Letters from Earth

Green Hornet Goes to the River

2012-03-08T13:24:00.000-05:00

Green Hornet Goes to the River

8 March 2012

Sunday night we got our first real snow of the winter. The Prince Consort and I headed down to the river on Green Hornet. We found a winter wonderland.

Green Hornet settled down by the river.

And feeling very manly in the snowy woods.

Green Hornet watches the river for the Lochness Monster.

Helloooo. Anybody in the little caves across the river?

Looking for Sasquatch on the top of the ridge across the river.

Did you hear something behind us?

Okay. Ready to go home now.

Kath who loved the quiet beauty just as much as The Prince Consort and Green Hornet. And didn’t see a single Sasquatch track.

The Fun of Accoutrement

2012-03-01T19:11:00.000-05:00

The Fun of Accoutrement

1 March 2012

My sister taught me how to put fun into a shopping list with the simple use of the word ‘accoutrement’.

The Prince Consort adopted hunting for ‘accoutrement’ like a raccoon takes to raiding the bird feeder. He made an accoutrement list. Apparently owning an ATV like Green Hornet awakens creativity. TPC is all about making cool camping stuff. After only five stores and two days we found just the right tins for the tiny camp stove/ candle he made from the tin container, used cardboard, and old candles.

Some accoutrements are fattening. I did my part to help so TPC could construct another ‘accoutrement’ camp stove. Two boxes of saltines and several days of soup later he had enough empty soup cans. Add speed-drinking coffee to empty the coffee can. which did leave me just a bit twitchy. TPC built the stove and toasted the accoutrement marshmallows. And I sacrificed again, eating the toasted marshmallows. (If I hadn’t sat on the graham crackers and eaten the chocolate bars before we got to the campsite, we’d have had some-mores. But twitchiness also makes me hungry.)

TPC is still looking for a cheap used pan to make into a camp pot. We checked out HomeGoods where I found my own accoutrement.

Willy does not camp, and he’s not fattening.

Kath who is beginning to see a whole new positive side to accoutrement hunting.

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

2012-02-21T08:47:00.000-05:00

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

2012-02-17T16:33:00.000-05:00

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!

2012-02-09T14:17:00.000-05:00

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?

2012-02-02T17:10:00.000-05:00

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.

Easily Entertained Two: Getting Rid of Customers

2012-01-26T12:00:00.000-05:00

Easily Entertained Two: Getting Rid of Customers

26 January 2012

Over the years bad customer service experiences convinced me there’s a how-to-get-rid of-customers manual out there. And it’s well read.

I have three additions.

First: Use a loud voice so the customer is embarrassed.

The first happened to The Prince Consort and I in an unnamed burger chain. When my ‘Bopper’ sandwich arrived stone cold, The Prince Consort complained.

The unit manager stomped out to our table and said in a voice that carried over the busy dining room, “I don’t know why you’re complaining. You should have ordered it hot.”

So “Have it Your Way” meant being way more specific than just ‘No mayo.”

We were too stunned to respond and never bothered his unit again.

Second: In a car dealership, insult irritating customers so they do not return.

Years ago when I shopped for my beloved BMW, TPC and I sat in the salesman’s office filling out forms. We got to the trade-in part. The Salesman looked at us and said, “You rolled back the odometer on the trade-in. For a car that age, there’s no way that’s the real mileage.”

I’m obsessively honest. Do NOT question it.

TPC got up and backed slowly out of the office, keeping an eye on me and any sudden movements on my part. The salesman stopped talking; his eyes flashed from TPC to me. As I reached for the trade-in’s keys in the middle of the desk, I said in that voice that meant it was a damn good thing Alabama didn’t allow concealed carry, “We’re done.” The salesman shot a look to TPC who was halfway to the parking lot. And then the salesman talked fast, apologized, made every excuse in the book, and saved the sale.

Note: My Ceit, the BMW, at 21 years old just passed the 100k miles mark.

This really tricky one almost backfired on the salesman. He made the sale, because I was determined to buy the car. But he did insure that I didn’t return to the service department for anything. So- success. Irritating customer gone.

Third: Don’t care.

I was checking out of the chain bookstore when the cashier tried to sell me the annual membership. Kudos to him for using the first rule of anti-sales: assume the customer can barely read and write and sure as hell can’t do math without taking off her shoes to count toes. He said, “If you had the membership, you’d have saved $3.10 today and every single day. In no time you’d get your membership back.”

He did not bat an eye when I said, “That assumes I buy this many books daily. I don’t. No thank you.”

The cashier shrugged, and said, “It’s up to you. I don’t really care.”

TPC and I got into the car before we laughed so hard we cried. Of all the bad customer services this was the most honest. But he failed. We will be back, true without the annual membership, but I’ll be in his line again.

Kath who, although she has gone from irritated to entertained by bad service, does stand up for herself even without a concealed carry.

She's Back

2012-01-20T09:20:00.000-05:00

She's Back
20 January 2012

The Occupy Front Woods crowd were back this morning. So I tried for a better photo of the white turkey hen. I'm working on this photography thing.
(Ironically the photos of the abandoned still in my subdivision are better. Want to see those? )

So I switched to the zoom lens, covered the flash, and pressed the lens to the window to get the shot.

Here's the white hen.
She needs a name, I think.

I wondered if she could fly like a regular hen. She can. As I came out with the corn, she flew off beautifully with the other twenty-six hens.

Sigh. I think the turkeys have that feeding thing backwards. Pecking the ground before the woman comes with the corn, then fly away when she comes out seems like a plan that needs revisiting.

Kath who needs lots of photography practice.

Occupy Front Woods Crowd

2012-01-19T13:55:00.000-05:00

Occupy Front Woods Crowd

19 January 2012

The Occupy Front Woods crowd was pacing for their ration of morning corn early this morning. Good thing I peered through the front window before I headed out to hang the bird feeders and scatter the corn. Those are BIG BIRDS, and there were waaay too many of them.

Turkeys to the right of me- lots with one I’ve not seen in the wild. A white turkey. The Prince Consort said maybe it was just an elderly hen. I’m pretty sure turkeys don’t go gray.

Turkeys to the left of me. This side of the woods three Toms were in full fluff.

For all the todo , they flew, and trotted (get it Turkey Trot) away when I opened the door to bring out the corn. That white one is a fast mover.

So the deer got the corn this morning.

Kath who will never open the front door without looking first.

Easily Entertained

2012-01-17T16:04:00.000-05:00

Easily Entertained

17 January 2012

Usually grocery shopping is a chore. But today became a treasure hunt for smiles.

First we hit the Foreign Foods aisle, British section. What would this pudding-in-a-can be called the American foods aisles?

Then we discovered that whoever stocks the shelves in this grocery has a wicked sense of humor.

Mexican foods section. Ironically I've never needed antacids with tortillas.

Maybe move them down by the jalapeños?

Hangover? Bloody Mary?

Start with the ibuprofen.

Irony. Snack sized bags next to snack sized snacks.

And the perfect comfort food from childhood. Animal crackers and juice.

Kath, who will definitely be shopping this grocery for more than groceries.

Backpslashed

2012-01-12T16:18:00.000-05:00

Backsplashed

!2 January 2012

We are fearless Do-It-Yourselfers. The Prince Consort and I have had some pretty impressive successes. Some were easy. Some were, shall we say real learning experiences.

After months of leading The Prince Consort to the tiles section of the home improvement store and staring at all the pretty back splashes, he folded. We came home with a box of granite tiles to match the countertop, a couple of webbed mats of small glass and stone tiles to cut into accents, and all the appropriate accoutrements. Well, over a week’s time we went back to the store enough times to get all the accouterments.

We got home, opened the box of thick granite tiles, and set them up against the walls. This was going to be gorgeous. Then we looked at the two electrical outlets on the backsplash wall, looked at the heavy granite tiles, looked at the wall outlets, looked at the thick tiles that would have to have outlet holes cut into them, looked at each other. Oh oh.

I admit it. I came up with Plan B. We could buy more of the little webbed mats of small glass and stone tiles. I’d seen it on TV. The mats of small tiles would be easy. We’d return the granite.

Uh huh.

Photo one: electrical outlets-the challenge.

TPC divided the wall in half. The first half took between four and five hours. As we applied the last row to the first side, the light bulb went on. We figured it out. One hour, four straight cuts, and no more piecing tiny tiles into empty spaces later, we had the second half done.

Photo two: tiles on. Thinset drying. Painters tape in place to keep everything neat and tidy.

Let it be known that:

the home improvement store guy was dead on serious. Thinset must be peanut butter thick, not just the consistency, but how much you slather on. Forget a slimming thin coat, slog that stuff on or those mats of little tiles will sure as shooting slide back off onto the counter. Which I suppose is why TPC had covered the countertops with cardboard?

painter’s tape will become one with the grout if it’s not pulled off before the grout dries.

black grout stains. We will be wearing gloves for a while, mild winter or not.

Photo three: Voila’

Kath who loves the new backsplash and promises to not clutter the counter.

BTW, the tea kettle on the stove top has a dragon spout. I told you I was surrounded by dragons.

Year of the Dragon

2012-01-05T16:02:00.000-05:00

Year of the Dragon

5 January 2012

Time for those New Year resolutions, huh? I resolve to make up my New Year Resolutions by July, or September. November at the latest. Maybe.

