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Missing Little Green Men; Feuding Cats
Jun. 7th, 2026 08:19 amWhaddiya know. The cheap weed wacker did exactly what I needed it to do once I reassembled it so the retaining cap didn't keep falling off.
Of course, the feature I really wanted—six little green men who crawl out of the box, fall to their knees, and begin weeding out stumps and roots—was not available. That still needs to be a by-hand shovel job. Hey! You get what you pay for.
###
The kiskas are hating heavily on each other this morning. They spend about 30% of their time grooming each other and 40% hissing and batting at one another. (The other 30% they spend sleeping obliviously on opposite corners of the Patrizia-torium.) But this morning, they were going after each other tooth and nail with such fury, I had to get out the spray bottle.
What set them off, I wonder?
Mabel was so pissed off about something that she actually woke me up around 5—leaving me under-rested for the Schlock alumni luncheon that I have somehow agreed to go to later today.
When I went downstairs, I found the front door wide open.
This is another one of the peculiarities of the House of Icky: The front door does not stay closed when it's windy out.
Fortunately, the house is in a remote rural area. Unless a serial killer has recently escaped from one of the local prisons, an open front door is unlikely to endanger me.
However! Molly likes to think of herself as an indoor-outdoor cat, and I have found her wandering outside a couple of times after the door has blown open. That is worrisome because if a hawk will go after a chicken, it will also go after a cat.
Did Molly wander outside last night?
Did Mabel wake me up to tattle on her?
###
Chatted a little with Ichabod last night.
Realized that while I was quite good at keeping myself occupied and productive when I lived on the other side of the river, I am miserable at it here. Though I did try when I first moved here.
Really not much I can do about that: It is the place; it is not me.
But, of course, it feels as though it's me.
I'm part of an epidemic! Isolated senior citizens.
If I were more of an egomaniac, the Work in Progress would sustain me. I would think of this isolation as a kind of literary retreat and funnel all of my energy into words.
But my ego is simply not strong enough for that kind of role-play game. Yes, the words are important. To me. But I have no idea if they'll ever be important to anyone else, and I need involvement in stuff that is important to everyone else to round out my resume as a Real Human Girl.
Anyway.
I'll book the Michigan trip today.
If that doesn't work out... It's Ithaca.
One way or another, I need to start thinking about packing and moving logistics (ugh).
I was thinking I might hire Sarah to help me pack. Sarah is the sweet, over-burdened single mother who appalled me that one time at Schlock by dressing so the crack of her ass showed when she sat with a client. (She was actually a reasonably competent tax preparer.) I am probably going to need someone to help me pack. I'm really going to that luncheon today to get her contact info.
Of course, the feature I really wanted—six little green men who crawl out of the box, fall to their knees, and begin weeding out stumps and roots—was not available. That still needs to be a by-hand shovel job. Hey! You get what you pay for.
###
The kiskas are hating heavily on each other this morning. They spend about 30% of their time grooming each other and 40% hissing and batting at one another. (The other 30% they spend sleeping obliviously on opposite corners of the Patrizia-torium.) But this morning, they were going after each other tooth and nail with such fury, I had to get out the spray bottle.
What set them off, I wonder?
Mabel was so pissed off about something that she actually woke me up around 5—leaving me under-rested for the Schlock alumni luncheon that I have somehow agreed to go to later today.
When I went downstairs, I found the front door wide open.
This is another one of the peculiarities of the House of Icky: The front door does not stay closed when it's windy out.
Fortunately, the house is in a remote rural area. Unless a serial killer has recently escaped from one of the local prisons, an open front door is unlikely to endanger me.
However! Molly likes to think of herself as an indoor-outdoor cat, and I have found her wandering outside a couple of times after the door has blown open. That is worrisome because if a hawk will go after a chicken, it will also go after a cat.
Did Molly wander outside last night?
Did Mabel wake me up to tattle on her?
###
Chatted a little with Ichabod last night.
Realized that while I was quite good at keeping myself occupied and productive when I lived on the other side of the river, I am miserable at it here. Though I did try when I first moved here.
Really not much I can do about that: It is the place; it is not me.
But, of course, it feels as though it's me.
I'm part of an epidemic! Isolated senior citizens.
If I were more of an egomaniac, the Work in Progress would sustain me. I would think of this isolation as a kind of literary retreat and funnel all of my energy into words.
But my ego is simply not strong enough for that kind of role-play game. Yes, the words are important. To me. But I have no idea if they'll ever be important to anyone else, and I need involvement in stuff that is important to everyone else to round out my resume as a Real Human Girl.
Anyway.
I'll book the Michigan trip today.
If that doesn't work out... It's Ithaca.
One way or another, I need to start thinking about packing and moving logistics (ugh).
I was thinking I might hire Sarah to help me pack. Sarah is the sweet, over-burdened single mother who appalled me that one time at Schlock by dressing so the crack of her ass showed when she sat with a client. (She was actually a reasonably competent tax preparer.) I am probably going to need someone to help me pack. I'm really going to that luncheon today to get her contact info.
