Look! The tree is dancing!!

Fluffenella and Scampers, my two baby kitties who, along with two brothers and a sister who have moved on to new owners, were born on 07/07/07. That makes THIS their very first Christmas. If stress really can kill, it may be my last.

Kittens are pretty demented to begin with, but just bring a tree into the house and watch what happens. It isn't pretty. The only decorations left on the tree are alive, furry, and peek out of the branches. I can't tell you how delighted they are that I set up a tree just for them. And the ornaments? Just too much fun! Knocking them off the tree, chasing them around the room, batting them under the furniture, shredding the garlands to bits - just too damn cool, from a kitten's perspective, anyway. Even Hobbes, who is almost three and should know better, has gotten into the act. Our poor tree- Hobbes is a big boy and the tree sags dramatically wherever he has chosen to nest. Sigh.

It could have been worse. We opted for a down-sized Christmas this year due to Dave's travel schedule and our going to San Diego for Thanksgiving. Those two things completely put the kibosh on the over-the-top extravaganza that is normally Christmas in our household. Dave usually pulls the 3,000 boxes of decorations out of the attic and spends the Friday and Saturday following Turkey Day setting up the tree while I decorate the rest of the house- and the porch- and anything that isn't moving. Think Macy's without the restraint and that's our house at Christmas.

But this year, I bought a small (6') pre-lit tree and bought inexpensive, unbreakable ornaments for it. For the FIRST TIME IN ALMOST 40 YEARS, I did not have to move a single piece of furniture out of the living room to make room for the tree. That's the upside. The downside is that the tree was rather wan looking to begin with, and now, after being gleefully ravaged by wild beasts, looks lopsided, disheveled and terribly sad. (Think Charlie Brown's Christmas branch with a glandular condition).

Still, I have gotten some cute pictures of kitties in the tree and the ornaments I bought take a lickin' and keep on tickin'. At least the kitties are not devastating our huge, move-the-couch-out-of-the-livingroom tree or destroying my beautiful collection of breakable ornaments. (Think Rockefeller Center or the White House, only gaudier).

Well, I must close now. The tree is moving... again. I wonder where it will end up this time. I think they are aiming it toward the kitchen.

Merry Christmas to all!

No more college for cats!

For as long as I can remember, there have always been Motlow cats. (No, that is not the name of the teams- they are the Bucks and the Lady Bucks, which, if you think about that last one, is an oxymoron of epic proportions). The Motlow cats are a population of feral and semi-feral cats that have lived off the detritus of a concentrated mass of humans for generations. The cats are a part of the Motlow history and heritage.


Granted, they have not always been a positive part of history and heritage. I am a cat-lover, as readers of this blog may have guessed, but even I have had ambivalent feelings about the cats from time to time. Especially after one of them had a litter of kittens on the roof, and each baby fell to its death, one after another, over the course of several days. The up-side to the cats is, even though the college is nestled in the woods and sits on the edge of pastures, there are no mice to speak of. Score one for the cats. And it a pleasant thing to see the sweet creatures lurking about. They scurry away from all but a handful of people, and seem as harmless to Motlow as are the ducks of the Peabody Hotel in Memphis to that august edifice.


Several of the good women who work for Motlow have "adopted" some of the cats, which is to say they feed them and provide them with water. A couple of the good women spend their breaks with the cats, who allow themselves to be petted and cossetted. Score another one for the cats- stroking cats alleviates stress, and Motlow is a stressful place to work.


Some time ago some one of these good women took it upon herself to capture all the cats and take them to a vet to be neutered. There have been no cascading kitties since that time.


But now the college has decided that the cats, rather than controlling vermin, are, in fact, vermin themselves and has ordered them to be trapped like skunks and removed from the campus. Where are they being removed TO, you may ask? Well, that's the question, isn't it?The pound won't take them, and neither will the Humane Society.


They better be removed more than three miles away, because removing cats from the campus- one cat at a time, mostly- has been tried before, and they tend to come back. One made a three mile trek to get back. Maybe his new "owner" shouldn't have named him William Wallace. At the first opportunity, he regained his FREEDOM!!! (The cat was not drawn and quartered for it, though).


At least not that time.


I know about the cat round-up because good hearted people have been calling to see if I would adopt a cat. I wish I could. My house, sadly, has a four cat maximum (as life with Binx and her babies has shown). I provided a few names of folks who might want a cat, but people who love cats generally already HAVE cats- notice the plural- so the good women probably have an uphill battle on their hands.