For now I’m good with the fact that this is The Year of the Dragon. Which I found out while cruising the Cross pens site looking for something Santa could surprise me with. There it was: The Year of the Dragon pen. WOW! a thing of beauty and of too dear a price for my Santa.

So, without a fancy pen, I’m declaring my own Year of the Dragon. It’s perfect. I collect dragons. I write about dragons. My office is filled with dragons. Not the snarly kind. I’m snarly enough. I don’t need dragons competing with me for Snarly of the Year Award. I’ve held it for ten years running, and I’m not giving it up.

My inner Bejeweled Dragon already took the whole treadmill challenge up a notch. I’ve let go of the handlebars while tread-milling! Oddly that caused the treadmill to make a LOT of huffing and puffing while I’m speed walking. Not possibly me. Bejeweled Dragons spit fire. They do not gasp for breath or drip sweat.

My inner Bejeweled Dragon talked The Prince Consort into changing the bland painted kitchen backsplash to glass tiles. Update coming. So far we’re still in the stage where we make daily trips to the hardware store to get all the ‘stuff’.

My inner Bejeweled Dragon swapped V8 for Pepsi and baby carrots for potato chips. Not sure how long a dragon can survive on healthy food. This may have to be revisited.

My inner Bejeweled Dragon is going to dump the self doubt. All those manuscripts crouching in drawers are coming out. They are going visiting. They’re going to strut up to unsuspecting editors. Somewhere there’s an editor who loves dragons, my dragons.

My inner Bejeweled Dragon rode on the back of TPC’s new ATV, where she learned that helmets are not for keeping heads attached to shoulders. Helmets are for protecting against thickets of wicked sharp weeds that snap back as TPC drives like a dragon pursued.

Kath, who’s pretty sure this inner Bejeweled Dragon needs to apply jewels to that ATV helmet.

Do You Know Where They Are?

2011-12-28T14:09:00.000-05:00

Do You Know Where They Are?

28 December 2011

Sounds like I’m off and running on where in the #$$% my #$$#%$% went to this time, huh? Nope. Because today is Professor Daughter’s birthday, I’m reminiscing. When she was a teenager, I was certifiable about knowing where she was and if she was okay. Day and night.

Professor Daughter grew up and ran away to be a university professor. Which left TPC and I to obsess over her long distance and work on other obsessions at home.

I suppose it was natural when The Prince Consort salivated over a wildlife camera he hoped Santa would bring. Santa came through. The Prince Consort strapped the motion activated camera on a tree in our front woods. We were going to find out what was going on out there when we weren’t watching, when we slacked off and slept at night.

Anyway, because the wildlife camera time stamps the photos we can now answer ‘do you know where your daughter, I mean deer/turkeys/squirrels/cat are’?

TPC set up the camera and headed inside.

That night. Yep, deer looking for a midnight snack.

In the morning, the usual suspects come for corn.

Early afternoon, some present their best side to the camera.

Nikki Cat, a little late for a turkey dinner. Come in the house, Nikki.

Kath, who now knows what the critters are doing. And wishes Professor Daughter a Happy Birthday!

Vote for Your Favorite Reindeer

2011-12-20T16:34:00.001-05:00

Vote for Your Favorite Reindeer

20 December 2011

It’s holiday time and everybody needs to dress up. Right? That includes the vehicles.

Dude, the minivan, is good with being festive in his antlers and red nose, but he draws the line with parking next to large pick up trucks in the Tractor Supply lot., while wearing the reindeer rig. Man up, Dude.

Green Hornet the ATV got his name from my grandfather, who was not THE Green Hornet but who named his elderly green pick up truck The Green Hornet. The summer I was seven, Grandpa Jesse drove my sister and I off road and on, exploring the Mormon Lake area of AZ.

Green Hornet the ATV and The Prince Consort off road through our forest down to the river.

Green Hornet did not see the humor in the reindeer antlers and red nose. I swear he growled. Looks like it, right?

So Vote for you favorite Christmas Reindeer. Vote early. Vote often.

Kath, who is not taking sides, and not wearing the Reindeer costume, yet.

How to Prevent Snow, Dry Clothes, and Get Sweaty Hands

2011-12-15T16:27:00.000-05:00

How to Prevent Snow, Dry Clothes, and Get Sweaty Hands.

15 December 2011

It’s a rule. If you take an umbrella with you, it will not rain. Unless you’re me, and it rains like you should be hot-footing it back to the Ark. Your umbrella is a gazillion years old, and when you open it the only thing between you and being totally soaked is the handle. The cloth is in tatters. Clearly the work of mice or evil umbrella elves.

Just because that theory doesn’t prove out for me, doesn’t mean I give up on preventive tactics. So I ordered snow boots and a treadmill. The snow boots are in the boot tray, unused. Because ... no snow. So far. Knock on wood. It’s working.

The treadmill was ordered to take the place of walking outside on icy dangerous days,
to prevent me from becoming one with the ice, face down in the street. There is always a flaw in my theories. While it hasn’t really snowed, and I can walk safely outside, I’d forgotten the true use for treadmills.

Treadmills are awesome clothes drying racks. I figure at least eight turtlenecks will eventually fit on those arms. The flaw here is that to get drying time, apparently you have to get on the thing and walk!!! Earn drying time which ‘Walkies’, our new treadmill. totals up in the ‘time walked’ display.

I swear I’ve walked enough to dry every stitch of clothing we own. But Walkies-the-Evil does not keep a running total. I have to start over every morning. I’m not sure I’m going to ever get enough time. After a half hour of 3.5mph my hands are sweating so hard, I can’t keep a grip on the machine’s arms. Which at least keeps the pulse monitor from screaming in alarm.

Sigh.

Walkies dressed out for Christmas in the minivan’s reindeer outfit.

Kath, exhausted and revisiting her theories.

The Many Faces of Fog

2011-12-13T16:54:00.000-05:00

Many Faces of Fog

13 December 2011

I love Fog. It comes in many forms. From what you think of in San Francisco, south of where I was born, to the morning fog in my Kentucky front yard. A little spooky, a lot magical.

And then there are the winter mornings when the fog freezes to every surface. From trees to weeds, everything encrusted in hairy iced fog.

When the sun warms, everywhere diamonds will glitter.

Some wear frozen fog on crown and nose.

Look hard and you’ll see a fog bow. These show up as the sun chases fog deep into the ground.

When first I saw one, I thought I was hallucinating. Clearly a side-effect of too much exercising/walking. But my walking-partner saw it too.

As I tried to catch up to the arch, I imagined if I could walk through, I’d find myself in that land beyond the rolling thick fog that closed in on us as we drove over the Allegheny Mountains. I’d find out what existed beyond that wall of fog that made it feel like the world ended just feet from our car.

Kath, fog lover.

Golfer Turkeys

2011-12-10T14:05:00.000-05:00

Golfer Turkeys

10 December 2011

We live across the street from a golf course fairway. Which normally only means the Golfing Fairy leaves random golf balls in our yard.

But the other day, when I hiked up the driveway, the turkeys had literally taken over the golf course.

Observing the no carts on the fairway rule.

Where’s the ball? Somebody get the golf clubs.

The Foursome heads back to the tee for their mulligan, and the cart.

Kath, who doesn’t golf with turkeys.

Bachelor Party Santa

2011-12-06T16:48:00.000-05:00

Bachelor Party Santa

6 December 2011

So I didn’t get the air cushion Halloween pirate ship, no matter that I dropped the hint in front of The Prince Consort 437 times.

Now I have my eye on Bachelor Party Santa. Santa looked a little whipped today in the wind and rain outside the big box store.

I guess he’s as tired as a stripper popping out of the same cake over and over at a bachelor party.

But he’s got a smile on his face. And he puts a smile on mine.

Happy Kath who will cruise by Bachelor Party Santa as often as possible.

$100 Sweet Tea

2011-12-03T14:06:00.000-05:00

$100 Sweet Tea

2 December 2011

The Prince Consort and I decided to hit the One Dollar Menu at a local fast food place. We’re fans of the SweetTea (In American Deep South that’s one word-SweetTea, no pause between Sweet and Tea. This becomes VERY important.)

After we had our zero calorie meal (My sister swears the waxy paper absorbs the calories, which is why I NEVER bring fast food home and eat it off real plates. That would be fattening.), we gassed up The Dude. While The Prince Consort filled the tank with gas for a gob-smacking $3.15 a gallon, I had time to really read the restaurant specials board. Found something more expensive than gas.

And I took a photo.

My photography being what it is, this is what the sign says:

Sweet Tea $100

Try our

Biscuit an Gravy

Luckily we had ordered SweetTea, with the Southern one word pronunciation, and got it for a dollar rather than the advertised $100. Whew!

Kath, who does not have the nerve to order ‘Biscuit an Gravy’. Picturing congealed gravy in a biscuit shape.

New Tree-Tall Tree

2011-12-01T14:51:00.000-05:00

New Tree- Tall Tree

1 December 2011

Our first Christmas was pretty frugal. We stretched our budget to buy an artificial tree and one string of lights. I made paper chains of construction paper and baked (my best tasting Christmas confection for some years.) pinkish baking soda ornaments that would have been red if I’d used more than two drops of food coloring.

