Careful What You Wish For

Thought for the day:  Why are you trying so hard to fit in when you were born to stand out? [Oliver James]

Have you ever felt like you didn't quite belong? Like you were on the outside looking in?

Meet Cowboy. He belongs to a neighbor, but I think he wishes he were our cat. Most mornings, when I open our front door, he's right there, waiting for me. He immediately sits up and peers in at me. (Or at least, he looks in my general direction... as cross-eyed as he is, it's kinda hard to tell.) He looks pitiful, and dare I say ... hopeful?

Matter of fact, he spends a good bit of time lying or sitting on our front porch. Looking in. Looking pitiful. Or in our back yard, following us around or gazing into the house from out there. He could be running around the neighborhood, doing whatever it is outside cats are supposed do all day, but instead, he bides his time ... wastes his time ... looking in our windows. Wishing he were inside. Hoping his luck will change.

If wishes were horses, all beggars would ride; it wishes were fishes, we'd all have some fried.

He isn't our cat, but I guess you could say he's our collateral pet, just like the other critters who come to our place for a handout and a scratch behind the ear. We don't mind him hanging around, but there's something heart-breaking about the sight of him looking in our window so often.

His expression looks so ...  familiar ...

I'm pretty sure I know how he feels. I've been excluded a time or two.

And I've seen people with that same wistful expression, people who bide their time ... waste their time ... pining to be someone or somewhere they aren't. Essentially, they're wasting their lives on wishes for fishes instead of eating what they have right in front of them, or reaching for the doggone fishing rod. Rather than enjoying what IS, they waste their time wishing for what isn't.

Sometimes Cowboy and Dot look at each other through the window.

Sometimes he and Dash watch each other.

Cowboy wants to come inside so badly. He wishes it were so. We can see it in his face when he stares in the front door. We can see it in his face when he stares in our back sliding glass doors. We can see it when he tries to slip inside when we open the door, and when he rolls on the ground in front of us, doing his tricks and trying so very hard to please.

He wants to be part of the... in crowd.

                                                                     Ironically,

                                                  when we're on the OUTSIDE, we want IN.

                                     

                                             And when we're on the INSIDE, we want OUT.

Is happiness always just on the other side of a proverbial closed door? When we're different from everybody else, we wanta be the same, and when we're too much like everybody else, we yearn to be different. Ya know what? Inside yourself or outside, you never have to change what you see, only the way you see it.  [Thaddeus Golas]  We yam what we yam. And we yam pretty damned good.

Okay, so maybe you never felt like part of the in crowd. Big deal!

So what? Be a standout.

Outside may very well be the new in place. There's lots of us out  here.

 I was always looking outside myself for strength and confidence, but it comes from within. It is there all the time.  [Anna Freud]

So by all means, chase your dreams. Never give up on the possibilities. May we never be so blind that all we see is our own small world, nor so self-satisfied that all we are is all we ever hope to be. Keep striving. But... don't waste too much time making fruitless wishes.

Cowboy may wish to come in, but I have a feeling he wouldn't like the reality of this mean old lady trimming his nails every couple weeks. And no matter how much he begged, we'd never provide him with live birds or mice to supplement his diet, either.

                                   And you guys? Always, always be careful what you wish for...

Well, ladies and gentlemen, it's time for this old gal to take her annual leave of absence. I'll be vacating the blogosphere and focusing on some other things for the next month... like working on my current book, doing some dreaded spring cleaning, and editing a very talented writer's most recent book.  I'll seeya in May. I wish... you all the best. 

But, first... I couldn't resist.

 Even though I won't be here for next Wednesday's IWSG post, the May question kinda goes along with this wishful thinking post:

If you could use a wish to help you write just one scene/ chapter of your book, which one would it be?  

 See what I mean? That question was like made to accompany this post. My answer? If I'm gonna wish, I might as well wish big. (Insert deep breath here.) The ultimate wish fulfillment would be to write a scene... any scene... that would so capture the imagination and respect of readers, they'd tell all of their friends, You've gotta read this book!"

Yeah, that'd be cool, but in the meantime, I'm not holding my breath. If you haven't read either of my novels yet, here's a heads up: next week, Amazon will have both e-books on sale for the paltry sum of ninety-nine cents in both the U.S. and the U.K. Don't have a Kindle? No biggie. I hear Amazon has a FREE app that'll allow you to read e-books. (A left click on the book covers in the sidebar will deliver you directly to Amazon U.S.)

