How to Become A Cat Lady... Without the Cats

Hello Kidney

2012-01-07T10:28:00.000-05:00

Remember the story of the unwary traveler waking up in a hotel bathtub full of ice with a kidney missing? Since I didn't do any traveling over the recent holidays, I didn't have to worry about that happening to me. Turns out I really don't have to worry about it in the future either. But let's not get ahead of ourselves...

Those of you who have been regulars around here know that I make a habit of visiting my local hospital once a year. You'll be happy to know that my bones remained intact throughout 2010.

Not wanting the folks over at Strong Memorial Hospital to think I'd forgotten about them at the holidays, though, I decided to mosey on over there two days after Christmas. Just to say hello. And as long as I was there, maybe they could take a wee peek at my abdominal cavity to check out why I was having severe pains that wouldn't go away.

We had a rip roaring good time! You meet so many fascinating people in the ER. Like my first roommate... a sweet little old man who was suicidal. He didn't stay long as he moved on to more luxurious accommodations in the mental ward. Then I was awakened from a lovely doze around 2:30 in the morning by my next roomie, a jolly old soul who sang Christmas carols at the top of his lungs. Sadly, he couldn't remember the words and was the source of a peculiar aroma that came wafting over the curtain that separated us, but why let that spoil a new friendship. Good times, good times!

About the time they gave the caroler from hell a sandwich and cup coffee to sober him up and sent him on his way, my pain went away. I was laying there wondering if I should just get dressed, rip out my IV and go home when a doctor arrived to tell me my labs came back wonky.

So it was off to get a CT scan, followed by an ultrasound and a cardiac stress test. The fun just never stops around that place. It was the ultrasound technician who showed me the gallstones all lined up in a row like little pearls. Pretty! Guess they'll just have to yank that sucker. No problem. I can deal with that.

It was what she said next that gave me pause.... "Has anyone ever told you that you have polycystic kidney disease?" Uh... no. Although I do recall my aunt had PKD and had the pleasure of doing dialysis and having not one but two kidney transplants.

So much to look forward to! Hopefully, it will be many more years before I get to that point, so it's still safe for you to come visit. But I wouldn't wait too long... or you may end up in a bathtub filled with ice.

Automatons: A Magpie Tale

2011-12-04T11:43:00.006-05:00

Lunch, George Tooker, 1964, Columbus Museum of Art

Day after day they go to the cafeteria, bringing the remnants of last night's dinner. The worker bees bend over their food intent on little other than consuming the meal that will sustain them through the next four hours until the clock signals quitting time. Nothing ever changes nor do they expect it to. The days blend into one another as time marches on.

It would only take one person to look up, to smile, to start a conversation, to open up the drab world and bring in the light. But that would mean taking a risk.

Instead they opt for anonymity while sitting shoulder to shoulder. Automatons at the automat.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Willow over at Life at Willow Manor has been providing inspiration for bloggers with her photo prompts on a site called Magpie Tales. Be sure to check out the other fabulous writers participating in Magpie Tales this week. You'll be glad you did!

I'm a Fun Person... Really!

2011-10-08T17:05:00.000-04:00

I went to the doctor for my biennial physical last week. All things considered, I'm in pretty good shape.

Blood pressure = good
Cholesterol = good
Diabetes = none
Weight = not good, but on a downward turn since my last visit
EKG = normal
PPD = negative
Flu Shot = injected

I could balance on one foot, walk a straight line, touch my fingers to my nose without looking.

Yeah... not bad at all.

However, I started feeling a little discouraged when my internist stated rather than asked... "You're not sexually active, are you?"

Excuse me? Is it that obvious that I've lost my allure? Don't I look like a fun person?

How insulting!

So when he came to the part about asking me, in compliance with the New York State Health Department policy, "Would you like a test for HIV?"

Well, I had to redeem my self-esteem somehow...

I said, "Sure!"

Oh yeah! Those folks down at the lab were going to think I'm one wild and crazy woman! They probably took one look at me and no doubt had me pegged for a slutty intravenous drug using degenerate. Good times! Good times!

Geesh... the lengths I have to do these days to convince people I'm not all washed up!

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

On a more serious note... get tested!

And just in case there was ever any doubt... I'm HIV negative.

The Zen of Working With Very Small People

2011-09-26T20:06:00.000-04:00

For the past month I've been working with very small people. We're talking seriously small people. So small they don't even talk yet. At least not in any manner discernible to the average adult. These wee ones are just beginning to experiment with the spoken word. Lately, the most frequently used word in our classroom is "woof!"

Most people wouldn't last an hour in this situation, let alone eight hours a day, five days a week. It takes a hardy soul to keep from running out screaming. Already I've had several colleagues ask how I get through the day without shooting myself. (Of course, the answer to that is simple... guns are outside toys and not allowed at the Home for Wayward Wee Ones.)

The key to survival is to attain a zen-like state in which you contemplate everything these small people do with a kind of wonder and reverence. Their babbling becomes quite conversational if you listen closely. I often wonder if it's a secret language that babies understand perfectly. And their persistence in learning to do all the simple tasks of life that we take for granted is rather astounding when you stop to think about it. Some successes may seem mundane while others are truly exquisite...

We have a long, low easel in our classroom on which paper is always available for exploring different media. Three of the children worked together over the course of several days to create this combination of watercolor, tempera and crayon.

I have no idea how long I'll be working with these four wee ones, aged 11-14 months old, but I'm trying to make the best of the time I have with them. It's a physically exhausting job but there is a peace that comes when they are finally asleep with the lights turned down low and quiet music on in the background. Rocking a small child to sleep can be a form of meditation when you match your breathing to the back and forth movement of the chair. It certainly gives me time to think about what I want to do next with my life...

Catching Up is Hard to Do

2011-09-07T08:00:00.015-04:00

Blogging is a funny thing. You get on a roll and all is blissful as you exchange banter back and forth with other like-minded people out there in cyberspace. But woe betide you if you stray from the path for any length of time.

After awhile people start to wonder if you've broken a limb or something and start sending condolence cards. The longer you go between posts, the fewer and farther between the inquiries become until one day you wake up alone in the dark, with no one to make you laugh or snort Dr Pepper out your nose.

So, you begin the long trek back to your cyber-friends. And a long trek it is. Do you have any idea how long it takes to catch up on a blog roll that has some fifty people... or more? Catching up is hard to do. I'm working on it, but I keep finding myself channeling Neil Sedaka as I work my way back...

Don't take your love away from me
Don't you leave my blog in misery
If you go then I'll be blue
'Cause catching up is hard to do

Remember when you read me, right?
And you laughed at me all through the night
Think of all that we've been through
Catching Up Is Hard To Do

They say that catching up is hard to do
Now I know, I know that it's true
Don't say that this is the end
Instead of breaking up I wish that we were catching up again

I beg of you, don't say goodbye
Can't we give our blogs another try
Come on baby, let's start a new
'Cause catching up is hard to do

It may take me awhile, but I promise I'll catch up as soon as I can!

Stuck: A Magpie Tale

2011-09-05T10:49:00.000-04:00

Stuck in the mud

Wheels spinning

The more you try

The farther you sink

Until you're totally immobilized

Spring turns to summer

And summer turns to fall

Rust begins to form

Yet you keep on fighting it

Sooner or later

It's best to give in

Get out of the truck

And walk back into town

Before winter closes in on you

And you're stuck there forever

* * * * * * * * * * * *

SNAFU

2011-08-31T08:24:00.000-04:00

So, as you may have surmised from my extended silence, life has not been exactly peachy keen at Boom Boom's house. But then, the way my life has been going for the past several years, I guess it's not all that surprising. It seems the term SNAFU was created just for me. The WWII acronym for Situation Normal: All Fucked Up describes my life perfectly.

Take last Sunday, for example. Late in the day I decided it was time to do some laundry to prepare for the week ahead. However, I wasn't counting on encountering the water that seeped into the basement after the afternoon deluge. Situation Normal. I figured I'd simply mop things up and go on with my task. Things were going well until I slipped in the water and wrenched my back. Severe pain. All fucked up.

But, having just gone to the chiropractor, I actually remembered the exercises to get my herniated disc back where it's supposed to be. All I needed was a glass of wine and some ibuprofen to get back on track. Plus an ice pack thrown in for good measure. Situation normal. With all necessary medical equipment in hand I settled into my recliner. Only to spill the glass of wine all over the end table. Wine everywhere. Puppy frantically trying to lap up wine and my back too stiff to reach something to mop up wine. All fucked up.

But wait... all was not lost... I noticed tissues next to chair. Situation normal. As I began throwing tissues on wine dripping off table, the puppy saw them as extra bonus treat. Puppy began chewing on wine-soaked tissues. All fucked up.

And so began another week in the exciting life of Boom Boom.

Yeah, SNAFU is a pretty apt description of my life these days. *sigh*

Unimaginable Terror: A Magpie Tale

2011-06-26T10:40:00.003-04:00

The photo on the flea market table

struck terror into her heart.

The piercing eyes,

the eerie nimbus created by back-lighting,

the white line descending from her eye like a milky tear.

Terror.

Unimaginable fear.

The thought that in the end

the remnants of one's life

would be relegated to strangers

for a dollar ninety-nine

on a flea market table.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

I Have a New Man in My Life!

2011-06-25T10:19:00.000-04:00

Well, a new puppy, anyway...

How are things going after the first week?

Most importantly, Henry learned from day one that the potty is outside.

He sleeps through the night in his puppy cave, (as opposed to a man cave,) in the kitchen.

He met the vet, weighed in at 6.1 pounds and got a clean bill of health.

He won the hearts of many, including the 50-odd children at the Home for Wayward Wee Ones.

(He did not try to eat the Wee Ones, but patiently let them ~~maul~~ pet him.)

Here are just a few of Henry's new human friends...

As well as new canine and feline friends....

Henry worked on learning what is and what is NOT a chew toy...

He found cozy places to snooze after his outings...

And he spent some serious quality time on my lap...

What's not to love?

Moving on to Bigger and Better Things

2011-06-11T12:10:00.002-04:00

Today marks the first anniversary of my mom's send-off, which started the year from hell. Dead mom, dead dog, dead aunt, dead father-out-law, broken leg, five months with no income due to broken leg... enough said! For a review of the highlights:

How to Host a Funeral... CatLady Style

Hickory in Wonderland

Just When You Thought It Was Safe To Go Out

Getting All Up In There

We're on a roll now, planning on living life in as grand a manner as is possible on the small stipend I receive for my labors at the home for wayward wee ones. And so far it's going well. Vlad graduated summa cum laude from college last month and this month we're welcoming a new addition to the family.

Vlad & Henry... My favorite boys!

Yeah... I'd say life is pretty damn good right now...

Ear Piercing for Dummies

2011-06-02T19:21:00.000-04:00

I am not one for body art or piercings. I've seen some fabulous body art over the years, but it's just not for me. And although I do have one hole in each earlobe, nobody's touching my tongue, my nose, my navel, or even my outer conch cartilage with a needle. I'm far too squeamish!

Back in the 60's ear piercing was only just coming into vogue with the teen set in Iowa. And unless your were from some exotic country, the only thing you pierced was your ears. There weren't earring stands in the Mall where you could easily get your ears done. Hell, there wasn't even a Mall! So that left either going to a doctor to have it done (if you could find one who would do it) or stabbing yourself in the ear.

My older sister used some "auto piercers" so she could attach colorful appendages to her lobes. Basically, they were sharp metal rings that would gradually squeeze their way through the ears. Too painful for too long! My parents thought she was nuts and I agreed.

But when I was in the ninth grade, I decided it would up my "cool" factor to have pierced ears. The thought of a needle working its way through my tender ear flesh creeped me out, but the longing to be "cool" was a strong one. For some reason, I figured my parents wouldn't let me have my ears pierced, though, so I took matters into my own hands. Or rather, my friend Nancy Pilmer took matters into her hands. I thought Nancy was cool because not only did she have pierced ears... she'd been to California! Groovy! Nancy convinced me that with a cork from a bottle of wine, a sewing needle, some matches to sterilize the needle, and some string, she could bring me into the 60's before the 70's rolled around. All we needed was a place to do it.

Where to go, where to go? We needed somewhere with water so we could keep things "sterile". Our houses weren't viable surgical sites because someone might catch us in the act. Doing it at school was also "unsafe". Besides, we didn't have that much time between classes and lighting matches in the bathroom might give the wrong idea.

So, we ended up in the bathroom of our neighborhood grocery store. Yep... the pristine public bathroom. All we had to do was grab a chunk of ice from the freezer section to numb my ears and we were in business. After a half hour of hemming and hawing on my part, I offered up my lobes to Nancy. Within a few minutes the deed was done. I was now cool. I had ears with string in them!

By the end of the week, my ears were so inflamed with infection that my science teacher noticed and insisted I go to the school nurse. She, in turn, called my parents. With my long hair, they still hadn't noticed the oozing holes in my ears. After they told me what an idiot I was, they got me a pair of earrings and made me clean my ears with hydrogen peroxide every day until the infection cleared up.

After a few more weeks my ears became infected again... this time because of the cheap earrings. It turns out I'm allergic to most metals and can only use sterling silver or gold earrings. Plus the holes in my ears are off center and one's kind of droopy. But I succeeded in my quest for coolness! So what if I nearly died from blood poisoning? Details, details....

Let's just say I wasn't the sharpest needle in the pin cushion back then.

Starstruck

2011-05-27T07:00:00.011-04:00

Ever have one of those days when you feel like a total loser? When you figure you might as well beat everyone else to the punch and laugh at yourself first? I’ve had plenty and I’ve written about most of them. Still, one of the best stories I’ve ever heard came from a Unitarian Universalist minister, Martha Munson.

Martha was vacationing in Westport, Connecticut one summer and happened to stop in at an ice cream parlor. Who should be sitting there at the counter, drinking a cup of coffee, but Paul Newman. (Yes, that one... the late, great actor.)

Not wanting to be branded a gawking tourist, Martha casually ordered her ice cream to go, paid, got her change from the cashier and turned toward the door, giving a quick smile to Mr. Newman who actually smiled back with those incredible blue eyes! She was the epitome of cool.

Or so she thought.

As she stood out on the sidewalk, she realized she was still holding the change the cashier had given her but was without the ice cream cone. What to do? Should she just walk away? Should she go back in and admit she was too star-struck to pick up her cone?

What the hell… she might as well go back for the ice cream. So what if he thought she was silly?

Martha stepped up to the counter waiting for the server to notice her, all the while hoping Paul Newman wouldn’t notice her. No such luck.

Without missing a beat and without even turning toward her, Mr. Newman addressed her with four short words that would forever haunt her…

“It’s in your purse.”

Gaaagh!

Some days you wish you'd just stayed in bed!

Homemade is still best!

2011-05-25T07:00:00.005-04:00

No matter how you cut it, homemade cards from your child are still the best...

Thanks, Vlad!

Love you!

Beautiful Stories: A Magpie Tale

2011-05-22T12:16:00.001-04:00

From the time she was a little girl, she loved books. There weren't many books written specifically for children back then. The first book she ever owned, that was hers alone, she won in a contest at school. She pored over the pages of Edith Nesbit's Beautiful Stories from Shakespeare, savoring each word, each illustration. It introduced her to the intriguing world of the bard and it was her most treasured possession.

From that point on, she was never without a book. When she established her own home, she found five feet of shelf space to accommodate the Harvard Classics. She became a "regular" at the local library, carrying home stacks of books each week. When children came along, she read them A.A. Milne at bedtime until they could recite "James James Morrison Morrison..." by heart. That one small volume created a safe haven for banishing bad dreams. She taught her children that books could take them anywhere and teach them anything.

The more she read, the more she dreamed of seeing the world. She finally realized that dream in her middle years, bringing back mementos that would trigger a memory here, a story to be told there. It always came back to the stories.

In the end, books became her last refuge. Her world became smaller as her hearing faded. When she could no longer follow conversations, she was left with her books. They never failed her. Through them her life remained rich and as always, full of beautiful stories.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Save Bacon's bacon!

2011-05-06T18:35:00.000-04:00

Yes, I'm afraid it's true. Someone has taken Bacon hostage and refuses to release him until a ransom is paid. Won't you please help?

Think about it. What would your life be like without Bacon? An LT sandwich just doesn't cut the mustard. Eggs will die of loneliness. Social Security will be bankrupted by all the extra seniors living past their expiration date.

Even the smallest donation... just a mere dollar... can help save Bacon's bacon. Can't you find a dollar for a friend?

A Polaroid of Bacon arrived at the Tribal Blogs office just today. I warn you... it's not a pretty sight. But I feel I must show it to you to point out the urgency of Bacon's situation.

Horrible, just horrible! I had to look away the first time I saw it. Osama Bin Laden's death mask is nothing compared to this!

So I ask you again, won't you help? Please give generously and give often. Thank you on behalf of Bacon lovers everywhere!

The Queen and I (a short history of my television viewing)

2011-05-01T12:46:00.004-04:00

Last week there seemed to be a lot of hoopla about a royal wedding. I usually start my day with coffee and the Today Show, so I caught the last bit of the ceremony during my morning ablutions. I suppose to commemorate this historic event I should have had my morning coffee out of the cup my sister sent me to commemorate my birth.

My first outing as a baby was to go to my grandparents' house on June 2, 1953 so my parents could watch the coronation of Queen Elizabeth II on television. I was 8 days old.

Televisions were in shorter supply in those days and my parents couldn't afford one. My grandparent's black and white set sported a whopping 9 inch screen. You had to sit up pretty close to be able to distinguish the images on that television. TVs just weren't as fancy back then but not for wont of trying as evidenced in this cartoon from 1953:

Back then watching a show was a one shot deal. No pausing the DVR or rewinding to catch something you missed. Watching the coronation of the Queen on television was considered THE event in 1953.

Odds are I missed the entire thing since I spent my time back then sleeping, crying, eating and eliminating what I ate. This time around I missed most of the royal event again for the same reasons. (Minus the crying.)

Guess when it comes right down to it, things don't really change all that much after all...

The Mating Habits of Squirrels (Reprise)

2011-04-16T08:51:00.000-04:00

My friend Jayne just introduced me to a blogger who is definitely a kindred spirit, Anne Dickens. Anne's most recent post is titled, "Sacre Bleu - I got caught spanking dog food in a sex spot." With a title like that, what's not to love? Her tale of dealing with unwanted house guests reminded me of a post I did a while back. So, without further ado....

I've lived in the same house for 25 years. Before I became a homeowner, however, I had my fair share of "adventures in renting."

In college I lived in an apartment over a bank. Being above the bank made us feel really super-duper safe and secure. We figured any burglars would be far more interested in the vaults beneath our apartment than in our meager belongings. Another advantage was that the apartment backed up to a popular pub. We could sit out on the roof on warm nights and listen to the bands that played on weekends for free... no cover charge up where we were! It also provided us with a prime view of the guys who were coming out into the alley to relieve themselves. (We were not impressed!)

