Innocent My Ass

When I came home yesterday Clark was at the gate waiting for me, all, "What? What? I told them not toooooooo." Then last night I found scratches on his ears which clearly indicate some kind of scuffle. Defensive wounds? I think not. According to CSI, NCIS, Castle, Hawaii 5-O et al, defensive wounds normally occur on the hands and arms when you are trying to defend yourself. More likely the cat wounded Puppy Clark. Comme d'habitude his ears gave him away.

Hypochondriac

I have considered the possibility that maybe I am inventing all of this health nonsense so that I have an excuse not leave the house. It's plausible. This is the third weekend in a row that I've been house bound. And besides the early morning feline murder, not much has been going on here. I've been taking a lot of Vicodin which has had two side effects 1) my back doesn't hurt at all (I guess Choice Medical was right, I did need to explore more heavy duty narcotics) 2) I've been a little er, well, not regular, if you get my drift wink, wink. That's surely TMI, but it's the Vicodin. I looked it up. It was enough today that when the Big Guy asked me if he could bring me anything when he came over with my chicken soup (my mom didn't understand when I said I'm now a vegetarian who doesn't eat beans and sent a chicken soup with beans), I said, "Yeah, pick me up some juice and a pack of cigarettes." The Big Guy didn't say no, which normally means yes, so I was looking forward to a pack of cigarettes and learning what my dad's default brand was going to be. Marlboros? Camels? Lights? 100s? Something exotic? He showed up with prune juice and an apple/cherry juice. Guess he didn't think I was serious about the cigarettes, or maybe he just draws the line at buying his asthmatic daughter cigarettes no matter the medical necessity.

I made two quilts this weekend. They're small and unless someone gives me a damn good reason why all bindings should not be put on this way I am going to continue to bind my quilts like this. (The reason can not be: because that's not how quilters do it. That is not a good reason. I was a reason with statistics about how much stronger the quilt will be against the jaws of bad dogs. That's what I'm looking for.) The first one's a gift and second I'm going to hang up in the pink room, where I put the ugly dog quilt, which, by the way, Earl pushed into a ball before he slept on it this morning. He might be a viscous cat killer, but he knows what looks good.

Le Cimitière des Chats

This morning at 7:00am I opened the door to leave to go to Stater Bros. Randi, Earl and I saw a cat run into the garage. I screamed, possibly waking up the entire neighborhood and after a second's hesitation Randi and Earl ran into the garage and started the chasing the cat. I started screaming "Randi! Earl! Go cat!! Go cat!!" And the cat ran out, hopped over Seymore and escaped through the gate. Problem solved. What had to be at least 2/3 of the entire crow mafia of Apple Valley was convening in my front yard this morning, so I figured he was safe.

Then I came home from Stater Bros approximately thirty minutes later and found said cat, dead in the backyard.

Clean Socks

After throwing Randi out this morning for trying to get me out of bed by walking on my head and then walking on my body and the poking at my body with her freezing wet nose, and after Randi let herself back in because the front door doesn't shut properly because it got swollen in the rain and she tried to get me out of bed again via the same annoying tactics, I rolled over Earl and gingerly touched my feet to the floor. My feet hurt something terrible. No more body aches, but my feet. Yikes. Feels like they are on fire and being poked with pins. Thursday I slept an hour. Yesterday I took a moment and cried at my desk. (No kids were around.) I don't know why but my feet have been sweating buckets. Just my feet and ankles, so that I wake up and my socks are drenched and the sheets are damp, which means I have to change my socks quite often or go sockless and I can't sleep very well sockless if my feet are cold. The first thing on my agenda this morning was to wash some socks because I am out of clean socks. I also can't find my slippers and Earl is being inordinately silent on the matter. I would not be surprised if I walked out into the backyard and found two pairs of slippers half chewed, doused in dirt and sitting amongst the tiny weeds.

Yesterday I had a blood test which will hopefully determine if I have too much uric acid and really do have gout which, in case you didn't know, is generally an fat old man disease. I am now a teetotaler vegetarian who doesn't eat beans, avocados, spinach or asparagus because they are high in purines and I do not particularly like being a fat old man.

