Saturday, February 10, 2007

Yuck it up Wood Pigeon.

Huzzahs all round then.
We have proper lift off, the nice man from Telecom called at ten past eight this morning and all things interwebby were sorted. Huzzah! I tried to use dial up a few times during the week but it was like trying to perform open heart surgery with a butter knife.
What a strange week, moving is really quite horrible.
I don't know where anything is and I keep waking up because it's so quiet here. The movers got all the furniture out of the apartment-eventually and after taking the top off my bookcase- but couldn't get my desk in here! The hall is too narrow to turn it in so I had to put in into storage. This is verrry annoying as I am now reduced to tippity tapping away at the end of the dining room table. Vile.
The bigger of the cats has tested just about every window and door to see if there is anyway he can get out into the garden. There are big fat slow moving wood pigeons out there, mocking him. It's like watching Clarice and Lector. They wobble around the green thing we laughingly refer to as 'the lawn' looking all superior and shit. He spent a goodly part of yesterday sitting on a window ledge chattering at them and swishing his tail. They spent a goodly part of the day lumbering about right under his nose, like fat grey Boeing 747s.
They're toast as soon as he gets out-especially the one with the limp.
Puddy-who has moved many times- is unperturbed by this one and seems content to laze about under the radiators. She went to the vets yesterday and got her manky ears cleaned out and x-rayed. Although she spent the evening off her trolley, the news is good, no tumours growing.
The one eyed one hid behind the couch for a day and a half after the move but curiosity and bacon won the day and he has now totally bought into the newer greener housier life. He has discovered stairs and thinks they are great crack altogether. He spends most of the day running up and down them, emitting happy cheeps and beeps to himself.
The paramour is talking about building a 'bar-b-cue' and seems to be of the opinion that we will be eating nothing but 'bar-b- cue' as soon as the cold snap ends. This is an alarming development as he never really showed much interest in 'bar-b-cuing' things before now, but he seems very intent. We are heading to Homebase this avo to look at 'bar-b-cues' and talk about 'bar-b-cues.'
There are no shoes involved in this trip. I might cry off and head into town for lunch. I don't like the way his eyes get all shiny whenever he talks about 'bar-be cues'. Next thing he'll be looking for a shiny novelty apron that makes it looks like he is wearing a bikini.

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11 Comments:

Anonymous Eva said...

Congratulations on the move!! :-)

Oh I can't wait to hear your stories once you let the cats out, hehe! Glad to hear the good news about Puddy.

2:10 p.m.  
Blogger Sam, Problem-Child-Bride said...

You're nominated, fmc! For an Irish Bloggie. Get over there and take a look.

Well done, hun! You've got my vote.

And Sweary and Kav are nominated for stuff too. It's fun when the nominees are your pals.

Go get 'em fatmammytiger!

6:18 p.m.  
Blogger Sam, Problem-Child-Bride said...

By the way, can you get to mine where you are now?

I went on the Wordpress forums and fiddled in the way they tld me to but they thought it was more likely something on your end.

6:20 p.m.  
Blogger fatmammycat said...

Nominated for what now? Eeeeee, how exciting! Sam Sam gorgeous glrl I shall try! I nearly got through to you half a hour ago.
Eva sweetie , hello, yes it is terrific news.

7:33 p.m.  
Blogger Fat Sparrow said...

Barbecuing is a true expression of a man's happiness in a home, a kind of "all's well," all-circuits-go, green-light kind of thing. He is happy. He will shop for barbecuing implements, to express his happiness. He will ponder the meaning of life, happily, while flipping large pieces of animal flesh on the grill. He is a Provider, a Real Man. Men express this through barbecues, much as they express their nesting instinct through garages and sheds.

Congratulations.

11:06 a.m.  
Blogger fatmammycat said...

Shite. I knew it. Doomed Fat Sparrow, doomed I say.

11:19 a.m.  
Blogger Sam, Problem-Child-Bride said...

Sparrow's right. Pretty soon now he'll appear in his own apron, asking whether you have any capers for his marinade. Many men who like to cook might ask this sorta thing anyway, but when my husband does it I know there's something ancient and of-the-savannah going on deep, deep in his brain somewhere, and I know better than to mess with his primal urges.

It makes birthdays easier though. Barbecuing is, by my estimates, a 3.4 billion dollar industry and a man can never have enough electronic thermometers.

7:09 p.m.  
Blogger MQM said...

Dear FMC - I'm preaching the gospel according to FMC and I put a link to you on my Grammy blog. Batman, indeed! Keep going.

7:11 a.m.  
Blogger Primal Sneeze said...

We men like to cook on BBQs because there's danger involved. Naked flames and all that. We don't have to worry about pretty tableware etc. Kitchen standards of hygiene don't come into the equation.

As Sparrow and Sam say, it's primal. Like making the evening meals during a week long hunting trip in the wilds. The African plains, in the Rockies or just outside Kilashandra.

Oh, and congrats on the blogmination.

7:39 a.m.  
Blogger fatmammycat said...

Cheers MQM. I"m honoured.
PS and Sam, I believe you are correct. I can tell from the way he speaks in hushed reverent tones that his 'bar-b-cue' malarky is really some special reserve of the male and must be respected and indeed worshipped a little.
The built in barbecue will be an alter, the steaks sacrifices, the tongs a form of tabernacle. He will turn meat to dinner and all will stand transfixed by this solemn occasion.

9:29 a.m.  
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