After college I moved to Colorado. (Remember "The Worst Camping Trip Ever?") There we found a wonderful apartment. The price couldn't be beat! Perhaps because the last tenant was an old woman who expired in the apartment in the middle of August... only to be found two weeks later. We could feel her presence whenever we passed the stain she left on the floor in the parlor. She also left a distinctive odor, which we later learned was from the powder the funeral home spread around to cover up the other telltale signs of human decay. Strangely, our friends never liked coming to our house for dinner. I wonder why? This resulted in many free meals at their house, so we didn't mind too much. (Perhaps this was when my cat lady tendencies began.)

The best apartment we ever had was a clean, bright second floor palace with two bedrooms, living room, dining room, kitchen with a dishwasher, pantry and beautiful porch. Now that was luxury living as far as we were concerned! No one had died there, so it always smelled as fresh as a spring breeze! The only downside was that we had to share a driveway with "The Crack," who owned the house next door. He earned this moniker from the neighbors because of the low riding pants he wore to do lawn work. His lawn was pristine... the talk of the neighborhood. He was so proud! There was never a blade of grass out of place and he was vigilant in brushing up any intruding leaves into a small dustpan. "The Crack" also lined the driveway with symmetrical rocks that he painted bright white. (Touching them up frequently when they became even slightly dingy.) In winter he carefully shoveled each snowflake into a beautifully rounded bank of show on either side of the drive. He even cleared a perfect half circle of pavement into the street to prevent the snow from being tracked into the driveway by car tires.

Things were fine until we committed the supreme faux pas when we tried to be neighborly by doing the shoveling ourselves one morning. Our intrepid neighbor was horrified by our crude, randomly placed piles of snow! From that point on "The Crack" got up way before the crack of dawn to assure we would never attempt to shovel ever again!

The following spring, we nearly drove him into an asylum when we installed a basketball hoop on our garage... he even insisted we were to blame for his mother's demise because we played basketball "all over the driveway!" Horrors! When we bought our house we were sorry to leave that apartment, but not sorry to see the back of "The Crack" as we drove away for the last time.

The most memorable abode, though, was the garret apartment we rented from a little man of middle-eastern heritage. He was by far the most peculiar landlord we had. His English was somewhat sketchy, as was his expertise in the area of rental properties.

There was no heat in the apartment other than what came up through one small vent. In the winter we rigged up an army surplus parachute over a mattress on the floor. By entering this makeshift tent and tucking the parachute under the edges of the mattress, the warmth of our breath raised the temperature inside to a balmy 58 degrees! Time to break out the bathing costumes!

The issue of heat was minor however, compared to the new pets we acquired with the apartment. In addition to the usual mice, we periodically entertained squirrels that crawled in under the eaves in the storage space. They frolicked merrily around the apartment as we chased them about. I'm sure we amused them greatly. Calls to the landlord to assist in their removal were met with cold disbelief. Finally, the little man decided to act on our request for help in removing the furry tailed intruders. He came over late at night and squeezed into the tiny crawl space above the low ceilings to capture the little rascals. It wasn't long before his foot came crashing through the ceiling as a squirrel escaped his grasp! As drywall dust came down on his head he beamed with pride as he told us he had chased the squirrels away.

The next day he returned to fix the problem for good... by attaching sheet metal over the eaves with duct tape. Now that's a sure way to keep squirrels out permanently. Needless to say, we weren't too surprised when a few weeks later a squirrel once again found its way into our apartment. The funny little man was not amused when we called him with the news. Not believing that a squirrel could have penetrated his security measures, he came over to verify its existence. He conceded that a squirrel was indeed in the apartment, but he could not accept that his fine sheet metal and duct tape solution had failed. Rather, with great seriousness, he filled us in on an important bit of information...

It was obvious to him that the previous squirrel had laid an egg when it was in our apartment and the current squirrel was its progeny! So that explains it!

What could we possibly say to that? We more or less gave up on the landlord providing any useful assistance. Not long afterward we turned in our keys to the garret and became "The Crack's" neighbors. We left without cluing in the old landlord to the actual mating habits and reproductive cycle of squirrels. He's probably still chasing them!

Nope... No Bodies Here

2011-04-14T09:21:00.002-04:00

After my last post, I thought it would behoove me to survey my current abode for possible missing persons who have expired. There were lots of places to look.

What the.....?

Who did that to my house? Some one must have broken in and thrown a bunch of crap in my sun room while I was laid up at Shamra's house with my broken leg. It looks like someone tossed the place about a bit.

Everybody needs a place to park their stuff when they get home from work, but this had gotten just a tad bit ridiculous! Good news, though. After a week of ruthless jettisoning of useless stuff, I now have a sun room again.

Amazing what you can accomplish when you tear yourself away from the computer for a day or two. No dead bodies and no indications that an insane person lives here.

Now... about that attic...

I Smell Dead People!

2011-03-31T21:47:00.000-04:00

My friend Michelle, over at The Surly Writer, has been looking for a new apartment. The mention of apartment searches brought back memories of the apartment I had years ago in Colorado.

My ex and I had decided to move to Canon City to look for work, since his sister lived there and said we could easily find something. No job prospects, but we were young and the idea of living near the mountains was very appealing. Seemed like a good idea at the time. So one September, we loaded up the old Fiat sedan and made the drive from Iowa to Colorado.

First things first, as soon as we arrived we started looking for an apartment. We looked at a few, but they seemed kind of expensive, what with not having jobs and all. Then we spotted the ad in the paper.

For Rent: Half house, garage. $95/month.

Score! We called and made an appointment to see the place, hoping nobody else had snatched up this bargain before us. The person on the other end of the line seemed overly glad to hear from us. We wondered why, but didn't think too much about it.

The apartment was perfect! Lovely old brick building downtown, with a living room, parlor, kitchen and a bathroom on the first floor, (which would be perfect for a darkroom for the photographer ex.) Upstairs were three bedrooms and another bathroom. Plus a private back yard and garage. We'd take it!

We couldn't resist asking the question, though... why were they offering the apartment so cheaply? Did it have heat? Did the roof leak? Were the neighbors loud?

No, no problems with any of those things. There was just the small issue of the smell in the parlor. Well, we had to confess we did notice an odd aroma. In the interest of full disclosure, the landlord told us the sad story of the previous tenant. An older lady. Who died. In August. With the windows closed. Whose acquaintances didn't realize they hadn't heard from her until about two weeks later.

Ah... that explained it. It also explained the strange stain on the oak floor in the parlor, which she had used for her bedroom. The stain in the shape of a body.

Turns out the lady left a bit of herself in the apartment. Which was kind of off-putting to all the other prospective tenants. But, since the ex's father was a medical examiner, we were used to weird stuff like that. Didn't bother us in the least. A contraire! We thought it made for scintillating dinner conversation with guests!

Strangely though, my sister-in-law and her husband never wanted to come to our house for those scintillating dinner conversations. They were happy to have dinner with us... just not at our house. And when my sister, her boyfriend and my mom came to visit, the boyfriend was none to happy about having to sleep in the parlor. Geesh! What's with these people?

Some people are just so picky about where they eat and sleep!

So, Michelle, I think I know where you can find an apartment... cheap! And the smell's probably long gone by this time! Score!

We've Been Robbed!

2011-03-25T08:27:00.004-04:00

Those who've been around here awhile know that I'm a bit of a clutter hound. Hence the moniker, "Cat Lady Without Cats". I haven't reached epic hoarder proportions, but I've come close a few times in my life. So, when I turned on the television this week to watch The Middle, it was like they were filming my life.

The episode opened with the beleaguered Heck family crammed in the car while "enjoying" a spring break family road trip. Frankie Heck's cell phone rings and it's the neighbor, telling them they've been robbed! Horrors! Immediate change of plans! "Go directly home, do not pass go, do not collect $200!"

They burst into their home, where the neighbor explains how she arrived to take their mail in for them and saw the chaos left by the robbers. Shocked faces on all the Hecks!

But wait... their eyes begin to shift back and forth toward each other. The neighbor is thanked profusely and ushered out the door.

Nothing is missing! The house is exactly as they left it!

Ridiculous premise, you say? Not so!

Been there, done that!

Twenty five years ago, we had just moved into our house and were in the process of fixing the place up. The living room was filled with ladders, tools, the odd beer can here and there, papers covering the floors. Our temporary "lounge" on the second floor consisted of a futon on the floor, a television, more discarded newspapers, and pop cans.

One day after work, we came home to find a side window smashed in and the back door open. Two policemen responded to our call for help. As they walked through the house, inspecting the premises for signs of illicit entry, one of the officers asked...

"So, they toss the place about a bit?"

Dead silence.

Yeaaahhhhh.... the burglars did this to our house! That's what happened. On the bright side, nothing much was taken, probably because the burglars couldn't find anything.

So, I can relate perfectly to the Heck Family. They're my kind of people.

Where it's AT!

2011-03-20T11:14:00.001-04:00

Mark Zuckerberg is not the only social network maven out there. If you're a blogger and you want to be where it's at, come on over and hang with the cool kids at Tribal Blogs. Jen Brown from Redhead Ranting is the genius behind this group.

Jen has worked tirelessly to make Tribal Blogs an active social network. (Jen has even configured a swell Tribal Blogs toolbar that you can download for quick and easy access to the site.) This is the place where you can get blogging tips, share ideas for posts, network, get into some heavy tech talk, engage in some serious discussions and just plain have fun.

The chat room at Tribal Blogs is a great place to network with bloggers in real time. In fact, the Tribal Blogs Saturday Night Slumber Party that is a staple of the chat room has become one of my favorite places to be. It's a wild and crazy barrage of mixed up conversations as multiple fingers fly over the keyboards. Hilarity abounds, interspersed with periods of thoughtful, compassionate conversation. Sometimes there are even prizes! Last night at the Slumber Party, Meleah of Momma Mia, Mea Culpa won a free ticket to the Tribal Blogs Conference. Here's a real time photo of her getting the good news:

Oh, yeah! Winning!

Jen's latest accomplishment is organizing Tribal Blogs Conference 2011, to be held June 23-25 in beautiful Minneapolis, Minnesota. The featured speakers include Jen, Margaret Andrews from Nanny Goats In Panties, Kathy Frederick from The Junk Drawer and Rodney Lacroix (Moooooog) from Mental Poo.

So, if you're looking for a new place to call home, come on over to Tribal Blogs. Then you'll always have somewhere to be on a Saturday night!

St. Paddy's Day Carnival!

2011-03-17T08:17:00.002-04:00

I went to a great St. Paddy's Day parade a couple of weeks ago. My friend Julie took a bunch of pictures of the best costumes we saw.

There was this antennae-wearing "babe": A not-so-little "leprechaun":

The best costume in the "Senior" category:

And then there were these guys in the "Miscellaneous" category, having a blast with Audrey....

(You will note, they are wearing tasteful green bras to honor the occasion.)

Wait.... this wasn't the St. Patrick's Day parade?

It was the Mardi Gras wine tour?

Oh, crap!

Well, in my defense, they did say it was the St. Patrick's Day Carnival and they have a big carnival for Mardi Gras. You can't blame a girl for getting a little confused. Besides, after you drink enough, they all kinda blend into another...

I don't care what you call it... just get out there and have a good time today!

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

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Be sure to stop by Humor Bloggers Dot Com to see who else is participating in the carnival today.

The Trials and Tribulations of a Cat Lady's Sister

2011-03-15T22:07:00.001-04:00

Today is my sister's birthday. 60 years ago she entered the world as Number 1 Daughter. The first two years of her life were pure bliss and life was good... until one day her parents brought home a new baby. Her world was shattered. Suddenly there was a crying, annoying sibling taking up her beloved parents' time.

As the years went on, the younger sibling continued to put a crimp in her plans. Number 1 Daughter was neat and orderly. Her bed was always made, her toys neatly arranged on her shelves and her clothes put away tidily. Not so, her younger sister. It was sheer torture to have to live with a budding Cat Lady.

All through high school, Number 1 Daughter was doomed to share a room with a hoarder. At one point she went to the parents in tears, insisting that the only solution was to have E-Z-Way Refuse Service back their truck up to the bedroom window and shovel out all the sister's crap. Needless to say, it was not a match made in heaven.

Of course, Number 1 Daughter did get her revenge on occasion. Saturday was cleaning day at the Larew house. While my brother and I were kept busy doing all the chores, my older sister was busy making beautiful charts and graphs of what needed to be done and the schedule for doing them. Fools! We were fools!

It's amazing how sisters end up on opposite ends of the neatness spectrum. Lord knows my older sister suffered severely because of my lack of order. The day Number 1 Daughter left for college was perhaps the happiest day of her life. She was free! No more sharing a room with a slob!

So on this, my sister's birthday, I offer this heartfelt apology....

Annie... I'm sorry I was born a slob!

It was never within my power to learn your tidy ways.

I regret the angst I caused you.

I love you, but I could never live with you!

Then again, when push comes to shove... who's the one with the cat?

Happy Birthday, Annie!

Greasy Saturday...or... Jimmy Big Balls

2011-03-08T18:21:00.000-05:00

I know it's Mardi Gras or Greasy Tuesday, but I started the celebration early on Saturday. I got together with four other women to take in the Cayuga Lake Mardi Gras Wine Tour. Upstate New York is known for the Finger Lakes, which are in turn known for their wineries. Seems the hills between the lakes are perfect for vineyards. Throughout the year the wineries host special events to lure people out. (Like we needed an excuse to go drink wine.)

Between 10 a.m. and 5 p.m. we managed to get to eleven different wineries. You've gotta start early if you're going to get your money's worth! But we weren't just slinging back the wine... we were also partaking of the Mardi Gras tastings at each winery. The offerings included everything from jambalaya to bread pudding slathered in maple syrup vodka. Yes, you read that correctly... maple syrup vodka! That packs a punch, especially at the end of a day of drinking!

Picking up beads at each winery was another part of the fun. And we didn't even have to show our boobs to get them! Here's my array of beads, less the boobs.....

I definitely scored on the mask and crown beads!

As we approached the Thirsty Owl Winery, a woman who was just leaving told us to be sure to look for "Jimmy Big Balls". Well look we did, checking the guys out up and down. Ahem...

We found Jimmy behind the bar and he was a delight. Not because of the big balls he sported around his neck, but because he serenaded us as he poured our wine. At one point everyone at the bar was swaying back and forth, belting out the tunes along with Jimmy in between belting back the wine.

Jimmy Big Balls

At the next winery we got to go down into the bowels of the earth, amongst the huge stainless steel vats of wine to claim our prizes...

Audrey going incognito.

From there it was back into the light to drink amongst the oak casks at our next stop.

A couple more wineries and we were done for the day. A good time was had by all...

Now I hear we're supposed to atone for our gluttony by giving up something for lent. On second thought... I'm pretty much of a heathen, so I think I can skip that part.

Happy Mardi Gras!

Why Now?

2011-03-03T19:19:00.000-05:00

How could this happen? For five months I sat around watching television every day without any seriously good gossip coming to light. Sure, I got to watch Bill O'Reilly rile up Whoopi and Joy on The View and I saw Congressman Chris Lee take a Craig's List nose dive right out of Washington. But those were momentary thrills. It's only now, the week I return to work, that the proverbial shit really hits the fan...

Yes, Charlie Sheen waited until I was back at work to have a manic melt down that makes Tom Cruise look positively mellow. Damn you, Charlie! How am I supposed to get my fanatic fan fix if I'm no longer lolling around all day in my pajamas to watch the story develop?

Seriously, how could you do this to me, Charlie? Did I not care enough about winning? Was it because your real life treatment of women was cooling my enthusiasm for Two and a Half Men? Were my veins sadly lacking in tiger blood? Was my last girls' night soiree not bitchin' enough for you? And although I'm not a rock star from Mars, I might be from Venus. Isn't that close enough for you? I could be high on Charlie Sheen! But you won't let me. No, you rejected my attempts at voyeurism by waiting until I was no longer available to worship at the altar of Charlie Sheen.

But that's okay. I can cure myself of my disappointment. I can talk myself down, now that I know your secret of success. I'll just use the power of thought. I have an amazing brain that's so powerful it would melt your face off. Forget those loser 12 step programs! I'll think about it and make it so! I'll raise my victory sign to my cheek like I'm holding an imaginary giant stogy from your walk-in humidor and tap my fist to my chest and all will be well.

Two Seconds later...

Hey! It really worked! I no longer crave news of Charlie Sheen.

See this hand motion, Charlie?

LOSER!

At least I still have a job to go to.

So sorry my life is so much less bitchin’ than yours, Charlie.... I planned it that way.

* * * * * * *

Check out Tribal Blogs to see who else is participating in the Charlie Sheen "Rock Star From Mars" Blog Carnival.

Guess Who's Back?

2011-02-26T09:14:00.001-05:00

Yes, I realize it's been almost three weeks since I posted and it's been five months since I actually went to *gasp* work, but for once this post is not about me.

The real reason I asked you here today is to let you know that those wild and crazy people at Humor Bloggers dot com are back!

Let the party begin!

Echoes of the Past: A Magpie Tale

2011-02-07T11:18:00.001-05:00

The symphony is over. Now, for the walk home. The rain has stopped and a haze begins to rise from the brick walkway. Cloaked in the miasma of time, she drifts into thought.

Years ago as a newlywed, she walked down this same path with her husband toward their pied-a-terre near the symphony hall. Back then, secure on the arm of her husband, she delighted in being cloaked in the mist. It created a special world just for them. The echoes of the other theater goers' footsteps faded into the background as they created their own magical space, filled with joy and contentment.

Tonight the footsteps once again fade away, but not because of the security of being loved. Most symphony patrons have drifted toward the parking ramp that was built next to the grand theater. She, alone, walks in the opposite direction toward the faded glory of her apartment building. Her footsteps on the deteriorating bricks of the walkway echo in the mist to remind her she is alone. Harry has been gone these twenty years but she is still there, walking the same path. It's moments like these that she feels him still with her.

A second set of footsteps begins to echo in the darkness. For a moment she thinks it might be Harry. But no, that can't be. The neighborhood's not what it used to be and her heart begins to race as the footsteps get closer. Her fingers tighten on the sequined bag that holds her opera glasses and she begins to walk faster. The sound bounces off the walls of the tall buildings around her, making it impossible to discern the direction of the footsteps. As her pace quickens, so does the stranger's. Whoever it might be is gaining on her.

A man emerges from the darkness and her heart skips a beat. But it's only the aged doorman, stepping out from the apartment building to usher her in from the mist. He's been watching for her to be sure she gets home safely. His kindly smile brings her back to her present reality... in which she is alone with her memories.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Step Right Up, Chelle!

2011-01-28T10:04:00.001-05:00

We have a winner!