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The Unwalkable Disease

Nothing like a trip to the ER at 11PM to make for an interesting day. Here's what happened: Yesterday I woke up and had a stabbing pain in my left boob. And the left boob (or right for that matter) is not a place you can rub in the middle of teaching class to make yourself feel better. Then about three o'clock I started to feel achy everywhere and decided I must be coming down with the flu and went home bent on having a miserable evening in the company of the toilet. But no. What started happening was I would get stabbing pains in my hips, knees, foot and boob and then my whole body would cramp up. It was bizarre for sure. After about three hours of that, I called my momma who asked a lot of questions like, "Are you sure you didn't ingest anything? Like, do you always know where your drink is at school?" I was pretty sure that my water hadn't been laced with poison by a student angry with his grade, but you never know. I wouldn't say it was the worst pain of my life because the last time I said I had the 'worst headache' of my life I got a spinal tap and then as a side effect the really worst headache of my life, but it was bad. I thought maybe I was going into the labor with the baby that was causing all of my back problems. I made a deal with Randi that she would let me squeeze her leg when it hurt, but Randi didn't really like that idea when I started hurting. Earl tried to help by sitting on top of me, but it didn't help at all. My mom ended up coming over and realizing that my foot was quite swollen insisted by pestering me until I was worn down that we go to the ER.

The ER was standing room only with all of the variants of the ER patrons you can get, though as an ensemble there really were no standout performances worth recounting. The doctor examined me and said that maybe I had a 'bit of gout.' And sent me off for an x-ray of my foot and an ultrasound of my leg. (I heard my femoral heartbeat.) I, in the meantime, was crying out every time my body cramped and nearly fainted when they took my blood because I do not like that part. Then, at 1:30am I got two Vicodins and a shot of Tordol which knocked me on my ass and finally, finally stopped my body from cramping up. The doctor said all my tests were normal and I didn't have a blood clot, but that I needed to check up with my doctor within 48 hours because of the gout and maybe see a rheumatologist as well. And finally at 3:30am, I snuggled into bed, cramp free and curled up with my Pack of dogs.

Today I am not at work. My doctor must count 48 hours as 48 working hours because I have an appointment on Tuesday. The Pack was so traumatized by all late night activity that they didn't move until 11am either. I've discovered that EDub and PDub have added new moves to their aquatic UFC matches which are quite innovative. EDub now throws out her wing while she's on top of PDub, preventing PDub from lifting her head above water and PDub has started grabbing a hold of EDub's tail with her beak so that as EDub tries to get away she's just pulling PDub around the pool.

The most awful part of all of this isn't that I've been sick for the nicest three weeks of weather we've had all winter; it isn't the pain or the fact that now I've got something else potentially wrong with me...it's that if you have gout you're supposed to avoid alcohol! Quelle horreur!

Fried Chicken Bizarro

This morning I walked out to feed the ducks and I found a half eaten piece of friend chicken in my backyard. I don't even remember the last time I ate fried chicken. The dogs all alibied out. (They were with me all night.) PDub and EDub? I don't know. Maybe they got some kind of cannibalistic tendency and KFC on speed dial.

Good Riddance

This thing has been an albatross around my neck for over a year. Inspired and shamed by the fact that Gretchen and her sister Stephanie have been busting out quilts right and left despite the fact that they have two and three children respectively, Sunday I looked my half finished quilt in the face and issued a death match challenge. I'm calling it a draw because this quilt has been nothing but a damn pain in the ass since I bought the puppy dog fabric. I cut the squares too small, but had already cut the rest before I realized it. Sarah died before its completion. The seams are imperfect. I messed up the bottom. And I didn't even have good movies to watch while I quilted it. It has two redeeming qualities 1) it's finally finished and 2) Jessica showed me a different way to do the binding which, and I'm not exaggerating here, has changed my life. Anyone who has ever put on a binding knows that it takes as much time as the quilt itself. This way, I started at the beginning of the State of the Union address and I'm already done; it's in the wash and the President is talking. Yeah!

Playing with Dangerous and Breaking Rules

The Snickerdoodle comes with many, many rules that must be followed in order to ensure that I inherit 30 sewing machines and that she is returned in the exact same pristine condition in which I picked her up. One of these endless rules is that the Snickerdoodle must be returned to her native habitat at least once a day so that she can frolic around, not eat and do whatever else she does in my mom's backyard. This is a pain in the ass because it means every morning I have to get up, drive to my parents', return Emmah and then do the whole all over again to get her back. Today I decided to do a little walking on the wild side and did not chauffeur the Snickerdoodle back to her palace since I had absolutely no reason to go over that way except to drop her off and pick her up. As a result, Emmah keeps coming to see me, looking at me expectantly and I swear, threatening to tell my mom that I held her hostage.

