Poor Rosie!

Our poor dawg met Mister Porcupine today for the first time. One of my complaints about Ratty cat is that he is WAY too forgiving with the dog. At times Rosie could really use a good swat on the nose with a couple of claws in the mix, but Ratty just doesn't have it in him. Not even with mice anymore; early on when he still thought he was a stray he was an excellent mouser, but now the ones he brings in the house may be psychologically traumatized, but there is rarely a scratch on them when he lets them go in our beds at two in the morning.

So we had to spend about an hour this morning acquainting Rosie with another new friend, who we call Mister Needle-nosed Pliers.


There was an item that made the national news about a particular soft contact lens cleaner that might be connected to a rare type of eye infection that can lead to blindness.

I arrived late in contact world, having only got them six or seven years ago, in my mid-thirties. Before then I wore glasses. Now I wear contacts nearly all the time, but it took some adjusting since I was real skeevy about sticking things in my eyes.

Recognizing a Stroke

My mom sent me one of those ubiquitous email thingies except this one seems to actually do some good. It's how the average schmoe (that would be you or me, dontcha know) can recognize a stroke in another person. There's no need to go into the pointless anecdote about someone having a stroke at a party 'cuz everyone's heard such stories. Here's the stuff you NEED to know:

S *Ask the individual to SMILE.

T *Ask the person to TALK, to SPEAK A SIMPLE SENTENCE. (Coherently) (i.e. . . It is sunny out today)

R *Ask him or her to RAISE BOTH ARMS.

Blogging the Snog

My sister called me yesterday requiring verification of something she was apparently telling someone about our childhood. I can see where there would be confusion because, thanks to the latest installment of Harry Potter, there was some media attention focused on the British word "snogging" which apparently means kissing or making out.

More on the Grand Canyon

I finished reading The Weasel's morbid book on the Grand Canyon, and strange as it may seem it has made me more determined than ever to go there and visit. Some of it may be hubris, pretending I am indeed smarter than some of the chuckleheads in said book ("Lookit me! Quick! Take a picture! Waaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh!") but I think most of it is that it scared me, and being a phobic person from 'way back I have learned (the hard way, I assure you!) that the only way to conquer fear is to face it and not run away like the screaming coward I actually am. So now I am determined to go to the Grand Canyon and go rafting and muling and camping and the whole nine yards.

A Nice Charity!

I was at the library yesterday and must have received a dozen telemarketer phone calls for various pathetic obscure publishers and whatnot trying to sell me books. What, is it something about April that drives them out of the woodworks? I HATE getting such calls at work because there is no caller ID and I am forced to answer the phone and be polite to them. At home I screen my calls and if I don't recognize the number--or if it's blocked--I don't pick up. This is to spare the telemarketer-monkey's feelings, because if I did pick up I would be rude to them. I despise telemarketing. Really. I would live under a bridge before I took such a disgusting job. If they were all to die tomorrow from some horrible disease I would be actually happy. I would not feel the slightest sorrow for their poor families or what terrible circumstances in life turned them into telemarketers. And we all know underneath her snarky veneer Mojo is usually a wellspring of compassion and kind thoughts, so telemarketing must indeed be as evil as she implies.


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