There were so many great names suggested for my new "White Elephant Kitty" from Melody that I had to take a week off and go to Florida to get Meowyn's input on the "name the kitty" entries and complete my deliberations. In the end, the one that made us both guffaw was Mrs. Finkle-Bosom, submitted by Chelle from Coffee and Zombie Movies.

Mrs. Finkle-Bosom enjoys her new digs.

So, Chelle, step right up and collect your prize! You're the winner of the my official BadAss Blogger award (brought out of retirement just for you) and a White Elephant gift of your very own (provided you trust me enough to send me your contact info.)

Stay tuned for our new feature, "Mrs. Finkle-Bosom Says...", coming soon to How To Become A Cat Lady Without The Cats.

It's a Bird! It's a Plane! It's... a White Elephant?

2011-01-19T10:23:00.000-05:00

Margaret over at NGIP suggested having a White Elephant Party to pass along some of those holiday gifts that are, well, white elephants. Always up for a party, and having a house full of white elephants, I decided to play along. I let Margaret know I'd be more than happy to send along some of my excess "treasure" to some lucky recipient.

Then one day last week a box arrived on my doorstep. I was positively giddy with excitement! Carefully pulling off the tape and opening the box, I was amazed at what I found...

Could it be? A true rarity in the life of a Cat Lady Without Cats. It appears that I have a new friend, Melody from Cooking Schmooking, who thinks I really do need a cat!

Danger, Will Robinson!

Wait... don't panic! It's only a pretend cat. Not to worry!

So, thanks to Melody, I have become a cat lady... with a three-dimentional cat. (Hope the kitty silhouettes don't get their noses out of joint over this.) Sure beats an actual white elephant! What should I name her? (I figure it's a she since it has a pink nose.) Please send along suggestions for the naming of my new companion. I'll even send a ~~white elephant~~ prize to the person who provides the best name!

Now, I wonder what mischief this little kitty will get into next... stay tuned!

Thanks, Melody!

* * * * *

If you want to know what I ~~unloaded~~ gave to the lucky recipient of my largess, you'll have to visit my new friend, Sparkle Cat. (Won't she be surprised when the moving van full of the rest of my crap pulls up at her house next week!)

"You Could Do ANYTHING In That Hat!"

2011-01-06T16:12:00.001-05:00

Although I've been basically home-bound for the past three months while my broken leg mends, I haven't been totally unproductive. In order to keep my hands busy with something other than shoveling food into my mouth as I relax in my recliner, I decided to break out the old knitting needles. Knitting is especially satisfying in the winter months when that afghan you are working on keeps your legs warm as you work. (Note: It also makes you look even more of an invalid.)

Most of the stuff I do is pretty mindless, requiring very few brain cells. Knit, purl, knit, purl, etc., etc., until you run out of yarn. However, my sister threw down the knitting gauntlet, which I picked up with only a tad bit of fear and trepidation. Sending me a picture of a hat my niece, Ilsa, was coveting, I pondered how to create such a masterpiece of fiber. Without any instructions on how to proceed, (other than the fact that Ilsa's head measures 21 inches,) I had my chauffeur take me to the yarn store to search for something that might work.

Even though I had to rip it out five times before I got the gauge and shape corrected to my satisfaction, I completed the project and actually got it mailed it in time for the recent holiday celebrations. (A major miracle as I'm not generally known for sending gifts, let alone sending them on time.) And, for once, I even won the "Best Aunt" honors for my efforts.

Since then, Ilsa has gotten many ~~compliments~~ comments on the hat. Some guy even went up to her in the Tampa airport and told her,

"That's a great hat! You could do anything in that hat!"

I wonder what he meant by that? And I bet you're wondering what the hell kind of hat would elicit that response. Well, wonder no longer...

"Ja, jag är svensk, varför frågar du?"

So, the question remains... What would you do in that hat?

That Was the Year that Sucked

2011-01-01T12:23:00.002-05:00

That was the year that sucked,

It's over, let it go!

We're pleased to write it off,

But not as pleased as a CatLady we know!

And what a year it was....

January: Otin outs CatLadyLarew and I am banned by NetNanny, which is actually a good thing in my opinion.

February: My dog gets a valentine and I don't.

March: I'm attacked by a one-eyed cat.

April: The month in which I'm abducted by aliens.

May: Good month... nothing bad happens.

June: We host my mother's funeral.

July: We bid adieu to Hickory the Wonder Dog.

August: Another good month... although Magpie Tales leave us Dazed and Confused.

September: I lose my blogging mojo.

October: I discover it's not safe to go out when I break my leg.

November: I get grossed out by a delightful x-ray view of my mangled leg and a favorite aunt dies.

December: Squirrels invade my attic and Vlad's grandfather (of the eyeball in the refrigerator) dies on New Years Eve.

And so, as the sun sets slowly in the west, we say goodbye to 2010 and send out best wishes to all for a happier and healthier New Year in 2011.

A Merry Larew Christmas!

2010-12-25T10:59:00.002-05:00

Here I am on Christmas morning, drinking coffee and having cookies for breakfast while Vlad the Wonder Boy sleeps. He's obviously still on college time. I expect to see the whites of his eyes sometime around 2 p.m. But I'm not complaining... after all, he's the one who went out into the wilderness and bagged us a Christmas tree on Sunday.

I went along for the ride and schlepped through the fields on my crutches just out of general principle.

Then began the whole process of getting the tree back to the car and getting it home. We brought it into the house and got it set up in the stand without incident. (i.e. nobody broke any more limbs... on either the tree or ourselves.)

We didn't get around to untying it, so it stood at attention in bondage for a few more days in our living room.

I finally released it from its bonds on Wednesday, but since the decorations are in the basement and I can't yet manage the basement stairs, it remains undecorated. But we kinda like it that way. We can just say we were going for that "natural" look this year... going green and all.

My sister, Meowyn, didn't even get that far... although her tree has a bit of flair, too....

We Larew girls know how to do Christmas up right!
(We are so getting underwear from Santa again this year.)

Each Night A Child Is Born: Mapgpie #45

2010-12-24T00:01:00.001-05:00

I'm not a particularly religious person in the traditional sense. So when it comes to Christmas, I celebrate the wonder of the child in all of us. Willow's Magpie prompt this week brings to mind a poem by Unitarian minister and religious educator, Sophia Lyon Fahs. What a wonderful way to honor children everywhere.

For so the children come
And so they have been coming.
Always in the same way they come—
Born of the seed of man and woman.
No angels herald their beginnings
No prophets predict their future courses
No wise men see a star to show
where the babe is that will save humankind
Yet each night a child is born is a holy night.
Fathers and mothers—sitting beside their children’s cribs—
feel glory in the sight of a new life beginning.
They ask where and how will the new life end—will it never end
Each night a child is born is a holy night—a time for singing
A time for wondering, a time for worshiping.
~Sophia Lyon Fahs

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Two Years in the Making

2010-12-22T00:01:00.037-05:00

Today marks the second anniversary of "How to Become a Cat Lady... Without the Cats." Break out the party hats and noise makers!

Now, 239 posts and 239 followers later, how is the Cat Lady faring? Well, for one thing... my house is no less cluttered than it was two years ago. Nor is my mind. No big surprise there, though. And there are still no cats in my house.

When I started this enterprise, I was hoping to record some of my stories for family and friends. What I didn't expect was to increase my circle of family and friends so significantly through the blog. Now I have a network of people to check in with every day, who keep me entertained and amused. When they're not providing levity, they provide ideas for contemplation, books to read, music to listen to, slumber parties and fancy balls to attend, as well as bourbon balls to eat. Lively banter and inappropriate language bring giggles and guffaws... more than once causing me to choke or spew liquids out my nose. It's just like hanging out with a whole mess of brothers and sisters.

These people live anywhere from a half mile away to half way around the world. Talk about expanding your horizons! There are some that I check in with only occasionally and some that I hear from almost daily. You know who you are! (My blog roll will give you an idea of how many there are.) And it's reassuring to receive an email from someone, inquiring after my health if I haven't posted in awhile.

So thanks to you all! My life is so much richer because of you!

* * * * * * * * * *

P.S. For a good time, join the best circle of blogger friends out there... Tribal Blogs! (That's where all the cool kids hang out.)

www.tribalblogs.net

And while you're at it, stop by and wish Michael at Too Many Mornings a Happy Birthday! He's having a party at his place today!

The Pitter Patter of Little Feet

2010-12-19T11:10:00.000-05:00

I swear I heard the pitter patter of little feet on my rooftop last night. But isn't it a little too soon for Santa? What could it be that woke me up in the middle of the night?

At first I thought I was dreaming, but once I was fully awake I realized that there really was a sound coming through my ceiling! Except that it actually sounded a little more like sawing wood. Maybe I was still asleep after all.

Nope. There it was again. This time it sounded a little more like scampering. Then a scraping noise. Maybe Santa was trying to shovel some of the snow off my roof to deliver my well deserved gifts?

No... definitely sawing. Guess I should have purchased a home with a real fireplace instead of a "decorative" one. Then Santa wouldn't have to saw through the roof to get all those packages to me.

Wait a minute... I do recognize that sound. Crap! I've done this all before.* It's not Santa! It's an evil squirrel come to chew through my electrical wires and burn my house down!

Well, now that we've figured that one out, I guess I'll just drift off peacefully back to sleep.... no worries...

Yeah... and a Merry Freakin' Christmas to you, too!

*See The Mating Habits of Squirrels.

'Tis the Season.... to be called Boom Boom.

2010-12-16T00:01:00.001-05:00

There's more than one reason I'm known as Boom Boom in some circles. Each holiday brings back memories of days gone by, when I narrowly eluded the local constabulary. Although I've posted this before, it's always fun to look back and remember...

Good times! Good times!

Happy Holidays, Everyone!

Of Snowflakes and Rosebuds: Magpie #44

2010-12-14T11:39:00.001-05:00

When does childhood end and adulthood commence? Perhaps it's when snow days become a source of angst instead of sheer joy.

In childhood a snow day means freedom! Freedom to stay in your pajamas until late in the morning. Then it's into snowsuits and caps and mittens and boots to explore the world of wonder created by freshly fallen snow. It's building snow caves and sliding down hills. It's making snow angels and snowmen and catching snowflakes on your tongue. It's shrieks of laughter as compact orbs of snow fly back and forth through the air. It's the steaming hot cocoa with marshmallows that awaits you when you return to the warmth of your house. A snow day is magical!

The magic begins to fade when snow days mean having to get up early and shovel so you can get to work in time. Back breaking labor takes all the fun out of watching the snow fall. It means brushing off the car and hoping the locks aren't frozen. Turning the key in the ignition, praying the car actually starts. And then edging the car through the snow covered streets, hoping you don't get stuck or slide into another intrepid traveler before you reach your destination. It takes a special person to actually enjoy this kind of activity.

But every once in awhile, a funny thing happens. The planets align so that a snow day happens on a day off. You have a chance to enjoy the beauty of the snowflakes from the comfort of your easy chair while enjoying that first cup of coffee of the day. The world once again looks magical and it brings back memories of days gone by.... of sleds named Rosebud and the joy of childhood. And life is good.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

My Secret Admirer

2010-12-10T11:50:00.000-05:00

Life is worth living again! I have a secret admirer! Imagine my surprise when I was going through my emails this morning and came to this one:

    From:     lucy_2010@att.net
    Subject:     Hello
    Date:     December 10, 2010 10:41:54 AM EST
    To:     undisclosed recipients: ;
    Reply-To:     lucy_good1@yahoo.com

Hello, I am lucy
How are you? hope you are fine and in perfect condition of health. Please I went through your profile and i read it and took interest in it, please if you don't mind i will like you to accept my
friendship request with you and for me to send my picture to you remember that distance or colour did not mean but true love matters alot
hope to hear from you soon, and I will be waiting for your mail because i have something VERY important to tell you.

Lots of love
lucy

Profile? What profile? Last I checked, I wasn't registered on any Find-a-Mate.com sites.

I must say, I'm flattered. But I think poor lucy is sorely mistaken on a few items. (She obviously didn't read my mystery profile very closely.) So, there are a few things I'd like to clarify and/or have lucy clarify:

1. I am not currently in perfect condition of health. I'm not anywhere near death's doorstep, but I'm far from perfect at the moment.

2. I'm a strong proponent of gay rights, including same sex marriage, but I don't usually go out with other women.

3. I'm not currently collecting pictures of people I don't know, although I appreciate your offer to send me your photo.

4. lucy, what exactly should I remember that distance and colour did not mean?

5. While I'd like to believe that true love exists, I'm afraid your kind email is not a harbinger of true love for me.

6. I've found that when people have something VERY important to tell me, it's usually bad news, so I'll pass on that as well.

So, thanks but no thanks, lucy. Better luck with the next undisclosed recipient.

The Worst Christmas Present Ever: A Belated Tribal Blogs Carnival

2010-12-08T11:17:00.002-05:00

Okay, okay, so I missed the first Tribal Blogs Carnival.

The theme was "The Worst Christmas Gift Ever." My post is late because I got so depressed from thinking about all those crappy Christmas gifts from years past, I couldn't bring myself to write about it. (Not really, but I needed an excuse.)

When we were kids, my mom made all our clothes, including new outfits for Christmas. That's fine when you're a little kid, (loved the flannel jammies,) but as you approach your teens it becomes a source of angst. We really wanted the store-bought clothes all our friends had. So one year my mom decided to cut labels out of other clothes to sew into ours to fool our friends. Uh... yeah. That's gonna work. We never fully appreciated our mother's skill as a seamstress, although she really was good at it. (Sorry, mom, wherever you are!)

But in all fairness, we weren't wizards when it came to buying gifts for our parents, either. Our allowance just didn't stretch that far... so my mom said we were only supposed to spend a dollar on each parent. My dad had a drawer full of all the handkerchiefs we got him... I was always so proud when I managed to score some with an "L" for Larew on them. Classy! And mom had a drawer full of really tacky holiday pins that we found on the "Gifts for $1" table at the local department store.

As soon as we were old enough to write, we made "Wish Lists" for ourselves. After awhile, things on the Christmas lists were usually the ONLY gifts we got. My mom told us if we didn't give her a wish list, we wouldn't get anything. So the trick became putting enough things on the list so there would still be an element of surprise involved in opening the packages on Christmas morning. (And we were smart enough to put our lists in numerical order to indicate which things we REALLY wanted, although the ponies never materialized.) In later years, my mom would put in some actual surprises... gifts she's gathered from her world travels.

Finally, the year came when I didn't make a Christmas list. (I was in my twenties at the time.) When mom kept pestering me, I just said in frustration, "I can't think of anything, just buy me underwear and some candles." And my mom was true to her word. As everyone else opened their gifts, I was the recipient of two items. Cotton underwear two sizes too big and some candles. Bummer!

It was many years before I neglected to write out a complete Christmas list again! But I had plenty of underwear to grow into in years to come.

* * * * * *

Looking for a great gift this season? How about a goat from Oxfam? I just bought mine. Go to https://www.oxfamamericaunwrapped.com to get yours today! It's much better than underwear! (While you're at it, be sure to visit Margaret at Nanny Goats in Panties for her special goat give-a-way!)

Will the Real Lisbeth Salander Please Stand Up?

2010-12-01T00:01:00.042-05:00

The Bloggerhood of the Traveling Book Blog Tour

Well, the Bloggerhood of the Traveling Book Blog Tour has finally reached my house. So far we've traveled to that schizophrenic Unfinished Rambler/Unfinished Person's blog and to Quirkyloon's place where we got to pop the DDP bubbles of Quirky's thoughts (because she's kinda fizzy like that.) Next stop will be up to visit our favorite Canucks, Nonamedufus and 00dozo.

But first, I'm supposed to regale you with my scintillating and perceptive review of our traveling book, The Girl Who Played With Fire by the late Stieg Larsson. In case you haven't already figured it out, this is the second book in the Millennium Trilogy, which consists of The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, The Girl Who Played With Fire and The Girl Who Kicked the Hornets Nest. (You can see all three themes reflected in the cool BOTTB badge that Double 00 made for us.)

When I began the first novel in the trilogy, I was about a quarter of the way through before there was any mention of a girl with a tattoo. Mikael F**king Blomkvist appeared to be the protagonist. However, from that point on it was Lisbeth Salander, with her tattoo and piercings, that took center stage. Quirky gave us her top "Lucky 13 Reasons Lisbeth Salander Rocks" and she's spot on with her assessment of this badass.

But who is Lisbeth Salander, really?

Throughout the three books in Larsson's Millennium Trilogy, we're given tantalizing glimpses into this mysterious character. As each piece of the puzzle that is Lisbeth Salander comes together, it paints a picture which appalls and intrigues us at the same time.

Lisbeth is a brilliant young woman with an old soul. She has learned to keep to herself for self preservation and rarely lets anyone into her personal space, either emotionally or by physical proximity. She's learned not to trust people because she's been burned too many times. But be careful... cross her and she'll burn you! Lisbeth is a modern day Ubermensch, gaining almost mythic proportions as she hacks her way through the world, answering only to her own clearly defined moral compass. She's also a master of disguise when needed, slipping through customs on a forged passport. Rumor has it she looks something like this... only gnarlier:

So, do we admire Lisbeth or hate her? I, for one, admire her. She does all the things I wish I could do but am far too wimpy to ever attempt. From book to book throughout the trilogy, it is Lisbeth's character that compels me to read further to find out what happens next. Once you've started the series, you can't stop.. or at least I couldn't, but then I'm obsessive-compulsive like that. And when you're done with the series, check out the movies. Although they leave out some parts from the books, they're well worth the effort of reading the subtitles, (unless you are some kind of wizard who can understand Swedish.)

One thing for sure... Lisbeth Salander would never become a CatLady... either with or without the cats. She's far too neat and travels light... something I'll never be able to accomplish in this lifetime. *sigh* But maybe I can still become a badass like Lisbeth by getting a dragon tattoo. Nah... just like Quirky, I'm far too much of a wuss. Oh, well. Pass the popcorn and Dr Pepper, Quirks!

Coming Soon: The Bloggerhood of the Traveling Book Review

2010-11-28T17:08:00.002-05:00

The Bloggerhood of the Traveling Book

The Bloggerhood of the Traveling Book (BOTTB) has been collecting members over the past few months and now it's time to hear what those intrepid readers thought of the first book to travel, Stieg Larsson's The Girl Who Played With Fire. This coming week you'll be treated to five installments of The Bloggerhood of the Traveling Book Review.

Monday - Unfinished Person/formerly Unfinished Rambler

Tuesday - Quirkyloon

Wednesday - BoomBoomLarew

Thursday - NoNameDufus

Friday - 00dozo/Creator of the awesome BOTTB badge!

Watch for all the the reviews! We promise not to spoil the ending by giving away too many hints.

(By the Way... the book is currently in the hands of Reforming Geek, fondly known as Reffie. Be sure to keep tabs on her blog to see where it will journey next.)