                         
                               Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.

This 'n' That

Thought for the day:  Compassion is language the deaf can hear and the blind can see. [Mark Twain]

[image courtesy of morguefile]

Yes, I agree with Mr. Twain, because compassion is communicated heart-to-heart. I'm all in favor of compassion and understanding, and I wholeheartedly applaud the laws which were (finally) enacted to level the playing field a bit for people with certain disabilities. A caring society should do no less than to provide equal access to all citizens whenever possible.

And yet... there's THIS...

I honestly don't know what to think about a newspaper article I read earlier this week, so I'm gonna throw it out to you guys, and see what you think.



Movie enthusiast Paul McGann asked a Cinemark theater in Pittsburgh to provide a tactile interpreter so he could see the movie Gone Girl. [FYI: Tactile interpretation involves placing one's hands over the hands of an interpreter, who then uses sign language to describe the movie's actions, etc.] The movie theater denied Mr. McGann's request, and the gentleman took them to court. As of now, an appeals court has ruled that according to federal disability law, theaters are required to provide specialized interpreters for blind and deaf patrons. This case will likely go through more appeals before a final decision is made, but what do YOU think?

[image courtesy of morguefile]

Is it reasonable, or even possible, for every movie theater to hire interpreters? How would they even do that? Have a number of them on call and summon one to the movie when needed, or would they have to pay a flat rate to keep interpreters available, whether or not a patron ever requests their services?  Mr. McCann uses American Sign Language, but would it be sufficient for theaters to hire ASL interpreters? How about the patrons who use a different sign language...? How cost-prohibitive would this all be? Could this signal the end of movie theaters altogether?

Seriously, I'd love to know what you think about this matter.

And now... on to THAT...

[Dot and Dash]

It's no secret that Smarticus and I have two very spoiled and most-loving-in-the-whole-world cats. Lots of you guys have much-loved kitties... and dogs... too, and I know you're every bit as attached to your critters as we are.

Another newspaper article highlighted a different sort of furry companion that's expected to hit the markets next summer. An invention of Japanese company Yukai Engineering, Qoobo has fur, a twitchy tail, and even vibrates like a purring kitty, but it doesn't eat, or ralph up hairballs all over the house, or gnaw on your plants, or need a litter box... because it, um, has no head. It's essentially a round 2-pound pillow with a tail.

Some outraged pet owners say it's ridiculous to think anyone could ever love one of these things, and it's insulting to think it could ever replace sweet little Fluffy or Fido.

And YET... I believe this gizmo will find a niche. Not for those of us who are able to love and care for our pets, but how about for certain nursing home patients (or others) who may not be of sound mind or body? Wouldn't it maybe provide them some of the valuable serenity and calmness ordinarily found by holding and petting a real living, breathing purring kitty? What do YOU think?

Now that I've covered THIS and THAT, it's time for me to scat. (ahem) Dot and Dash are seeking my services...

                                       Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.

Like Lassoing a Leech

Thought for the day:  A cat determined not to be found can fold itself up like a pocket handkerchief if it wants to. [Louis J. Camuti]

It's true. Cats have an unsurpassed talent for squeezing into the most ridiculously unexpected places, and anyone who has ever had a cat knows this. Put a small box, bag, or other container within their reach, (which is essentially anywhere) and it's a cinch they're gonna contort their bodies in some weird science-defying way so they can claim this new favorite place as yet another handy spot to take a nap. Even funnier? Have more than one cat, like we do, and only toss one box onto the floor. Talk about tag team wrestling...

Cats can provide endless hours of entertainment. Ours do. They're very sweet and cuddly, too. Except for when it's time to clip their nails. NOT one of their favorite things. Especially Dot, the gray tabby. No matter how loud she's purring or how cuddly she's being, if I foolishly make the mistake of saying clip, cut, nails, or anything that even sounds remotely like any of those words, she screams, leaps from my arms, and heads for the hills. (Or to wherever the hell it is she goes when she vants to be alone.) That I have survived clipping their nails for this long without ending up shredded and bloody is nothing short of a miracle.