What a lovely Christmas present to the staff, faculty and students of Motlow. The end of a tradition, the dismay of kind-hearted people, and a bitter and sour end to the semester of 2007. Hope the college isn't phobic about squirrels... or birds... or students.


Merry Christmas, y'all, and if you want a feral cat, let me know.

Is San Diego burning... again? You betcha!

My daughter has lived through the fires of 2007 which had most of San Diego County, CA, in flames. I got a small taste of how scary it was today when I witnessed a 2-acre fire that spread like... well, like wild-fire... up the side of a hill about 2.5 miles from our apartment complex. We watched as home owners on the top of the hill hosed down their houses as they waited for the fire department. Kel took some fantastic pictures, which I have incorporated into a PowerPoint presentation which you can access via the link below. Just click on it, and give it a little time. I hope you find it interesting.

http://katelapczynski.googlepages.com/TheTierrasanteFire.ppt#256,1,Tierrasante,

Raider of the Lost Amazon

I am a pretty good mom, and I tend to indulge my children and grandchildren, particularly when it comes to books. I love books and encourage the love of books in my progeny. To that end, I provided my kids with the password to my Amazon.com account so they could buy books whenever the mood struck them.

However, you may have noticed that the Amazon has flowed into venues other than books recently. (I say recently though it has been a matter of a couple of years, but it seems recent to me- I was one of Amazon's earliest customers. I'll tell you how long ago it has been since I first sailed down the Amazon; they were so grateful for my business in the early days that I got Christmas gifts from them. Now that everyone shops online and they are a retailing giant, they have forgotten all about me... isn't that just the way it goes? Where would they be without me?)

Anyway, while I was in Michigan, visiting my dear ole daddy, hubby accessed my email account. He wasn't snooping, he was helping troubleshoot why I wasn't able to get email on the laptop I had taken with me. He couldn't help but notice the 553, 000 emails from Amazon.com, either confirming a payment or the shipping of an order.

"Kathleen, my sweet, I think you are being far too indulgent, allowing the children to use our account in this fashion. I think it would behoove you to change your password, and not give it to anyone at the earliest opportunity", he said.

Or words to that effect.

Actually, what he really said began with "What, are you nuts??!!" and ended with "Good grief, woman!"

So I changed my password and the kids were very mellow and cool about it; very appreciative of the past use of my account but completely sanguine about being cut off from future purchases. All was well.

Except...

I got an email from my son that read "Will pay you the $10 for the book when I see you later this week."

What book?

An email from Amazon.com told me what book!

I shot back an email to my son. "How did you do that? I changed my password!!"

I almost immediately got a call from him. He sounded pleased as punch with himself for having subverted my restrictions. "Tell me how you did that," I demanded. He just chuckled. My son is a charmer, with a great chuckle and adorable dimples when he smiles or laughs. I was fondly visualizing those dimples when he said "Go check your email".

I set down the phone and went to the computer... where I found an email TO myself FROM myself. "AWK! What the hell?" I bellowed, and from across the room I could hear him laughing on the other end of the phone line. "Just playing with you, Mom", he laughed and hung up. He did not tell me how he had done that either.

After work, I received a text message from him to give him a call, which I did.

"Just thought I should tell you. I've changed your Amazon password," he said.

"WHAT??!!" I seemed to be saying that a lot today.

"Yeah, I was going to let you find out the hard way, but decided that was too mean."

I just stood there silently for a few seconds, then asked with a sigh, "Okay, what's my new password?"

I could HEAR his smile. "It's 'damnitjake'" he said.

Crafty crafts and crafts

This is the door to my craft room.

I went to yet another scrapbook convention, and all I got was this.

It's called a Scrapbox.

It folds up to a 3' x 3' x 6' armoire.

I doubt it will ever be closed.

The table folds up and is enclosed when the Scrapbox is shut.

It took one day to assemble the Scrapbox- thanks, Melinda and Rebecca.

One day to install the shelves and assemble the storage boxes- thanks Melinda and Marcia.

One day to get everything out of my diningroom and Dave's office and the hall and the kitchen and the livingroom into the Scrapbox- thanks, Dave.

One day to make labels for the boxes. Thanks, myself.

The rest of my life to play. Hurry back, Rita!

So much for crafty crafts. Now for crafts of another type.

Avast, me hearties, yo ho!

What is the link between pirates and crafts, you ask?

Don't ask.

But look at THIS!

Dad-ums

My dad, Loveable Bill, during WWII. I am the twinkle in his eye.