Word Verifications... Love 'Em or Hate 'Em

2010-11-19T14:43:00.000-05:00

Word Verifications... a real pain in the wazoo, but at times they can also provide a source of amusement. Occasionally Nonamedufus, aka Dufus, aka Nomie, shares his favorites, which inspired me to do the same. So, without further ado, I give you...

Boom Boom's Guide to Word Verifications!

Perfect for the upcoming holiday season... a manger scene featuring Star Trek characters.

(But don't set yours out before Thanksgiving if you want to remain friends with Suldog.)

A droid who likes toga parties.

The Coen brother you like best.

What you have to do when either your wife or wi fi isn't working properly.

Bacchanalian goddesses.

(My kind of people.)

and my favorite...

Do I really have to explain this one?

So there you have it... real word verifications that I've collected over the past few weeks. If you can't beat 'em.... enjoy 'em! Just don't be a doohole!

Travels with Hanuman: A Magpie Tale

2010-11-14T11:30:00.002-05:00

As I was sorting through my mother's belongings after her death, I came across a little medallion in a blue pouch. It was a tiny brass image of Hanuman, the monkey king. My mother had apparently picked it up when she was in India. Wrapped up with it was a necklace made of misshapen pearls.

My parents traveled a lot over the years after I left home. They loved meeting people and welcomed many others into their home. A string of foreign exchange students stayed with them and they visited each of their homes in return. As they traveled around the world, my parents were showered with gifts from the people they met. So many, that they were unable to keep them all. Often they became gifts for their hosts on the next stop on their journey.

So what was special about the little Hanuman medallion that it was kept while other things were re-gifted? And where did the necklace come from? We were even more surprised when my Dad said he'd never seen the necklace before. He remembered getting the medallion when they visited an old friend in India, but not the necklace.

Curiosity got hold of me and I looked up the story of Hanuman in the Ramayana. He emerged as a selfless champion who served Rama, rescuing his wife Sita. Later, Hanuman also saved the life of Lakshmana by bringing him a life-saving herb. Hanuman never asked for anything in return, but Sita gifted him with a string of precious stones.

When my mother died, my father received condolences from around the world from people whose lives my mother had touched. The outpouring was incredible. And then there was the necklace. None of us know where it came from, but I like to imagine it was a gift from Sita, thanking my mother for the impact she had on others' lives.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Dona Nobis Pacem

2010-11-04T13:12:00.000-04:00

Two bloggers I admire, Nonamedufus and Suldog are participating in Blog Blast for Peace. They inspired me to add my voice to the cause.

There are many ways to promote peace in the world. In my younger days, I wanted to make the grand gesture, going to rallies and shouting til I was hoarse. But that wasn't me. It always came off as being phony and not as heartfelt as I would like.

These days I take a much quieter stance. I've come to recognize that it's the small things that add up to make big change. That's why I try to move the world toward a peaceful existence by the choices I make in my daily life.

Take, for example, my career path. I choose to work with very young children. It's not a flashy job and certainly not one that pays well. However, over the years I've found I have some skills for making kids feel good about themselves, to feel confident and able to face the many challenges that await them as they grow older. I let them know that we each have our own unique strengths and at the same time have things we can learn from other people. I help them find their own voice so that they can use it to solve problems in a peaceful, generative way. That's not to say I want them to become passive and complacent, though. I want them to learn to speak up for themselves and for others when they see injustice.

The other thing I try to do is to live simply. Sure, it's tough living paycheck to paycheck and worrying that there won't be enough to make ends meet. At the same time, I've learned to live with less and be grateful for what I have, trying to find abundance in all areas of my life. I don't always succeed at this... in fact I can easily fall into a state of resentment and self-pity if I let myself. But ultimately, that's counter productive. It helps no one, least of all myself. As the phrase goes, "Live simply so that others can simply live."

Finally, when I think of the word "peace", I think of calm. My life is often hectic and noisy. I relish the moments I have when I can sit quietly and simply "be". These weeks of enforced inactivity have been a gift in that way. I know from experience that unless I'm in a state of peace, I can't be effective in promoting peace beyond myself.

So there you have it... Boom Boom's recipe for a peaceful world.

(Peace symbol from woodstockpreservation.org)

Klutz Update

2010-11-01T10:07:00.001-04:00

My daily routine has been totally revamped since breaking my leg and becoming dependent upon the kindness of ~~strangers~~ friends. Stuck in a recliner most of the day, I keep in touch with the world electronically rather than venturing out. However, being away from my home and my "writing chair", I've found it difficult to keep up with my writing. I had no idea my chair was so integral to my semi-creative process. Or maybe it's just the difference between the quiet solitude of my house vs. a house with animals and actual people to talk to throughout the course of the day.

Rather than lamenting my lack of creativity, though, I've been embracing the opportunity to spend time with these wonderful friends who have taken me into their home and attended to my every need.
I find I laugh a lot more when around people and that aids in my recovery.

However, I did have a bit of a setback late last week when I visited the doctor for the first time since being discharged from the hospital. Originally I had been told I'd be off my leg for four to six weeks, so imagine my dismay when they told me it would be another TEN weeks before I could put any weight on my leg. What the.....? I'll never get home again at this rate!

But then, once I took a look at the x-rays, I began to understand. I had imagined a neat little plate with some delicate screws holding my fibula together. I had no idea it would actually look like this:

Yeah, there's the plate with the six delicate little screws, but what's with those great big long screws? Who knew I was going to become the bionic woman? Now... if only all that hardware actually made me able to leap tall buildings at a single bound...

Getting All Up In There

2010-10-23T10:25:00.003-04:00

During my recent stay at the hospital, there were a lot of ups and downs. Well... a lot of downs.

One of the things about being down and out to the point that you aren't allowed to get out of bed is the process of elimination. Yeah, it's all fun and games, sitting around being waited on and veging on Vicodin, but sooner or later the inevitable is going to happen. Sooner or later, you're going to need one of these...

I've never had the pleasure of using a bedpan before and I can assure you, I wasn't lamenting that fact. I could have died a happy woman, having never used a bedpan. I could hold it for a long time to avoid this indignity! But, sadly, even my bladder of steel was not up to the task.

So, after thinking about it for a long time, I pressed the call button for the nurse. And waited... and waited... and waited. Until who should appear, but a disinterested, young, male orderly. Where the hell did this guy come from? Up to this time, I'd been cared for in a speedy manner by a sympathetic cadre of female nurses and LPNs. But, I've never held someone's sex against them, so I requested a bedpan from this early-twenty-something guy who looked like he was hung over and only humoring me in order to get beer money.

With a sigh, this supposed angel of mercy left the room. He returned a few minutes later and told me to roll over, reaching gingerly from a distance to set the bedpan next to my hip and telling me to press the call button when I was done. What? No instructions? No encouragement? This guy gets a zero for bedside manner.

Now, after one has spent hours avoiding the necessary task, one becomes bloated to the point of not being able to complete the task. (Never mind the fact that you're laying there picturing where all the excess liquid from the past 36 hours is actually going to land.) Finally, after about a half hour of waiting, a very unsatisfying trickle emerges... only to go precisely where I was imagining it would probably go...

When the orderly returns he rolls his eyes as I inform him that not everything has hit the pan. "You need a pink pad," is all he says. He gets the requisite pad which serves to protect the bed from my ass, hands it to me and leaves. What? No expert installation of the pink pad? No offer of baby wipes? No tender ministrations? I realize my ass is not as young and firm as those he's probably used to seeing, but COME ON! Give me a freakin' break!

Luckily, I never saw this fine specimen of a young man again.

When I finally decided to try again, I was rewarded with a sweet, motherly LPN who was only about fifteen years my junior. She gently helped me assume the proper position and gave words of encouragement. And after some success, she returned to "neaten me up" with soft wipes. Ah... to be cared for so gently and expertly! I heart this woman! Although, I nearly lost it when she asked...

"So... do you want me to get all up in there? I like to keep my ladies clean!"

Now, there's a woman who takes pride in her work!

From Klutz to Bubble Woman

2010-10-19T18:37:00.001-04:00

Great news! My friend, Cherie (of the House of Evil where people who enter break limbs), offered to make me a suit out of bubble wrap to prevent further injuries. Then I remember something I'd seen that would offer another way to protect myself as a bona fide klutz.....

Zorbing!

Perfect! Definitely the safest mode of ambulation for accident prone people such as myself.

Then again, maybe not....

Damn... it's always something!

Why I'll Never Become a Crash Test Dummy

2010-10-17T14:38:00.000-04:00

It's amazing what you find out about yourself by reading. While sitting around with my leg propped up, I have plenty of time to catch up on that stack of books I've been meaning to read.

I just finished Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers last night. It's probably not something I would have picked up on my own, but my friend Nancy happened to have it when she was in the ER with me last Sunday and it turned out to be quite fascinating. Basically it tells about the many ways cadavers are used in science... from anatomy classes, to crash test dummies, to ballistics, to determining causes of plane crashes, to discovering new alternatives to cremation and embalming/burial.

One of my favorite sections was about the use of cadavers in crash tests. Seems there are certain things that the typical plastic crash test dummies can't measure. So, occasionally, they've used actual cadavers or parts thereof in crash tests. Whoa! Now that would be a cool way to contribute to scientific inquiry! Sadly, though, I'll never be able to will my body to be a crash test dummy. It seems klutzes need not apply. My broken bones would prevent my cadaver from being any use to the crash test laboratories. Damn! That would have been a great way to make a contribution!

Then there was the chapter on alternatives to burial or cremation. Strangely, I liked the idea of being flash frozen in liquid nitrogen and then bombarded with ultrasound to be broken up into little bits that could be used as fertilizer. Cool! (Literally & figuratively.) I'd volunteer for that one!

So many things I just hadn't thought about before. Guess this whole invalid thing is expanding my horizons!

Now... what to read next?

Just When You Thought It Was Safe to Go Out...

2010-10-14T10:50:00.003-04:00

After a few weeks of vegetating, I figured it was time to get back to living life to its fullest. Following a wonderful walk in the woods with Vlad on Sunday afternoon, a friend invited me over for a wine & hot tub evening with a couple of women friends. Sounded like a plan! Off I went.

So, with glass of wine in hand I walked out onto the deck beneath the evening stars....

... and promptly missed a step in the dark.

The glass of wine went flying up into the air, I hit the deck (literally), the wine came splashing down on top of me, and I heard something pop... not a good sign.

It didn't look good, either.

So, smelling like a wino, I went for a little ride in the ambulance to the hospital. I spent the night in the ER, went to x ray three times, was splinted four times before they got it right and was wheeled into surgery around 12 hours after arriving at the ER.

Luckily, my friend Nanodance followed the ambulance and kept me company for awhile. She also left me with perfect reading for the hospital:

My friend Ann broke into my house, (setting off the alarm and having a lovely chat with the security people,) and raided my domicile for the necessities of life... clean underwear, toothbrush and computer.

My friends Heather, Emma and Cherie brought me contraband DP (the perfect thing for getting those important bodily functions moving again.)

So, here's the wrap-up of my fun evening out...

Diagnosis: broken fibula and dislocated tibia.
Treatment: plate and screws in fibula, yanking, pulling and splinting for tibia.
Length of hospital stay: 3 nights.
Recovery time: 4-6 weeks without putting any pressure on the leg, then physical therapy.
Fun Drugs: Vicodin and a blood thinner that I get to inject into my stomach every night for the next four weeks. EWWW! (I'll need the Vicodin to get up the nerve to do that.)
Means of transportation: old lady walker, using my leg with the torn ACL & MCL to try to hop around the home. (Ann also went out and bought me a new leg brace and a raised toilet seat... just to make things easier... and to make me feel even more like an old lady.)
Recovery Location: My dear friend Shamra's house. (Remember the chickens?)

Good times! Good times! So glad I went back out amongst the living!

But, seriously... don't I have the most awesome friends ever?

Autumn Leaves

2010-10-10T16:11:00.000-04:00

I love the fall. There's something about the smell of leaves on a bright, crisp, sunny day. Those days when a sweater feels good, but the sun can still warm you up enough to leave the sweater unbuttoned as you crunch through the leaves.

Vlad was born in the fall 23 years ago on October 8th. He was originally slated to arrive mid to late September, but showed up 2 1/2 weeks past my due date. At the time I was beginning to think he was never coming out of there. But, he finally did. His first outing was to the pumpkin patch when he was about a week old. I remember taking him in the Snugli and having a little old lady chastise me for not having a cap on his little head. He had about three hairs at the time. Now I can't drive past a pumpkin patch without thinking about that day.

Vlad's coming home this afternoon and we're going to go for a walk at the Thousand Acre Swamp together. It was his choice for how to celebrate his birthday. We'll crunch through the leaves and enjoy each others' company. With luck, we might spot a deer in the woods. Then we'll come back to the house for some apple cider and talk about the past year and all that he's accomplished.

I can't think of a better way to spend a fall day!

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Burning the Midnight Oil: A Magpie Tale

2010-10-04T21:12:00.001-04:00

Whatcha doin' grandpa?

Just burning the midnight oil.

What do you mean? It's not that late. Why are you burning oil?

It's just an expression we used to use when I was your age. It means working late into the night.

But why oil?

Because before we had electricity, we used oil lamps in this old farmhouse.

Oh, you mean back in the olden days.

Yep, I guess so...

You really are old grandpa, aren't you?

Ah, my lovely, you have no idea.

Do you still have the oil lamp?

Sure do! It's over in the cupboard.

Can we get it out?

You bet.

Grandpa?

What, dear?

I like burning the midnight oil with you.

I can't think of anyone else I'd rather burn it with. Come on now, let's tuck you into bed. It's late.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Crawling Out of My Hole

2010-10-03T09:45:00.001-04:00

Every once in awhile life throws me for a loop. It's not any one thing, but a series of setbacks that puts me in a hole that becomes difficult to climb out of.

Within a 12 month period, I lost the job that I'd been immersed in for 15 years and that had become my identity, I went through all my savings before finding a new job, I lowered my standard of living so that the first time in 30 years I'm living paycheck to paycheck, I fell down my attic stairs and re-injured my knee, a bunch of stuff in my house started falling apart at the same time, (water coming through your living room ceiling is NOT a good thing,) my mom died and then as the icing on the cake, Hickory the Wonder Dog died.

Despite all that, I was holding my own until late August. Then with the approach of a new school year, I was reminded of the cumulative losses of the past year. I suddenly felt alone and bereft. It seemed like I lost my identity. Life became overwhelming.

I began isolating myself, managing to go to work but then coming home and sleeping a lot. I stopped taking care of myself, stopped eating well and let the housework pile up. I was essentially becoming a zombie.

I knew I'd been wallowing for too long when Jon Stewart came up with his Rally to Restore Sanity. Sure, I know you're thinking, "Hey, CatLady, it's not always about YOU!", but it felt like a personal invitation to me at just the right time. Plus, I started getting emails from Quirky and Jayne and Linda, asking where I was. Finally, a lifeline back to sanity!

So, this week I went to the grocery store to buy some vegetables instead of junk food, I got a haircut and I started seeing friends again. I shuffled off to Buffalo to take Vlad to dinner and realized after I got home that I spent the entire day without any knee pain. Amazing! So, I must be getting better. No more wallowing in self-pity... because that really is totally unbecoming. I guess it's time to crawl out of my hole.

Lost!

2010-09-19T09:36:00.000-04:00

Lost: One mojo. If found, please return to CatLadyLarew.

It's The Bloggerhood of the Traveling Book!

2010-09-11T09:18:00.003-04:00

Today is Quirky's birthday, so in order to honor her I'm having a contest! Yes! It's true! Well, maybe not a contest, but it is time to move on to the next stage of

The Bloggerhood of the Traveling Book!

You see, Unfinished Person, (the blogger formerly known as Unfinished Rambler,) sent a copy of a book to Quirky, (still known as the Quirkyloon,) who then offered it to the first person who was foolish enough to send her their real address, who is me, your cat lady without the cats. (That was starting to sound like all the begats in the Bible.)

Guess what book it is? Maybe you can tell by the little Amazon link to the left here.

But seriously.... as soon as I got the book, I went off the radar as I spent my blogging time reading an actual book instead of writing.... shocker! I had just read the first installment of the trilogy while I was on vacation and was chomping at the bit to read the next one. ( I was also chomping on lots of chips and downing them with Dr Pepper.) So I spent ALL of last weekend (my usual blogging time) reading it... and having nightmares about all the creepy stuff that happens in the book.

Really makes you want to read it, right? Well, you can either click on the little "Buy from amazon.com" link and buy it yourself, earning me vast sums of money, or.....

You can be the first one to email me your real life, secret home address and I will pass along The Girl Who Played with Fire to you at no charge! (Of course that means I know where you live and can come stalk you any time I please, but you should be ready with lots of plans for escaping me after reading the book.) The lucky person who gets the book joins Unfinished Person, QuirkyLoon, and the CatLady as an official member of...

The Bloggerhood of the Traveling Book!

Then as soon as you are done reading it, post it on your blog with all the begats to find another person foolish enough to give you their real life, secret home address to pass it along to.

So that's it... a chance to get a free book!

I'm off to play with fire now... because I know where at least one of you lives!

Thank You, Martha Glasgock!

2010-08-29T08:41:00.002-04:00

This will be my last camping post and then I promise I'll shut up!

(at least until next summer)

One thing I forgot to mention about the whole camping thing.... I actually went to college to learn how to do this. Yes, it's true. Long, long ago, in a dorm room far, far away, I was sitting contemplating the nature of my existence and wondering how the hell I was ever going to graduate when I had no clue what I wanted to do with my life.

I'd already been in college for two years and the powers that be were requiring that I get serious and declare a major. Back then, every female I knew was majoring in either Education or Nursing (with a few Sociology majors thrown in) and I didn't want to do the stereotypical female thing. So, I sat down with the old college catalog and started flipping through the pages....

Anthropology... Art History... Biology... Business... Education... Mathematics... Nursing... Recreation... Sociology...

WAIT! GO BACK! What was that one in the R's? Although I'd heard of this before, I thought it was only for the athletic types and that klutzes need not apply. But look... you can take classes in camping and camp management. WooHoo! Arts and Crafts can't be far behind! I'm saved!

It wasn't all fun and games, though. "Teaching of Games & Recreational Sports" was okay, but it was only offered at freakin' 7:30 in the morning and it was on the other side of the river! Not fun in the winter for someone who was known previously for never scheduling (or at least never going to) any classes before noon. And there was a lot about business administration, facilities management (everything you ever wanted to know about diatomaceous earth filters) and medical stuff pertaining to therapeutic recreation that stretched my brain in a lot of different directions.

