The Aftermath of A Quiet Weekend At Home
So much for staying in this weekend.
What was supposed to be a "us-only" weekend turned into social central. Not that I'm complaining, we had a fun weekend, but it was supposed to be me and my husband alone to celebrate our six-month anniversary of The Plunge (i.e.: Marriage) and exchange gifts, blah blah and so on. Here's a quick breakdown, with emphasis on the drama:
Friday night, as planned before the supposed seclusion, the Gib and the Gomer came over for dinner, for some light entertainment. They left very stuffed and happy, but our two cats gave them both allergic reactions that fucked them up. Some guilt, but then, no one otld me about the allergy.
Saturday, the Gomer asked if we wanted to help her move out of her two-bedroom efficiency apartment back into the house with Gibby (I'll explain LATER), and since we were bored out of our skulls and had nothing planned mixed with the gorgeous weather, we agreed. Well, the hub-unit agreed, I can't lift anything over, say, ten pounds. Helping her move was more like cracking a beer and having her give me shitloads of free clothing. You gotta love people who work in retail-land, because everything has to be the new trend and from the store they work at. I scored. We also spent our last 200 bux and walked away with a new 27 inch tv, entertainment center, and two dressers that we desperately needed.
And then there's the drama. Well, I shouldn't say drama, but it was more of a devil's advocate thing. The gib and gomer had been invited to a party later that evening, and oh how they did not want to go. I told them to make an excuse, and somehow me and mine got involved in said excuse. Phone drama ensued when the cancellation phone call was made, but afterwards we had cake and beer and pizza and I walked away with even more clothes. ey, I know that she was just foisting her fat clothes off on me, but who am I to turn down jeans that FIT? Besides, it saved the hub-unit from a day of shopping that would have included tears and desperation on both of our parts.
Sunday we tried to spend all day in bed, but trying to stay in bed all day when you need a shower and some coffee doth not work. And to make matters worse, the presents that I presented did not fit. I even had the wherewithal to buy two of them in different sizes just to be on the safe side, and still neither of them worked. In case you're wondering, I bought him a new wedding band. Titanium is so much manlier than white gold, I think, and he DID buy me a new wedding set so I thought that I would return the favor. And got shot in the ass.
The best part about the ring thing is that now since it was HIS account he has to do all the returning. At least now he knows what he's returning.
So now, with PILES of dishes still undone and the oven repair guy coming in an hour, I leave you to mull over the absolute mundanity of my weekend. I need to get outta these pj's before someone sees me like this.
--The (under-coiffed) Queen

The Sudden Realization that I (ME! OF ALL PEOPLE!!!) Suck
I was just surfing around the web, minding my own business, checking out other people's blogs, when the notion suddenly came to me...
I think my blog sucks.
Really.
It's so BORING.
Everyone else has something intelligent to write, but what do I do? I rant about what I see when I'm sitting on my ass watching the tv when I should be out having a life or something.
Maybe I have grown too complacent with providing a decent homelife for my husband.
Maybe I am losing my once-peppy and charismatic identity to that of a chubby housewife.
Oh wait, I AM a chubby housewife.
I need a gimmick.
Yes, a gimmick. I can't just have this blog turn into an "I love me" thing, because I don't love me. As a matter of fact, I write this blog in order for others to tell me I have a gift for satire, or perhaps just a passion for writing. I get neither, but for the occasional snark by my Avid Readers (you two know who you are), and all the other blogs I've seen are prettier than mine. I'm starting to get depressed....
Maybe it's just the weather here.
I know, one of these days I'll just stay on the net all day, and post every three hours. THAT should make you heathens read this. You never know what's going to pop up...
HA! haHAha!
--The (slightly insane) Queen