Table Top

These forensic photos clearly indicate that when I walked out and found Randi standing on the dining room table that she had been there a while. And just for the record, this is not a behavior that I allow. Once again I was shocked and unable to move and ended up throwing her out of the house before I did something I would regret.

Earl Develops an Irrational Fear of My Bedroom

This one's all me because I woke up this morning and for the first time in a week and a half felt like there was a good possibility something could get done, so I set about cleaning up my house which was a hot mess topped off with god damn disaster sprinkles. In the process I decided to put away the laundry in my bedroom and move the bed, or, the mattresses, since I don't have an actual bed frame anymore. Only problem was Earl was on the bed and either didn't want to move or was paralyzed with fear of the monster dust bunnies I had unearthed. (To be honest, I was a bit afraid of the monster dust bunnies.) I ended up moving the bed with Earl on it. Probably not the best thing for my back, and it was certainly what pushed Earl over the edge and into his vat of irrational fear. He didn't want to get off of the bed, or around the bed and I had to drag him down and out of the room. He won't come down the hallway now. Back to square one.

I don't know how my mother keeps her house so neat if the Snickerdoodle follows her around like she does me because I spent just as much time screaming, "Emmah!... Move!!" as I did dusting and vacuuming.

That in Which the Hapless Heroine Ventures From the Domicile

Avid followers will know that I have, as of the last, oh, eight months, become more and more of hermit, preferring to stay within the concrete moat and four walls of my residence. I do consider it an adventuresome day when I've made it past the dog food on the west side, or past the duck food on the east side. It's nearly unheard of for me to undertake the trek to the mailbox. The neighbor girls today said, "Wow, you guys get a lot of mail." Given the choice, I am alarmingly content to not leave the house. Work doesn't count because that is an obligation, but even there, I prefer to leave my room only for the bathroom. I even asked the principal if we could buy me a copier because then I wouldn't ever have to leave the classroom, ever. (He said, no.)

I don't like leaving the house because there's no where to go that's going to be fun. Plus, whenever I get home, it's like freaking puppy porn over here with all of the humping that has to happen before we can get in the house. Clark on Randi. Earl on Randi. Clark on Earl. Randi on Earl. The other day Earl was going at Randi so hard I thought he might have a heart attack and I had to sit in the truck for five minutes before I could stop laughing. It's just seems better to avoid the hump-o-rama in the first place by staying put.

Today, however I had to make several treks that took me away from my domestic shelter. The first was to Urgent Care, since I didn't sleep last night, spending the time trying to get Randi and Earl to snuggle closer so I would stop shivering and throwing off the covers so my sweat could evaporate before I got cold again. At Urgent Care the guy tried to tell me I weighed 20lbs more than I weighed last week. I said, Chunky girl knows she chunky, but I ain't that chunky. He reluctantly examined the calibration which was way off. (I tried to get him to put that I weighed 175, but he wouldn't.) Then I had to go to Target to get my prescriptions. Where, I saw, a girl who had a hairdryer tattooed behind her ear. That, is fucking stupid. The rest of my time at Target was spent trying to find someplace to sit, since my leg went asleep and I didn't think sitting down on the floor in the middle of the aisle would be tolerated at such a fine establishment as Tarjhay. Which is another reason I don't ever leave the house because my leg is always going numb.

Then, I had to pick up the Snickerdoodle. I always start Snickerdoodle Slumber Party the same way: by reminding Emmah Snickerdoodle that her momma left her and doesn't love her. Emmah responds by looking down at everything around her. I always get the distinct impression that she feels that she is 'slumming' here at the Saratoga Animal Shelter and that nothing meets her precious designer dog standards. She's always like, "My mom, would not approve of this. My mom, would do this. My mom..." Well, this ain't your momma's house, bitch. And this time, my mom's got her hair cut short, so I can't even trim up her mullet.

Pursuit of Honor eBook Review

Since I've spend most of the last week doped up on muscle relaxers, codeine or cold medicine, and didn't have the mental capacity or tenacity to turn the virtual pages of Cleopatra, I had to go for something a little less, shall we say, mentally challenging. And so, I read Pursuit of Honor which is the Mitch Rapp book that follows Extreme Measures. In this book Mitch Rapp continues to hunt the terrorists who have bombed our nation's capital. He shoots some people in the head. He busts some ribs. He uses some extreme measures.