I am back from my Dad's, where I had a good time, and was actually useful for a change. My old man is now 83. A WWII veteran, he never believed he would live this long. In fact, his 40th birthday was such a shock that he disappeared for three days with a gang of his pals, certain his last days were upon him and wanting to go out with a bang. If anyone then had told him he'd be around for another 43 years, scoffing would have been the least of what he would have done.

Loveable Bill at 83, sitting in his diningroom.

Dad has survived a world war, polio, liver disease, pneumonia (multiple times), several car accidents and, in his 80th year, a shattered hip, so if he is looking a little frail right now, he is entitled. He's getting around pretty well with just a cane though, which is a huge improvement over the last time I saw him. As was the weather!

The weather, the last time I visited. It was in the 70s and 80s this time.

I hope I have as many loving friends and family as he has when I am his age, but I doubt it will happen that way. In my experience, men get taken care of by the women in the family, and the women end up in homes. Dad, being a man, is being well cared for in his own home. My baby sister sees him almost every day and is his right-hand gal. My brother Bill visits every couple of months (from Texas, no less) and is the indispensable man. This summer, he helped Dad paint the house and repair the decks. Dad bragged about what good kids they are every day I was there.

Dad and I always have a good time together. We could cohabitate very easily if the need ever arose. I had a great time cooking for him, and we enjoyed each other's company. I had hoped to get back to see him a lot sooner than I did, but life, mother and a broken arm intervened.

Turns out that the timing of my week stay was very timely because while I was there, Dad's washer died (early in the visit) and the sewer lines backed up (end of the visit). I am glad I was on hand to help. Sis and I pitched in to get him a new washer, but cleaning up after the sewage disaster was a solo act. (Mine, not my sister's. She handled the last disaster single-handed). It was kind of a shitty way to end the visit, and really pissed me off, but everything flushed out fine in the end, and I left his bathrooms sparkling and aseptic. I can still hear them thanking me.

We went out to eat several times and Dad took me to a casino, the first (and second) time I have ever been. I cleared $165 the first time we went, and lost almost all of it back to the casino the second. I had a really good time, though, and can see how gambling could become addictive. Casinos are exciting places.

Of course, I spent a week being alternately snubbed and attacked by his cat, Snoopy. Snoopy is a one-man cat. I am not that man. Here he is, deciding whether or not to pounce on me from a great height.

The only draw-back to visiting my dad is like it is like falling into a technological black hole. I keep forgetting how interminably and frustratingly SLOOOoowwwww dial up is. And trying to get my email was an exercise in futility. I did manage to RECEIVE a few, but was never able to reply to the ones I received. I came home to 131 messages. I was using Verizon's National Broadband Access, which is better than a sharp stick in the eye.... but only marginally.

Anyway, I am home now, and if you haven't heard from me in a week, now you know why.

If I can remember, I plan to rant about names in this blog

I don't know why this popped into my head... things are ALWAYS popping into my head, which makes it very noisy in there, and distracts me from sensible thought. But I digress.

As I do. I digress. All the time. I think it may be related to the things constantly popping into my head. I am easily distractable, and what with one thing and another popping into my head, it only stands to reason that other things pop out. Like why I came into this room. Wait a minute, I'm typing, so this must be my blog, in which case, I wanted to write about the most recent in-popping. Which was....????

Okay, I just looked at the title of this blog, and remember that I had been ruminating about names. It started when someone in this strange movie my husband is watching on the other side of the room said " They cremated her. Your Uncle Dick took her ashes back to....." and it suddenly popped into my head that every Dick I have ever known was one. Do NOT name your son Dick.

Or Les. I've only known a couple of guys named Les, but they most definitely were.

Another name to avoid is Peter, which in the long form (Peter) is the name of the male member (and why males feel compelled to name their members is beyond me) and in the short form is a smelly way to heat a cottage.

Willie ain't much of a name for a boy, since it, too, is an anatomical moniker.

I'm not fond of unisex names, like Chris or Pat, for example. There is this person who works in a store here whose gender was a mystery to me for a long time. There are no overt signs of female development, but neither are there any overtly masculine traits. There are no reliable clues to gender. This person has a short hair-cut (that could be worn by either sex), pierced ears (which used to be a female indicator and isn't anymore) and wears the uniform of youth- trainers, jeans, and shirt (in this case, a golf shirt with the workplace logo on it). I kept trying to get a glimpse of the name on the name-tag, and when I finally did, it was CHRIS! Do not give your children unisex names. Give them a gender-specific name so that even if nothing about their gender is immediately specific, folks having to deal with them will know what they are dealing with. This Chris, by the way, is female. I asked one of the people she works with.