Enter Martha Glasgock, PhD... the faculty member who taught all the camp-related courses. She was a gnarly woman in her 50's who looked like she had spent way too much time in the sun and took the whole camping thing very seriously. She didn't mess around and she rarely smiled. There was no sloughing off in her classes if you wanted a passing (let alone a decent) grade. And the final exam in her "Camp Management" class was actually going camping for a weekend.

It was here that Martha taught us about orienteering and how to bank a fire overnight so the coals would still be going in the morning. We had to make our own tents out of tarps and rope, as well as dig our own pit toilets. Our group designed the best pit toilet ever! Over the requisite hole that we dug the requisite depth, we lashed together sticks to make a rather comfortable seat, complete with backrest, a post for storing the toilet paper, and a Reader's Digest hanging from a string on another post. (Suitable for reading or using as spare toilet paper if need be.)

Then there was learning to cook with an actual Dutch oven. This is a cast iron pot with a rimmed lid so you can set it in coals and pile additional coals on top in order to get the heat distributed evenly on all sides. Our task was to bake a cake using the Dutch oven. Sadly, this was the one thing that my group nearly failed, thanks to me. But I ask you... who can resist eating the cake batter before you bake the cake? Because we had less batter than we should have, our cake got a little burnt around the edges. OOPS! But since I had so many idiosyncratic credits built up from the pit toilet thing, people forgave me. And I did listen carefully when Martha taught us how to use the coals to toast the perfect marshmallow.

So I passed "Smores 101" with flying colors, graduated from college and became the camper I am today. Thank you, Martha Glasgock, PhD. I bow to your awesomeness every time I return from a camping venture unscathed.

You're So Brave

2010-08-25T19:45:00.000-04:00

Everyone keeps telling me I'm "so brave" to go camping by myself. Even some woman in the shower house at the campground approached me just to tell me how brave I was. I don't get it. Why is it that a single woman camping by herself stands out like a sore thumb?

Geesh! It's not like I'm going backpacking by myself in the Himalayas or anything like that. It's car camping, for cryin' out loud! (Which means I pack as much crap in the car as I can, including the air bed and comfy chairs and cooler full of delicious beverages.) I happen to like camping and kayaking and I'm not going to wait until I have somebody to go with me... I could be waiting a long time and I don't want to miss out on living my life.

So, taking a cue from Quirky this week, I revised the lyrics to a classic by Carly Simon that keeps rattling around in my head....

You're So Brave

You walked across the campground

Like you were walking onto a yacht

Your visor casually dipped below one eye

Your kayak was apricot

You had one oar in the water

As you watched yourself shove off

And dreamed that you’d be a camper

You’d be a camper, and

You're so brave
You probably think that camping is easy
You're so brave
I'll bet you think that camping is easy
Don't you? Don't you?

(Note tasteful apricot colored kayak)

You started camping several years ago
When you were still quite naive
Well, you said that there might be some bears
But that you would never leave
Until you took out a tube of cool Ben Gay
And slathered it on me
I had dreams there were bears eating my leg,
Bears eating my leg, and

You're so brave
You probably think that camping is easy
You're so brave
I'll bet you think that camping is easy
Don't you? Don't you?

(Air bed and comfy chair hidden inside tent)

Well, I hear you went up past Saratoga
To camp by a mountain vista
Then drove the beat up car to the Thousand Islands
To wave at Dufus in Canada
Well, you're where you should be all the time
And when you're not, you're home
Dreaming of more exotic trips with close friends
Exotic trips with close friends, and

You're so brave
You probably think that camping is easy
You're so brave
I'll bet you think that camping is easy
Don't you? Don't you?

Gone Camping

2010-08-18T01:00:00.003-04:00

I'm off again, for another week of camping... this time with bears. Thought I'd leave you with a blast from the past for while I'm away...

The Great Smoky Mountains (or The Second Worst Camping Trip Ever)

After reading about the worst camping trip ever, you may have thought I'd never again venture out into the wild. However, I'm not exactly a quick study. I eventually bought a tent and Coleman stove, thinking that with the proper equipment I could become a fearless mountain woman.

With that goal in mind, my boyfriend (of the ill fated Colorado trip) and I set out for a getaway to the Great Smoky Mountains. The trip down to the Smokies was highlighted by a car malfunction in Pittsburgh, but we'll save that story for another time.

When finally we arrived at the Great Smoky Mountains visitor center, we were met with a graphic display of the terrors which native black bears could wreak upon unwary campers. It listed warnings about what could happen if you encountered a bear, including a display of items mauled by bears, such as a metal container that had been ripped apart and showed the slashes left by claws. The list of precautions you could take to avoid being ripped to shreds by bears included such things as preparing and consuming all meals before dark and storing all food inside your car. The sign admonished you to NEVER store food in your tent unless you wanted the vicious bears in the neighborhood to slash open the side of your tent, maul you and steal your food. Needless to say, it didn't take much convincing for us to swear on our ancestors' graves that we would never even THINK about disobeying the rules of bear safety.

(Giving credit where credit is due: Bear photo by Brian Wolitski)

We traveled on to the camping area where we were assigned a wonderful campsite. To reach it you had to traverse a small stream and thus were beautifully isolated from the other campers in their large Winnebagos. An idyllic scene, to be sure. We happily set up camp, erecting the tent, blowing up air mattresses and proudly setting up the Coleman stove on the picnic table provided for our enjoyment. We also laid out a neat pile of logs we had purchased and twigs we had gathered in the fire pit for later use. Standing back and surveying our professionally appointed campsite, we were filled with pride!

Once we had set up camp, it was time for a rousing hike through the woods. Our day packs were laden with the essentials; sunscreen, water bottles and "gorp" for the trail. We set off on a trail that led up to a fire tower. It was a beautiful walk weaving through virgin forest and past a waterfall, with spring wildflowers in abundance. Once we reached the fire tower, we climbed it to get a perfect view of the Smokies in all their splendor. The clouds had settled over the peaks and dipped into the valleys, giving name to the mountains. On the trek back down the mountain, we grew weary, so stopped at the waterfall to take off our hiking boots and dip our toes into the refreshing pool below.

Later, back at camp, we prepared another delicious meal of, (you guessed it,) Kraft macaroni & cheese and canned green beans. Our dinner was over before dusk settled into the valley. The plates, silverware and pan were washed thoroughly and stowed back in the car, across the stream so that no aroma of cheese would remain to tempt any starving black bears. As the sun dropped, so did the temperature, so after our campfire burned down to ciders and no longer provided warmth to our bodies, we retired. Nothing feels so good as a sleeping bag floating on an air-mattress on a cold spring evening. We talked for awhile about how wonderful the day was, how beautiful our camp site was and what a great job we had done of bear-proofing our camp site.

As the evening wore on, sleep once again eluded me. After the initial warmth of the sleeping bag wore off, a chill set in and as I tensed up, my calves began to ache from all the hiking we had done. I knew that I could either lay there thinking about it or get up and do something about it. So I rummaged through my pack to find the first aid kit and pulled out a tube of Ben Gay. Slathering it all over my legs left me even more chilled as the medication started working. After awhile, though, I began to warm up again and my muscles began to relax.

That is, until I realized my legs smelled like giant peppermint candies. Yikes! Did bears like peppermint? Was that just the thing bears crave for late night snacks? How was I to get the smell off of me? The greasy formula of Ben Gay was not wiped off easily. Plus, as luck would have it, my air mattress had lost all its air and there was nothing protecting me from the cold, rocky ground. No matter how much I huffed and puffed, the air mattress could no longer be re-inflated. Now I was wide awake, cold and miserable, waiting for the bears to come slash their enormous, razor-sharp claws through the tent, drag me from my sleeping bag and feast on my peppermint flavored legs. What to do? Should I go sleep in the car for the rest of the night? Or better yet, in the cinder block bathroom up at the ranger station? Either would be equally uncomfortable and it might mean coming face to face with a bear and being mauled on the way. Better to stay put. Could I possibly be any more uncomfortable and scared? Not to mention the fact that I had failed to set out the pan with rocks in it to shake and scare off wild animals that came close. (Remembering how futile that plan was the last time I tried it.) Another sleepless, fear-filled night of camping was upon me and yet somehow I made it until morning with my legs still intact.

Yes, once more a camping trip, (originally so full of hope and promise,) had gone horribly wrong. Obviously the bears never got me, but the memory of the terror that struck my heart is still with me to this day. Amazingly, I still love camping out... I just avoid places with bears, mountain lions or snakes.

Dazed and Confused: A Magpie Tale

2010-08-14T10:31:00.000-04:00

The fall left her dazed and confused.

She tried to remember where she was and how she got there. She thought it had something to do with gold. But all she could see as she looked up was the rusted pipe protruding from the cellar wall.

Her legs wouldn't move and her arms ached. The years of cringing with suspicion had left her stiff and sore.

The last thing she could remember was counting coins. Shimmering gold coins that represented her life savings. Coins that were kept safe in the cellar, away from the banks she mistrusted. Must put them back in the cellar. Away from prying eyes.

Again she tried to rise. To reach the pipe in the wall to pull herself up. No use.

Her family had told her she was being silly, that banks were safe. But she had lived through the Depression. She knew what she was talking about. They were the ones being silly.

As she gazed at the pipe, she began to see herself in it, the rust and oxidation mirroring her own corrosion. The corrosion that no one would see again because it was tucked away in the cellar. Tucked away with the gold coins, now scattered about the floor. Tucked away, safe and secure... where no one would find them.

* * * * * * * * *

The Secret Garden: A Magpie Tale

2010-08-08T11:17:00.002-04:00

Summers long ago were a time of wonder. Each morning we would go outside, waving good-bye to our mother and opening the gate to run with glee down to the lower back yard. To anyone else, it looked like a run down bit of pasture, but to us it was where our world would transform into a land of fairy tale and adventure. It was our own secret garden. Magical things could happen there.

The tools of fantasy were simple... old scarves for the capes of kings and queens, a stick for a hero's sword, a basket to hold the mud pies to take to grandmother's house, an old watering can to nourish the magic beans we found in our garden.

Weeping willow branches hid us from the outside world and the creek became an ocean to be navigated, the little rise of sand a desert island. Old, crumbling outbuildings became castles or dungeons.

Years later, I returned to this secret garden to share it with my son and was amazed by how small it was. No longer the vast, wondrous world of my childhood but the run down bit of pasture it had always been to those without our imagination. Yet, I can still picture the magic that happened there. All I have to do is close my eyes and dream.

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The Fruit Stand: A Magpie Tale

2010-07-31T09:50:00.005-04:00

It began as a simple camping trip with friends. The day they left to return to town, I ventured into the local village to pick up a few supplies for my last night at the campground. The fruit stand beckoned me with its hand written signs: "Fresh Peaches" and "Sweet Corn."

After I pulled off the road, it seemed strange that there weren't many baskets of fruits and vegetables on the table. Most of the tables were filled with root-bound flowers in old pots. A dilapidated building with a tin roof stood behind the sad array of produce. Equally dilapidated and misshapen additions were attached to the sides, much like the pop-up campers back at the campground. Chicken wire covered what was left of the windows.

As I selected a small basket of peaches, the old woman who came out of the even older building rattled off a litany of what other fruits and vegetables were available. Look at the onions... no soft spots on those. The muslin dress, sprigged with tiny blue flowers, hung loosely on her. Tomatoes are nice and ripe... $2 a basket. Both her hair and body were wiry and one of her front teeth was missing. Nectarines are nice and sweet. The remaining teeth reminded me of yellow and white sweetcorn. We have fresh picked Silver Queen inside, $4 a dozen. She kept talking as she transferred the peaches I selected to a brown paper bag. Give the money to the boy.

I turned and saw a slightly younger man I hadn't noticed before. Likely her son, if the matching dentition was anything to go by. His hair was a dark blond and was cut unevenly. The overalls he wore had large pockets to hold the bills and coins I handed to him. He and his mother looked like they'd just stepped out of a Dorothea Lange photograph, while I felt like I'd just stepped into one.

Fresh sweet corn inside. Perhaps I could use a few ears of corn after all. My son would enjoy that for dinner when I get home tomorrow night. So, is your son camping with you? He's working this week, but will be home tomorrow. There's some summer squash over here... got both yellow and green. No thank you, this will be plenty enough for tonight. Kids these days don't get enough fresh air. Yes, camping is great for kids. The corn is inside the building. Were you caught in that thunder storm last night? Yeah, that was pretty wild! How old is your son? Twenty two. Did you say he was camping with you? She falls into step behind me as I move closer to the building.

I wandered into the building after the young man. There was even less inside than there was outside. No corn in sight, but then it was hard to see anything in the gloom. The boy will have to bring it out for you... it's in the back room. Old fruit crates stack the walls as though they're the only thing holding them up. So, you say you're camping by yourself?

As I sit on an old fruit crate, staring at the door in front of me, I wonder again how I came to be in such a predicament. The lock stares back at me, the scratches that I've made on it mirroring the blood vessels in my eyes. There's nothing to do but sit and wait. The muslin dress, sprigged with tiny blue flowers, hangs loosely on me now. It's getting hard to remember what I wore the day I stopped at the fruit stand so many months ago. Loneliness does such strange things to people.

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Phantom Canyon: Reprise

2010-07-28T01:00:00.009-04:00

Summer time means vacation time, so I'll be leaving you with a few oldies but (hopefully) goodies this week while I venture out into the woods of Upstate New York. If I'm not back by Saturday, send help

Phantom Canyon (or The Worst Camping Trip Ever)

Back when I was fresh out of college, I moved to Colorado for a year with my boyfriend. (Who later became my husband and later still my ex-husband.) While we were living there, my sister and brother came to visit us. Being young and adventurous, we decided to go camping together up in Phantom Canyon.

Now, Phantom Canyon is exactly as it sounds. Picture, if you will, a rock strewn dirt road clinging to the side of a mountain with a sheer drop on one side of the road. There's room for only one car on the road at a time, so in the unlikely event you meet a car coming the other direction, one of you has to back up until you can find a spot wide enough to pass by each other. There are no actual campsites, but rather a few sparsely scattered areas where you could pitch a tent. (If you actually had one.)

Intrepid campers we were not. We had three sleeping bags for the four of us and no tent. My brother insisted he was hearty enough to use just a bed roll made up of a couple of old indian blankets we had around the house. So, we packed the car (an old white BMW 2002) with the sleeping bags, bed roll, water jug, two boxes of Kraft macaroni & cheese and a pan to cook it in, a can of green beans, matches, a cooler of Dr Pepper and a bag of marshmallows.

We cheerfully set out on our journey on a warm, sunny day in early June. The road up the canyon, as I indicated, is a tad bit treacherous without 4-wheel drive, but we were undaunted. We'd already made the drive up the canyon before several times, just not loaded down with four people and camping gear. We hit bottom a few times, but this was to be expected. After about 40 minutes, we saw a clearing that might accommodate our car and suffice for our campsite.

We parked the car off the side of the road and carted all the gear to the clearing. Out came the sleeping bags, the bed roll, the water jug, the two boxes of Kraft macaroni & cheese and the pan to cook it in, the green beans, the matches, the cooler of Dr Pepper and the bag of marshmallows. We started to set up camp and were quite happy with the location we found until we heard the buzzing of insects. You name an insect, it was there. Swarms of mosquitoes, gnats and some bees made our beautiful campsite uninhabitable.

So, we once again packed up the sleeping bags, the bed roll, the water jug, the two boxes of Kraft macaroni & cheese and the pan to cook it in, the green beans, the matches, the cooler of Dr Pepper and the bag of marshmallows. Back into the car we squeezed, only to find that the car had overheated on the rough ride up the canyon and wouldn't start. There was nothing to do but wait for the car to cool down. By this time, the sun had warmed the air sufficiently to make the interior of the car rather warm. In my great wisdom I decided it was the perfect time for a cool, refreshing Dr Pepper. I proceeded to pop the top on the can, only to have it explode in a spray of amber colored, sticky droplets all over the inside of the car. Everyone was drenched and screaming as the soda dripped back down off the ceiling. Needless to say, I was not the most popular person at that moment. We were now all hot, tired and sticky and the car still wouldn't start.

Forty-five minutes later, after we were all done glaring at each other, the car started and we were once again on our way. We drove further up the canyon for about another 30 minutes until we came to another clearing. To get to it you had to follow a steep path down from the road. We started getting out all the equipment again. Yes, the sleeping bags, the bed roll, the two boxes of Kraft macaroni & cheese and the pan to cook it in, the green beans, the matches, the cooler of Dr Pepper and the bag of marshmallows were carried down the steep hill. The last thing to come down the hill was the jug of water, which my brother proceeded to drop about half way down. The water came flying out of the jug and my sister started screaming at my brother because she needed the water for her contact lenses. (Never mind the fact that our two boxes of Kraft macaroni & cheese were going to be a little crunchy to eat with no water to boil the macaroni.)

About the same time, one of us noticed that the steep path we'd been traversing up and down was covered with poison ivy. Many expletives were invoked before we started talking civilly to each other again. At long last, we had our camp set up. We made a fire ring from rocks we gathered, started a fire with deadwood we found, laid out our sleeping bags and bed roll near the fire, and started to cook our evening meal. There was just enough water left in the jug to make the macaroni & cheese, although it did taste a tad bit gritty from the dirt that clung to the opening of the water jug.

As night began to fall and we were roasting marshmallows over the fire, we began to contemplate the many wild animals that lived in Phantom Canyon, including small mountain lions. We figured the rattlesnakes had all gone to their dens for the evening. Nonetheless, we did discuss the merits of circling a rope around your sleeping bag to keep the snakes out. Whether that was an old wives' tale or whether it had actual merit was a moot point, as we didn't have any swell cowboy lariats anyway. All the same, the more we thought about the mountain creatures and the darker and colder it got, the more nervous we became.

That's when we came up with the great idea of the rocks in the pan. It seemed obvious to us that if we heard something approaching we could simply shake the rocks in the pan to make noise and scare away whatever it was. Everyone agreed it was a brilliant plan. So, we all snuggled down comfortably into our sleeping bags with the rock filled pan next to us and prepared for slumber. Unfortunately, our sleeping bags weren't as warm as we anticipated and we all started to shiver. About the same time, we became painfully aware of all the small rocks we were sleeping on top of. The more uncomfortable we got, the more sleep eluded us. Even the beautiful night sky failed to relax us. Finally, we all covered our heads and tried our darnedest to fall asleep.

After what seemed like hours, a rustle began nearby. The sound of sticks snapping came next as the creature neared. Being cold and shivering and sure that whatever was out there meant to bite any exposed hand that came out of a sleeping bag, we all pretended to be asleep in the hope that someone else would be brave enough to shake the pan. Two minutes passed, five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen. Still no hand was seen making the supreme sacrifice for the good of the group. Twenty minutes later, someone ventured to whisper, "Are you awake?" Immediately we knew that we were all cowards and had been avoiding being eaten alive by a mountain lion, all the while hoping that one of our camp mates would provide a tastier treat for the vicious creature. (Yes, we really cared deeply about each other.) Upon making a pact that we would all look out on the count of three, we were amazed to see that this time we all came through! We had done it! We had faced our fears and faced down the creature.... which, as it turned out, happened to be a steer.