I'm not sure if I'm more concerned that I like to read these books with all of their violence or that there could really be this type secret spy shit and wiretapping and breaking of laws going as I type. Call me naive, but I like to think that I can't be located in two seconds using street cameras and cell phone triangulation. At one point in this book, and I don't know at what page because Kindle stupidly doesn't give you a page number but a percentage (please Kindle programers, put the page numbers in there), the terrorists were going to go after Mike Nash's family. And I said more than a little annoyed, "Earl, this is some bullshit and we are not going to read about kids getting killed." And Earl* agreed. And we didn't read the book again until Bill confirmed to me last night that no kids were going to be killed. Then I finished it in about 15 minutes. I'm sorry, I gotta draw the line at kids being killed for the sake of plot advancement.

*No, I am not reading the book out loud to Earl. He is usually just the one closest when I read in bed at night. That is, when he's put on his cloak of bravery and made the hallway his bitch.

Let's All Go to the ...

...NEUROSURGEON! Look who self-referred herself to the neurosurgeon! Ooh me! Ooh me! It only took 7 phone calls, an hour and 20 minutes of my life and some patience. Just in time because today went like this:

Me: (standing up) ack!

Me: (standing still) ack!

Me: (moving about the classroom)- ack!

Kid: Ms. Thompson are you ok?

Me: (sitting down) ack, ack!

Kid: Mrs. Thompson...

Me: MRS THOMPSON IS MY MOM!!

Kid: Sorry, MS. Thompson...

Me: I may not be able to move around this classroom, but I swear on my life will be able to see you if you are cheating on your final exam! ack!

Kids: (whispering) She's full crap whatcha got for number 4?

Me: I can see you! ack ack!!

Kid: B

(Shhhh, Earl is laying in the hallway!)

Momma Called the Doctor and the Doctor Said...

You're fucked; switch to Kaiser.

Actually, those words didn't actually come out of the Blue Shield customer service representative's mouth, but that's how I interpreted what he did say. He said a lot of blah blah blah about my benefits and what I had to do in order to go to a doctor that was not in the high desert, which involved going through this whole freaking process again because I would have to go to a new primary care physician and explain my problem all over again. I'd probably have to pledge my first born child for medical science or who knows what else. So once again, my back is never going to be fixed.

I still can't move very well. A second day of sitting on the couch revealed that I do not like Law and Order: Los Angeles for many reasons including that there are no women, unless they are raped or maimed. Bridezillas was only repeats of what I'd already seen and at the risk of sounding ridiculous, the only one I want to see is the second half of the episode where the girl threw her platinum ring in the wine because she didn't like it and stormed out of the restaurant screaming, "I won't wear it. It's fucking ugly!" I even looked online, but since I didn't catch her name I don't know who to look for, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't looking forward to it.

Over It

I am so over this business with Earl and the hallway. Yesterday Jessica came over and made me dinner at my house. I can't go to Jessica's house for these reasons:

1. She has a cat.
2. There's a cat.
3. A cat lives there.
4. I would die.
5. She lives in an abandoned bus.

Jessica doesn't really live in an abandoned bus, but there's an abandoned bus on the property, so fair's fair. Anyways, I come home, no movement in the hallway. Jessica comes over and Earl follows her as if he wasn't ever even afraid one bit. Whatever. The dog is wacked out.

In other news, two days of muscle relaxers have not helped my lower back. I still look like I'm 100 years old and it is uncertain if I will be able to ride bikes this morning, or, or, even more importantly if I will be able to go to Wal-Mart and get dog food. Sure, I could have someone put it in the truck, but how will I get it out? And I needs me some dog food.

Torment

I spoke too soon. The ghosts are still here and brought some poltergeists. Earl never even made it to bed. And he hasn't stopped crying.

Glitter Baby eBook Review

Anticipating the possible arrival of a purchased, but let's face it not at all used, Nook and encouraged that Leilani's Nook said that she could "Lend Me" Jayne Ann Krentz's new book, I downloaded the Nook app to my iPad. (The "Lend Me" turned out to be full of shit because it took us two days to figure out it wasn't a lendable book.) The book I purchased was Glitter Baby by Susan Elizabeth Phillips, who is one of my favorite romance writers ever.