Tales from the Doctor's Office Redux (That's "redoo" for today)
Sorry about that. Laundry is apparently a genetically programmed skill only in women. Looks like guys can only fold, and fold only when it's warm. Whatever, on to the story!
So the Super-Pig had to get spayed. Now, I've never been the one to take my pets to the vet, the last pet I had my mom took care of all the icky medical necessities, so this was new. The hub-unit and I picked the closest place, with nary a speck of research. After all, a vet is a vet is a vet, right? WRONG.
Once again, I won't name the name, but as I said if you know where I live you'll figure out the geographic nearness of this particular doctor of pets. But I digress.. So we take the poor thing in, and here's what happened:
We walk in, fill out paperwork. So far, so normal..
After about five minutes the vet tech comes out, TAKES OUR CAT, and tells us to return at about 2 PM (it's now 9am). Once again, I think this is a normal, vet-type thing to do.
11 AM, the vet tech calls and tells us that the Amazing Pig's ears are clogged with ear-mitey goodness, and would we like to have them flush her ears? I'm the idiot who answers the phone, thinking I could handle this, and I ask if it's okay that we use the miticide that we have here in the house. INSTANTANEOUSLY, the vet tech is cut off and the vet herself starts yammering. I can only think that the doc was listening on the other line in order to have cut her tech off so immediately. The vet informs me that she will only charge us a mere 25 dollars for the procedure, seeing as how the cat is already unconscious, as opposed to the 75 she would normally charge. I hem and haw for a moment, ready to ask about the miticide we ALREADY HAVE AT HOME for the eightieth time, but the doc cuts me off and tells me she's doing it. Okay... Three more hours till pick-up time.
We pick up the as yet still-groggy super pet and take her home, after choking on the 216 dollar tab, which included the ridiculously over-priced piece of plastic we had to buy to stick around her head should she yank at the stitches. The doctor herself, who we didn't meet until AFTER the procedure, was high-strung, irritating, and desperately in need of a nap. She pushed that Revolution stuff like it was black tar heroin, and we really don't need it because we have indoor cats. Once again, despite the doctor's retchingly obvious need for a mood stabilizer, I still believe that this is normal.
Back at the ranch, we finally get a good look at what the doctor has done. METAL STITCHES. For those of you with some kind of technical training, our cat looked like someone had safety-wired her stomach. They hadn't cleaned the stitches so there was blood drying to a crack-glaze everywhere, and there were these HUGE metal tags. I mean, once Pig got up and mobile, she was catching them on everything. I was hysterical. Not to mention the fact that in seven days we were going back to have them taken out and get her booster shots given. Handsome Hubby, my knight in shining armor, was irate beacause I was crying.
Instantly, less than two hours after we got the cat home, we were calling other vets. It turns out that most vets have you bring in your pet for an exam, stay in the room with your pet while they do it, and ask questions before the procedure. It also turns out that while it IS the doctor's choice as to what to use for sutures, no one else on the island uses the metal ones. The last vet we called volunteered that if we brought Pig in for an exam, they would remove her stitches for free. Rock the fuck on...
It also turns out that you have to get boosters THREE weeks after the initial shots, or it doesn't do anything. Lessee, three weeks, seven days...hmmm. Bruce called the vet from hell and promptly chewed her a new asshole in several different places, and cancelled the next appointment. Honestly, I could give a rat's ASS how long she's been a vet, metal stitches? Come on, it's a CAT. That just begs for monofilament, especially the way they bounce about.
Special thanks to my mother, who was the first person to tell us to get away from that doctor and call around. Once we followed her advice and explained our situation to another vet, they were more than willing to help us out. I'm glad we did, because we had a whole 'nother cat to have taken care of.
I know, long and drawn out. But you asked for stories, kids, and this is my life. I promise, tommorrow will be a pop culture rant, I swear, but I had to get this off my chest.
--The (cathartic) Queen

HA HA HA
Turns out, I was sicker than a dog yesterday. I couldn't get out of bed at ALL, and Dr. Bruce forbid me from getting up from the warm covers of king-sized goodness. I could barely peel my eyes open to make it to the bathroom to barf. This is the first time I've actually been really sick since I was pregnant, so....
I HATE BEING SICK. It makes me feel less than spunky. I'll finish the vet story later today, when all the $&%*#*(ing laundry is done.

