Can you stand another post about cats? Course you can.

I’ve been dealing with Dobson‘s insane kitten personality for almost a month now and things are starting to settle down. Sometimes he’s a complete asshole, but he usually makes up for it when he does that little thing he does. Anyway [...]]]>

Can you stand another post about cats? Course you can.

I’ve been dealing with Dobson‘s insane kitten personality for almost a month now and things are starting to settle down. Sometimes he’s a complete asshole, but he usually makes up for it when he does that little thing he does. Anyway remember that traveling slut calico cat from last summer?

Well she came back and look at her! She’s in winter survival mode and is not friendly. When she saw Dobson, she was pretty jealous, but hey, she disappears for weeks at a time. I had to move on!

Dobson taunted her because Dobson isn’t smart enough to be afraid of anything yet. The Beast hissed and growled:

And then they had a standoff by the bathroom which was more Dobson hanging out and The Beast looking perplexed:

So, am I crazy cat dude yet?

If I’ve gotten to know you, even a little bit, chances are I’ve given you a nickname. That’s right. Even if I only “virtually” know you, I’ve probably given you a nickname. And, chances are, you don’t know it, because I only use these nicknames in my head.

Oh sure, you may [...]]]>

If I’ve gotten to know you, even a little bit, chances are I’ve given you a nickname. That’s right. Even if I only “virtually” know you, I’ve probably given you a nickname. And, chances are, you don’t know it, because I only use these nicknames in my head.

Oh sure, you may have spotted me using some of these nicknames here at WWFC and around the Internet. For years, I’ve called my co-blogger, Mike, Smick. Ziva, of Ziva’s Inferno, is Lemmikki. Linda, from The Good, The Bad, The Worse, is Hon. Meleah, from Momma Mia, Mea Culpa, is Sweet Thing. And, as a result of her calling me Nick, I finally started publicly calling Margaret, of Nanny Goats In Panties, Mags.

But for the most part, I keep them to myself. The thing is, I’m never sure how people feel about being given a nickname. Personally, I’ve always wanted one. If you ever watched Seinfeld, there’s an episode where George wants the cool nickname, T-Bone. He ends up being known as Coco the Monkey.

As Mags once told me: "Be careful what you wish for. And what's that thing on your face?"

Growing up, my dad gave everyone a nickname. Everyone but me. My brothers, my mom, his friends, people he worked with – they all had nicknames. One time, I asked him why he didn’t have a nickname for me. He just shrugged. When I demanded one, he pretended to think for a moment then asked “How about Manure Brain?”

I was hoping for Princess, or Angel. Instead I got Shithead.  Sigh.

No, my dad didn’t really start calling me that. Besides sharing the gene that makes us compulsively rename people, we also share the sarcasm gene and the did-you-really-just-issue-an-order-and-seriously-think-I’m-going-to-follow-it gene.

So he never gave me a nickname.

So, I’ve decided to get my own. I discovered that there are actually such things as nickname generators.  Yup, you put in your name, gender and choose which “category” of nickname you’d like and abracadabra! A choice of super cool nicknames just for you.

Except.

They’re not really super cool. Like I said, they’ve got a bunch of categories you can choose from: mobster, superhero, goth, spy, dragon, etc. First I chose spy, thinking that was going to be so badass. Among the names that came up: Thunderball, Blofeld, Jinx and Agent86. How lame is that? And unoriginal too!!

I could totally pull off a full-length cape.

So I chose the superhero category.

Maybe I should write to Josh Holloway. He played Sawyer on Lost and his character gave everyone nicknames.

And he always took his shirt off. Sigh. He could call me anything he liked.

Image from here and forever burned into my brain

It was a cold and stormy Saturday night exactly exactly 43 years ago. Ok, no it wasn’t. It was a cold and stormy Saturday morning exactly 43 years ago. Sort of. It was cold, but not stormy. It was a cold and sunny Saturday morning exactly 43 years ago. Actually, I’m not sure if it [...]]]>

It was a cold and stormy Saturday night exactly exactly 43 years ago. Ok, no it wasn’t. It was a cold and stormy Saturday morning exactly 43 years ago. Sort of. It was cold, but not stormy. It was a cold and sunny Saturday morning exactly 43 years ago. Actually, I’m not sure if it was sunny. It may have been overcast, but not stormy. I don’t really know for sure because, even though I was there, I was only a few minutes old.

While this isn't my baby picture, the baby bears a striking resemblance to me as a baby. Somebody really should have let me know it was all downhill from there.