I just ended that sentence with a preposition. I know better, but c'mon already, who really says "one of the people with whom she works". It may be grammatically correct but it is like writing a sentence from the middle toward both ends.

But I digress.

Never give your daughter a boy's name. It may seem cute to name them Michael but it is mean spirited and insensitive, and sets them up for a lifetime of explaining themselves to other people, most of whom will continue to think they are weird even after the explanation. GIVEN NAMES SHOULD BE GENDER SPECIFIC. If you really can't live without giving your daughter a boy's name, make it her middle name. Now THAT'S cool- I know, because I have a boy's middle name and I love it. And none of this changing the spelling to indicate girliness. A Sidney by any other spelling (Sydney) sounds the same.

Come to think of it, don't name your son Sidney, either. Or Walter. Or Alfred. But these are just personal prejudices on my part, and need not be considered one of the cardinal naming rules.

If you love funky names, own multitudes of pets and give them all funky names. Unless you are Frank Zappa, who is dead, so you probably aren't him, never name your child Moon Unit or Dweezil. Or Roxie Crimefighter. (That's the name with which Penn Gillette, of Penn and Teller infamy, saddled his baby daughter. As if it isn't awful enough having Penn Gillette for a father!)

Episode IV: How I came to run a cat-house

Kitty bowling

Remember that old saying, "No good deed ever goes unpunished?" Bear it in mind as I tell you how it is that I came to run a cat-house.

Once upon a time, a little cat wandered onto my front porch. She was starving. She was thirsty. She was pregnant. I took her in. She promptly delivered a litter of five.

She did it so fast she didn't get a chance to get to know and love Hobbes and Patches, my previous rescuees, before she became a mama. And, once the hormones kicked it, she became Uber-Mama and began to kick ass. Technically, she began to bite and scratch ass, but however you look at it, she terrorized Hobbes and Patches with her Tasmanian devil impersonation so thoroughly that Patches now glowers from the craft room and Hobbes has removed himself to the garage.

Once her kittens became mobile, they joined in the fun of Hobbes and Patches baiting.

Patches, backing away from Tiger- who is only one-sixth her weight. Terrifying!

Scampers and Fluffenella- off the drapes for a change.

I used to have drapes.

I used to have carpeting in my bedroom.

I used to have moments of quiet and calm.

Wide world of wrestling championship, kitten-weight division.

Now, I have furry furniture, Airwicks in every room, a bottle of Febreze on every flat surface, and legs that look like I shaved with a chain saw thanks to kitty claws.

I was able to find homes for three of the kittens, but it turns out that kittens are a lot like kids. They leave, but then they come back. It happened like this. The time had come for Binx (mama) and her three sons (Hiro, Scampers and Tiger) to be rendered reproductively incapable. The boys were also due for front claw declawing. (The girls will have their turn in about three weeks). Scampers had a hernia that required repair. It just seemed logical to me that Becca and Yvonne should bring their kitties to my house so that I could take all the cats to the vet at one time and get it over with in one fell swoop.

And so the babies came to Grandma's for a visit. It was a joyous reunion for the kitties! Hobbes and Patches were less than amused, as was Binx, since the visiting kittens tried to pick up where they had left off and nurse once again for old time's sake. The absence of milk didn't seem to deter them.

When Becca dropped off Tiger, she also brought Miss Pusskins.

She thought the two girl kitties could keep each other company while the boys and Mama were away getting clipped, snipped and made ship-shape. I thought that was kinda cute- a kitty sleep-over. Fluffanella and Pusskins staying up all night, watching TV, meowing into the wee hours of the morning about school and fashion and boys.

This was Wednesday morning. Fluff and Pusskins were no trouble and it was fun having time with Miss Puss again. Funny how you get attached to the little furballs. They, however, still have claws.

Friday morning, bright and early, I went to get Binx and the boys. Everyone seemed to be doing well, even little Scampers whose tummy surgery ended up being a bit more extensive than expected. Home I brought them all for yet another joyous reunion (minus Hobbes and Patches, of course) but this time, I waded in to protect Binx from the milk-sucking horde, as she had just been spayed and didn't need to be kneaded and drained.

