and/or guests cater to your wishes to have it changed? You could, I suppose, but I wouldn’t recommend it, as it’s in spectacularly bad taste.

I’m quite happy to report that, though my experience with Yahoo groups is that the list owner will almost always shut down a discussion if anyone starts whinypantsing, the owner of the Collage Museum group did not do so. Good for him.

Vaguest Teaser Evar, AHOY!1!! Speaking of art, I’ve got a new altered book idea. I haven’t started on it, and the concept hasn’t coalesced enough to describe, but I don’t think it’ll be long before I’m ready to begin. I’ll post more when it starts to take shape.

[The above photographs depict the Belt of Venus, taken 5 December 2005. The Belt of Venus is the strip of pinkish color sandwiched between the blue sky (above) and the darker blue shadow of the earth (below). It appears after sunset and before sunrise, along the horizon opposite the sun. The top two photos show the dark shadow more clearly, just above the horizon. In the bottom picture, it’s a faint band nestled just above the dip at the center of the ridge line. It’s nice to have periodic reminders of why I put up with crappy Indiana weather. The gorgeous landscape is a major one.]

Crankypantsing, Ladybusiness, News & Politics, Pets, Photography

Friday Round-up

Shelly

Harriet has long contended that squirrels are eeevil, that they should be exterminated, and that she’d ought to be the one doing the exterminating. Now, we have proof that her concerns were well founded.

Squirrels have bitten to death a stray dog which was barking at them in a Russian park, local media report.

Passers-by were too late to stop the attack by the black squirrels in a village in the far east, which reportedly lasted about a minute.

They are said to have scampered off at the sight of humans, some carrying pieces of flesh.

A pine cone shortage may have led the squirrels to seek other food sources, although scientists are sceptical.

Via Feministe: A play in one act, in which a professor entered his office, to find that two students had broken in and were having sex. Now, the story is plenty damned funny on its own, especially this bit, wherein the trespassing male tells the prof to go away and threatens to report him for sexual harassment.

HALF-NAKED MALE: GO THE FUCK AWAY! THIS IS PRIVATE! WE’RE BUSY!
ME: (holding the door half-open) I’m coming in.
HALF-NAKED MALE: STOP HARASSING US YOU PERVERT OR I’LL REPORT YOU!
ME: (still holding door) You’ll report me for your having sex in my office?
HALF-NAKED MALE: GO THE FUCK AWAY!
ME: (still holding door) That’s it. Put your clothes back on. You can’t have sex in my office.

The comments, too, are worth reading. However, I found myself thinking the entire event would have been even more amusing if the prof had quietly entered the office, sat down, and gone about his regular work, ignoring the burgling shaggers.

Via The Smirking Chimp, a rant about Bill O’Reilly and the “war on [White] Christmas”. Because, after all, it is the season. It includes the following gem, on Christmas balls Holiday ornaments:

Speaking of buying, I have a problem with your online shop there, Bill. Yeah, yeah — I hate to interrupt a good misguided rant, but I’m disappointed in you guys at Fox News and the O’Reilly Factor. Being as I’m holding out hope that Christmas won’t be stolen by the liberal Whos of Evil-doer-Whoville (you can use that one, too), I went to the online Fox News Shop to buy some of your balls. But what’s this? I couldn’t find a single Christmas ball in the store! They’d been replaced by these bizarre spheres called “Holiday Ornaments.” The description under the The O’Reilly Factor ornaments claim they’re designed to adorn something called a “holiday tree.” What is this so-called holiday tree? I know what is a Christmas tree, but this holiday tree thing has me stymied. Do I need to buy a second tree? What’s the deal?

Ah, I do so love the smell of hot, buttered irony in the morning.

I’ve mentioned that I watch Survivor, haven’t I? Last night’s episode was lovely, because Judd was finally voted off (hallelujah!). Even lovelier was his reaction. After a speech, in which he claimed that no one was safe, that anyone could be voted off at any time, and that there should be no whineypantsing about it, because it’s a game, stupid, Judd turned around and cursed his tribemates for having the nerve to give him a boot to the head. What an ass!