But two things I have never attempted to do with our cats is give them a bath... or a pill. (shudder) I fervently pray I never have to do either one of those things, but just in case, I thought it'd be a good idea to be prepared, ya know? I figured there had to be a most efficient method for carrying out these responsibilities with the least amount of muss, fuss, and bloodshed. Now, thanks to the wonders of the Internet, I think I'm ready to give our girls a bath. Endlessly helpful person that I am, I will now share some of these well-researched cat-washing tips with you.

It's a pretty safe bet that your cat won't be happy with the whole distasteful idea and indignity of you daring to give him a bath, unless, of course, you're planning to lick him clean with your tongue. Supposedly, some cats actually like being in water, but it'd be wise to assume your cat ain't one of them. Chances are, your precious ball of fluff will be going on the defensive in a most offensive way.

Whatever you do, don't attempt to bathe your cat in an open space, because chasing a cat is a race you're doomed to lose. Cats may have the advantage of speed and a total lack of concern for human life, but, theoretically, we humans are smarter, so it's up to us to pick the bathing spot wisely. It's best to choose a small bathroom, and the smaller, the better. If it's larger than four feet square, I hate to tell ya, but you're gonna have to get into the tub with your cat. And close the sliding glass door. (As you can see, a shower curtain doesn't quite cut it.)

Be advised: cats have claws, which they aren't afraid to use. Even if you keep those nails trimmed, or the cats regularly wear them down by shredding your favorite leather sofa, those claws can still do some damage. Not even a martial arts master is impervious to the flying claws of an angry cat, so you'd darned well better dress accordingly. Heavy canvas overalls tucked into leather boots, steel-mesh gloves, an Army helmet, hockey face mask, and a long-sleeved flak jacket should just about do the trick.

Okay, ready? After putting water into the tub, you're going to have to fool your cat. (Come on! We're the smart ones, right?) If your furry friend doesn't look at you suspiciously and head for the hills as soon as you even think about giving him a bath, pick him up nonchalantly, and stroll leisurely toward the bathroom. To assuage his distrust, which is surely mounting at this point, try crooning to him, or humming his favorite show tune. (from Cats, of course)

Once you're in the bathroom, speed is essential to survival. In one fell swoop, shut the bathroom door, get in the tub, slam the sliding door shut, dip the cat in the water, and hit him with a big blob of shampoo.

In case you never noticed, cats don't come with handles, so don't expect to hold onto a wet soapy cat (who's screeching, and fighting you tooth and nail) for more than two or three seconds at a time. When you do have him, give him another shot of shampoo and scrub like crazy. When he squirts out of your arms, he'll fall into the water, and (ta-DA!) rinse off the soap. (I think the world record for successful cat latherings is three, so don't expect too much.)

Now, you've gotta dry the cat, which isn't nearly as difficult as bathing him. That's because by now, your cat more than likely will be firmly attached to your leg.

Now, just open the drain with your foot, reach for your towel, and wait. Once the water has drained, it's a simple matter to reach down and dry the cat.

With any luck, your cat should be relaxed enough to be removed from your leg in a day or two. Unfortunately, for the next several weeks, he may not talk to you, and will probably spend an inordinate amount of time sitting with his back to you. You may think this is an expression of anger, but not so. He's plotting ways to inflict the maximum amount of bodily harm the next time you decide to give him a damned bath. 

Cat's Diary: I am finally aware of how sadistic they are. For no good reason, I was chosen for water torture. This time, however, it included a burning foamy concoction called "shampoo." What sick minds could invent such a liquid? My only consolation is the piece of thumb still stuck between my teeth.


Then there's this other way, which definitely has some merit, especially for the more cowardly of cat owners. It doesn't involve the tub at all, and is called the flush and fluff method:

1. Thoroughly clean the toilet.
2. Add the required amount of shampoo to the toilet water, and have both lids lifted.
3. Obtain the cat and soothe him while you carry him toward the bathroom.
4. In one smooth movement, put the cat in the toilet and close both lids (you may need to stand on the lid so that he cannot escape). CAUTION: Do not get any part of your body too close to the edge, as his paws will be reaching out for any purchase they can find.
5. Flush the toilet three or four times. This provides a 'power wash and rinse' which I have found to be quite effective.
6. Have someone open the door to the outside and ensure that there are no people between the toilet and the outside door.
7. Stand behind the toilet as far as you can, and quickly lift both lids.
8. The now-clean cat will rocket out of the toilet, and run outside where he will dry himself.
  