Range cattle are very common in the mountains and it never occurred to us that the thing that was approaching could be a very large, but very docile creature rather than a blood thirsty devourer of humans. The rest of the night was spent leaning up against an old stone wall and stoking the fire until the sun rose. When the dawn finally arrived, no one spoke as we packed up the sleeping bags, the bed roll, the empty water jug, the pan minus the rocks, the empty cooler and the trash. In fact, I don't think any of us spoke to each other again until about six hours after we finally arrived back home.

Rarely have I been so miserable while camping. And I've never again gone camping with my sister and brother. Go figure!

Pajama Day: Reprise

2010-07-26T10:27:00.000-04:00

Pajama Day

Pajama Day is a cat lady's dream. Imagine... waking up to a day in which there are no pesky employment obligations, no creditors lurking at your door and no relatives planning to visit. Your social calendar is completely empty. Household chores are unnecessary as you don't plan to wear clean clothes anyway, you can live off any leftovers in the fridge that haven't yet become science experiments and you couldn't give a crap whether your house is clean or not.

What do you do first? The obvious thing is to go back to sleep, which you do until the other inhabitant of your home, the trusty canine, decides it's time to go outside and increase the number of land mines in the back yard. This is brought to your attention by the tapping of doggy toenails, which should have been trimmed long ago... except that he would rather bite the hand that feeds him than have his nails done. (He obviously doesn't understand the allure of French tips.) You try to ignore the pitter-patter of large feet until the whining begins. Soon you realize the whining is not due to the dream you were having about work and you become more fully awake. Again, you try to ignore the signals by putting a pillow over your head. When the whining finally erupts into a full-fledged bark, it's time to give up and get up. (Cat silhouettes are much more accommodating... they never tap, whine or bark.)

As long as you're up, you might as well start brewing the coffee while the dog does his thing. In the spirit of generosity, you provide food and water for him as well. While doing this, you naturally spill water on the floor, slip on it and strain your bum knee. Limping to the door to let the dog in, you realize that you should probably ice the knee, so you stop off to put an ice pack in the freezer to chill. Upon opening the door of said freezer, all the boxes of Lean Cuisine that have been crammed inside slide out and fall on your unshod foot, creating a new shot of severe pain to go along with the pain shooting through your knee. This means it's really time to get off your feet. You finally make it to the door and the dog comes flying in past you, (bumping into your already sore knee,) to get to the delectable taste treats you've left in his bowl. These are scarfed down in about 3 seconds and he turns to you with a pleading look that says, "That was lovely, but what else is for breakfast?" On your way to the recliner you throw him a rawhide chew which is consumed by the time you lean back in the chair. The whining begins anew, so being a thoughtful pet owner you lean over to scratch him behind the ears to relieve his angst. This results in a new pain... this one in your back where a nerve exposed by a herniated disk gets pinched from leaning over the wrong way. Back to the fridge to put in another ice pack.

This time the cold emanating from the freezer reminds you that you have to pee. You hobble up the stairs with one hand on your aching knee and the other hand supporting your aching back. Once seated upon the throne of relief, you realize there are only two sheets of toilet paper left on the roll. (Had you cleaned the bathroom like most people do on a Saturday morning, you might have noticed this before settling down.) As you attempt to rise, you find you can't because of the pain in your knee and back. Meanwhile, the dog has begun to whine again because he misses the scintillating conversation you'd been having previously downstairs. Grabbing hold of the sink with one hand and the toilet paper holder with the other, you pry yourself up painfully, hobble into the spare room to procure a new roll of paper from the bulk size package sitting there and return to complete your task, which has become much more urgent. Glorious relief is at hand and soon it's time to once again grab onto the sink and toilet paper holder to pull yourself back up off the throne. This time the toilet paper holder snaps off the wall, falling on the remaining toes that weren't attacked by the Lean Cuisine. New pain shoots through your toes.

It's becoming abundantly clear that the dreams of a relaxing pajama day are not going to materialize. The only thing left to do is to pop half a bottle of Advil, dig out a pair of earplugs from the bedside stand, pull the shades and go back to bed. Finally you drift back into an uneasy slumber... until the tapping begins again!

Hickory in Wonderland

2010-07-24T11:08:00.001-04:00

It's quiet around the old homestead today. Hickory the Wonder Dog has gone to Wonderland.

Hickory came to us as a puppy when he was only eight weeks old. When we got him, he had a bald spot on top of his head and a scar down his face. He was the last of the litter to be spoken for since he was deemed "defective". But I'm a sap for the underdog and that made him all the more lovable to me.

The bald spot grew larger and the vet determined it was a dermoid cyst, so Hickory had to go through a major surgery to have it removed when he was a year old. Which also meant the had to have the skin from his neck pulled up and grafted onto the top of his head. From then on he always looked kind of like he had a bad toupe!

The cyst was not the only thing that grew. Hickory was a large, economy size dog, topping out at 130 pounds. Yeah, that's a BIG dog! But then, we're big people, so we suited each other. The living room already seems huge now, without him sprawled across the floor.

His home away from home was out at Shamra's house, with his best friend, Sadie, the cats and the chickens. I never had to worry about putting Hickory into a kennel for trips because he was always welcome there. He spent hours roaming with Sadie in the meadow and going swimming in the pond. (Sadie hated the water, though, and would look at him with distain when he would mosey on over next to her to shake off the pond water.) Shamra's family dubbed him "Big Daddy" and loved him as much as we did.

We said our final farewells after his back legs gave out and he was unable to get up. Hickory's last night was spent outside because he couldn't get back up the steps into the house. Since it was raining, I made a little tent out of tarps and spent the night with him. It was our last campout together.

I petted him through the night, keeping him as comfortable as possible until the vet came the next morning. Then I held him as he relaxed into his final sleep.

Hickory saw Vlad and I through life's ups and downs... accidents, surgeries, death, divorce and unemployment... always maintaining a steady, loving gaze just when we needed it most.

We'll hold him in our hearts always and trust that he's happy now in Wonderland.

Hoedown!

2010-07-21T01:00:00.006-04:00

Imagine a warm summer day. The breeze is blowing across the hills of Upstate New York. A crowd begins to gather.

Tents are set up...

Plenty of places to lounge around...

Wet towels flap in the breeze...

While the wind blows away the rain clouds...

The tree house is a nifty place to keep an eye on things...

And a tree swing provides a quiet respite...

The band sets up in the barn...

Food, friends, libations, music, good times.

Hoedown!

Talk about the dog days of summer...

Playing With Fire: A Magpie Tale

2010-07-19T21:36:00.001-04:00

Life was much simpler when we were children. We'd get up in the morning, throw on some clothes, get some breakfast, then head outside. We'd spend our day playing in one of the long defunct outbuildings, trying to lasso our donkey for a ride, wading in the creek, exploring the barn, or going fishing with a safety pin attached to a stick with a piece of string. Pirates, kings & queens, sorcerers, cowboys, witches... you name it, we played it! Sometime around noon, Mom would call us in for lunch, which most often consisted of grilled cheese sandwiches, tomato soup and Art Linkletter's radio show. Then we'd head back out to play until supper.

After a long day of fantasy play, it was no wonder witches sometimes entered my dreams. My brother and I shared a room across the hall from my parents, while my sister had her own room. But when we got scared by things that go bump in the night, it was my sister's door we'd knock on. Since it was not in her plan to host annoying younger siblings, she begrudgingly let us in... but made us sleep in her closet. We'd wrap up in the blankets that we brought with us to wait out the fear. Hanging on the hooks above our heads were huge petticoats made of tulle... de rigueur for little girls of the 50's. Perfect tinder for the candles and matches my sister gave us for light in the otherwise dark closet. My brother and I would huddle together, mesmerized by the candle flame flickering up toward the waiting petticoats. Amazingly, we never burned the house down during those 1001 Closet Nights.

Being a "good girl", I never played with matches beyond my sister's closet. But my brother was just getting started, continuing to experiment with matches in our playroom closet downstairs... until the day the flames caught hold. Somehow, my mother managed to put out the flames before the entire house went up in smoke. (Living far out in the country, the fire trucks would never have made it on time.) But an entire closet full of toys were charred beyond recognition before the flames were finally put out.

Sooner or later, we were all tempted to play with fire, either literally or figuratively.

Unfortunately, we never knew who was going to get burned. As we grew up, we just became more of who we were back then. Today my sister is an uber-organized, successful businesswoman who is undeterred by setbacks; I still tend to turn inward and long to hide in a closet when experiencing self-doubt; and my brother crashed and burned, eventually ending up homeless and without means of support. Sadly, he's the one who played with fire and lost.

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Pfffft.... Help! (Theme Thursday)

2010-07-15T19:34:00.002-04:00

This week the gang over at Theme Thursday chose "Help" as the prompt du jour. Pop over to see who else is playing. You'll be glad you did!

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Now, you may think that my sojourn into the realm of camping last week was totally idyllic and it was. But in true CatLady fashion, it was not without incident.

All was well until the morning of departure, when I woke up to the sound of a thunderstorm. No problem. I've packed up in the rain before. But damn... the humidity! Killer! I hate to sweat, so I was not a happy camper, literally or figuratively. By the time I was finished packing, I had to unpack my pack again in order to find clothes that were not soaking wet with sweat. Otherwise, I couldn't bear to be in the same car with myself for the 180 mile drive home. I managed to find a skort (so very stylish) and a clean t-shirt in the bottom of my bag. I was left with wet shoes, but those were easily removed for the trip.

It was an enjoyable drive and the miles passed quickly as I listened to a David Sedaris book on tape.

All was well until I was a half mile from home. As I was rounding a corner on the expressway, the camping gear- and kayak-laden car swerved suddenly. WTF? It wasn't even windy or anything!

100 yards down the road I discovered why I had swerved... flump, flump, flump, flump. Pfffft!

B...l...o...w O...u...t!

Not to worry... I'm a she-woman. I know how to change a flat tire. Simply unload half the crap in the car to get to the spare tire. Unload the other half to get to the jack. Pry off hubcap. Loosen lug nuts.... loosen lug nuts.... loosen... Damn!

When in doubt, call AAA.

That is, call AAA if you have any juice left in your cell phone after a week of camping.

Double Damn!

Stand by side of road looking helpless and thanking the goddess that you managed to find the clean skort and t-shirt to put on so oncoming motorists can't smell the damsel in distress from a mile away.

(Paula/Pauline... it's basically the same.)

Wait approximately 5 minutes, debating whether to just walk home...
Notice neat white truck, pulling off road just ahead...
See friendly looking man in painter pants start walking toward damsel in distress...

Help is on the way! I'm saved!

From now on, all my painting needs are going to be taken care of by Ryan and Sons, House Painters Extraordinaire! Kind, courteous, manly men, ready to help at a moment's notice.

Life is good!

Love Apples: A Magpie Tale

2010-07-12T06:03:00.000-04:00

Nothing says "summer" like ripe, red tomatoes.

Tomatoes were a staple in our garden when I was a kid. After harvesting, those that didn't go immediately to the dinner table were sliced, diced, pureed, and then "put up" into Mason jars. We'd end up with enough to last us through the coming year. Those tomatoes that didn't ripen up by the end of the season were turned into my grandma's special green tomato relish. In later years, I'd ask my mom for green tomato relish for Christmas and she thought I was crazy, but there's nothing finer.

Growing up in Iowa, a typical summer dinner would consist of mounds of corn on the cob and sliced tomatoes, both fresh from the garden. Nothing else, just those two items. The tomatoes were first scalded with boiling water, so that the skins would separate and could be magically peeled off. Then they'd be cut into thick slices. Mom would serve them up on a big platter. My brother and I ate ours with sugar sprinkled on top. My sister and parents ate theirs with mayonnaise, which was always served in a little glass bowl with a silver base. I always thought of that as "the mayonnaise bowl".

Sliced tomatoes were also turned into bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwiches, another summer favorite. Again, the mayonnaise bowl was put into service. When we were going through my mom's things after she died last month, I came across the mayonnaise bowl. It was one of the few things that actually reminded me of my mom, and of long, summer days when life was simple and good. Tomato days.

No wonder they call them Love Apples.

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Life's Tough All Over

2010-07-10T09:07:00.001-04:00

I had a tough week. Here's how it went...

8:00 to noon - Wake up, pee, wash face, brush teeth, make coffee, sit in hammock & read.

Noon to 1:00 - Get dressed, forage for food.

1:00 to 2:00 - Paddle around the islands (there were a thousand to choose from) in my trusty vessel, Yellow Tail.

2:00 to 4:00 - Drink beer, relax in hammock, read, take nap.

4:00 to 5:00 - Float on inflatable raft with cheesy paperback novel. Bounce up and down as big boats go by.

5:00 to 6:00 - Lay in reclining lounge chair, drink Dr Pepper and read some more.

6:00 to 7:00 - Go for another paddle. Observe wildlife.

7:00 to 9:15 - Make dinner over campfire. Eat, relax, read some more.

9:15 to 9:30 - Watch sun set.

9:30 to 11:00 - Read in tent while enjoying a glass (or two) of wine.

11:00 - Enjoy amazing stars on walk to bath house to pee one last time. Lights out. Listen to water and night sounds.

Wake up next day and repeat.

Yeah, it's a tough job, but somebody's gotta do it!

Blue: Theme Thursday

2010-07-02T07:24:00.012-04:00

This week the gang over at Theme Thursday chose "Blue" as the prompt du jour. Pop over to see who else is playing. You'll be glad you did!

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Jesse Fuller composed San Francisco Bay Blues, but of all the artists who have covered it over the years, it was Richie Havens who actually brought the blues to the song for me. Fuller was an amazing guy, performing as a one man band with his own creation, the fotdella. But his original version of this particular song is a just little too chipper, in my mind, to be considered the blues. Fuller makes me feel way too perky when I listen to his version. I much prefer the rich, mellow sound that Richie Havens brings to the song.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VyPKb6AfhGE

Kudos to both artists, though, for bringing this fabulous work of art to life. So, what do you think? Here's the YouTube link for Fuller's original version, since embedding was disabled: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LKumuirtwbo.

Zombie Eyez!

2010-06-29T19:52:00.001-04:00

Well, I did it again! I managed to show up at work looking so disgusting that I made small children cry out in fear. I seem to have a special talent for this stuff. I have no idea how these things happen to me. It's a mystery.

This time it was with...

Zombie Eyez!

Who needs rose colored glasses when you have this beauty? The first thing a child said to me was, "Paula, you need to get some paper right away and put it on your glasses so we can't see your eye!" And good morning to you, too, my dear!

Yeah... I think I'm getting a little peckish for some brainzzzz... (I hear young brainz are very tender.)

Speaking of brainz... if you haven't yet been introduced to him, go check out Gumley over at Robbie's Bubbles. He's developing a collection of Zombtees that are to die for! He's a bit wonky (in a good way) from hanging out with Indigo and iDifficult. Those boys have spent WAY too much time playing D & D together over the years!

Now... where did I put those sun glasses? I've frightened enough small children for one day...

Clothes of the Dead

2010-06-27T10:18:00.000-04:00

So, now that Mom's dead and unburied, I'm finally getting back to my normal routine. But, before that could happen, there were a few things to sort out down in Florida. One of the delights of dealing with death is the disposal of the deceased's worldly goods. Never a pleasant task, even in the most agreeable of families. Personally, I always thought Inheritance Smack Down would make a great reality show.

You know... put a bunch of relatives of some poor deceased rich slob in a room together with a shit load of booty and let them duke it out over who gets what while some scrawny attorney looks on and wrings his or her hands in dismay. Screaming, yelling, punching and hair pulling excess at its finest! The winner gets to take all the good stuff and cash, while the losers get to split a time share in a condo on a flood plain overlooking the oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico. I'm really amazed that no one has come up with a show like that yet.

While in Florida, my sisters and I got to go through Mom's stuff and choose what we wanted before shipping off the rest to the Hospice Thrift Shop. Yay! Clothes of the Dead! We had a good time, dressing up just like we did when we were kids. We let my niece come along to take her pick of the finest in women's jettisoned clothing, hats and costume jewelry.

Number One Daughter, Ilsa & Eowyn looking their finest.

A good time was had by all. We packed up the Clint Eastwood outfit to send to Waldo, since he couldn't be there to get his share. I let the rest of them take all of the jewelry except for one rhinestone necklace, which I kept for sentimental reasons. I used to love to play dress up with it as a little girl.

The only bone of contention was my mother's mink coat. She bought it in London about twenty years ago and wore it to the Queen's birthday celebration where they trooped out the royals onto the balcony of the palace. None of us were really keen on having a mink coat. After all, my female siblings live in Florida for cryin' out loud and I have far too many friends who are members of PETA to be able to wear it in public. But once when we were visiting, Vlad dressed up in it and called it his pimp coat and asked his grandma if he could have it. Once he added a fedora, he looked quite fetching! Mom was horrified at the thought of her grandson wearing her beloved coat as a Halloween costume, so she said no way!

But in the end, guess who got it? Good thing she was cremated instead of buried, 'cause otherwise Mom would be rolling over in her grave right about now!

How to Host a Funeral... CatLady Style

2010-06-20T08:47:00.005-04:00

First, let's just say that there will be no actual funerals involved in this post. Cat ladies don't do funerals... they just wither away. Although, a Viking funeral would be a fitting way to remove all the useless crap from my house. You could load it all up into an ancient rowboat and then torch it as you send it out to sea.

The number one trick to hosting a funeral is to have the deceased not want a funeral. Thanks, Mom! Then it's also handy to have a father who is uber-organized so that there's not much to do when you arrive on scene. Thanks, Dad! Then there are the two uber-organized sisters who already had the picnic basket packed by the time I got there. Thanks, Number One Daughter and Eowyn. (And yes, in case you were wondering, the mad organizational skills of my family have always left me wondering if I was adopted or something.)

So, ix-nay on the funeral... let's have a party at the beach instead! My mom missed her 60th wedding anniversary by eight days, so we decided to have an anniversary celebration instead of a funeral.

Complete with Mom's Haviland china and silver.

Sadly, Mom's ashes weren't ready yet, so we weren't able to bring her in the silver chafing dish that Eowyn set aside for the occasion. Oh, well... nothing ever goes according to plan. But Dad did bring their wedding photos, so we still got to see her.

Vlad and Waldo couldn't make it, but Eowyn, Ilsa (my niece) and I came decked out in Mom's finest jewelry, which we had raided the day before.

One must always look one's best! Number One Daughter forgot to wear her jewels, so we were going to make her sit at her own table but then relented. (When one is in mourning, one must be forgiven these serious lapses in fashion judgment.)