So let’s go with what I do know. It was a cold Saturday morning exactly 43 years ago. My father pulled up to the hospital shortly before 8 am. My mother was whisked off to the super-secret-no-husbands-allowed-in-case-they-see-stuff-that-they-shouldn’t-see delivery room. My father was given the mandatory 1,000-page admittance-slash-this-will-help-you-ignore-the-blood-curdling-screams form.

On the upside, it's not like my mom could use the old "I was in labour for 3 and a half months and nearly died because of you!" spiel.

Exactly 24-minutes and 3 questions into the form, a nurse walked up to my father and congratulated him on his bouncing baby girl. He, of course, let her know that he and his wife had only just arrived so the nurse was obviously mistaking him for some other father. The nurse laughed and told him there was no mistake. He had a baby girl.

Yes, I was born in 24 minutes. And no, superhero-like child-birthing powers are not hereditary. Dammit.

And, yes. Today is my birthday.

It's kinda of sad when your family brings out the fire extinguisher at the same time as your birthday cake.

I’m cool with getting older. Especially since most people, actually all people, tell me I look easily 10 years younger. And act 30 years younger. Whatever that means.

So, no, I don’t mind getting older. I’m not one of those women who feels the overwhelming need to fight the aging process with every single fibre of my sagging, thickening, drooping, wrinkling, tired being.  Not at all.

I’m not one of those women who walks past perky 20-somethings and spitefully thinks of all the ways they will be ruined by time and pregnancies. The thought that the rose tattoo on Miss Perky’s boob will be long-stemmed before she can say “What do you mean no mini-skirts after 30?!” has NEVER crossed my mind. Ever.

Yeah, those thorns are a real bitch.

I’ve certainly never considered getting work done. When men go through a mid-life crisis, they get fancy sports cars and 22-year old girlfriends secretaries. When women go through a mid-life crisis, they have breast implant surgery and facelifts so they can look like 22-year old girlfriends secretaries.

Not me, though. Without going into too many Details, the “girls” are more than aDequate. And since I don’t look my age, my face doesn’t need lifting. And although my tummy might appreciate a little tucking, I’m of the belief that my waistline should be reduced the good, old-fashioned way – by throwing up after every meal.

So I’m totally okay with getting old. Oh, fine. I’m mostly okay with getting old. I can hear you scoffing, you know. Alright. I’m sort of okay with getting old. Shut. Up.

Look, I’m not checking out plastic surgery prices or anything, okay?

But if you and 5,000 of your friends wanted to send me a dollar each for my birthday, I’m sure my tummy and I could find something to do with it.

Until then, I’m just going to drink. A lot.

Happy birthday to me Happy birthday to me I look like a middle-aged frumpy tired drunk And I drink like one too.

Really? Are they really going to make me state the obvious? It seems they are.

I just read this article in Forbes about how the Physicians Committee for Responsible Medicine (PCRM) has decided to raise public awareness regarding cheese and how it turns you into this:

Yes, I am certain *this* is the [...]]]>

Really? Are they really going to make me state the obvious? It seems they are.

I just read this article in Forbes about how the Physicians Committee for Responsible Medicine (PCRM) has decided to raise public awareness regarding cheese and how it turns you into this:

Yes, I am certain *this* is the result of eating too much *cheese*

The ads went up in Albany, New York, where they claim nearly 63% of Albany’s adults are overweight or obese. The PCRM goes on to state: “One in four New Yorkers under the age of 18 is obese and the obesity rate for children between 6 and 11 years of age has quadrupled over 30 years.”

They also note that Albany school lunches are abundant in cheesy foods, like pizzas and triple-cheese lasagnas, and that cheese is the number-one source of saturated fat in the American diet.

So, it’s all cheese’s fault. The cheese makes us not understand that triple-cheese lasagna does not mean to add three times the cheese instead of using three types of cheese while NOT increasing the final quantity.

And I’m sure the pizza’s 3-inch thick crust, made with processed white flour and lard, has nothing to do with increasing waistlines. Or the greasy pepperoni, cut 1/4- inch thick. Not to mention the gallon of soda served alongside.

This looks so healthy, I mistook it for a vegetable.

No, it’s definitely the cheese.

Now, I realize I could easily be accused of bias. I love cheese. Somewhat unnaturally, I might add. But I ask you to consider the fact that the French eat cheese 3 times per day. Everyday. And yet, they are not facing an obesity crisis. Not even close.

Actually, the closest thing they’ve got to a crisis is determining just how high up their noses should be while ignoring tourists asking for directions.