 Sincerely,
 The Dog

OR...  We could simply drop our cats off at the local groomer's place. Yep. I think that method gets my vote.

To bathe a cat takes brute force, perseverance, courage of conviction, and a cat. The last ingredient is usually the hardest to come by.  [Stephen Baker]

 Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other. Also, a very Happy Father's Day to all of you dads out there.  

P.S. I have absolutely no idea why the font has decided to go microscopic on me for part of this post, or why this big-ass space has suddenly appeared between lines. Attempts to fix both issues were as pointless as me trying to wash our cats. 

Who Needs a Rooster?

Thought for the day:  In ancient times, cats were worshiped as gods; they have not forgotten this. [Terry Patchett]

Dash

It's hard to believe, but next month, it'll be six years since we rescued our kitties from the shelter. Or to be more accurate, maybe they rescued us... because those little critters sure have added lots of grins and giggles to our lives.

Dash, our calico, was just a little bit of a thing when we brought her home, and she's still kinda petite. That little princess has us wrapped right around her bunny-soft little paw.

Dot

Dot, our gray tabby, is the younger of the two, but she quickly grew to become the larger. And the more vocal, too. (She's our pushy cat.) Now I wish I'd named them something like Tinkerbell and Tankerbell to reflect the differences in their sizes. Or since Dash is the zany explorer, and Dot the more staid and gabby queen, maybe, Lucy and Ethel, to reflect their personalities.

What can I say? No matter what we call them, they are a teensy bit... spoiled.

Ever since she was big enough to get onto our king-sized bed, that's where Dash has spent almost every night. Usually somewhere on top of me. On my stomach, on my chest, on my neck, on my face. Doesn't matter, because she doesn't usually stay in one place for very long. See, she likes to... hop around. Explore. Crawl under the covers, lie still for five minutes, and then ta-DA! pop back out. Knead me with her paws, and lick me with her tongue. Lots of head-butting, purring and nose-kisses, too. My favorite is when she climbs up on the headboard and jumps down on my face...

And I... let her. Which is why she still does it. Dot, on the other hand, may occasionally join us on the bed, but when she does, she's a bit more polite about it. Just lies close to my side, and stays there most of the night.

But as anyone who has a cat well knows, what a cat always does or always likes is always changing. Their favorite place to nap is never constant, and the food they gobble one day is the same food they turn their noses up at the next. They follow a strict routine for a while, only to change it for a whole new routine. I guess they're trying to keep us on our toes.

Mostly, the cats used to leave Smarticus alone during the night, but recently, Dash has been sharing some of the love with him, too. (He calls her The Stomper.) I'm used to her waking me up before the butt crack of dawn every day, but recently, after she woke me up, she pranced over to Smarticus to say hello to him, too. She only went over to him a couple times before concentrating her efforts on me, but nonetheless, what popped into my sleepy head as she bounced back and forth between the two of us was, Hello, muddah! Hello, faddah! (Which is totally ridiculous, because our cats have always called us Mama and Papa...with the accents on the second syllables.)

Anyhow, that old Allan Sherman song bugged me for the rest of the day, so natch, I did what any weird cat-owner writer would do... I wrote a parody of the song. Of course.

And here it is:


Hello Muddah, hello Faddah.
Here I am now, right beside ya.
Time to open up your eyes now;
Get your butt out of that bed and fix me chow now.

 I tried bouncing on your belly;
You're so fat, it feels like jelly.
You were so still, thought you were dead;
So I did CPR by jumping on your head. 

Come on, Muddah, time is ticking,
And your face I now am licking.
I must meow loudly in your ear,
Because if you don't get up soon, I'll starve, I fear.

With my claws, your cheek I'm gripping,
And my nose on you is dripping.
Come on, let's play and have some fun;
In only three more hours, we'll see the rising sun. 

Please get up, oh muddah, faddah, please get up, don't be a bother.
Starting your day's such an endeavor; sometimes it takes me forever.
Please get up, I promise I will be your friend and love you 'til the bitter end,
So why this cruel wait to get food upon my plate? 

Hurry, hurry, dearest muddah,
One foot down, and then the other.
I will lead you to the kitchen;
It is almost five o'clock, so quit yer bitchin'.