Speaking of people who need a boot to the head, Oprah gets on my very last nerve. When she’s not busy leading her cult members in I Love Oprah fests, she’s telling women that they should submit themselves to the patriarchy. Most recently, this patriarchifilia has taken the form of touting a new and apparently mediocre form of plastic surgery, called a “thread lift.” Small barbed, plastic threads are inserted under the skin. The barbs catch and hold the tissue, so that it can be pulled tight. Apparently, one can have this relatively inexpensive and speedy procedure done during one’s lunch hour. Because, you know, women ought to have bits of plastic stitched into their faces, so that they can look more babe-uh-licious. Or something. No matter that the procedure can potentially do more harm than good. I dunno about y’all, but I don’t think pain and deformation sound very sexy.

And, don’t even get me started on her magazine. Talk about a heaping helping of harmful messages.

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And now for the obligatory Friday dogblogging, starring everyone’s favorite Boxer, Miss Harriet Brown. This was taken last Saturday, in my mom’s kitchen. Harriet is such a delicate flower that she insists she can’t lie on the bare, hard floor. She’d rather have a nice, fluffy dog bed, but a rag rug will suffice in a pinch. It’s not like there wasn’t a comfy couch for her to sleep on, either. There was, and it was even heaped with pillows and blankets and all manner of soft, cushy things amongst which dainty Boxer dogs might wish to lie. But, no. We were sitting around the kitchen table, drinking coffee and talking, so Harriet had to be in the kitchen with us. To supervise, dontchaknow. That’s onna count of the fact that humans cannot be trusted on their own. This is apparently a sacrament that every Boxer dog holds dear.

And now, a rumpus of random ramblings:

  • Whispering–I can’t stand it. All that pst pst psting drives me batshit crazy.
  • Obsessive throat clearing–I can’t stand that, either. It’s one thing to periodically clear your throat, or to do so more frequently when you’re sick, but when you make disgusting horky noises every two minutes, that’s socially unacceptable.
  • Did you realize that you can rearrange the order of tabs in Firefox, by grabbing and moving them? “The more you know…”
  • Overheard at work: “How long have we had MS Office?” Um, how long have you worked here?
  • I hate it when people ask for information, then don’t pay attention to the answer! Surely there’s a special place in Hell for such time wasters?
  • I spilled something on my shirt this morning, and didn’t notice it until I got to work, so I turned it around so the stain wouldn’t bother me.
  • While watching teevee last night, and petting the dog, I noticed that she’s getting white patches of hair inside her ears. Her muzzle started to go grey years ago, which is common in Boxers, but damn, 6.5 is too young to be going grey.
  • I have to work on Saturday. Waaah!
News & Politics

Git Along Little Doggie

Shelly

Day-um, but Teh Internets are slow today. Anyway, today’s roundup includes:

  1. A heaping dose of patriarchal craptacularity
  2. Satanists for Jeebus
  3. Dildo cozies
  4. Beam me up, Scottie
  5. Those wacky Texans
  6. Coo-coo for Jeebus

First, via Feministing, an article about a family in Pakistan, whose daughters were married off as young children, in compensation for one of their relatives murdering a member of the rival family.

A village council in Pakistan has decreed that five young women should be abducted, raped or killed for refusing to honour childhood “marriages.”

The women refused to honor the agreement, so the village council have decreed that they be abducted and raped or murdered. That’s seriously fucked up. Leaving aside the awfulness of forced marriage and using rape as a form of punishment, why on earth should those women have to pay the price for someone else’s transgressions? They did nothing wrong. Well, aside from being women, that is.

Pat Robertson, that wacky Jesus Fetishisht, flashes the debbil’s gang sign. And, he’s not the only one. It looks like Lucifer has a Posse!

Craftgrrl crochets herself an adorable Flying Spaghetti Monster dildo cozy. You should go look at it–unlike Pat Robertson, it’s actually really cute.

(above) Our, um, petulant leader, trying to beat a hasty retreat from a news conference, after a reporter asked him a question he didn’t feel like answering. But, alas, the doors were locked, so he was unable to escape until an aide came to his rescue.