That's right. I said romance. Romance, romance romance. I have read and have enjoyed romance novels. You might be thinking oh romance novels are senseless drivel, poorly written smut read only by welfare mothers and desperate women. And I say that whatever, schmever. I have my own complex theory about why romance novels are considered such crap and their 'status' in literary circles that traces back to the literary sexism of the preciosité movement in France in the 17th century and includes an analysis of the syntax of various novels, the taboo subject of women and sex and including the feminist theory of traditional plots being a metaphor for the male orgasm, but that's a whole other post. (Lest you think that I have just pulled this theory out of my ass, I offer you this as the proof of the validity of my theory: in college I lived in the mother-in-law house of the head of the Women's Studies department and one evening when she was having a party and I brought up my theory and all of the Women's Studies majors and attendees were like wow, she's kinda got a point. Also, I started a romance book club at Fresno State when I was there. Keep in mind I did not drink ever in college, so all of this was sober talk.) So if you are thinking that romance novels are not worthy then I say to you "You can suck it."

That being said, romance novels is too generic a term. Any romance reader knows that there are so many different genres of romance novels that it's impossible to get two romance readers in the room and have them like any two same books. And yes, there is some really shitty romance novels out there. Additionally, romance novels have gone through quite the evolution. In general 1980's romance novels involve women who are 'raped' or forced to have sex with these men and then they fall in love. (There's a whole theory just on that, but I digress.) 1990s book go beyond that and the 2000s have seen a surge in paranormal stories.

And so, I get to my review of Glitter Baby which I bought for these two reasons: it was written by Susan Elizabeth Phillips who is one of my favorite authors because her characters are funny and witty and make me laugh and also it was only $1.99. Immediately I was dismayed because I realized that the book was published and took place in the 1980s making it a romance novel in the era during which I hate reading romance novels due to the aforementioned tendency to make sex violent and unwanted, but wanted. But I forced myself to have an open mind since it only cost me two bucks. And then Tuesday night I read until midnight. Sure, yes, the leaning was toward the 80s violent oh I don't, but yes I do, sex. Sure, there was this bizarre culture in which people typed on a type writter (wtf?.) But it was like a warm meal of comfort food. Coming home. There was the usual banter. The usual misunderstanding that leads to years of the hero and heroine not talking, but secretly pining after each other. Was this one of Susan Elizabeth Phillips' best? No. But she gets extra props because all of the French was correct and that was the first time in months that I looked up and realized it was midnight and I was still reading.

My Spine

The good news is the ghosts have left the building even without the exorcism or Earl has forgotten that he is afraid of the hallway. Either way he is roaming about as if the hall never presented any kind of threat or menace in his canine life. Do over. Maybe he's drinking a lot and has blacked out the past few days. Who the hell knows. The dog's name is Earl.

In other news, I went back to the orthopedic doctor today. Back to is sort of a misnomer, I think, since I originally saw this guy August 30 and it's taken this long for the insurance to give me the big okey doke to have my follow up appointment. It's been a super chouette day because yesterday I must have pulled the muscles in my back so today my lower back keeps cramping up, which has forced me to take a muscle relaxer and codeine so that I can try to decompress in order to be able to function somewhat normally tomorrow. (If this post degenerates into incomprehensible mutter, you will know why.) Normally when my back hurts I tell the kids, je suis vieille to which the very kind students reply, sometimes even emphatically, tu n'es pas vieille, but today I was forced to say, je suis super vieille and then hobble wherever I was going to go which, as usual, was not very far. Revenons à nos moutons, the doctor looked at my new x-ray that I had done and said "You need surgery." A lumbar discectomy (or diskectomy according to the 'girl' who came to have me sign paperwork) and fusion. This would involve taking out the collapsed disc, doing blah blah blah, inserting a cadaver disc and blah blah blah putting in some screws. I would be off work for six weeks. Able to drive after 2-3 weeks. Up and walking the next day. And in the hospital two to three days. Back to running and jumping and hiking all over within six months. Bleuhg, sign here please.

Finally, at least a solution. I was beginning to think that I would never hear any kind of solution. Gretchen's husband Buddy hurt his back at the beginning of December and had surgery today and overcome with jealousy I started throwing out suggestions that people at work kick me in the back because I thought maybe workman's' comp would go faster than this escargot scramble. I did not, however, sign on the dotted line. I said, "I am not deciding today, fifteen minutes after I heard this that I am going to have back surgery at 35 years old. How bout no." Then I got a carsalesman pitch about the doctor's capabilities, "there's no one better, everyone is walking afterwards, he is he chief surgeon at the hospital." I said, "Yeah no. I'll get a second opinion on this thank you very much." Because Dr. Puri, does not look like Derek Sheperd or Dr. Webber, or heck, even the cute intern with the great eyes so I'm not sure about his qualifications to be Chief Surgeon. Additionally, we would still have to wait for the insurance to approve this adventure and at the rate they move, I could be 40 before they decided to make a decision on anything.

