Don’t Bears Do It in the Woods? SamCat Humor

Don’t Bears Do It in Woods?
SamCat Humor
21 February 2012


The Prince Consort and I went grocery shopping. (Surprise.)  SamCat was home alone. When we got home we found this.                

  Clearly Bears don’t do it in the woods.  

This is the bear footstool SamCat uses to get up on the couch.




Kath who cleaned up the too neat pile of thrown-up kibble. And mighty glad it wasn’t what cats don’t do in the litter box.

How I Do Not Write

How I Do Not Write

17 February 2012 

This is one of the things I do when I'm not writing. Download the wildlife camera. This photo is my desktop:

 “I See you! HELLOOO. Are you writing?” 

No. 

I’m trying to score 500k on Mahjongg Lite again. I mean catching up on professional writers organization emails, writing blogs, and consumer emailings. Absorbing information. And I’m paying bills. And obsessing about filing the taxes. (I start in January and keep a steady pace until April. Obsess early, obsess often until it’s time to write the checks.) 

And fluffing SamCat’s food. Let me explain. At 20 years going on Zombie, SamCat’s prescription cat food is only good for five minutes at which time the Cat Slave, aka me, must re-form the remaining canned cat food back into the correct mound, and supply fresh kibbles.  

Shortly after SamCat eats, it’s time to clean the litter box. AGAIN. At least he’s  suspended his theory that the couch and carpeting are the litter box. 

After SamCat wobbles out of the litter box, it’s broom and dustpan time for the steady trail of litter he leaves between box and his nest on the couch. Hansel and Gretel couldn’t leave a better trail. Good thing sweeping up the litter does not stop him from finding the box for the next round. 

And power walking. I get the BP up for that one. Not just walking up hills and down, but arguing with the radio talk show. It’s possible the neighbors stay indoors, because they see me talking to no one as something a little less exercise and a little more, well crazy. 

And hair trims. Which sound easy, but like taxes take a fair amount of pre-appointment obsessing. This is a direct result of the world’s worst haircut that kept me behind drawn curtains in the house for a month. Really. So short my highlights appeared as polka dots. 

And supervising. When The Prince Consort retired, he asked me to make a “Honey Do List.” His enthusiasm for this has noticeably waned, but I am still dedicated. And husbands want to be supervised, I promise. 

Shopping. TPC has become the family chef. It may be because he’s always been interested in cooking, but I suspect that like my father who also took over the cooking when he retired, (As a result Dad was able to quit taking daily antacids.) this is in no small part self-preservation. Good female cooks in my family are rare. 

TPC does not cook solo. He requires a sous chef to locate the salt, which was behind the pepper in the pantry closet.( Men do not believe functional pantries are deeper than six inches. And if you have a pantry that is deeper, they sure as hell are not reaching past that first row of peanut butter, spices, and soup. Every male knows there are pantry monsters deep in there.) 

Then there is grocery shopping. B. R. , before retirement, I did grocery shopping, library, and other errands in two hours tops, once a week. Not now. TPC LOVES to slowly stroll every aisle. ( Which admittedly is how I discovered Spotted Dick, and the humor of the stocker who put antacids next to the spicy food.)  I don’t wear a watch, so I don’t know how long it takes, but I do know by the time we get home, and I hide the groceries deep in the depths of the pantry monster’s cave, I need a nap.

Laundry. Well, that’s probably a good thing. I considered trying to see how long we could go before running out of clothes, but I remembered TPC’s college jeans. They STOOD all on their own in the corner of his room. Something to do with only doing laundry when he took it home to his mother at the end of the quarter. 

And there is writing query letters, synopses, and outlines  to send to unsuspecting editors in eternal hope that some editor will read one of my manuscripts and Have to offer me a contract. 

And there’s revising my manuscripts. I have gotten smarter over the years, no matter what any of my family may say. I make my work better, I hope. And since I do believe in the stories, this is a joy. 

I really do write. I’ve started a new one, honest. The opening line is: “Well, this is awkward.” 

So, 

“Hellooo. I do not write and then I do.”

Kath who is writing this blog. And enjoying it. 

No Cup Holders!

No Cup Holders!

9 February 2012

The Prince Consort claims I said, “No Cup holders” 432 times. Maybe, but I’m giving myself points for restraint. TPC’s TV-watching chair, fifteen years old, was saggy and worn. When I tested it, my bottom nearly hit the floor. ( No witnesses, so I’m sticking with ‘nearly’ hit the floor.)  

 Time to shop. So driving into town, I agreed to a recliner IF: it was attractive, in a nice neutral color, and definitely NO CUP HOLDERS!  I knew what he had in mind. And I was not turning my carefully cluttered/ decorated living room into a Man Cave. NO. NO. NO. 

So  store after store Goldilocks, aka TPC, sat in the recliners. This bed/chair was too soft/ small; this too hard/ big. The back of this chair was too low-he’d get whiplash if he ever fell asleep and his head dropped back (like that wasn’t guaranteed to happen within fifteen minutes of sitting.) This one only had two positions-upright like a debutante sitting at a tea table or flat on your back like a patient in a dentist’s chair. (We voluntarily left store #2 after acting out TPC getting his teeth drilled in the red leather beauty.)  Who’d have thunk a male looking for a chair he Will sleep in anyway could be this picky? Yeah, well, trust me. 

So last store, there it was. The butt (Yes, I’m going for the double entendre’.) ugliest, TWO cup holders, shiny dark pleather, and electric control. Electric? Cross my heart, the S.S. CupHolder has a motor so TPC can pick from an infinite number of back positions. Love at 101st sight. We bought it. 

Given the technological advancement of this chair, it has been christened the “Star Ship CupHolder.”

TV watching. Intent remote control test. 

Test by Chauncy Dragon

Sleep test. 

And no. I am not going to wake him up and get him out of the chair. I’m allergic to fire breathing snorers. 

Kath who needs to get TPC out to play golf so she can captain S.S. CupHolder. 

Facebook Wants a What?

Facebook Wants a What? 

2 February 2012 

I took the big step. Joined Facebook, if that’s the correct phraseology. I did it all by myself. Professor Daughter lives several states away, so couldn’t walk me through this. I guess this means I am growing up. Facing my computer terrors. 

Right. Which is why once I thought I had my Facebook page set up, Professor Daughter  sent me a comment reminding me I needed to put up a photo. WHAT??  Oh, right. Facebook. Photo of face. 

I hate photos of me, so there are few of them around. I went through iPhoto looking. I found one from our visit to Professor Daughter when she lived in TX, a pretty good shot of prairie dogs. I think there’s a fair resemblance. I’m short,  kind of ‘fluffy’,  and depending on how long since the last highlighting, blondish, just like the prairie dog. 

Or there’s the photo of the turkeys. Check the necks. The resemblance is uncanny. I’d say dead ringer first thing in the morning before I pull on the day’s turtleneck.  Like TPC says, he can’t remember the last time he saw me not wearing a high necked turtleneck shirt. Which is why I get up first in the morning. 

Then I spotted the photo my sister took last year on our road trip between TX and CA.  We honestly only stopped at one souvenir store, but we made the most of it. This photo would have been much improved if my sister had given me enough time to get the bag over my head. But it is what it is. And yes, I am the one in the back, not the one with the rack. Well, not the antler type rack. 

Kath who has to get her new driver’s license this spring. Which means a new photo. I’m  working on a way to get them to use the prairie dog photo.