First Tree lasted until Professor Daughter was in high school. The end came when the poundage of garland out-weighed the needles left on the tree. So we bought New Tree.

Now Professor Daughter is a professor, and New Tree is holding its own. Except it’s short. Not that I have anything against short, being height challenged myself, but the family room ceiling is fourteen feet high. (We found that out when one of the ceiling lights went out. We needed one of those electric utility picker trucks to get up there to replace the bulb, almost.)

So for the last few years The Prince Consort and I have shopped for a tall tree. We hit the pre-Halloween-Christmas-is-coming- sales, the during-Christmas-shopping-sales, and the Christmas-is-over-but-there’s-another-one-coming-sales. But we couldn’t bring ourselves to replacing New Tree.

Which didn’t fix problem with how overwhelmed New Tree was in the family room. First Tree is only seven feet tall with the extra tall topper ornament. But then I had one of those moments of genius more often referred to in my family as ‘another one of her hair brained schemes.’

Last spring I shipped home furniture from my parents’ home. Among the items was a herd of cocktail tables. The one that used to sit in my parents’ family room would be perfect.

So we (yeah, TPC did the work while I assisted with invaluable advice and directions.) put New Tree together on the table. Voila’ New Tree has gone from petite to pretty near nine feet tall! Go New Tree!

Kath ,who at five feet tall, wishes she could walk sans-wobble in high heels the way New Tree stands firm on the table.

Spell Check

2011-11-26T13:17:00.001-05:00

Spell check

26 November 2011

I write, therefore I obsess over American English. One of the things I really love is spellings. And yes, it’s because I misspelled newphew (darn, did it again) at the eighth grade county spelling bee.

When we lived in FL, I found out Alachua only had one spelling, but two pronunciations depending on whether you were talking about the county or the town in the county. Pretty cool. When we lived in AL, I found out Talladega has two pronunciations, one for the town and one for the race. When we moved to KY, I learned that Rowan, Athens, and Versailles all were pronounced differently from anywhere else I’d lived. Granted more phonetically, but differently. My sister lives in TX and tells me that Bexar rhymes with Bear. (Okay, I tracked that one down to a TX drawl plus the original Spanish word thrown together.)

This past weekend I added another one. This one definitely all spelling. We drove through the Allegheny mountains, and passed the municipality of Allegany. I swear. I spell checked the sign twice.

I simply do not know how I did not get credit at least for originality on the spelling of nephew. I mean, how did they know I wasn’t from someplace else, and I was Right?

Kath, spell checking as she goes without a whole lot of faith in it.

Occupy Candy Shop Squirrel

2011-11-22T17:54:00.001-05:00

Occupy Candy Shop Squirrel

22 November 2011

I thought chocolate lived in Hershey, PA. So this past weekend when we went to visit Professor Daughter in her new home, we all went touristing in Hershey. Big disappointment. The town did not smell of chocolate. The factory store had so many variations of Reese’s that I overloaded and had to be escorted out. Bah humbug.

I couldn’t sulk long. Professor Daughter took us downtown in her town. Hand made candies!! Not only was there salted dark caramels, but there was entertainment. Just before we got there, cooking caramel spilled over and burned.The shop door was propped open to air out the rather delicious burned caramel smell. An employee was stationed at the open door to prevent the Occupy-Candy-Shop-Protestor-Squirrel from dashing in. We purchased our goodies and made it out the door before the squirrel realized the bastions could be breeched. Or that we were making off with some of the booty.

Although I’m not entirely certain we were not followed. There were an awful lot of VERY big squirrels cruising Professor Daughter’s yard when we got there.

Kath, who is safe in her own home nowhere near the Occupy Candy Shop Squirrel. Although there is a squirrel napping in the bird feeder tray. Occupy Bird Feeder Squirrel?

Oops!

2011-11-14T10:42:00.001-05:00

Oops!

14 November 2011

A few days ago a political candidate had an ‘oops’ moment. One of those brain freezes where no matter how you try to call it back, your brain left on a skiing vacation without you.

Like I haven’t had those, often.

My theory: my glasses cause my brain freezes.

The more I walk around the house checking every table top, back of the couch, kitchen counters, back of the toilet, and any other flat surface, the more I cannot figure out where in the heck I left those #$$%%$ glasses. The Prince Consort suggested I chain my glasses to me.

Instead, I bought a slew of ‘readers’ and distributed them around the house. The flaw in this plan is that ‘reader’ glasses have a herd instinct, and, if found, will be gathered in a pile on my desk in my office. Which does not help when I’m trying to read a recipe. Okay, that’s a lie. TPC is the cook. But sometimes I need to read the potato chip bag to remind myself that maybe I don’t need an entire day’s caloric intake to come out of one brightly colored bag of salt and fat.

And to be fair, I’m not the only one with ‘brain freezitis’. TPC’s cellphone went missing. No, it was not consorting with my glasses on the desk. But we did find it in the kitchen catch-all drawer. At least it wasn’t in the freezer or the washing machine, again.

There may be an epidemic in my house. My twenty-year -old cat, SamCat, forgets where he’s going, where he’s gone, and where he’s headed back to. When he wakes up from one of his 375 daily naps, he gets down off the couch, heads to the left to the food and litter box area. Eats, drinks water, pees outside the litter box, then heads on through the kitchen, takes another left through the dining room, and another left toward his couch. But a good 50% of the time he cruises past the couch and repeats the food, water, litter-miss, cruise again cycle.

Makes me dizzy. Maybe that’s why I am now wearing a pair of glasses on my nose and another on top of my head.

Kath, who just lost her train of thought, again. Something about chocolate, right?

I Missed my Nap

2011-11-10T10:34:00.000-05:00

I Missed my Nap

10 November 2011

I missed my nap. Which is the test for a really good book. YA thriller UNTRACEABLE, by S. J. Johannes-Wells, began at a deceptively slow pace for the first thirteen pages, introducing the reader to the MC, her world, and her mission. Those pages are like gathering your breath before beginning a race. The rest of the book is impossible to put down. Forget naps, sleeping at night, eating, even chocolate. Whatever boring things you had in mind.

While everyone else, even her mother, believes Grace’s dad is dead, Grace will not give up until she finds him. Her blind belief leads her to murderers, a deadly plot, and a stranger she falls for hard. Her world is full of strangers she thought she knew. The not knowing could cost her her life.

Like I’ve said before. I’m a writer. Since it appears the conventional publishers find me resistible, I’ve started learning about self-publishing, but doing it the right way. When S.J. Johannes-Wells offered a course in what she did to self publish, I knew I wanted her expertise. All I had to do in exchange was read and review her first self-published novel. I am definitely the winner in this bargain.

And if you read UNTRACEABLE, out November 29th, you’re a winner too. Want to be a bigger winner? sign up for Shelli’s newsletter and get a discount on UNTRACEABLE for the first 24 hours after the release. You’ll get a note on the 29th.

http://goo.gl/P2zSy

Kath, who is trying not to feel smug about already having read UNTRACEABLE and planning on giving up more naps for the sequels.

Yay, Mr. Budgy!

2011-11-07T08:13:00.000-05:00

Yay, Mr. Budgy!

7 November 2011

An update on the raccoons' campaign on the bird feeder-garbage can.

Apparently the recruits showed up last night after a weekend of dumpster diving at the honky tonk down the river.

Last night the raccoons managed to drag the can containing the bird feeders across the driveway but were stopped by Mr. Budgy, the blue spruce we planted on the slope a few years ago.

YAY, Mr. Budgy!

Kath, who is thinking in terms of a can-corral made up of Spanish Bayonet plants.

The Evil Geniuses Return

2011-11-04T11:38:00.001-04:00

The Evil Geniuses Return

4 November 2011

We got tired of hunting down the bits and reassembling the bird feeders every morning. So last night we decided to outwit the raccoons and lock the feeders up in a garbage can secured with bungee cords.

But the raccoons got the memo.

This morning I found the bird feeder-garbage can halfway across the driveway. Still intact.

The Prince Consort wants to know how they dragged it that far and kept it upright.

I say a better question is: How many raccoons did it take to push it this far? And how many more will be back tonight? Will they bring garbage can-cracking tools, or just help themselves to ours?

Kath, who is definitely not leaving any extension cords or power tools out. And is pricing a laser security system.

Does the new deck make my butt look big?

2011-11-03T12:21:00.001-04:00

Does the new deck make my butt look big?

3 November 2011

Dude had to give up his parking place because of a yard project. So we parked him under the new deck.

He was very understanding, except he did ask, “Does the new deck make my butt look big?”

Kath, who is not about to insult Dude. Pot calling the kettle black and all.

Trick or Treat Candy Advisory

2011-10-31T14:43:00.000-04:00

Trick or Treat Candy Advisory

31 October 2011

Sorry Trick or Treaters. I’m way ahead of schedule this year, and the Halloween candy is already eaten. Thanks to a number of excellent suggestions on variations for the Halloween Trail Mix. (Among which were Han Nolan and Ann Dorer suggested chocolate chips to replace the missing chocolate candy corn. Unhappily The Prince Consort has given up chocolate and in the process wiped out all our chocolate chips. I roughed it with just the roasted peanuts and the candy corn,)

I’ve scarfed up all the Candy Corn .