See the guy in the back? In the red shirt? Obviously a tourist. Mock him at will.

What really killed me about this article was a quote by Marion Nestle, a Paulette Goddard Professor in the Department of Nutrition, Food Studies and Public Health at New York University.

She disagrees with the ads but includes this brilliant analysis of the campaign: “… they focus on personal responsibility without saying anything about the food marketing environment that makes it so difficult for so many people to eat healthfully.”

Really? They focus on personal responsibility? I thought they focused on cheese being the root of all fatty evil. And I’m sorry, but the food marketing environment makes it difficult for people to eat healthy? Seriously?

Seems the PCRM isn’t alone in blaming others.

Marketing made me eat this instead of a salad. Marketing also made me buy a John Deere tractor on sale. Nobody can control themselves in the face of marketing. Nobody.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to ask my doctor about Cialis.

Seriously. Does she look like she cares if it's for her?

Hi. How’s it going? *looks at computer screen expectantly*

…

…

Ok, then. Moving right along.

I’m doing just fine. Well, no. I’m not. Not really. I am experiencing technical difficulties. See, technically, I can write. But, technically, I just don’t feel like it. This has happened [...]]]>

Seriously. Does she look like she cares if it's for her?

Hi. How’s it going? *looks at computer screen expectantly*

…

…

Ok, then. Moving right along.

I’m doing just fine. Well, no. I’m not. Not really. I am experiencing technical difficulties. See, technically, I can write. But, technically, I just don’t feel like it. This has happened before and it wasn’t too bad because I could count on my co-blogger and BFF CheesyMike to pick up my slack.

Unfortunately, CheesyMike is all busy being mom to a  cat. Even though he has a beard. And a penis.

You did understand that I meant CheesyMike has a beard and penis, not the cat, right? Although, technically, the cat has a penis too.

Technical difficulties, remember?

Anyhoo.

Mike’s not writing because he’s busy with 3 o’clock fur balls, visits to the vet, being a human scratching post and saying things like “Who’s a good kitty? Are you a good kitty? Yes you are. That’s right. Momma’s got a good kitty.” Not to mention calling me up to make me listen to his cat.

Uh huh.

Do you know what a cat sounds like on the phone? Pretty much like this:

…

…

Anyhoo.

Before Mike got the cat, he came over one evening for a whine and cheese soiree. He brought the cheese. And the whine.

See, his parents recently celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary, and decided to go on a cruise. With the rest of his family. He got left behind, kinda like the annoying little blond kid in Home Alone. He assured me he wasn’t at all bitter about it and was already planning to take them out for dinner when they returned. To McDonald’s.

In any case, we had decided that since we nearly always review local cheeses, we would go “international” this time. Mike brought over 5 cheeses from different countries.

One of the cheeses from France was called Régal de Bourgogne.

It's covered with bits of dried papaya.

It’s a double cream cow’s milk cheese, which means it is very rich and very fattening. It’s also sweet and delicious. Seriously. Like, stupid good. Not better than the Pomegranate Blueberry goat cheese we had, but damn close.

My extensive research (15 seconds of looking at the Google search results) shows that Régal de Bourgogne is also covered with raisins or mustard seed. While the mustard seed version sounds appealing, I hate raisins. Which is why I didn’t bother with any further research. Also, technically, I didn’t feel like it.

Anyhoo.

Why mess with a good thing? Papaya covered double cream cheese is awesome. Now go find some. You won’t regret it.

And, for the love of cheese, don’t EVER make someone listen to your cat on the phone.

Imagine a really witty caption here.

Can I tell you a secret? I used to have spam envy. That’s right. People were always sharing their stories about the funny email spam they would get, yet I would get no spam at all, so I couldn’t join in the conversation.

Ok, maybe no spam is a [...]]]>

Imagine a really witty caption here.

Can I tell you a secret? I used to have spam envy. That’s right. People were always sharing their stories about the funny email spam they would get, yet I would get no spam at all, so I couldn’t join in the conversation.

Ok, maybe no spam is a bit of an exaggeration. Let’s just say I got none of the really good spam. Mostly, I would get just get junk mail sent by friends and family. You know, the tired jokes, chain letters and the fake warning emails that get passed around endlessly by people who should know better.

My lack of spam was giving me a complex.

I visit porn sites surf the net, shop online, and have signed up for a few newsletters. Why didn’t I get offers of Viagra? Why wasn’t I being told I could make $5,000 a month working from home? How come nobody wanted to send me a lovely Eastern European bride?  Am I not worthy?