Looking the most dapper, was Dad... all decked out in his beach gear. Now, there's a guy who knows how to have a good time!

My brother in law, Sven, provided the music... songs of the forties and fifties. We toasted Mom with gin and tonics and Dr Pepper while enjoying the breezes off the Gulf of Mexico. All in all, it was a happy way to provide closure on a life well-lived.

After all, Mom would have wanted it that way!

And When I Die...

2010-06-10T01:00:00.055-04:00

My mom died a week ago and today I'm headed down to Florida to spend some time with my family. Despite being in poor health for close to 20 years, my mom always insisted on having things "just right". Whether it was designing tasteful decor for her home, planning the perfect party, or using correct syntax in her speech, mom wanted things done properly. That included dying on her own terms. So much so, she was supremely pissed when Dad called 911 instead of letting her expire last month. She even threatened to call a divorce lawyer over that one. Classic Mom... snarky to the end!

In the last few weeks, Mom was ready to go and just wanted to get on with it, dying only three days after being moved to hospice care. She wanted to be cremated right away and insisted that we dispense with the usual funeral or memorial service. After all, Mom hated it when people got all teary at funerals... she thought it was undignified. And I'm sure she didn't want anyone staring at her when she was dead and obviously not looking her best.

So we're not having any sort of ceremony. Instead, we'll head to the beach tomorrow for a picnic to celebrate what would have been my parent's 60th wedding anniversary. But we'll use real dishes and silverware... Mom wouldn't want us using tacky paper plates and plastic forks on her anniversary. I think we should bring her box of ashes with us, but we'd have to find her a tasteful urn first... the cardboard box that cremains come in just isn't going to cut it! It will probably be bittersweet, but it will also be a happy time, with lots of memories and lots of laughter. After all, what else would you expect from the Cat Lady and her family?

I figure Mom's out there somewhere enjoying her grand adventure. After all, she did love to travel. So I'm dispensing with the traditional dirge and carrying on with life while having Laura Nyro sing Mom out in style....

That Look of Surprise: A Magpie Tale

2010-06-07T22:34:00.003-04:00

Things had gotten out of hand. The noise of drunken debauchery filled the streets night after night. So many poor souls had succumbed to temptation. Eventually, even the most chaste were being dragged into the depths of moral turpitude. It was time for someone to step in and put an end to the depravity.

One night, two mysterious strangers knocked on a door in the town, entreating the occupants of the house to join them and flee the city. But why should we, the family asked? Because doom and destruction will rain down upon you if you stay, was the answer. Come away now and don't look back, they cried.

The father, mother and two daughters were dragged from their house by the strangers. They had no time to gather their belongings. Where were they going? Could they trust these strangers? What would they use to begin a new life when they were taking nothing with them?

Little did they realize that their most precious possessions were already with them. Had anyone told them that, they would have been surprised. They had no clue that their earthly possessions were like nothing compared to their bond with each other.

But, as so often happens, we don't realize what we have until it is lost. Which is why the mother had such a look of surprise on her face when she turned to look back on their home one last time.

Salt was one of the most precious commodities in those days, but it was one Lot could have lived without.

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Willow over at Life at Willow Manor has been providing inspiration for bloggers on a site called Magpie Tales. A photo of an artifact is posted each week as a writing prompt. Participants write a story or poem of its history and/or how the item in the photo came to be in their possession. Be sure to check out the other fabulous writers participating in Magpie Tales this week. You'll be glad you did!

The Adventures of Boom Boom Larew and Patti Poo Foo

2010-06-05T15:03:00.002-04:00

Last week I regaled you with some bald faced lies. Interspersed with the lies were a few truths. I did, in fact, learn how to cook on a wood stove, but I never worked detassling corn. (Hey, I don't like to sweat in the hot sun!) My friend, Glennda, did come to Rochester to study at the Eastman School, but I did not.

However, I did once share the stage with Laura Nyro. It was back at the University of Iowa, when some friends and I jumped up on the stage during her concert... I sat right next to the piano bench and it was magical evening, watching her face as she played. Ms. Nyro was quite lovely and gracious about the entire thing... never complained at all when we joined her up close and personal.

And although my good friend, Susan, was arrested with the Top Free Seven, I was too much of a wuss to join her. Besides, I'd already been in jail twice before and didn't need to go through all that hassle again.

Nonetheless, I did have a colorful career as a stripper in high school. As a Roosevelt Rough Rider pom pom girl, (a "Riderette",) I tripped the light fantastic with the school band at football games. One of the favorite tunes played by the band was David Rose's The Stripper. My sister-out-law and I were quick to volunteer to dance to the tune, with our fellow Riderettes doing a Rockette style dance in the background. We dubbed ourselves Boom Boom Larew and Patti Poo Foo.

Yep, that's me out front doing my thing. Poo Foo and I would throw away our pom poms, hats, gloves and Riderette vests. Our big finish was mooning the crowd at the end... well, maybe not mooning, but bending over and flipping up our skirts to show our Roosevelt blue undies. Through the fall of 1969, we entertained the masses. After Patti Poo Foo graduated, I continued the tradition, but it just wasn't the same without her. Good times! Good times!

So that's the scoop on my bald faced lies and honest truths. Hope I didn't disappoint too much! I'll let David Rose and his band play me out on this one....

White Lies: Theme Thursday

2010-06-03T00:01:00.028-04:00

This week the gang over at Theme Thursday chose "White" as the prompt du jour. Pop over to see who else is playing. You'll be glad you did!

White Lies

Admit it... we all lie sometimes. Most of us stick to white lies. But others tell whoppers. Huge black lies. Me, I don't lie well.* Sometimes I wish I could. Which is why most of the stuff I write about here at the Cat Lady's house has actually happened to me at one time or another.

Vlad and I were just talking about lying the other night as we sat at Panera, relishing a glass of the goddess's finest nectar, Dr Pepper. Vlad was contemplating making up a bunch of shit to talk about the next time he's introduced to someone. His interests don't necessarily mesh with those of others his age, which sometimes makes it difficult for him to connect with the ladies. (I swear he's an old soul.) But because he's my kid, I have a feeling the whole lying thing isn't going to pan out well for him.

My friend Nanodance is a wonderful liar and I mean that as a compliment. She can have me believing shit in no time flat. It's one of the things that makes her so delightful. But she lies to amuse... not to be deceitful.

White lies that deceive can become a bad habit that can quickly fade to black. Before you know it, your lies can put you in deep shit. One of my favorite Carly Simon songs is In a Small Moment... the perfect song to serve as a cautionary tale about white lies.

Carly Simon In A Small Moment .Mp3 - Free MP3 Download

All of which reminds me of the prism in the photo for this week's prompt. A prism takes white light and reveals the colors within. White lies are fine... so long as nobody around you is looking at you through a prism.

Then all will be revealed.

I think I'd better stick with the truth... most of the time.

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*Some people mistakenly believe I lie very well.... as evidenced by my recent award from Nonamedufus.

Lies and the Lying Bloggers Who Tell Them... part deux*

2010-06-01T08:00:00.044-04:00

One summer vacation, up in the Adirondacks, Vlad and I amused ourselves by reading Al Franken's Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them aloud to each other. So I was delighted to see that my friend from the other side of Lake Ontario, Nonamedufus (Dufus, for short), was paraphrasing him to announce his latest blog award. (*For part one of Lies and the Lying Bloggers Who Tell Them, you'll have to go visit Dufus.)

Guess Dufus thinks I lie like a rug, because he bestowed this award on me, as well as on a couple other more deserving bloggers. I was delighted to be included in such august company such as Don at Beyond Left Field, Frank Lee Meidere at I Don't Give a Damn, Quirks at Quirkyloon, Da Old Man at Crochety Old Man Yells at Cars, Chris at Knucklehead, and 00dozo at When I Reach. These bloggers really know how to shoot the shit as far as I'm concerned. Here's what we all won:

As with so many other awards, this one comes with some conditions. To wit,

If you want this award, you must:
- thank the person who gave you the award
- copy the logo and place it on your blog
- link to the person who nominated you
- tell up to six outrageous lies about yourself and at least one outrageous truth, or vice-versa
- nominate seven "creative" writers
- post links to the blogs you nominate
- leave a comment on each blog letting them know they've won the award

So, without further ado, "Thank You, Dufus!" Now, here are some outrageous lies and incredible truths about the CatLady. To make things more interesting, I've mixed them up equally... half are are god's honest truth and half are boldfaced lies. You can decide which is which.

1. I grew up just outside a small village, where I learned to cook on a wood stove. I knew just how to tell when the stove was hot enough... you spit on it!

2. My first job was detasseling corn, a common summer job for Iowa teens. Sadly, I got my long hair caught in one of the corn stalks one day and was nearly pulled off the wagon. I freaked out and never went back.

3. I used to be a stripper before I moved out East with the music still in my heart.

4. I originally came to Rochester to study at the Eastman School of Music, along with my good friend, Glennda. She now makes a living playing the flute, but I eventually ended up going back to school to get my master's in education.

5. I once had the privilege of sharing the stage with Laura Nyro (see number 4.)

6. In 1992 I was arrested with Rochester's "Top-Free Seven" but not named in the lawsuit against them as I wussed out and plead out.

Let me know when you've figured out which are true and which are false. (Come on, now... it should be fairly obvious!)

Now, for the lucky recipients of the award...

1. & 2. Definitely the Boy Wonders, IndigoWrath & iDifficult, because they both have such vivid imaginations, I have no idea what's true and what's a total load of crap in their writing. Well, I have some clue about the total load of crap part. (Plus, it's Indigo's Blogoversary and I wanted to get him something special.)

3. The Boy Wonders' newest partner in crime, ScottFree at ERGO HUMOR, who does an amazing Flash Fiction Friday. (And we all know that fiction = liar, liar, pants on fire!)

4. My long absent friend Nanodance at Callithump Thunderblog. She's the best liar I know and maybe a super award like this will make her risk pain and suffering of her injured wrist to come back for a quick post after an oh so long hiatus.

5. That Surly Writer, Michelle Hickman, because she writes a mean story and can do justice to this award while sitting in that rocker in her garden talkin' to the neighbor kids.

6. Seafood Punch, because with the amazing artwork she does she has to be able to lie respectably.

7. Otin, that Wizard of fiction, who had recently foresaken us all for true love. Focus, Otin! Focus!

So there you have it.... another meme to add to the collection. It's been a pleasure, as always... and that's no lie!

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And if you want to make me rich beyond my wildest dreams, you can always go to Amazon to buy Al Franken's book...

Tutus and Toe Shoes: A Magpie Tale

2010-05-30T10:13:00.003-04:00

When she was little, she dreamed of one day becoming a dancer. She pictured herself in tutus and toe shoes. But when her mother finally consented to dance lessons, the teacher said she had to begin with tap shoes. Heavy, clunky, noisy tap shoes. This was not her dream. She struggled through, but the joy was not there. And so the dream faded. And the little girl grew.

Graceful, she was not. Long limbs and flat feet made her awkward. The doctor prescribed corrective shoes. Awful, huge, size 9 gray shoes that tied. Never the dainty Mary Janes that the pretty girls wore. And so she faded into the background of the fourth grade.

Eventually, saddle shoes became popular, much to the relief of the girl. But by then, her feet were swollen to a size 10. Where saddle shoes looked cute on the other girls, hers still looked monstrous. Light on her feet, she was not. The square dancing they did in gym class was sheer torture.

By the time she reached college age, her feet hurt all the time. So she went barefoot whenever possible. Dancing became free form, undulating with the beat at rock concerts. At last, with feet freed from restraining shoes, she moved with the rhythm of the music.

Disco came and went without her noticing. No attempt was made to learn the synchronized moves. While the disco scene passed her by, her feet continued to grow to a size 11, then 12.

Her dreams eventually turned to the romanticism of ballroom dancing. Gliding across the floor with the one you love would be the ultimate in perfection. But this dream was kept a secret as her Birkenstocks shuffled across the floor of the house. When she mentioned that it would be fun to take dancing lessons, her husband scoffed, looking at her as if she were crazed. So she settled for the occasional contra dance outing with her cousin. A few years later her ex-husband would delight in dancing at his wedding with his much younger, much more petite, new wife in her size six satin shoes.

Nowadays, she watches as the little girls she teaches trundle off to dance class in their tutus. And she mourns the loss of her dancing dreams.

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My Destiny Awaits!

2010-05-25T00:01:00.003-04:00

About two weeks ago, my bloggy friend, Eolist Petite honored me with an award:

I love you, too, Ms. Petite! To accept the award I have to answer one teeny tiny question:

Ms. Petite asked "because i know that life is an odd thing and it takes us not where we want to go but where we belong... What /Who/ and/or Where would you be if you could choose your own destiny?"

REALLY? I get to choose my own destiny? What a blast! And what better time to think about these things than on my birthday.

At 57, I guess there's even still time to change my real life destiny. In my fantasy world, I would still be me, but I'd have a trusty companion who is not a canine. Someone to talk to and laugh with and share meals and wine and a cozy bed with. Somebody who would look beyond my appearance to appreciate who I am as a person and not judge me for being a bit off center. I'd still be teaching and writing, but perhaps making a tad more money than I am now so I could eventually retire and spend all my time reading and writing, with a bit of travel thrown in every once in awhile. And of course, I'd live in a little cottage somewhere, preferably near a lake or mountains. Someplace that looks like this...

or this....

or perhaps this...

I'm not picky. Nothing big or fancy, but just a cozy, quiet place.

That's not too much to ask for, is it? A girl can always dream...

They Say It's My Birthday!

2010-05-25T00:01:00.002-04:00

Today is my birthday! Yay! Going to a friend's house for dinner, then out with my peeps for wine!

Life is good!

Forgive me...

2010-05-23T10:13:00.003-04:00

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned... It's been 12 days since my last blog entry.

Damned good thing I'm not Catholic or anything! Nothing going on here to explain my absence this time. Just a lack of inspiration... and the fact that my special writing chair kinda got buried in school stuff. What can I say? I am a cat lady sans cats, after all! Every once in awhile things get a little out of control around here. Teetering on the edge of madness, I tell you! Madness!

What I do love about this blogging community, though, is that people check up on me whenever I go missing. My greatest fear as a cat lady without the cats is the scenario in which I finally meet my demise through some incredibly klutzy move inside my house and nobody finds me for days.

I know what that's like from personal experience. Long ago, when the ex and I moved to Canon City, Colorado for a year, we lived on the cheap. I worked as a kindergarten teacher's aide half days and the ex taught silkscreening in night school and worked on his photography during the day. It was a great life. I'd go to school in the morning and then we'd go up into the mountains to hike or ride bikes in the afternoon.

Surprisingly, we were able to make ends meet. Because the wiring wasn't quite right in our apartment, our average monthly utility bill was $1.89. Seriously! Even at 1976 prices, that was ridiculous. We went next door to the utility company and were able to pay our bill in spare change. But it was the cheap apartment itself that made our meager paychecks last from one week to the next. Our rent was $85 a month for a three bedroom, two bathroom apartment that was half of an 19th century duplex house. A double garage was also included.

So, how does one get a large apartment at that price? When the previous tenant has died there... in August... only to be found two weeks later. Even with the best of tidying up, the smell of death remained. Not the roadkill type of stench, but the aroma of special chemicals used to eradicate the smell. Plus there was a stain on the hardwood floor in the parlor where she met her demise. Charming, to be sure and a turn-off to most potential renters. Intrepid bargain-hunters that we were, though, it didn't bother us in the least. Maybe because we were used to the accoutrements of death from living in close proximity with a medical examiner.

We would sit in the parlor at night, communing with the spirit of the previous tenant. Just to show her good will and all. Wouldn't want ghosts pissed off at us. We wanted her to rest in peace.

Funny thing, is... nobody ever wanted to come visit us. We kept inviting my sister-out-law and her husband over for dinner every week, but they always declined... suggesting that they feed us, instead. I wonder why? Somehow, I don't think it was our cooking.

Still, it was one of my best years ever. I was young and in love and living the dream of every hip, with-it kind of 70's pseudo-hippie.

Good times... good times!

Tag, I'm it!

2010-05-11T17:28:00.001-04:00

I was tagged twice this week by some exceptional boggers... Annie, also known as Eolist Petite, and Keith, otherwise known as iDifficult. They both captured this award from our mutual friend, Indigo Roth and deemed me worthy of the recognition as well. Since they each gave me a different question as part of the award, I shall address each one separately. (That way I don't have to think as hard and they'll also get full value from their tags.) Today I shall step up to the challenge posed to me by iDifficult. Here goes...

Mr. Difficult would like me to "Name seven fictional cars or other vehicles you'd have liked to have driven and explain why."

1. I'd definitely want to pilot the Wayback Machine. Move over Mr. Peabody! Break out the horn-rimmed glasses and I'm ready to speed back in time in that bad boy! I love historical fiction, so in this case I could make up my own! First destination: Ancient Egypt! (Now with invisible zebras!)

2. Next on my list would be the Nautilus. I loved the way that big eye opened up in the side of the olde timey submarine originally piloted by James Mason as Captain Nemo in the Disney version of Jules Verne's epic story, 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. Although, since this question comes via iDifficult, it would probably be a giant squidrel that would attach itself to the outside of the Nautilus.

3. A jet pack would be a nifty vehicle to use for riding around town. Remember James Bond in Thunderball? I could beat the traffic down below and speed to wherever I wanted to go. I'd probably need asbestos underwear, though.

But seriously, how cool would that be?

4. And that video clip reminded me of another vehicle I'd like to drive... the Jetson's car! "Meet George Jetson! Jane his wife! His cool flying car.... " (I really think the car should get more credit in the song.)

5. My next choice would be a glider, although it's not fictional. Soaring quietly over the earth, catching the air currents would be pretty awesome. However, I'd probably be scared shitless, which means I'd need to take along some clean underwear for tidying up later. (Perhaps the asbestos underwear that accompanies the jet pack could do double duty here.)

6. A hot air balloon like the one in Around the World in 80 Days would be another choice. Those Montgolfier Brothers had the right idea! I'd be scared, but I think I could handle it.

7. And finally, since I haven't had a mid-life crisis yet, I'd like to get behind the wheel of this little number....

I always thought it would be cool to have a little roadster, ever since I read Nancy Drew books back when I was 12. Nancy Drew was definitely quality fiction! Look out, Ned Nickerson!

So, that's it for the seven vehicles I'd like to drive.

Meanwhile, Ms. Petite still wants to know "What /Who/ and/or Where would I be if I could choose my own destiny?" Heavy! Tune in tomorrow to find out my response to this burning question.

Yeah, About That Eyeball In The Refrigerator... A Magpie Tale

2010-05-07T17:32:00.002-04:00

My father-out-law had a full career as a Medical Examiner. His work would keep him busy 24-7, which made hanging out with him interesting, to say the least. Sunday dinners were invariably interrupted by calls from the morgue. Since our choices were to go along to the morgue or walk home from the restaurant, we usually tagged along. That was my entry into the world of sudden death. The phrase "I see dead people..." no longer phases me.