Who You Gonna Call?

After an intense discussion with my colleagues and a similarly intense conversation en français with 5th period, I have come to the conclusion that my house is haunted. And not only haunted, but haunted by either Black Cat or Sarah or possibly even both and Earl refuses to enter the hallway because he knows that this is the pathway to the otherside. When I got my nails done, the nail techs suggested that perhaps Earl was afraid to walk down the hall because he fell once, so maybe I should try to put down some towels to see if that helped.

You can see that pre-towel Earl was stuck on the outskirts of the hallway and that with the towel he is still on the outskirts of the hallway and that the towel only provided a comfy spot for Randi and Clark to cuddle. I am now near about convinced that I am going to have to do some kind of séance or exorcism or ghost busting in order to purge the ghosts from the hallway and to free Earl from whatever the heck is going on in his weed fried brain. I have since removed the towel, since it was just an invitation to Mischief.

Possibilities

Getting out of the bedroom and down the hall this morning was not easy for Earl. Randi and I had to flank him on either side and I had to drag him and then I thought he was going to lose control of himself before he made it to the safety of the living room. This evening, he made one frantic attempt to get down the hall, where he and Randi chewed up a pillow in my room while I was on the computer. Then I yelled and threw them both out.

I'm puzzled about this resurgence of hallwayphobia. After discussing with friends what could be going on, I have come up with these possibilities:

1. My house is haunted by a ghost who lives in the hallway and which only Earl can see.
2. Earl's most recent pot purchase was of questionable quality and makes him paranoid when he smokes.

Phobias

You may remember that about two years ago Earl developed an irrational fear of the hallway and would not walk in the hallway for about a month. I thought Earl had been cured of his phobia, since he has been roaming freely about the house for over two years now. That is, until a little before midnight last night, when Earl walked back into the house and stood in the living room and then proceeded to cry for two hours because he wanted to be down the hallway. I even got up and tried to drag him down the hall, but he got so scared he pulled out of his collar and ran away. Finally about 1:30am I heard the scurry of paws trying to find purchase on the laminate flooring and a rush of movement and a moment later Earl was curled up in the bed like everyone else. It remains to be seen if he will be willing to risk his life again to get out of the bedroom this morning.

Seymore

Seymore, like all original inhabitants at the Saratoga Animal Shelter, has suffered in the Randi and Earl era. All domiciles benefit from protection and Seymore is the first line in defense at the Saratoga Animal Shelter. Sans peur, Seymore has steadfastly protected the Saratoga Animal Shelter, even before it was such. His prowess was known to the CAB (Crazy Ass Bitch) down the street when she asked if he was quaking. Long before we became a shelter, Symore protected us. As of late, Seymore has suffered. Spending many a hour on its side, the unintended by product of Mischief, Seymore has continued to defend the Saratoga Animal Shelter.*

*Seymore predates even le Petit Clark et son beau manteau et la belle Sarah. He arrived even before them, and because of his inanimate nature did not require chicken wire wired to the fence every 6 inches. (Le Petit Clark being too, well, not as smart as La Belle Sarah, to figure out how to escape.)

Holding Hands

Mischief has been on a vacation this week.

Snow Day!!

No school today because it snowed! The only 'glitch' in the snow day is that someone was so busy yelling 'it's snowing!' last night to have the forethought to bring in dry wood.

I was pretty excited to see PDub in the duckhouse because last night she was sleeping in the snow and now I'll know if she is laying eggs. I hope so because her belly was getting ridiculous again. I threw Randi and Earl outside to build a snowman because I was tired of indoor wrestling.

Happy New Year

My original New Year's Eve plan was to do nothing. Then Ami suggested I try to get Randi and Earl drunk and see what kind of mischief they might create. I went with that plan until I realized that I could watch Pillars of the Earth on Netflix. I rearranged furniture, again. I made two quiches with my duck eggs (yummy!) and was still planning on liquoring up the dogs until I got a pounding headache and had to call it a night at 8:45 because blinking hurt too much. (No, it was not a hangover headache.) I did wake up at midnight because of the rocket launchers going off in the neighborhood and so I could take some more headache medicine. Randi and Earl and Clark stayed sober and quiet despite the rocket launchers.


Clark showing off his new coat that Steffi bought him because she said that the Burberry one I made was not warm enough. I had to add four inches to the belly strap and it was barely enough. But he is one toasty little guy when he keeps it on. And let's be honest, quite dashing.