So hup on over next door for Halloween treats, where they probably haven’t eaten all their candy, including chocolate. Well, that is as long as The Prince Consort has not paid them a visit.

Kath with the Candy Corn headache.

Stumbling Around the 21st. Century

2011-10-27T15:32:00.000-04:00

Stumbling Around the 21st. Century

27 October 2011

So our first iPhone arrived.The Prince Consort and I are the last in our family to get one. And there’s a good reason for that.

When we ordered it, I was overwhelmed at the thought of such a complicated phone. I proposed I take the old phone and TPC take on the responsibility of the iPhone.

But then it came back. TPC curse.

Before TPC retired, his staff members learned to huddle protectively over their computers when he came near. Computers just didn’t like him, and acted up to prove it.

But this spring he took over our very first iPad. The two of them are now best friends. I literally never see one without the other, even sleeping together each night. (Don’t ask.) So I thought the Curse was over.

But while we waited for the new phone to arrive, TPC’s old phone went wonky. So we went to the phone store and had them swap his SIM card into my old dependable phone. And then, yep, my phone went wonky. Uh huh.

By the time the iPhone arrived, I decided I had to take it on.

I followed the instructions to fire up the new phone. But I got diverted (long attention span is not my forte’). I tried out the SIRI thingy. And that went soooo well. After five minutes of me screaming, “NO. NOT Orthopedist! Pizza Place, you #$%$%.” I shut down the phone.

Next day we went back to the phone store to finish the ‘get it going’ routine. It’s fine now.

Okay, not exactly. I decided to try the camera. Held the camera face up to my face to shoot the photo. Remembered that’s NOT how digital cameras work. Held the phone out. Clicked a photo. Decided I need a close-up. Touched the screen and managed to start a video. Luckily I didn’t know it until I got home, or there’d have been some pretty colorful narration. Which would have been so not good, since I signed up for that iCloud thing, which shares every damn secret you ever had over all of creation. At least from Apple thingy to Apple thingy. And there are a lot of thingies.

Of course since the phone didn’t make the clicking camera noise no matter how often I touched the little red button (which I now know means video), I tried touching other parts of the screen. Next thing I know I’m looking at my own face!!! COME ON! I was out on my morning walk sans makeup, with just-rolled-out-of-bed-get-going hair, COME ON!

Yep. I shut down the phone and finished my walk.

The Prince Consort heard on TV that someone asked SIRI ‘“What’s the best place to hide a body?” I am SO not handing over my phone to TPC. I’m dead sure SIRI would give him at least ten good places. And probably tell him where the nearest Pizza Place is too.

Kath

Mixing it up with Candy Corn

2011-10-20T16:21:00.003-04:00

Mixing it up with Candy Corn

20 October 2011

It’s been a week since the candy corn took up residence on my desk. And I was doing okay just admiring the colors through the crystal biscuit barrel. Pretty much. Okay, so the jar got down to half full.

Then my writer friend Jan ( www.janetlbuck.com ) shared her Halloween Trail Mix. She can write a thriller that makes you stay up all night. And clearly she is equally as genius at cooking.

Obviously she’s into food balancing. She came up with this combination of salt and sweet and chocolate. Other than wine, I believe that takes care of all the food groups.

So Jan mixes the candy corn with roasted peanuts and chocolate candy corn. And mix. Hello. I was ready to walk all the trails around for hours for this kind of trail mix!

But I didn’t have chocolate candy corn. Sigh.

Being out of chocolate candy corn is pretty much like not having red wine for the spaghetti sauce. Improvise. Pour no more than half of your glass of chardonnay in the sauce.

No. I did not pour the rest of my glass of chardonnay in the candy jar in lieu of chocolate candy corn. I did without. Without the chocolate. Not without the wine.

Simplified train mix. I mean trail mix. Equal portions of regular candy corn and dry roasted peanuts (with salt. Let’s be serious. This is NOT a diet dish.). Shake the jar. Look at the pretties. Fish out a candy corn and a peanut. Chew together. YUM!!!

Wash down with ... Ooops. Open a new bottle of wine. Well, now there’s a question. Red or white with candy corn trail mix?

Kath

Candy Corn Headache

2011-10-13T16:13:00.000-04:00

Candy Corn Headache

13 October 2011

So I put on so much weight over the last Godiva-stuffed year that the sleek clothes in my closet pushed each other out of the way to hide behind the ‘fat’ clothes. Bad sign.

Even The Prince Consort gave me the, ‘aren’t we fluffy’ eyebrow raise. So it was time to diet. I went cold turkey on the Godiva addiction. Although my keyboard is drool stained from reading the online Godiva ads and offers. But at least the crumb level has diminished in my closet.

What? You don’t eat in your closet? Well, honey, you just don’t have an eating problem, do you? Bless your heart.

I was doing okay until Halloween showed up. One of my big weaknesses is candy corn. Love it. Snarf it down. Get a head ache. Love it. Snarf more down. Get a really big headache. Still love it.

I was feeling real cocky about hurdling the Trick or Treats monster, and eating like a normal person. But today came. And that recipe showed up online for Candy Corn Fudge. Which clearly you cannot make unless you own candy corn, maybe not a full bag, anymore, but some.

I added the grocery store to the errands list. Because we needed milk and veggies and good things like that. If they just happen to have candy corn on sale ... Which they did.

For crying out loud, it just wouldn’t be Halloween without that Candy Corn Headache. And who knows? The Candy Corn Fudge could be a winner. Oh, fine, someone ate too many candy corns to make the fudge. Back to the grocery store.

Biscuit jar of candy corn. A little skewed because when you’re in a hurry to finish writing and photographing and get to eating ... Kath

Worse than Hot Tunny Casserole, and Better

2011-10-06T15:02:00.000-04:00

Worse than Hot Tunny Casserole, and Better

6 October 2011

Tomorrow is Friday, aka dreaded Hot Tunny Casserole day in my family. But there was a far worse choice, straight out of the I Hate to Cook Book. Fish Sticks. I found the old recipe. Perhaps if Mom had included both the right and left columns of ingredients it would have been . . . edible. But she went simple and stuck with layering frozen fish sticks in a baking pan and covering them with cream of -whatever-did-not-escape-the-pantry soup. Then sticking it in the oven until mushy and warm.

Shiver.

Now here’s my Better recipe, not for fish night. And there is not a speck of cream of anything soup in it. Mom called it Sauerbraten, but it isn’t.

Cookie Stew:

So here are the ingredients:

1)1 lb. of lean chuck roast cut into bite-sized chunks

2)salt and pepper to taste (you’re just going to sprinkle on the meat while it browns)

3)2-3 medium russet potatoes cut into bite size chunks (clean for sure, but peel if you wish.)

4)carrots- baby or bite sized chunks of regular carrots.(yeah yeah, clean and peel the regular carrots and cut. For baby carrots, open the bag and dump.) A couple handfuls depending on how much you like carrots.

5)beef bullion cubes-2

6)bay leaf

7) Nabisco Ginger Snaps- have a full box on hand. You’ll decide how much as you go.

8)Not all that Optional:White wine- whatever you opened and decided not to drink. Well, a half cup into the stew is more than enough. Waste not want not. Then again tasting the wine first, and throughout the cooking time is part of good cooking. TV chefs always taste what they cook. Just refine that down to tasting this ingredient.

9) 2 medium onions peeled and cut in half

10)Bisquick- 1 cup

So brown the chuck roast chunks in a hot fry pan that’s been sprayed with cooking spray. Diet, huh? Salt and pepper as the chunks brown up.

(Taste the wine.)

When the meat is browned on all sides, transfer to a dutch oven, slow cooker, or big old pot, with whatever juices are in the pan. (Taste the Wine,) Add the potatoes, carrots, bullion cubes, bay leaf, and wine. (not the wine in your glass, the wine in the measuring cup. Which by this time may still be a half cup, or not.)

Add enough water to cover the meat and veggies.

(Taste the wine)

Now the good part. Crush up ginger snaps. Actually, if you’ve had enough wine regard crushing as optional. They’ll cook down. You can start small with maybe ten. Aim them at the top of the stew, and put the top on the pot. They are the thickening agent.

Turn the heat to low under the pot, dutch oven, or slow cooker and cook for at least three hours.

Stab the potatoes after about two hours to see if they’re still rock hard. Rock hard is Not done. If you’ve kept up your part of the wine sampling, at this point you may need to appoint a random family member to do the stabbing.

As you cook, eyeball the thickness of the stew liquid. We like ours very thick, so I chuck in about a half a box of Ginger Snaps altogether.

(Taste the Wine)

About a half hour out from done, maybe 2.5 hours of cooking (or two glasses of wine) if you still care, add the onion halves.

Now mix a cup of Bisquick with enough water to make a gloppy paste. This is my version of dumplings. By spoonfuls drop the dumpling goop into the top of the bubbling stew. Oh, yeah turn the heat up a bit, not real hot but hot enough to get some action in there. Put a top on the pot.

After about ten minutes remove the top and let the dumplings finish cooking for ten to twenty minutes. Poke them for doneness. If they sink and float back up, and your finger didn’t come up gummy, they’re done.

(Finish off your wine and wash the glass.)

Gather the troops, as Dad would say. Dip up doling out the dumplings, meat, and veggies.

Open a new bottle of wine.

Trust me. With or without wine, this is a winner.

