moving day

Mama's packing up the moving truck and hauling her cookies to a new blog site. It's musingsfromthemamabear.wordpress.com.

I have a few formatting issues with blogger, mainly the spacing between paragraphs. Sometimes it works, but most of the time it doesn't.

Not such a big deal unless you're a tightly wired nutcase like me. I'm one step away from the straightjacket after every post.

So please reset that bookmark, then pop in and drop me a line.

a simple math lesson

This:Plus this:

Equals way too much of this:

Or sometimes even this:

Please, spring, don't take too long to get here.

some new duds

Here's Logan in a new outfit I just finished. The shirt is store-bought with an appliqued starfish on it.

I can say with certainty that applique is not my bag.

The pants have a little more detail than the picture shows. There's a yellow waistband and lining in the pockets.

The biggest challenge was matching the plaid pattern along the seams.

By the way, he's perfecting his self-proclaimed mean look in this picture.

And Tilly? She's finishing his breakfast.

tick, tick, tick

So we got an unexpected reprieve Monday afternoon at the vet's office.

And by unexpected, I mean I had scoured the upstairs of our house of all traces of cat before we left.

I washed and put away the food bowl and made sure his favorite toy was out of sight. It would be too sad to see when I walked back in later without him.

His doctor didn't think he was suffering, and that was a relief.

But this morning, when I fed him, his hind legs went out from behind him, leaving him splayed on the floor. I helped him back up and he finished his breakfast.

We're on borrowed time, but I'll take it.

sadness

Kasey has continued to deteriorate.

His back legs are getting so weak that when he stands, he struggles to keep his balance.

And for several days, he's spent most of his time hiding underneath the couch.

We have a vet appointment today at 3:45.

I knew this day was coming but that doesn't make it suck any less or help me not to feel like a total piece of shit.

Those of you who are pet lovers can surely understand.

ETA: I didn't have to put him down after all. My wallet's a little lighter, but so is my heart.

we have the friendliest accommodations in town

The most spacious, too.

So friends and family, if you ever want to visit us here in this fair suburban city, don't for a second entertain the notion of staying in a hotel.

There's no reason you can't bunk with us, and it doesn't necessarily mean you'll spend a miserable night on a rump-sprung sofa covered in cat fur.

Here at the Rogers Manor, we have two full-sized guest rooms. One is decorated in the style of a 4-year-old boy. But I guess we goofed somewhere, because no 4-year-old boy has ever expressed a desire to sleep there.

The second caters to the needs and comforts of distinguished canines. A futon sofa can comfortably sleep two large hounds.

But again, we must not have gotten something right because the only time any dogs seem to be in there is when they're in time out.

Meanwhile, our own sleeping quarters look something like the photo below.

Logan's not in there to tell us goodnight before retreating to his own room. Instead, he's about to climb in.

Once everyone's in position, I'll stake out a few inches for myself.

Thanks to the Ambien I guzzle about a half-hour before hitting what little amount of sack remains, I still manage to sleep like a baby.

But when I do wake up, it's sometimes with a start when I discover a paw, tail, child's toy or human limb draped across my face.

Nighty night.

dear mr. trash collector...

...I need to apologize. Early one recent morning, you were treated to an unsavory view as I beat a hasty retreat from the curb where I had just deposited our trashcan.

Unfortunately, instead of seeing my jeans through the gaping hole in my pajama pants, you were unwillingly subjected to a view of my jiggly posterior.

By the way, those dingy white drawers of which you caught more than a subtle glimpse were vintage. I've had them since at least 1995. Mama does love her antiques.

But there's no need to turn in your notice for fear of a future encounter with the ripped pants. That is, unless you take a peak in our can during this week's pickup.

Warmest regards,
The Mama Bear