When I signed up with Skype, I was all excited to get my first Skype spam. The poetic request to chat, the broken English, the subtle inference that naked pictures would be appreciated and, of course, kept strictly private… Finally! I had arrived.

Or so I thought.

That was the first and last message I got from a Skype spammer.

Sigh. How much of a loser was I that even spammers didn’t want anything to do with me?

But all of that has changed now. The Internet gods have reviewed my file and found me deserving. For the past few weeks, I have been receiving spam. On an hourly basis. Every single day.

I am worthy, at last!

Except.

My spam is giving me a complex.

Why do they say it's a dog's life? Seems to me like it's a sloth's life.

Apparently, after reviewing my file, the Internet gods have determined I’m too lazy to walk down the stairs to my basement twice a day to do laundry and far too lazy to walk the 12 feet from the door of my house to the door of my car. I’m getting emails offering me great deals on power chairs and scooters.

I look very happy for someone who's only seconds away from death, don't I?

I won’t need the power chairs and scooters for long though. Just until I choose the perfect senior living option for my lazy old ass. Luckily, I’ve been getting plenty of emails recomending a number of premium, yet affordable, retirement homes for me to choose from.

And I’m sure the good people at the home will be able to help me with my medicare enrollment. Now, it seems my advanced years have also addled my brain because I thought, being Canadian, I was covered by our universal healthcare plan and didn’t need to enroll for medicare. But, it would appear I must since the diligent people behind these emails most certainly verified my IP address before hitting send, right?

Yes, I graduated from Mascot School. Shuddup. It's not as easy as you think.

Mind you, I can’t blame this all on the senility. I know I just graduated this past September with 3 university degrees, but based on the rather urgent demands for me to sign up NOW to get an online degree, it seems I’m still stupid.

Of course, I’m sure being sleep deprived doesn’t help me any. I’m sure I’ll be better able to focus my lazy, old, addled, stupid self  once I purchase a lifetime supply of homeopathic sleep aids made by Buddhist monks and available at a whopping 70% off!!

So, yeah. I have a complex.

But don’t feel too badly for me. According to the alerts I’ve been getting, amazingly enough, as pathetic as I am, there are cyber criminals out there RIGHT NOW who are trying to steal my lazy, old, addled, stupid and tired identity.

I’m sure it’s because they don’t get no spam.

Ok, people. If ever there was a time to comment on a blog post, this would be the one. Because I am at the end of my rope. My family is being torn apart like a group of Crusading English Knights attempting to cross the path of a killer bunny. I just can’t take it [...]]]>

Ok, people. If ever there was a time to comment on a blog post, this would be the one. Because I am at the end of my rope. My family is being torn apart like a group of Crusading English Knights attempting to cross the path of a killer bunny. I just can’t take it anymore. Any of it. The yelling, the cursing, the flinging of cardboard toilet paper rolls in anger. Oh yes. Flinging. Of. Cardboard.

You can’t imagine the horror.

Please leave a comment letting my entire family know which picture demonstrates the CORRECT way to place a toilet paper roll on the dispenser thingy. Before I kill someone.

Picture 1 - or what I call the RIGHT way.

Picture 2 - otherwise known as the WRONG way.

Please cast your vote for the first either one of the above pictures. Majority rules, so whichever photo receives the most votes by the end of this week will decide the fate of every future toilet paper roll to grace the dispenser thingy in my bathroom.

Yes, I will honour the law of the blogosphere.

Even if it is the wrong way.*Please don’t make me put toilet paper on the wrong way for the rest of my life.*

Thank you.

Facing certain death, Dobson was rescued from a town in northern Quebec. He’s a three month old farm cat whose intestines are probably crawling with parasites and other interesting organisms.

But he’s adorable

And now he’s mine.

And he’s totally OK with me being his mom.

Even though I have a beard and a penis.

Anyhow, this is Dobson:

He’s [...]]]>

Facing certain death, Dobson was rescued from a town in northern Quebec. He’s a three month old farm cat whose intestines are probably crawling with parasites and other interesting organisms.

But he’s adorable

And now he’s mine.

And he’s totally OK with me being his mom.

Even though I have a beard and a penis.

Anyhow, this is Dobson:

He’s pretty active, so when he’s not trying to kill his feathery mouse toy thing, he’s gotta sleep to recharge:

He’s also not that bright, but he’s starting to figure things out:

And he just discovered my fucking plants.

And my Internet Access Level has just changed from Regular Internet User to Internet Cat Content Contributer.