Back at the house, you never wanted to open any envelopes laying on the kitchen table. Trust me, you don't want to be looking at 8 x 10 color glossies of various crime scenes over breakfast! My sister-out-law and I used to hold them up to the light, looking at them from the back side to get a preview of how gross they might be before actually looking at them. Next to my father-out-law's recliner in the family room was a tome entitled The Medico-Legal Causes of Death... heady reading for anyone suffering from insomnia, since it included some incredibly gnarly photos of dead people.

Then there were the little artifacts of death laying about the house. I remember the day he brought home a pair of boots from a guy who had been electrocuted. The resulting shock burned quite a hole through the insulated bottom of the boots... fascinating! (Remind me not to rely on insulated boots in a watery basement.) Another afternoon, my father-out-law brought me a skull in a box. Since I love jigsaw puzzles, he thought I might want to take a stab at putting the pieces back together for him... the deceased had been hit with a ball peen hammer and he was getting it ready for trial. Oh, yeah... just how I wanted to spend my afternoon!

Back in the old days, when "chain of evidence" regulations were a bit looser than they are today, he used to "bring his work home" quite regularly. Which meant you never knew exactly what you might find in the fridge when you opened the door to get a Dr Pepper.

Nah, there weren't usually eyeballs in the fridge, although he was on call to remove eyes from donors for cornea transplants. But, another aspect of his job was drawing blood from people facing DUI charges... before the advent of the breathalyzer. Waking up to vials of blood in the fridge wasn't all that unusual if he had gone out on a call after the lab closed down for the night... not surprisingly, the most active hours for inebriates. Must be why the science experiments currently percolating in my fridge at home just don't bother me all that much...

So whenever I see photos of body parts, it reminds me of my father-out-law and the adventures in death we used to have.

Good times... good times!

Postscript: My father-out-law's been retired for many years now, but he's still remembered fondly by many in the community. Why? Because the key to his successful career as a Medical Examiner was that he was such a compassionate man. He was most often the one who delivered the awful news to the loved ones of the deceased. He sat with them as they absorbed the news and helped them contact relatives and make the needed arrangements. He stayed until he knew the survivors were well taken care of. You just don't find people like that too often anymore.

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Dapper Dan... A Magpie Tale

2010-04-27T07:43:00.000-04:00

On the street, he was known as Dapper Dan. An elderly gentleman, Daniel Haversham was the king of the underground cavern known as "The Station". His stately walk and ever so proper speech made the other transients treat him with respect... something rare in the school of hard knocks.

If anyone else came into the old subway bed spouting flowery language, they would be jumped, beaten and robbed of all their meager possessions. But not so, Daniel. There was something about him that made people keep their distance. A look, a sideways glance made even the most jaded street tough think twice before approaching him.

Daniel carved out his own niche in the underground maze and furnished it with rusted, yet sophisticated flotsam from the dumpsters behind the mansions lining the shaded streets leading away from the urban blight. His wardrobe consisted of a threadbare three piece suit, a remnant from Saville Row. His white beard was kept neat and trim with a small pair of scissors, which he kept polished and free of rust with sand from between the old rails of the long defunct underground train.

His most prized possession was the ebony walking cane he carried wherever he went. The top was black with tarnish. Rumor had it that it was pure silver. Only once did anyone try to take it from him. Daniel Haversham made quick work of the interloper, leaving him with a scar from the stiletto blade hidden within the ebony shaft of the cane.

Eventually, time caught up with Daniel. They found him on a cold morning in January, with frost encrusting his papery skin. Out of respect, the denizens of the subway bed allowed police to remove Daniel Haversham's body and belongings, including his cane.

They buried Dapper Dan in a pauper's grave, his Saville Row suit embracing his withered body. The cane was relegated to the police department and found a place in their collection of unusual weapons. No one ever noticed that beneath the tarnish was the family crest of the Earl of Haversham.

* * * * *

The One Armed Bandit is Just Beyond My Reach

2010-04-25T17:08:00.005-04:00

I was looking forward to going to a conference later this week and then the shit hit the fan at work and we're short staffed, so I had to cancel the trip. Which is really too bad, because it could have provided me with a new retirement plan.

You see, the New York Association for the Education of Young Children, (or NYAEYC for short,) is holding its annual conference at Turning Stone Resort and Conference Center... which also happens to be a casino!

Yay! Gambling!

Now, let's review....

CHILDREN....CASINO!

Is it just me, or does that strike you as a strange combination? Then again, I might pick up some tips on how to teach the wee ones about money, odds and percentages. Just sayin'...

Come on, Kids! Let's Go Gambling!

Anyway, I figured I could put my "Let's Go To Prison" retirement plan on hold while I try to get rich quick on games of chance. I even hear that they have penny slot machines there... my kind of gambling! Break out the spare change!

Having never gambled before, except for the occasional rousing game of dreidel, it might take me a short time to get the hang of the whole thing. But, I'm sure it could prove to be an intellectually stimulating and lucrative pastime.

But, alas, it's not to be. Damn work!

Maybe I'll get lucky next year.

Waiting... A Magpie Tale

2010-04-20T08:08:00.000-04:00

Waiting...

He sat next to the bed, holding her hand. Sedated, she moved restlessly, unable to communicate. It had been nearly sixty years that they'd been together. After a lifetime together that included children, friends, work, travel, joy and heartache, her journey was nearly at an end. The pocket watch ticked as she struggled to breathe, her lungs ravaged by cigarettes and time. The purple wrist band on her arm said "Do not resuscitate." As the pocket watch wound down the years, the months, the days, the hours, the minutes, he held her hand. There was nothing more he could do for her... except continue to love her.

In Which I Am Abducted by Aliens

2010-04-18T09:26:00.001-04:00

Back in the 60's, alien abductions were all the rage. UFO sightings were frequent and only later we became aware of the secret installation for the storage and study of alien memorabilia, (cleverly disguised as a military base with restricted air space,) at Area 51 in Nevada.

Much has been made of this secret enclave. Books have been written and movies and even video games have been created based on Area 51. There's just too much mystery surrounding it to avoid giving some credence to the rumors.

These scholarly writings are still available today from amazon.com, where I can make vast sums of money by luring you into purchasing them via the CatLady. (Yeah... I think I'll stick with my "Let's Go to Prison" retirement plan instead.)

But enough of my get rich quick scheme....

What I'm really here for today is to divulge a secret that has been plaguing me for about a week now.

Keeping it bottled up inside has been a source of extreme angst. People have been wondering, giving me strange looks and whispering behind closed doors. Spotty blog postings have been commented upon. So I feel I must get it out. I must admit that I am now a potential specimen, eligible for inclusion in Area 51 lore.

Yes, I have been abducted by aliens. That's the true reason for my absence from the blogosphere of late. I had been lamenting my lack of inspiration for blog posts. Lapses of memory had me dazed and confused. Melancholy had set in and I was becoming careless in my daily ablutions. A sudden burning sensation brought me back to reality.

When all was said and done, it finally hit me... those lapses of memory were a result of an alien abduction. Who knows where I was taken or what experiments were imposed upon my person. Perhaps a study of the effects of too much Dr Pepper on humanoids. Or maybe it was a study in why a CatLady would have such an aversion to cats. We'll probably never know.

All I know for sure is that when it was over, I was left with a peculiar mark on my shoulder. An alien brand, if you will...

Scientists will probably spend years analyzing the scar and wondering what it might mean. Is it an alien compass or a calendar of some sort? Could it be a form of alien writing? Is it a diagram of a crop circle? Or, could they have implanted something in my shoulder? Perhaps a tracking device, or worse... a mind control device?

Only time will tell. The good news is... if push comes to shove and I become destitute, I can always go live at Area 51. In the meantime, I think I'll go start working on that crop circle...

We'll Return to our Regularly Scheduled Program in Just a Moment...

2010-04-13T07:55:00.003-04:00

Ever feel like you're life is in "test pattern" mode?

Yeah, I'm old enough to remember test patterns... back in the old days, programming actually ended for the evening around midnight. They'd play the Star Spangled Banner and then go to the test pattern for the rest of the night until programming resumed around 7 or 8 in the morning.

This weekend the CatLady had to go into test pattern mode while I took care of a few pesky things like taxes, review of a curriculum I was piloting and kid-sitting. I still have several evening meetings to look forward to, so it could be a few more days before I'm back in the blogging game. But good news... one of my pleasures this week will be traveling to my son's college for their Honor's Convocation. Vlad is once again being honored, so I have to be there to cheer him on.

Yay, Vlad!

Maybe I'll even get out the lipstick... after all, that is the photo prompt for Magpie Tales for this week...

Be sure to stop by and check out who's writing a Magpie Tale!

Little Boxes: Theme Thursday

2010-04-08T00:18:00.055-04:00

This week the gang over at Theme Thursday chose "Box" as the prompt du jour. Pop over to see who else is playing this week. You'll be glad you did!

As somewhat of a clutter hound, I love boxes. They're so convenient when you need to do an emergency clean-up because someone calls and says they're stopping by unexpectedly.

Simply insert assorted clutter, fold up the top and carry it to either the basement or the attic. Voila! Clean house! Sadly, my basement and attic are now filled with such boxes. Occasionally, I decide it's time to sort through some of them and clean things out. Then there are so many treasures to be found!

Someday I plan on hiring a dumpster and positioning it directly beneath my attic window so I can just start heaving all the boxes out. I bet most of the stuff in them would never be missed. After all, if I can't remember what's in the box, can it be that important?

But, speaking of boxes, this song from my younger years came to mind...

It was Malvina Reynolds who wrote this song, but I'm rather fond of Pete Seeger's version. I've tried not to let myself be shoved into too many boxes over the years. (Although there's nothing like an old refrigerator box for making a cool play house!) I've taken my own circuitous path to get where I am today and I like where I am. No suburbs or tract houses for me. No fancy car or posh clothes. It's a modest, simple life, but it suits me... even if I do resort to hiding things in boxes on occasion!

The Egg: A Magpie Tale

2010-04-04T09:37:00.002-04:00

Willow over at Life at Willow Manor has been providing inspiration for bloggers on a site called Magpie Tales. She'll be posting a photo weekly as a prompt for a fictional account or poem telling of its history and/or how the item in the photo came to be in your possession. This week's prompt is....

The Egg

In my grandfather's library was a cabinet of curiosities. Ancient fossils, translucent crystals, tiny skulls from voles and other creatures, a paper wasp's nest, a turtle shell, several birds' nests, a miniature of a long lost relative, and a painted egg. Nothing of the Faberge variety, but no less lovingly made and encased in a brass fitting to display the wondrous images painted on it.

"Is it a real egg?" we used to ask.

"No, it was carved out of wood and then painted," he said.

"Who made it?"

"A wise woman."

"Did you know her?"

A long pause, then... "Yes, I knew her well."

The crinkles that usually lit up his face when he laughed became slack and a sad look came over his face.

"I knew her back in Romania when I was still a young man. She was a midwife and used to paint eggs for the new mothers to ward off evil and bring luck to the children they bore.

"But this egg was special. It was for her sweetheart, to be given to him on their wedding day. The house she painted on the egg was the one they would share and the egg was to bring good fortune to them in their new life.

"I was a young teacher at the University of Bucharest then and I had gone out with friends to celebrate my new position at the University. It was April 15, 1944. As we walked down the street, we heard the sounds of planes. And then the bombing began.

"When it was over, the University was in ruins, including her small apartment nearby. It took two days for my friends and I to pull her from the rubble. We buried her in a small cemetery in her native village. Later I went back to the ruins of what had been her home and found the egg. I've had it ever since."

"But, Grandpa, why didn't her sweetheart ever get the egg?" we asked.

"He did," our grandfather said sadly, with a vacant look in his eyes. "He did."

Bad Moon (Blood Pressure) Rising

2010-04-03T11:04:00.006-04:00

My parents were very successful in raising me to be a "nice" girl. Sadly, they were a bit too successful. Why? Because when it comes to dealing with people, I'm often too nice for my own good. In fact, I might as well have "SAP" tattooed onto my forehead.

I talk a good line like I'm all badass and shit, but when it comes to standing up for myself, I'm the world's biggest pushover and I have the blood pressure to prove it. Especially this week.

With my change in jobs came a change in insurance policies. So when it came time to pick up my prescriptions at the pharmacy two weeks ago, one wasn't ready yet they said, because with the new insurance it needed doctor approval. Okay, I can deal with that. I said thank you and went away.

A few days later I went back. Still not ready because now they tell me it needed pre-approval from the insurance company. Okay, I was seeing my internist in a few days anyway, so I could check it out with him. I don't understand but I'm still all polite and shit.

So, off I go to the doctor who has a hissy fit because he had called in a substitute prescription that didn't need pre-approval a week ago and they didn't fill the prescription and my blood pressure is elevated because I haven't had the meds. He sent the prescription over again. No problem, right?

Wrong... on arriving at the pharmacy I'm told it's STILL not ready because the approval hasn't come through yet for the original prescription or the new one the doctor replaced it with because it turns out the new one needs pre-approval as well. This time I get all sanctimonious as only a wimpy cat lady can. I firmly (i.e. not smiling) asked the pharmacy to call the doctor right then and there. And she did...

Finally! A victory for me!

....only to be put on hold while they went back and forth to see what needed to be done. Finally she asks if I can come back. Oh, yeah. I'll come back... because I'm a wuss. And people wonder why my blood pressure is high?

Finally, I go back to the pharmacy for the fourth time and....

drum roll, please....

the prescription is still not ready. The approval came through, but the insurance will only cover $30 of the cost, so they wanted to be sure I still wanted it. WTF? Do I still want it? Do they know how badly my blood pressure is rising? Of course I want it... damned the cost at this point. She asked if I wanted to come back....

HELL NO! I sat my fat ass on the bench and waited for another 20 minutes while they filled the prescription.

It took four trips to the pharmacy and one trip to the doctor to get my meds. And now I have to go back to the doctor for yet another time in a month to make sure the new meds are working properly. GRRRRR!

Just once I'd like to go into battle like these guys:

Yeah... that would be badass.

Mellow Yellow: Theme Thursday

2010-04-01T01:00:00.001-04:00

This week the gang over at Theme Thursday chose "Yellow" as the prompt of the week. The painting pictured is by Mark Rothko. Pop over to see who else is playing this week. You'll be glad you did!

Every time I think of yellow, I flash back to the sixties when we all thought we were so cool and Donovan was one of our favorite troubadors.

Just listening to this song mellows me out today. Perhaps because it takes me back to a simpler time when life was fun and full of possibilities. Thanks, Theme Thursday, for a trip down memory lane!

Daffodils: A Magpie Tale

2010-03-30T01:00:00.045-04:00

Willow over at Life at Willow Manor has come up with a new photo prompt for bloggers on a site called Magpie Tales. She'll be posting a photo weekly as a prompt for a fictional account or poem telling of its history and/or how the item in the photo came to be in your possession. This week's prompt is....

What is it about spring flowers that makes me feel so happy? There's nothing finer than a bouquet of yellow daffodils mixed with a few purple hyacinths and bright red tulips. But the best part is seeing them blowing in the breeze on a warm spring day. Coming across a sea of daffodils under the trees at Kew Gardens took my breath away when I was there 25 years ago... one of my favorite memories of that journey.

Two hundred years ago, William Wordsworth wrote these words that speak to the glory of discovering a field of daffodils...

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling leaves in glee;
A poet could not be but gay,
In such a jocund company!
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

And so the daffodils banish the dark days of winter.

Better Late Than Never: I'd Like to Thank the Academy...

2010-03-27T22:48:00.005-04:00

I have been remiss in acknowledging a few recent accolades from blogger friends. I sincerely hope that they haven't taken back their offerings in the time it's taken me to render a formal "Thank You!"

First up is Scotty over at Ergo Humor who gave me the Over the Top Award. To see my answers to the obligatory questions that go along with this award, please go to this post.

Thanks, Scotty! You're a bit over the top yourself... which is why I adore you!

Coincidentally, it was Mad Mad Margo over at The Screaming Me-Me who originally awarded me the Over the Top Award. Me-Me does a mean captioning contest every week and her prize, the Golden Phallus eluded me for some time. It took me awhile, but I was thrilled to finally be awarded the Golden Phallus two weeks ago.... here's the picture with my winning caption:

"Hmmm... to lube or not to lube?
That is the question."

Yeah, I'm going to hell.... but then what else is new? Here's what I won:

Now, how could time in hell possibly not be worth such a prize?

Then there was the Holy F-ing Monkey Balls (HFMB) Award from Linda Medrano over at The Good, The Bad, The Worse. My kind of award!

There aren't any actual requirements for accepting this award, but I would like to pass it along to Moooooog over at Mental Poo... don't know why, but this award somehow reminds me of him. I also want to pass it along to Summer over at The Circus Has Come to Town, because every circus needs a monkey or two.

And that's not all, folks! My dear friend Reffie, from Confessions of a Reforming Geek, awarded me the Sunshine Award:

Sweet! Thanks, Reffie, for bringing sunshine into my day... both with the award and with your posts!

While not obligated to pass on the Sunshine Award, I would like to award it to a few more people who regularly bring sunshine into my life....

Jayne from In Jayne's World

Keith from iDifficult

The recently elusive Quirky from Musings of a Quirkyloon

John from Nonamedufus

Brian from WayStationOne

A day without these folks is definitely like a day without sunshine! Here's wishing sunny days to all of you out there who are friends of the CatLadyWithoutCats!

Photo Meme

2010-03-26T20:30:00.000-04:00

This past week a couple of blogger friends, Linda from The Good, The Bad and The Worse, and Lyn over at Once Upon A..., tagged me in a fun foto meme. The idea is to pull up the first photo file you come to, scroll down to the tenth picture, then post it with a description of what it is and where it was taken. Sounded like a fun game for a Friday night, so I decided to play along. Here's what popped up:

These two fine lads happen to be my son, Vlad, and my brother-in-law, Sven. It was taken at my parents' home in Florida last March. It was a rather auspicious event as it was the first time my entire family had been together for a meal in 23 years. Yes, you heard me correctly... 23 years. During the intervening decades we've been spread out between Iowa, Minnesota, Pennsylvania, Connecticut, Missouri, Florida and New York. Consequently, as a group, we never quite made it to the same place at the same time. My parents were delighted to finally have us all together.

What was amazing was that we picked up right where we left off. We were all on our best behavior, (for us,) and we managed to make it through the event without anyone being grounded or sent to their room. Of course, Vlad and I didn't have a room to go to, so that might explain things. Nonetheless, we all had a lovely time.

So what are we waiting for? Let's do it again in another 23 years! DP, anybody?

* * * * * *

As for who to tag next... I hereby award this meme to the first five people to comment who have not already been tagged!