Wait a sec! What's that you're pouring?
Same as yesterday? How boring!
Pardon my French; it smells like crap...
It's time for me to join dear Faddah for a nap.

(Gotta love 'em!)

It occurred to me that the Allan Sherman song was out in the early sixties, so some of you may not remember it. Heck, some of you weren't even born yet! (sigh)



So here it is, in all its silly glory:

Okay, ready to hear the results of last week's giveaway for the nifty-neato package of Shakespearean Insult Bandages? (Insert drum roll here.) The winner is the lovely Pixel Peeper, who left this gem: The advantage of intelligence is that you can easily play dumb. The opposite is a bit more difficult. [Kurt Tucholsky] Dontcha love it? Clever... but not offensive. So, Ms. B, if you would be so kind, email me your mailing address, and I'll get your little care package off in the mail. (If you don't still have my address, you can use that handy-dandy email me badge in the sidebar.)

                                    Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.

Cats are the ultimate narcissists. You can tell this because of all the time they spend on personal grooming. A dog's idea of personal grooming is to roll on a dead fish. [James Gorman]

Wanta Funny-Looking Cat?

Thought for the day:  You can keep a dog; but it is the cat who keeps people, because cats find humans useful domestic animals. [George Mikis]

[image courtesy of Morguefile]

I don't know who that cute kitty in the picture is, but I think he's laughing at Smarticus and me, because the cats of the world have us right where they want us. They've got us well-trained, pegged as a couple ol' softies, and have been tweeting and re-tweeting their mews far and wide: Visit the Swiderski Cat Resort.

Believe it or not, that isn't necessarily a good thing. Sometime messages get intercepted, ya know.

This is Dot. She's kinda the alpha cat around here. (When Dash lets her.) If we hadn't named her at such a young age, we could have named her better. Something like Ethel. Or Tankerbelle. (Um, yeah, she's rather large. And clumsy.)

Cats can work out mathematically the exact place to sit that will cause the most inconvenience.  [Pam Brown]

This is Dash. A better name for her would have been Lucy or Tinkerbelle. Or maybe Dora the Explora. She's tiny, but incredibly fearless when it comes to climbing.

A cat can purr its way out of anything.  [Donna McCrohan]

These two have been in charge ever since we rescued them as teeny kittens five years ago.

And this is Daisy. Yep, she's still with us. This is the sweet little girl neighbors left behind when they moved away. She's nice and healthy now, and eats like a lumberjack. But alas, we still haven't successfully assimilated her into the house. For one thing, number one and number two divas haven't exactly welcomed her with open paws. Yet. ( I haven't given up, but it'd be great if someone local would adopt her...)

I had been told that the training procedure with cats was difficult. It's not. Mine had me trained in two days.  [Bill Dana]

For now, Daisy is living in our Florida room. Because it can get rather toasty in there in the hottest part of the day, she also has an egress point so she can slip out into the yard. Unfortunately, an opening to allow escape also allows for entrance. And not just for Daisy.

Remember Cowboy? He's the neighbor's cat who spends most of his time hanging out at our place, because he obviously thinks he belongs here. Used to be, he'd look into our house all pitiful-like from the front porch or back step. Let me tell ya, he's verrry happy Daisy has taken up residence in our Florida room, because it's a much more comfortable spot for him to grab a snack and take a snooze.

We don't mind the big fella's visits. We don't mind the other neighborhood cats who likely stop in for a bite to eat, either. They're very polite. No fights. No messes. Just nibble-nibble, nap-nap, and on their way. No problem.

Until there WAS a problem. When we came home from a recent four-day trip to Tennessee, our Florida room was a disaster area. The five-pound feeder was knocked over and completely empty, and the dishes of water were black with filth. Dirt and feces everywhere. It was obvious someone was being a crappy house guest. Literally.

To catch the culprit,  Smarticus baited a trap with cat food and set it out the next evening. Next morning, we found one of the funniest-looking cats you ever saw...

Eating cat food doesn't make you a cat any more than hanging out in a garage makes you a car.

Things are back to normal again around here, or as normal as any feline resort ever gets, I suppose. I had no idea raccoons could be so nasty, though. Cute, but nasty... and definitely devious. Check out this video of another raccoon thief. The last part is a hoot.

                                    Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.