Tales from the Doctor's Office (Not for me, for the Cats!)
It is once again that time of the week where one of our four-footed terrors needs to go to the vet. I'm telling you people, that first set of vaccinations will drain you DRY. I used to have no problem taking the little buggers to the doctor, but one particular experience has soured me, and today I fell like elucidating, if only to get it out there and warn others.
There's a pet hospital just down the street from where I live ( I won't give the name, but if you know where I live you know where I'm talking about) that we took the Flying Pigwidgeon to when she needed to get spayed. And TRUST me folks, she needed to get spayed. After her first three heat cycles, you could tell she was half-siamese, and something had to be done.
You know what? Fuck it. I'm too tired. I'll finish this story later after a nap.

It's the Little Things...
Woke up before the husband this morning with no grumpiness, therefore granting me the right to slap on the Donna-Reedy cheerfulness usually only delegated to mothers at 6 am and butlers... Ordered the RIGHT anniversary present this time, with minimal head-smushing stress...Got the first cup of coffee before the sludge settled in...Got a big fat chunk a' blueberry in my slice of breakfast pudding ring.
It's not so much all these inane things prove that I have become Domicile Wifey Domesticus, it's just that fucking amazingly enough, I don't need the drama to survive. As a female, children, that is a good thing. Snoogs.
--The (coffeed up good and proper)Queen

I am....
Surrounded by fucking cheeseheads. I give up on expanding my readership to any more people than the shmuckatellies that comment on all the same entries (see What The Fuck??) So I've got my sister-in-law, my ex-roomie and her girlfriend, and ocassionally my husband when he checks to see if I'm dumping on him for some reason or another. That last part is actually a sweet deal, considering if there were any problems he would immediately fix them. Gotta love 'em. Check ya later, I'm a-hittin' the ebay like a shot of heroin between the toes. Snoog.
-- The Queen

Our first LETTER! WOO!
ok...so I am beth's sister in law. parent's think I am the weird one in the family. they just didn't understand the tall hair 20 years ago...they probably don't understand it now.

family was seemingly pissed about beth and bruce getting married...well not actually getting married, but they didn't date for 35 years ya know? I think it's cool. glad my brother didn't marry some broomstick-up-her-ass yuppy scum. Can't wait to meet her in person.

And for those of you who bitch because she doesn't post everyday by the time you think she should post.....suck my ass....get a fucking life.

love and kisses, peace or annihilation
katie


Ha Ha HAAAAAAAAAAAAA you bastaaaaaaaaaaaaaards! Someone likes me! HA HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
Okay, so she hasn't met me yet, but we spend hours of quality time on the internet together, so NYAH.

Til later then, Smoochies--
The Queen

How I fell in Love with Ernie
He's got a blog. He knows the Bay Area (matter of fact, he mentions Fremont by NAME). He's gay. He has a better life than I. He's ERNIE, and I stumbled upon his blog by playing the linkie game early in the wee hours, and it's true what the tagline say- "Little. Yellow. Different." How I long to have the life I once had. Ya know, if I'd started a damn blog while I was in the navy, pre-wedding, I would've had a more interesting range of topics. Now it's all dinner parties, long-distance phone calls, and housewifely duties. Now, I am not complaining about my apres-nuptial life, I'm just saying that compared to the DRAMA that had occurred before I'm a freaking cup of lite yogurt. I need to find a hobby.

--The Queen

Rattled Out By Queenie at 6:37 AM

Updated: Thursday, 11 March 2004 5:29 AM

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These are my friends, people! MY friends!
So I get a call yesterday from the bestest-best friend and she has this to tell me: there was an accident, a pile-up, her new (less than a DAY old) minivan, and a traffic helicopter leading to the six o'clock news. I've known Michelle for years now, how long I couldn't really tell you because a few of them were very inebriated, and in every accident involving her cars she had no blame whatsoever. None. The rear-ending she got in the AIMD parking lot? The other guy's fault and he gets a ticket for improper backing. Her car gets TOTALED in the AIMD parking lot by a chief in an SUV? She was in Florida on her much-earned honeymoon, there was someone else driving. I swear to god, she has the worst luck with cars but the best charmed life rating I've everfuckingseen. All I can say is that thank you cheezus they were never her fault of her insurance would be through the ROOF.

--The Queen