Kath, whose family actually requests Cookie Stew. And who has to make a run to the wine store before she can make another liter, I mean pot-full.

I Hate to Cook

2011-09-29T14:31:00.000-04:00

I Hate to Cook

29 September 2011

It’s not all the fire’s fault. Although my aversion to home cooking probably started when seventh grade Home Economics class required me to cook a dinner for my family. Not order in, but actually turn on the burners and cook. I took the burning part too literally. I made briquets aka hamburger patties and Tater Tots. Since this was in the early Jurassic Era, no microwaves, everything went in the frying pan, with grease.

Yes. Grease from the bacon drippings jar. Fact of life. If you can’t get your grease quota from a fast food chain, it is very simple to make do at home.

At any rate, I got the frying pan heat up to just below hell fire and fried my first dinner. But being creative if not smart, I made my own apron to protect me from the flying hot grease. I improvised rather than get my mother’s nice apron dirty (which required ironing by whomever used it last). I pulled a long skirt from the dress-up clothes chest.

Oh. Yeah. All covered in skirt as long as I was tall, I reached to flip one of the rock hard, nicely ebony, and slippery burgers, dragged the skirt through the grease and over the hot burner, and Voila’. Fire!

Thankfully my parents left the extra crispy side-dish off the form they filled out for the Home Ec teacher. I passed.

Years later I married the unsuspecting Prince Consort. My cooking skills had not improved, not in the least due to the family decision to have everybody else cook. Even my eight year old sister, who turned out to be a VERY good cook.

Sounds like enough excuses to cover why I hate to cook? Oh, please. Here comes the biggie. Although I am an aspiring novelist and venerate writers of all kinds, I would like to hunt down and have a Big face to face talk with my childhood nemesis, the author of The I Hate to Cook Book, Peg Bracken.

My mother hated to cook as much as I. The difference was that she wasn’t a safety hazard. So cook she did. Unfortunately somehow she go hold of The I Hate to Cook Book. Honest to God, the worst meals of my life came out of that book. Thing is, given the family lack of cooking ability, it may not be all Peg’s fault.

But I’d like to have that little talk, none the less. On my hit parade for discussion are: Grey Chicken and Hot Kill Me Now Tunny Casserole. These are not Peg’s names for her recipes, but mine given what my mother could do with them.

Picture cut up chicken dredged in flour mixed with salt and pepper. Not so bad, right?But now you lay it in a casserole dish, pour cream-of-whatever-didn’t-escape-the-pantry-soup all over it, stick it in the oven until it’s mushy on the outside and gray to pink on the inside.

Yum.

Fridays were the worst. Hot Kill Me Now Tunny Casserole. I cannot understand taking perfectly good peas, tuna salad eligible canned tuna, cream-of-whatever-hasn’t-escaped-the-pantry-soup, and potato chips that belong with dip, and cooking the mess. Until his death, Dad thought it was terribly funny to tease me each Friday (after I’d left home and started my own Hot Tunny Casserole free household) about coming to dinner for the Hot Kill Me Now Tunny ...

I did note that the minute he retired, he took over the cooking and threw away his case of Tums. uh huh.

When my mother died, my sister and I divided up her cookbooks. Ironically it wasn’t the old classic Good Housekeeping or others from her first days as a young married that I cried over. It was the old copy of I Hate to Cook Book that Dad had buried in the back of the cookbook cabinet.

Kath

Who still hates to cook, does not wear aprons, and keeps that book in a prized place on her desk.

Bloggity Blog, Piece of Cake my Bloggity Blog

2011-09-24T08:36:00.000-04:00

Bloggity Blog, Piece of Cake my Bloggity Blog

24 September 2011

A couple of days ago Broom Hilda, comic strip witch, commented on blogs and taking them seriously. She doesn’t. I do, and I don’t.

Others yes. Mine, No! My blog is meant to help me laugh at life. If I weren’t good at displacing reality, I would have done more than bang my head on my desk while I dealt with the computer tech.

It all started when Senior, my Old (according to the shocked face of the young computer shop employee when she heard the age) laptop, began random noises and freezing up. I hit the panic button and bought Junior. The computer store employee assured me transferring all essential files and stuff to Junior would be a piece of cake.

Do Not believe anyone who uses the phrase ‘piece of cake.’ Ever!

So I spent two days ‘piece of caking’ the files and applications one by one from Senior to Junior. Ran out of cake, so I made the HELP call. The first tech had a work- around for my music files. It was loading when she transferred me to the Specialist for the rest. Other than playing Mahjong at the same time he was very slowly talking to me, I have no idea what he was a Specialist in. After repeating three times that I’d already tried A,B,C, and repeating for the fifth time “No, there is no icon on Senior’s iPhoto file.” and “Yes. I know what an icon is,” I bit my tongue, did not scream, and banged my head on my desk. I ended the phone call. After an hour, he’d worn me down.

All the old files are still on Senior; who is looking very smug. Not that I suspect that while I left the office to feed SamCat, Senior made a pre-emptive call to the tech. No way did Senior make a deal with the tech to keep his essential files. What on earth could a computer offer up? Other than all the Hints on how to get to the top level on Mahjong.

Yeah, Brumhilda, bloggity blog blog, piece of cake.

Kath

bloggity blogging from Senior.

Flash Mob

2011-09-16T19:11:00.000-04:00

Flash Mob

16 September 2011

When The Prince Consort and I visited the Grand Canyon, we got to the rim before dawn. As I got out of The Dude (our mini van) a flash of light caught my eye.

The other car in the lot had an attendant. A raven was either feeding gum wrappers to the car’s tire, or hiding shiny treasures in the tire rim.

What’s a good idea for one raven, is soon a great idea for a mob.

And that’s the closest I’ve gotten to a flash mob.

Kath

Crazy Cat Lady and How I Got There

2011-09-09T12:03:00.000-04:00

Crazy Cat Lady and How I Got There

9 September 2011

I’ve been the personal slave of cats most of my life. The Prince Consort and I had cats from early in our marriage. When my dad was transferred to Hawaii, TPC and I inherited my parents’ pair of Siamese cats. By the way, Always look a gift Siamese in the mouth. Rik u sin tai ni, the eldest of the pair, wasn’t just an alcoholic. It turned out he was an insulin dependent diabetic. There is nothing quite like catching sugar-test pee from a cranky Siamese who has been forced to move in with a pair of humans who cannot afford to be drunks and are therefore woefully lacking. From then on we’ve had at least two up to six cats.

This morning during my walk, the lawn fertilizer guy asked me for directions to his next customer’s house. I turned to look for a street sign and instead spotted a neighbor cat sitting on a half-wall under the missing street sign. So naturally I asked the cat, “Hey, you. Is this Hidden Falls?” The cat turned his face to me, glared, then faced in the direction I was guessing lead to the desired address. Naturally, I turned to the fertilizer guy and said, “Yep. That way.”

For some reason the previously chatty fertilizer guy had to go. NOW.

I’ve always suspected cats draw a bead on ‘special’ people (Read somewhat to very crazy). So when did I get to be one of those? TPC and I figured it out. Yesterday, after two days of trial and error hook-up solutions, I finally got the new VCR player to light up. So I tested it, with a VHS tape of my parents as young marrieds and me as a new person.

The film starts out all cute and normal. The usual ‘shake the baby’ deal to get a smile out of me, or more precisely to get me to drop whatever I was trying to eat this time, the footage of me clearly filling up my diaper wearing the biggest smile yet. Months later I’m filmed walking, or stumbling. And there it was. My parents had provided a little stroller, three wheeled affair. I was trying to climb into it with little success. So Dad swooped in and gave me a boost. Up, over, and onto my head on the other side. In succeeding years this film came to be known as the Child Abuse tape.

Not too long after this baby film, my parents adopted the first of our family’s Siamese cats. The groundwork was laid when I hit the ground head first on the far side of that stroller.

I was fated to be a crazy cat lady.

Kath

Some Don't Like it Hot

2011-09-03T12:58:00.000-04:00

Some Don’t Like it Hot

3 September 2011

I do not like it hot. While I find everything in nature beautiful be it a desert or a mountain, I don’t keep well in the heat. Makes me cranky, sweaty, snarky, sleepy, sneezy, and doc. I’ve had plenty of time to figure this out. Been there done that whether it’s living in a steamy jungle in Central America or kill-me-now hot and humid in South Florida.

I count the days to Fall. In the heat I dress in a full complement of underwear, slacks or jeans, a top, and yes a short jacket to disguise the muffin top over the jeans waist band.

Not everybody subscribes to my dress code when it’s hot. Some shed more, including good sense.

I almost missed her, but The Prince Consort did not. We were almost finished grocery shopping when TPC called my attention to a very attractive young woman pushing a cart in front of us. She wore lightweight white slacks, make that read the telephone book fine print through the flimsy material slacks, and underneath a thong. We had a jaw dropping view of her buttocks. To say she was an eyeful is … TPC forgot to buy chocolate ice cream.

What was she thinking? I know what he was thinking. And what I was thinking.

See-through-slacks-woman may have single handedly insured a large group of men volunteering to grocery shop. I do Not like the heat and what it does to… Wait. I could get out of grocery shopping?