Oh yeah, I almost forgot! The lovely Carol Kilgore is featuring me(!) as her featured author for her giveaway contest this month. Winner gets an autographed copy of Hot Flashes and Cold Lemonade and a copy of the super-duper Old Broads Waxing Poetic. To enter, visit her website and click on that nifty contest badge in her sidebar. It's easy, and it's FUN! Just respond to the question she poses there. Heck, why not make it a habit? She gives away neat stuff every month. No telling what we might sniff out...

When Cats Meow, I Jump

Thought for the day: Dogs have owners; cats have staff.

At one time, Smarticus didn't think he liked cats. But that was before we had cats. Now he spoils them every bit as much as I do.

Which, of course, is exactly what every cat deserves. Just ask 'em. They'll tell you. They were once worshiped as gods, and as far as they're concerned, they should still be worshiped as gods. Makes sense, right? This explains their uncanny ability to maintain such a haughty regal air about them, even when they're caught doing something stupid or clumsy.

Anyhow, much to my surprise, it looks like we have three cats now. Yeah, three.

Remember Dash?  This is what she looked like when we adopted her from the shelter almost five years ago.

And this is what Dot looked like. We figured two cats would be juuuuuust right. That way, they could entertain each other. Besides, we had no choice. They picked us. (Anyone who has ever adopted an animal understands exactly what that means.)

This is closer to what they look like now. Most of the time, they get along well, except for occasional bouts of sibling rivalry...

... like over who gets to sit on my lap. I was reading the newspaper... Oh well, what can I say? Their royal highnesses decided it was nap time.

If you'd like to see an earlier post about our girls, including some fun little-known secrets about cats, go here.

Cats work out mathematically the exact place to sit that will cause the most inconvenience. [Pam Brown]

Anybody remember Cowboy? I wrote about him a while back. Lots of you urged me to adopt him. He was forever hanging around our house, looking in the windows and waiting on our front porch to greet me every morning, so we thought he was a stray. I mean, he was the epitome of the poor outsider looking in. So you might think HE would be our new resident feline. But nope. It turns out, he has a home. He still spends a fair amount of time in our yard looking for some cuddles and some food, (not necessarily in that order) but since his owner got him fixed, he doesn't spend nearly as much time mooning at us through the windows. (Hmmm, methinks it may be possible he was mooning at our girls.)

This is the new Swiderski feline. We named her Daisy. Her previous owners moved away, and left her behind to fend for herself. Before they dumped her, we saw her in our yard a few times, often being chased away by Cowboy. But she was extremely skittish, and not very friendly.

Then we noticed she was getting thinner and thinner, so natch, we started providing her with food, too. Her own bowls on the front porch... away from where Cowboy had his bowls out back. (His and every stray cat from miles around, that is. I swear, there must be some sort of underground communication that enables critters to let other critters know where the restaurants are. A very very large raccoon especially seems to enjoy the cuisine...)

Anyhow, the more we fed her, the friendlier she became. The more loving she became. The closer she came to making us fall on our arses because she kept doing figure eights around our feet whenever we walked outside. And the more she tried to follow us into the house.

Uh-oh. It was pretty clear. She'd picked us.

So we had no choice. We took her to the vet. Got her tested, de-wormed, and up-to-date with her shots. She's spayed, clear of fleas, and has a clean bill of health. Okeydoke. Time to bring her inside.

FIREWORKS! [Morguefile]

Not so okeydoke.

Dash and Daisy don't get along very well. What an understatement! They chased each other around the house like a couple crazed bats outta hell. (sigh) Talk about noisy fireworks!

Oh well. Our fault. We should have taken more time to introduce Daisy into the herd. Especially to our princess Dash.

Now, the new little kitty is in our Florida room, where our other girls can see her... but can't get at her. Dash and Daisy still try to attack each other through the glass from time to time, but I think they're becoming a little more used to each other. I'm hopeful they'll eventually learn to live together, and soon. Otherwise, we're gonna have to find Daisy a new home.

[Would anyone like to adopt a cat? Daisy's about eighteen months old, less than ten pounds, and extremely sweet and loving. Isn't picky about what she eats, either. She gobbles up whatever kind of cat food, wet or dry, that we give her. I guess being abandoned on the street has a way of instilling appreciation, huh? Seriously, if any of you local folks are interested, just send me an email or give us a call. We'll even throw in a big bag of food! Pssst... hey, Kyle...!]