And, to prove that the wacky presidential nut didn’t fall far from the wacky tree, Texans appear to have banned marriage, full stop. Not that I think that’s necessarily a bad thing, mind you, but it seems like a drastic move just to rid themselves of Teh Gay Menace

Last but not least, did anyone watch the recent episodes of Trading Spouses? The one with the ignorant woman who was coo-coo for Christ? She got completely bent out of shape because the family she stayed with had mandalas, a star, Buddha statues, and gargoyles in their home. She accused the family of being “of the dark side.” Very peculiar, I thought. First, she’s Catholic. Apparently, she doesn’t realize that many Catholic cathedral and churches are adorned with gargoyles. She refused to listen when the father tried to explain to her that the things she was worried about were not, as she claimed, satanic. I can’t imagine what sort of a hole she’s been living in if she really thinks that Buddhists are some sort of Satanists. And stars? Has she actually read the Bible?

Later, she pulled the kids aside and tried to witness at them. I was shocked. I can’t imagine trying to convert someone else’s children. How presumptuous and rude! The kids weren’t interested, and the woman got upset that they were not open to exploring her religious beliefs. The kicker was that, when the two mothers met, at the end of the show, the christian woman accused the non-christian mother of trying to convert her kids! Ah, the irony.

It gets better, though. Each family gets US$50,000 as compensation. The visiting mother gets to decide how the family will spend the money. The christian mother tore up the letter from the other woman, and refused to accept the money because it was supposedly “dark sided.” She changed her tune when she found out that a large chunk of the money had been earmarked for her own use. Nice principles, eh?

Crankypantsing, Photography

Random Friday

Shelly

But first, the obligatory cat update.

Rory had his week+ check-up last night (surgery was 10 days ago). I spent all day yesterday panicking, because that morning, he peed on the floor. He’s been been very good about using the litter box since he began recovering from the surgery. It was a relatively small amount of urine, and dark, too, so I was worried about him having another infection. In retrospect, that was silly, as he’s on antibiotics, so an infection was very unlikely. That’s the nature of panic, though–t’ain’t rational.

He also has managed to irritate the surgery site. It was inflamed and a little swollen. The vet thinks he may have used the cone to scratch it. I imagine it’s been itching like mad, so I can’t blame him for trying to find some relief. I was sent home with a few extra antibiotic pills and some topical antibiotic salve to put on his incisions, and instructions to take his e-collar off on Saturday. She warned me that he’ll lick himself like crazy when the collar comes off, but that I shouldn’t worry if his bottom gets sore and even bloody. Now, how I’m supposed to keep from worrying is beyond me, but I’ll try.

She also sent us home with a 4lb bag of Hill’s W/D. I’m not happy about having to support the Hill’s company. For one thing, I think the behavior of some of their employees sucks ass[1]. And, though I’m thankful that there are prescription foods available that will–hopefully–allow my cat to live a relatively long and healthy life, my cat isn’t much impressed by the palatability of either of the other Hill’s prescription diets he’s been fed. We’ll see what he thinks of W/D.

I’m also trying to figure out how to feed two different diets to my two cats, while allowing them both the run of the house. I was hopeful that Rory would eat canned food, but he’s not interested in it. I suspect that he associated wet food with being sick. Cats can be weird, that way. I could still do set feeding times, instead of a kibble buffet, but with cats, I find that they’re a pain in the arse. What I’ll probably do is let both cats have the run of the house during the day–sans food–then confine Rory to the bathroom at night. That way, I’ll be able to feed the cats at night and know that they aren’t getting into each other’s food. Water is going to be another headache, as Rory is supposed to have distilled water. At US$1/gallon, it’s too pricey to give to the dog and the cats.

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On a tangential note, the Cat Care Clinic is way out in the country (the vet and her husband also run a horse rescue farm). As I was leaving, the sun was setting. Their farm is up on a hill, and the ridge to the west was like something out of Arizona Highways magazine. I’ve never seen such a perfectly beautiful sunset in my life. And, wouldn’t you know it, I didn’t have my camera with me. That’s okay, though. I think I enjoyed it even more, as I got to just stop and take it in.

Since I didn’t get a picture of the lovely sunset, I’ll post this photo that I took Tuesday. The sunset that day wasn’t much to speak of, because the clouds thickened back up when the next line of storms moved in. We got a brief break, though, which was quite nice.