Kath

He said IT

2011-08-26T17:24:00.000-04:00

He said It

26 August 2011

Because it is my duty to rat The Prince Consort out, I went in the exam room with him on his doctor’s appointment. I swear going in wasn’t entirely about my first shot at hearing a doctor say TPC needed to lose weight. TPC is naturally thin, but along with quitting smoking and becoming the primary cook in the house, he’s gained weight.

So I kept a straight face, snorted only intermittently, and took lots of notes. For once I wasn’t being grilled about what I ate and how much I exercised. TPC just didn’t know how to play this game. He didn’t nod and answer with all the ‘sincere’ things to reassure the doc that you’ll mend your ways. So the appointment went kind of long.

As the doc walked us down the hall, he said he’d see TPC in six weeks, and he bet TPC was thinking of coming without me. And I thought I’d been so low key.

That’s what I assumed, but I got it wrong. I thought the doc had worn TPC down, and it would be diet and exercise time. I only thought that for as long as it took us to step out into the parking lot.

As the office door swung shut, TPC said, “I’m hungry. Where do you want to go to lunch? I was thinking about Chick Fil A the whole time the doc was talking.”

I laughed until I cried. This is why TPC and I belong together.

Kath who is fluffy but not alone in her fluffiness.

The rumors of my death

2011-08-19T11:25:00.000-04:00

The rumors of my death are somewhat exaggerated

19 August 2011

In the spirit of butchering my favorite author’s quote, the rumors of my death really are exaggerated. As far as I know.

I did check with The Prince Consort this morning.

Being no more obsessive than usual, I automated a daily Google search for internet mentions of my name. Dead certain someone would steal one of the short stories or essays I’ve published in the dim past. Because all plagiarists leave the original author’s name on the stolen work. Yeah, the logic was not quite there. But I’ve never been a faithful subscriber to logic. And always a devotee to paranoia.

Until today nothing in the Google searches.Today an obituary with my name popped up.

The Prince Consort swears he has no plans, but he did mention I might be interested in a vacation trip to Aruba, and he’d need a minute to call the life insurance company. Yeah, well, two can play that game.

Assuming the obituary is not about me, I started to wonder what would be in mine. Surely they’d use a good photo from that fifteen minutes in college where I looked not half bad. Would I be having a big funeral, which I have instructed my family I DO NOT want? Or a grand wake. Which I’m all in favor of. But if we’re going to do that, let’s do it now before I’m just the guest of honor in an urn or two.

Maybe I should write my own glowing praise.

She was a good wife and mother. Having never poisoned her family with her cooking. At least not that can be proven. She kept a clean house, as defined by getting out the old baby diaper and swiping at the furniture just before the ‘dust me’ messages completely covered immobile surfaces. As well as dusting some of the semi-mobile surfaces asleep in front of the TV, again.

She was a good and faithful servant to the horde of cats who came through her life. Mostly getting the litter box management and food dosages correct. Although the reliance on dry kibble instead of Angus beef liver could have been improved.

She dressed okay. Relying on ‘classic’ to give her a pass on wearing the same favorite jacket for decades. Hair was pretty okay, although The Prince Consort did ask if she knew the hair in the back was a Lot darker than the ‘natural’ blonde in the front. Of course she knew. Her theory being that any hair that was not gray was going to get shown off, a lot.

She was a writer who despite years of resistance by a plethora of editors and agents, went ahead and plagued the world with her blog. Where she hoped she could share a view of the world that brought just a little light into someone else’s day.

She opted for cremation with ashes spread somewhere, because she was darn well NOT going to go through “Do you have a larger size?” with an urn.

Kath

Can't Teach an Old Dog New Tricks

2011-08-12T12:39:00.000-04:00

Can’t Teach an Old Dog New Tricks.

12 August 2011

SamCat turned twenty years old last Saturday. Unfortunately he began this new score of years on the day I decided to move his litter box to a ‘more convenient’ location. And since he was not consulted about this change in his environment, he decided to vote with his feet. The vote was No.

Box or no box, Sam decided to keep using the old floor space. Which means the Prince Consort and I spend a lot of time following SamCat around when he gets up from his nest on the back of the couch. Hoping to catch him before he pees on the wood floor.

So far it’s SamCat-9, stupid humans-2. Randomly he uses the box just to lull us into believing he’s caught on to where the box is, five feet from his food and water, which he visits hourly or more.

SamCat is the smartest cat we’ve ever been personal servants to. Therefore, I’m a bit suspicious it’s not so much that he objects to the new box placement as this turned out to be his chance to get even.

Like for:

Bringing home a scary big statue, which now tastefully dwells on the front porch.

Trying to steal his toy ‘rat’.

Trying to make him into a snowcat.

Taking undignified photos of him.

Going to a state park and only bringing him a crummy cap.

Judging by how fast TPC and I now fly off the couch to follow SamCat, I’m deeply suspicious that SamCat is not the one learning a new trick.

Kath , who is an old dog who still believes she can outlast a cat. Yeah. Right.

Dropping the 'F' Bomb

2011-08-06T20:31:00.000-04:00

Dropping the ‘F’ Bomb

6 August 2011

Okay, I’ll admit it. When I’m ticked off I swear like a drunken sailor. I drop the ‘F’ word like I single handedly invented it. And it’s a great attention getter. For about the first ten seconds. But if I don’t rein it in fast, The Prince Consort’s eyes glaze over. He doesn’t approve, and overuse dilutes the impact into nothingness. Waste of effort.

I’m looking for alternatives, exercising a more extensive vocabulary. And believe me a diversity of emphatic words will keep any victim’s attention much longer than just a string of the same four letter obscenities over and over.

Example: You jerk. Jerk you. If I were the same jerkin kind of jerk, I’d jerk myself. So Jerk you.

How much of that did you pay attention to? After about the second or third jerk, you weren’t really paying attention to any point I was making, if I was. You just heard the same word over and over, and you started to drift. Bet you.

So when I critiqued a chapter for another writer who used the ‘f’ word in every single sentence at least once, in every paragraph, for several pages, I learned a lesson. Wading through the shock words, I lost her story. I couldn’t tell you what point the characters were trying to make, because all I heard in my head was the one word.

That word stole away her writing. Wake up lesson for me. I have to go back and make certain I am not using the easy words. Make sure I expend the energy and creativity to make the story mine in my own words.

And besides, it’s great practice for ‘discussing’ with The Prince Consort. He cannot be allowed to glaze over while I’m giving him the 101 reasons he SHOULD NOT have touched my hidden box of Cheezits.

So. Use creative and attention-getting vocabulary to emphasize Cheezits ownership, or over use the ‘F’ word to a bored silly TPC? Definitely dropping use of the ‘F’ bomb.

Kath

Weighty Solutions

2011-07-29T16:30:00.000-04:00

Weighty Solutions

29 July 2011

I love the tips on the Internet. Okay. I know some of them are meant to be jokes, but then there are the REALLY good ones.

Yesterday a friend sent a tip on dieting. She was dumping her diet for Dawn. Seems she’d finally read the label of the detergent carefully, and guess what? It dissolves fat that is hard to remove. HELLO! What have I been trying to do through years of dieting?

My friend figured first step she’d swap her ‘volumizing’ shampoo for the Dawn. Absolutely. How could I have missed this basic step? Years of adding body to my hair? How many pounds was that?

This is so good. I might even let the nurse weigh me next time I go to the doctor, once all that heavy body is out of my hair. You probably already know that you are Not required by the laws of man and God to be weighed each time you show up at the doctor’s office. An allergy is not a capital offense punishable by public weighing.

I came to this revelation on a particularly snarky day, yeah another one, and I refused to be weighed. The nurse was a bit gob-smacked but didn’t call the police. My doctor simply asked if I’d gained or lost an unusual amount of weight since last visit. Puleeze. Define unusual. A loss of a pound would be celebratory, a gain of five or more pounds would mean the WholeSale Club is missing a shelf of Cheezits.

After I found out about Dawn, I offered to pick up lots for anyone interested when The Prince Consort and I did our WareHouse Club trip. But I was real honest. I couldn’t swear there’d be leftover Dawn after I allotted what I would need.

And yes, when we went shopping, I forgot. In the frenzy of finding the six pound bag of multi colored pasta, I drove past the Dawn. But in balance, The Prince Consort came back from his assigned mission to find a box of 300 zip lock bags before I could load up on snacks. So the Cheezits are still at the WareHouse Club.

The Dawn cure is on hold. But listen to this! I opened my science news email to find this: Invisibility Cloak Hides Objects from Human View.

Well, hello, Science! Get me one of the ‘hide-the-extra-pounds’- size Fluffy Invisibility Cloak.

Kath, who is eagerly searching the Internet for that cloak.

No $%%^^& Salsa

2011-07-23T18:03:00.000-04:00

No $%%^^& Salsa

23 July 2011

To all you who have raccoons as pets, ARE YOU INSANE?

I live on a forested lot. So yeah, I know I’m sharing habitat with wild creatures. Which is why I do not call the Wildlife Officers every time I see a coyote or a turkey or a deer. But that doesn’t mean I can’t make an exception for raccoons.

A few years back we had a mega problem with raccoons coming into our screened porch, and eating the cat’s food and dumping out water bowls. We got out the size -ate too much cat food big as a bear -humane traps. We were told you had to take raccoons fifty miles away to insure they would not return. But The Prince Consort came up with a plan. He released them in the parking lot, next to the dumpster, of the honky tonk across and three miles down the river. Dumpster scraps and beer bottle dregs, river for water, forest for hiding out. Party on raccoons.