And so it goes. At least for now, we have three cats.

And I swear, we're stopping at three.

I think.



I had been told that the training procedure with cats was difficult. It's not. Mine had me trained in two days.  [Bill Dana]



Oh yeah, it's been a while since I posted anything new about the things our pets have taught me. Well, I've learned something else new from our cats, especially Dot. She loves to knead my belly. Vigorously. So what have I learned? It's her fault. I'm not really gaining weight. Thanks to her administrations, my belly is simply... rising.

Cats are the ultimate narcissists. You can tell this because of all the time they spend on personal grooming. A dog's idea of personal grooming is to roll on a dead fish. [James Gorman]

As you read this, I'm not anywhere near my computer. (Dontcha love the pre-scheduling feature on Blogger?) I'm actually doing something really really cool. I'll tell ya about it next Friday, but in the meantime, I won't be online to respond to your comments for a while. But I will get back to you. Assuming our four-legged furry kids let me up, that is...

                                     Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.

Classic Wishes Never Go Out of Style

Thought for the day: Classic, you say? Oh, yeah, baby. Play it again, Sam!

 Instead of trying to come up with something new today, I'm gonna give myself an early Christmas gift, and do a re-run of a post some of you called classic when I ran it a couple years ago. Good enough for me. Sounds like a reasonable enough excuse to turn it into a tradition, dontcha think? This makes the third year for it, now, and don't be surprised if it resurfaces again next year.  So, here it is, a classic tale, although not exactly in the same category as Dickens, about (ahem)  inflated dreams... 

Enjoy.


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Thought for the day: We don't stop laughing because we grow old; we grow old because we stop laughing.

No telling how many years this wreath has graced our front door.

We never made a huge production out of outdoor decorations, but every year, our kids made the same grand proclamation after we cruised our decorated-out-the-wazoo neighborhood on the way home from the candlelight service on Christmas Eve.

"The best one of all!" they'd lie as we pulled into our driveway.

Okay, so maybe they weren't really lying through their braces. Maybe anticipation of the hidden presents awaiting inside added a certain luster to their perception of our decorations.

Anyhow, I'd say decorating styles can pretty much be divvied into three categories: traditional, enlightening, and inflated. Us? We're traditional. That means, except for an occasional new acquisition, I've pretty much used the same decorations every year. For a LOT of years. Like the ornaments that hung on my parents' tree when they were first married, some of which are now paper thin, and considerably faded with age. And a slew of decades-old goodies fashioned by our children with copious quantities of felt, glue and glitter, construction paper, walnut shells, clothespins, eyeglass lenses, and even a Mason jar lid. A black spider in a golden web and a huge decorated crab shell, both made my by sister-in-law. Boxes of tinsel painstakingly applied, strand by strand, and then painstakingly removed to store in a box for yet another year. Like I said, traditional. Well, to be more accurate, I suppose we've become more traditional cum lazy, because each year, I use less and less decorations, and some of them don't even make it down out of our attic anymore. For sure, our formerly traditional tree is considerably NOT traditional these days. (I'll give you a peek at the end of this post.)

These singers once belonged to my grandmother.

Everybody knows the enlightening type of decorator. They're the ones with so many lights blazing in their front yards, they risk causing a blackout across three states every time they turn 'em on. Very flashy. Sometimes, they even incorporate animation and music, too, and carloads of people stop by every night to ooh and aah over their winter wonderland. It isn't at all unusual for a competition of sorts to begin when multiple enlighteners live in close proximity. (Those neighborhoods can be seen from the space station.)

And then, there's the inflated. This is a fairly recent category. I sure don't remember seeing this sort of display when I was a kid. Nowadays, you can purchase just about any character you can think of ... inflate it ... and stick it on your front lawn. And if you can't find a particular character, for the right price, you can probably have someone make one for you. Then, all those characters can weave and bob all over your yard.