Here’s a photo taken the same day, by someone in the Evansville area. If I’d seen that, I think I would’ve peed my pants. It was plenty scary enough here, but, thankfully, it was raining so hard that I was unable to see anything until after the worst had passed.

Did Someone Say Random?

  • It is notnotnot okay to drive around in the pitch black without your headlights on. It’s doubly notnotnot okay to do so, then turn them on suddenly when you see someone coming. It’s likely to scare the Jeebus right out of them.
  • I want one of these
  • Still no window scraper, despite the fact that it’s been around 20F the past two mornings, and there has been a thick coating of frost on my car. Perhaps, this weekend, I’ll get around to it.
  • I love that my remote “key” does not make my car beep its horn or flash its headlights or call attention to itself in some other way. I know which car I’m heading to; there’s no need to announce to the entire world which one it is, though. Stealthy is better.
  • I’m not amused that random bits of my mail have been mysteriously returned to sender (including one credit card statement and my car loan statement), nor that three Netflix I returned on Monday ended up back in my mailbox yesterday. Perhaps I should burn hecatombs to the Mail Gods? If so, what would constitute an appropriate sacrifice?
  • Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire comes out today. I am beyond excited. I probably won’t get to see it for a few days, which might kill me.
  • Something smells like fried bread.
  • I have a scar in the middle of my forehead[2], just above the hair line. No matter what I do, I cannot get the hair there to lay properly. It wants to go in the opposite direction. I only mention it, because it’s being particularly annoying today.
  • I hate it when people use my name when talking to me. Yes, I know who I am, you needn’t remind me. I’m distrustful of anyone who does so, because I feel like I’m dealing with a pushy used car salesman.
  • Speaking of dead things. See, that’s what’s wrong with frat boys. And, at my alma mater, no less.
  • I’m craving Babbs’ no bake cookies. Not any old chocolate can substitute, either. It has to be Babbs’ no bake cookies, or nothing at all.
  • Skipping breakfast is a Very Bad Idea.
  • I’d say they’ve got this one the wrong way ’round. If there’s an insult there, it’s to Pit Bulls, in likening them to lawyers.
  • I’ve been watching All Creatures Great and Small. I loved it when it was on PBS in the ’80s, and it’s held up well over time. One thing I didn’t realize, and that surprised the hell out of me, is that in the first three series, many of the medical procedures were done in real time in front of the camera. There were vets on-set who supervised the less complicated parts (e.g. the classic “arm up the cow’s jacksie”). Things like actual surgery were done by the supervising vets. They would hunt around locally for animals suffering from the appropriate conditions, then they’d operate on them. The owners received free medical care for their pets in exchange for letting the procedure be filmed. The BBC picked up the tab for everything. That would never happen nowadays, or even in the ’80s, when series 4-7 were filmed. All of those later episodes contained faked surgeries.
  • I’m searching for the perfect CD wrangling solution for my car. I suspect that piling them on the passenger seat really is not a very good long-term plan.
  • I love grilled tomatoes on top of pizza. I love them, I do, to a degree that is nearly unnatural. I also love fried green tomatoes. And tomato sandwiches. And tomatoes with cottage cheese. Basically, I love tomatoes.
  • Also, I love dill pickles. Not sweet pickles, though. Those are ptoui.

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[1] In particular, two Hill’s employees have made a practice of participating in various pet-oriented Usenet groups, where they have repeatedly shilled for the company without disclosing their employer’s identity. Further, both the people in question have been unspeakably rude while doing so, going so far as to liken those who questioned their motivation or the information they provided to suicide bombers and members of the Taliban. I’m sorry, but that sort of behavior is not what I want to support with my money.

[2] When I was four or five years old, I was scratched by what I insisted was a fox. Looking back, I’m sure it was just a neighborhood cat, and that it had good cause to scratch me. Kids can be, um, inventive, especially when they know they aren’t supposed to be playing dress-up with the neighbor’s cat. I think that probably cured me of trying to put baby clothes on animals, though, so at least I learned something from the experience.

[3] If you haven’t seen Cannibal the Musical, hie thee to your nearest video store.