But like weeds, you never get rid of all the raccoons. Apparently it’s a total lie that tomatoes, being from the nightshade family, are poisonous to animals other than humans. So I grew tomatoes on the back deck. Yeah. Right. The raccoons may not have actually eaten the ripe tomatoes, but they had a good old time stripping them off and dumping them all over. So we dug a vegetable garden. Although I voted for a motion-activated laser system with surface to air missiles to keep the raccoons out, The Prince Consort went with the low tech wire fencing. And it worked. I had homemade salsa coming out of my ears. Yum!

Never let it be said I learn my lesson.

This year I saw this really cool container veggie garden. I decided to grow the tomatoes along with herbs and strawberry plants in one decorative giant pot on the front porch. So far none of the creatures had come up on the front porch.

Although when we first moved in I had a close call. I spent thirty minutes crouched below window level while about forty turkeys strolled up and down the driveway and hovered around the front steps. Do you know how big those Thanksgiving feast birds are in real life? Big Bird watch out!

So the tomato plants were going strong on the front porch. YAY! TPC and I had our eyes on one huge tomato. First big and green, then a little orange, redder, and redder. One more day and it would be salsa time!

The next morning, THE DAY for The Tomato, TPC goes out on the porch and whips back in. “Did you already pick The Tomato?”

“No!” I knew which #$%$%^$ creature ate my tomato. They wear a mask over their little bandit faces for a reason. All the little $%%^^% left were seeds and skin in the pot.

So TPC made a cage of the wire fencing right there in the pot. Tomato protection. Another tomato was in the orange about to go reddish stage. Pre salsa. The wire cage worked for one night. The second morning The Tomato was gone and another fully green one, riddled with bite marks, balanced on porch column ledge next to the caged tomatoes.

ARGH!!!

Today we moved the giant pot to the back veggie garden. Placed it far enough from the wire fencing that little bandit hands can NOT help themselves.

Meanwhile, I’m checking out the internet for motion-activated surface to air missiles. While hunting may be prohibited in our subdivision by-laws, there’s not a word on nuclear missiles.

Kath

My Cats on Facebook?

2011-07-15T17:59:00.000-04:00

My Cats on Facebook?

15 July 2011

So I see this article saying one in ten pets is on Facebook. I’m not on Facebook. I have two cats. Does that mean I have a 40% chance my cats are blabbing on Facebook?

I don’t know enough about Facebook, but my imagination is in high gear on this one. I’m now very suspicious of what the cats are doing all night. They aren’t hunting mice, I know that from the arrogant little rodent who . . .never mind.

I just know it. The cats are using the ipad The Prince Consort leaves charging by the couch.

Come on. They’re way too tired all day. Napping up a storm even while I run the vacuum cleaner or sing along to Golden Before-Fire-Was-Invented Oldies. They’ve worn themselves out tapping out stuff into the ether.

Probably SamCat is the actual typer. He’s elderly and his paws are slender. Nikki Cat has big paws. Yep. SamCat’s the Mastermind. After all he’s the one cat who figured out how to work the ‘tap on’ bedside lamp. And he’s the one who waited until TPC was away on business leaving me home alone. Middle of the night, the bedside lamp goes on. I shoot of bed, and SamCat sits by the bed staring at me. He never flinched, didn’t bother to run like the other cats.

So what are they typing? Are they gossiping about life in our house? Giving out their evaluation of how or whether I’m doing my cat care duties. Probably running a poll asking other cats how well their servants perform.

Or are SamCat and Nikki Cat doing online commentary on the cat stuff catalog that showed up for no apparent reason? They could be nominating a variety of the model cats for a centerfold. Maybe taking votes to forward to the catalog publisher. Or more likely, given my cats’ general attitude about the four hundred cat toys I’ve bought them, they’re suggesting where to put the special of the week - Bag o’ Pink Stuffed Mice?

Videos! Are videos posted on Facebook? Have my cats figured out my new pocket camera? Did they take a video of me snoring loud enough to loosen roof tiles? Can I Google that?

Wait. If they’ve mastered Facebook, is ordering online with my unguarded credit card next? Or am I too late on that one too?

Kath

(Remember. It’s not paranoia if you can prove you didn’t order 500 pounds of organic catnip.)

The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men, Gang aft agley,

2011-07-08T20:17:00.000-04:00

The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men,

Gang aft agley,

Robert Burns

8 July 2011

I had today all planned out. You’d think I’d know better.

I’d brewed my morning “Make me Human” cup of coffee. I sat on the couch to await the transformation from unspeakable Wake Up Monster, when Nikki Cat rushed back into the house (having been Owwt all of five minutes). In his some-ancestor-was-a-Siamese voice, he yowled his way to the dining room. And then he quieted down.

Being as I was not coffee-dosed yet, I ignored the cardinal rule of small children, cats, and husbands: If they are quiet for more than two minutes, for pity sake investigate.

I’d made it halfway through the coffee when Nikki yowled his way back ‘Owwwt’. My brain creaked into action. I checked under the dining room table. Our once mostly feral cat had learned to eat in the dining room. The Prince Consort stepped up as a fellow male. He scrubbed up the mice guts and blood.

Nikki Cat will Not be coming back inside in the mornings until I’ve had enough caffeine to keep up.

Today was run errands day with The Prince Consort. Once again the errands ran over into lunchtime. So the eternal ‘Where do you want to eat. No, where do you want to eat. I asked first.’ discussion started. Inspiration struck me as we drove past a certain chicken fast food chain that was having a free sandwich giveaway if you dressed like a cow day. I was all for stopping at the nearby big box store for some make up so I could affect a tasteful black cow nose and a sprinkling of attractive cow spots, face only.

TPC was having none of it. Apparently he’s not forgotten that I did indeed wear the lampshade into the returns department at the hardware store. We had burgers two blocks away from the chicken fast food place and their cow mascot.

Today was also take The Prince Consort for his after hernia surgery check up. Being ‘sick’ has been very hard on TPC. He’s not used to taking time off for sick. He’s been rather subdued for the past week plus. It was a shock to me that this energetic strong man could ever be anything else. The simple outpatient surgery had me more scared after it was over than I was while it was going on.

We had ordered his dream bass fishing boat with delivery for only a week after the surgery. But we had to push it back another week.

As we all know, husbands do Not go in to see the doctor alone. If you let them do that, instead of consulting about the hernia, they will come home with little blue pills. You know the kind. So I sat with TPC waiting. Finally he points to the Digestive System chart on the back of the exam room door, and says, “I see the liver. Where’s the onion?”

For a week he told me no jokes, because it hurt to laugh. He was BACK!!!

Happy Kath

WOW!

2011-07-06T17:56:00.000-04:00

WOW!

6 July 2011

My friend, Patricia has done me the amazing honor of passing to me the Irresistibly Sweet Blog Award. All I have to do to accept is write five random facts about myself and pass the award on to five other blogs. I have to say that I wait for Wednesdays for Patricia’s blog on life in Rome. I’m getting fatter just on her blogs on Roman food! I may never get to Rome, but through Patricia, I feel like I’ve gotten to know bits of it. http://italianintrigues.blogspot.com

Five random things about me:

I’ve seen ghosts. While I was in college, for a year my family leased a 17^th century Rhode Island farmhouse. I kept secret the pair of ghosts who appeared in my bedroom each night. Years later my mother mentioned meeting the next Navy couple who rented that same Aquidneck Island farmhouse. They went on and on about a sea captain and a little girl, ghosts. Exactly the two I’d seen years before.

I almost did not meet The Prince Consort. My college roommate blackmailed/threatened/forced me to go downstairs to dinner the night The Prince Consort’s fraternity sent a contingent of their members to my sorority for the traditional Greek Week dinner swap. Being Sweetheart of a different fraternity, I thought attending dinner with the Animal House reject fraternity was … inappropriate. Yep. He walked into my sorority’s dining room, and it was love at first sight. I was only a little wrong about the Animal House stuff.

I discovered writing when I was accused of plagiarism. Quantico (Marine Corps Base) High required all students to write an essay for a writing contest and possible publication. I was called in by the judging teachers and asked if I had copied a famous writer. At the time I’d never read or even knew Rachel Carson existed. But I got the hint. I’d knocked out something special. And I did get published.

I discovered writing humor after the traditional summer college visits trip with my only progeny. Professor Daughter had me Craaazzzy by the time we got home. I locked myself in my office and spewed out seventeen pages of snarling. Then edited. And edited. And trimmed to four hundred words, and sold it. First money earned writing.

My first vampyre ms. was written because I forgot. I’d been convinced to try Retin A, and forgot to take it off when I jumped in the backyard pool for my daily laps. In full Florida sun. In between counting the laps, I started the What If? process. And a vampyre was born.

Passing on to my Favorite blogs:

I love a variety of blogs. Writing and not.