Now then, to the point of today's post. Time for a tale about a Christmas inflatable of an entirely different ilk. This story originated in 1999, and was alleged to be the winning entry to a Louisville Sentinel contest about the wildest Christmas dinner. Turns out, no such newspaper ever existed, and the writer remains unknown, but the story lives on, thanks to the good ol' Internet. (WARNING: Better put your drink down before you read it.) Now here, after a bit of minor editing on my part, is that story:

As a joke, my brother Jay used to hang a pair of pantyhose over his fireplace every Christmas Eve. He said the only thing he wanted was for Santa to fill them, but what they say about Santa checking his list twice must be true, because every Christmas morning,  the other stockings would all be bulging with treats, but Jay's poor pitiful pantyhose were still dangling empty.

So one year, I decided to make his dream come true. I put on sunglasses, a fake nose, and a ski cap, and went in search of an inflatable love doll.

Know what? They don't sell those things at Wal-Mart. I had to go to an adult bookstore. By the way, if you've never been in an X-rated store before, two words: don't go. You'll only confuse yourself. I was there for an hour saying things like, "What does this do?" "You're kidding me!" and  "Who would buy that?" 

So anyway, I finally made it to the inflatable doll section. I wanted to buy a standard, uncomplicated doll that could also substitute as a passenger in my truck so I could use the car pool lane, but finding what I wanted was difficult. Love dolls come in many different models. The top of the line, according to the side of the box, could do things I'd only seen in a book on animal husbandry, but I settled for the bottom of the price scale: Lovable Louise. To call her a doll took a huge leap of imagination.

On Christmas Eve, with the help of an old bicycle pump, Louise came to life. My sister-in-law was in on the plan, and let me in during the wee morning hours. Long after Santa had come and gone, I filled Jay's pantyhose with Louise's pliant legs and bottom. I also ate some cookies and drank what remained of a glass of milk on a nearby tray. Then I went home, and giggled for a couple of hours.

The next morning my brother called to say that Santa had been to his house and left a present that had made him VERY happy but had left the dog confused. She would bark, start to walk away, then come back and bark some more. We agreed that Louise should remain in her pantyhose so the rest of the family could admire her when they came over for the traditional Christmas dinner.

My grandmother noticed Louise the moment she walked in the door. "What the hell is that?" she asked.

My brother quickly explained, "It's a doll."

"Who would play with something like that?" she snapped.

 I had several candidates in mind, but kept my mouth shut.

"Where are her clothes?" she continued.

"Boy, that turkey sure smells nice, Gran," Jay said, trying to steer her into the dining room.

 But Granny was relentless. "Why doesn't she have any teeth?"

Again, I could have answered, but why risk it? It was Christmas, and nobody wanted to spend it in the back of an ambulance saying, "Hang on, Granny, hang on!"

My grandfather, a delightful old man with poor eyesight, sidled up to me, waggled his eyebrows, and said, "Hey, who's the naked gal by the fireplace?"

I told him she was Jay's friend, and a few minutes later, noticed Grandpa standing by the mantel, talking to Louise. And not just talking. He was actually flirting. It was then we realized this might be Grandpa's last Christmas at home.

The dinner went well. We made the usual small talk about who had died, who was dying, and who should be killed, when suddenly Louise made a noise that sounded a lot like my father in the bathroom in the morning. Then she lurched from the pantyhose, flew around the room twice, and fell in a heap in front of the sofa. The cat screamed. I passed cranberry sauce through my nose, and Grandpa ran across the room, fell to his knees, and began administering mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. My brother fell back over his chair and wet his pants, and Granny threw down her napkin, and stomped outside to sit in the car.

It was indeed a Christmas to treasure and remember. Later in my brother's garage, we conducted a thorough examination to decide the cause of Louise's collapse. We discovered that Louise had suffered from a hot ember to the back of her right thigh. Fortunately, thanks to a wonder drug called duct tape, we restored her to perfect health.

After that, Louise went on to star in several bachelor party movies, and I'm pretty sure Grandpa still calls her whenever he can get out of the house.

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This is gonna be my last post this year. Time to declare family time. But before I go, let me share a picture of our non-traditional Christmas tree I mentioned above.

Not too bad, right?

It's made of cardboard, cut in the shape of a tree,  painted green, and decorated with bubble lights and twinkle lights. Easy up, easy down, and we don't have to worry about our cats climbing it, or breaking our antique tree decorations, and I don't have to follow them around to pull tinsel out of their butts. PLUS, they can still look out the front window. Win-win all the way around.




         Merry Christmas.  May all your dreams... no matter how inflated...  come true.

                                Until next year, take care of yourselves. And each other.