Joan writes these wonderful reviews of children’s books on her Booklog. I know I should only pay attention to the Middle Grade or Young Adult reviews (read and learn from them), but she makes every book she reads and shares such a treasure. I can hardly wait to read them. http://joan-booklog.blogspot.com

Here’s one of my favorite writing advice blogs. Kaye’s All Things Writing. She has a gift for teaching. As many conferences, workshops, courses, I’ve done, I always appreciate relearning. But Kaye has mastered all kinds of things about writing in a new and even more clear way!! Perfect.

http://allthingswriting.blogspot.com

I don’t own a horse, and I’ve fallen off more than my share. But Susan’s Things I Learned from my Horse is a wonder for teaching life and writing. If you want your heart to warm and your brain to sharpen up:

http://thingsilearnedfrommyhorse.blogspot.com

Vickie writes rich wonderful mysteries, but her daily blog is like seeing the sun come up on my computer each morning. She shares gorgeous photos from her farm. A different theme to the photos daily. I laughed out loud the day she shared the perfect photos of cats asleep in the sun, on the furniture, she called it cats at work.

http://vickilanemysteries.blogspot.com

The Prince Consort and I LOVE ‘arts and crafts’. Which is our code for taking old things and giving them a new life, with paint, with new purpose, with imagination do dads and gee gaws, and fun. Kate blogs step by beautiful photographed step of how to make your home your own with treasures you have in your home, find in a thrift store, or if you’re me and my walking partner, rescue out of the curbside garbage

http://centsationalgirl.com

If I have mentioned your blog, you can accept the award by passing it forward. Write five random facts about yourself and five short reviews of other blogs.

Kath, who is still completely Cheezit-faced over this honor.

Water Torture

2011-07-04T17:35:00.000-04:00

Water torture

4 July 2011

So this morning my walking partner and I told Jill and her owner that Jill looked very festive in her Fourth of July red harness and leash. Turns out Jill’s usual leash and harness are red, not yesterday’s fancy pink. Seems the pink was worn yesterday because the red set was drying out.

Seems when Jill’s person went swimming in the neighbor’s pool, so did Jill. A surprise to Jill’s person, who didn’t think her little dog could swim. Oh, yeah.

I laughed remembering when we had a backyard pool, and I decided for their own safety I had to know that our cats could swim. Uh. huh. At that point I’d owned cats, or rather been employed as servant to cats, for twenty years. You’d think I would have known better.

My best excuse is that I had a young daughter, and was fully into “everybody needs to be able to swim, or we fill in the pool and make it a giant planter.”

So one at a time, I rounded up our four unsuspecting cats. I balanced each on the pool float and pushed it a foot or two from the pool edge. Far enough I figured they couldn’t just leap back on land. Which I needed not just to make sure they swam, but for a head start. Cat teeth come only in sharp and angry cat Samurai sword slice a hair in mid air sharp.

The cats all swam. And true to form, I made my second and fatal mistake. I laughed at the clowder of four soaked to the skin ‘wet rat’ cats.

I don’t care what the cognitive scientists say, Cats NEVER forget.

R.T. took up vomiting loudly, next to my side of the bed, from 2 a.m. to dawn every night for the next eight years. Russell decided on the “if you don’t use it you loose it” concept. He doled out bites, to me, regularly and unpredictably. Chester went with the “if she wants water, I’ll give her water.” and peed on almost anything, including the kitchen counter. Although he put real effort into taking down the outdoor pedestal gas grill. He peed on that pedestal until it corroded and the whole thing crashed. Impressive if you think about it.

The lady cat, Pyewackett, bided her time. Which of course left me completely unhinged waiting for it. And trust me, she came up with a doozy. I ended up driving her back and forth to Auburn University for thyroid treatments. If I could have found the bumper sticker, a year before my only daughter went to Vanderbilt, I would have applied this to my car “ My Cat and my money go to Auburn.”

So what did I learn? That cats do not forget, ever. They are creative. And they are waaay better at water torture than I could ever dream of being.

Happy Independence Day, America, Kath

Retirement is Fattening

2011-06-26T20:29:00.000-04:00

Retirement is Fattening

26 June 2011

So The Prince Consort announced he was retiring. HUH? I kind of blanked out. All I could think was: Where are the Cheezits? Did I eat all the chocolate?

Don’t get me wrong. I love TPC. But for the last decades, he’s worked long hours, and I’ve been a loner. I’m good at being a hermit.

He made a Honey Do list. I thought, “YAY! He’ll be busy, and I’ll have writing time.”

Right. Apparently Honey Do chores require an audience, if not assistance.

And every freaking item on the list requires a trip to a hardware store. I’m told in the small print on his retirement papers, which seem to have gone mysteriously missing, it says that I must accompany him on these errands.

And --he goes grocery shopping with me. Seriously.

Grocery shopping with a husband is different. Yes. I shop with a list. No. Not everything I’m going to buy will be on the list. No. There is no rule that it has to be written on the list to make it into the cart. Fine. I’ll write it on the list before I put it in the cart so he can cross it off. Seriously.

Magically the errand trips all happen at lunch time. That guy who ate the fast food for a month and gained all the weight was Not Kidding. I’ve loaded on at least ten pounds since the TPC’s retirement!

I’ve always loved fast food. But the unthinkable has happened. I’ve had enough!!!

I want fresh food cooked at home. Preferably by TPC, who is by far the better cook. So I bought him a Cooking Light cookbook, and a brand new cookbook holder. (I’m not admitting it, but he’s right. I did manage to drop and break the old acrylic cookbook holder. Not easy to do, but I am a proud and accomplished klutz.) He cooked tonight, but I’m fairly certain the cheese tacos (shells of pure cheese) are not in that cookbook. Still, if it’s served on the china we bought when we got married, and I weighed less than two hippos tied together, doesn’t that cancel out half the calories?

Thank goodness I’m not retiring. How much weight gain would that cost me?

Kath

The Other Woman

2011-06-07T07:35:00.002-04:00

7 June 2011

The Other Woman

So The Prince Consort announces after dinner that the next day was his last day at work. He was retiring. HUH?

And he has plans. Traveling. Lots of fun time. Oookay. I’m seeing my writing time disappear. But traveling …

So we start small. A day trip to explore a good fishing lake. I like fishing. Not because I fish. But because I love the quiet in the midst of infinite beauty. It’s time I can use for writing while TPC fishes. Win win.

I get in the car to make the trip. And she’s already sitting in front. My nemesis, Brumhilda, the GPS. Brumhilda and I do Not get along. She’s an evil witch who loves nothing more than to send us around and around on the same city circumferential highway. (Something we fell for twice in one day in Cincinnati. Okay, on two Cincy trips.)

If we ignore her and turn right because we already know that’s south, and we’re headed south, she gets snarky. First with the slightly aggravated “Recalculating.” Then as we ignore her, the “recalculating” pitch rises and she goes from “I’m sighing because these two are idiots” tone to “For pity sake, what is wrong with you two. Do what I say!” snarly tone.

After the last time when Brumhilda so misdirected us that it took an hour to get back on a known road, I hid her. Unlike the peanut butter, which TPC cannot find because it is behind the tomato soup instead of in the front row in the pantry, he can find Brumhilda no matter where I put her.

Since I didn’t know the witch was going with us to the lake, I came armed with a map and directions off the internet. Hah. Good thing. Big surprise, Brumhilda couldn’t find a lake if I threw her into it. Hmmmm.

Kath

Look Behind

2011-05-28T14:59:00.000-04:00

Look Behind

28 May 2011

There are fundamental differences between men and women. They can’t be erased. And even years of marriage can’t cure the Look Behind gene.

Men do not Look Behind. They don’t look behind the tomato soup because they are convinced that all pantries are four inches deep, and nothing lives behind the first row of cans. After they give up and tell you to write peanut butter on the grocery list, (that is behind the door to the pantry where they hung it) they will exhibit complete surprise when your arm magically disappears into the shadowy depth of the pantry shelf and reappears with the partially eaten and cracker encrusted (Need I mention that only one of us in this house even eats peanut butter?) jar of … wait for it … peanut butter.

Uh huh.

So I’m pushing my new Kath-driven push mower around my assigned small patches of lawn, when I hear The Prince Consort. The lack of engine noise is a flaw in my push mower. He knows I can hear him.

He’s lost a box cutter blade. In the grass. WE need to find it.

Uh huh.

Well, I decide to play ‘male.’ So I give him the solution, and go back to mowing. Been there, done that, right? Men are supreme at handing out the answers, and moving on to the next question.
Implementation is somebody else’s bailiwick.

When I finish mowing, I return to the garage. TPC is inside arranging his new Father’s Day gift. (Yes. It is very Female of me to have insisted he get it early before my coupon expired. And it is very Male of him to see the wisdom.) I ask if he found the missing blade.

Nope. He tried my suggestion of a flashlight, so he could see a metal reflection in the grass. No dice. He even tried a magnet. Nothing.

Because outside of the deer, possums, raccoons, chipmunks, neighbor’s dog, our cat, the turkeys, and who knows what other critters, the most likely barefoot traveler in the backyard will be me, I have to find it. I know where it is.

It takes me one minute to locate it. Right next to the peanut butter. Behind. Things do that. They bounce, not just drop straight down. It’s not magic. It’s not the forest fairies. They bounce and end up behind you.

Got it.

Huh? Where was it?

And he has that look on his face like he’s halfway convinced I pocketed it when he first lost it, and had been playing games with him. Well, yeah. I was playing games, but not the pocket game. I played the much practiced Look Behind.

Kath