Oh, the fun! Oh, the frivolity! Oh, how I wish Sunday would come, for that is when Pusskins, Tiger, and Hiro go back to their respective homes. Yes, we are having a week-end long sleep-over with all five kitties reunited and of one mind, intent on their search and destroy missions, committed to inciting cat fights between their mother and my two beleaguered buddies, and having a great time throwing shredded paper litter at each other.

Hiro is staying to protect him from a small child who is spending the weekend with her grandmother Yvonne. Pusskins and Tiger are staying because the kids are coming into town on Sunday anyway, so they will pick up their babies then.

In the meantime, I just try to stay out of their way and not step on them or shut them in doors. Or refrigerators, for that matter. I am out-numbered 8 to 1. That is WAAAY over the maximum cat density for any home.

Dave is coming home Sunday. I sure hope he can find me under all the cat hair.

The same but different

I have finished my second week teaching after a four-year "retirement" and it has been weird in these ways.

1. It is weird to be teaching in a "dumb" classroom- no computer, no web access, no way to do PowerPoint presentations. Most of the classrooms have long since been converted to "smart" classrooms, except, of course, the one to which I have been assigned in McMinnville. So... I have been teaching the old fashioned way... and enjoying the hell out of it. My students seem to be handling it all right as well.
2. It is weird to be an adjunct at the teaching site where, for 10 years, I was the sole biology faculty assigned there full-time and was the lab supervisor as well. It isn't "my" lab any more, but it looks great and the new kid is doing a bang up job being the new me.
3. After years of bitterness about never having a proper office - cubicle hell does nothing for your status as a professional- I would now give my eye-teeth for a cubicle; the MCMI center is being expanded and the adjuncts have been shifted to the library.
4. It is weird having to get up in response to an alarm again. I like to sleep in.

Being back in the saddle is also wonderful in these ways:

1. It is wonderful to be working among the good folks at the MCMI center, and with my beloved biology colleagues Bob, Marcia and Jackie.
2. It is wonderful to be interacting with students again. I have missed that, and I have two extraordinarily nice sets of students with whom I really enjoy interacting.
3. As funny as this may sound, it is wonderful to be doing the class-room prep work again. It is time consuming, but it is also stimulating and satisfying.
4. And it's wonderful to get paid.

So, while my hubby cavorts down under and my grandchildren continue to snub me, it is good to be doing something I didn't really know I loved until I stopped doing it.

AND NOW... the TOP TEN reasons why it is better to be an adjunct than full-time faculty.

10. You don't HAVE to teach anything unless you want to. The administration can't arbitrarily assign you wherever they please and NOT pay you for travel. Teach a class in Smyrna?! I think not!

9. You don't have to work full time. (I am putting in a grueling 10-hour week. I'm EXHAUSTED!)

8. You don't have to keep office hours, (which, seeing that I don't have an office, is a good thing).

7. You don't have to accept any committee assignments. (While I was full-time, I edited the Stall News, served on Faculty Council, Academic Affairs, Financial Aid, Post-Tenure Review, SACS, the Science Discipline Grant Application Committee, and several text-book selection committees, to name just a few I can remember).

6. You don't have to attend any meetings. (Most meetings left me feeling angry, frustrated, abused and resentful- and those were just the discipline meetings).

5. You don't have to sponsor any activities.

4. You don't have to work registrations.

3. You can pick and choose the hours you teach. (Remind me NOT to accept a 9:25 class in MCMI ever again- I like to sleep in. I hate alarm clocks. I am being redundant).

2. You can bitch all you want and don't have to worry about being politic.

1. You get to focus on just the part of the job that you love- WHICH IS TEACHING!

Fluffenella... she's everywhere, she's everywhere

It is VERY early in the morning. Rushing around trying to get ready for work, I absent-mindedly close doors and drawers to keep kittens out of them while I am away. As I put the final touches to my make-up, I realize that the cupboard under the sink is mewing. I open the door. Fluffenella tumbles out.

I rush into my closet to find shoes that will fit on my going-barefoot-all-summer widened feet. I find a semi-decent pair that doesn't require that I wear hose, put them on, and shut the door behind me. I grab my purse and head out the door. Columbo-like, I come right back in again, as I have left my keys on the bed. While I am back in my bedroom, I realize the closet is mewing. I open the door. Fluffenella scampers out.

I suddenly remember that I haven't taken my insulin, so I pull it out of the fridge and shoot myself with it. I return it to the fridge, and then grab my purse once again, feeling a tad frantic now because I have a 50 minute drive ahead of me, and I should have left 5 minutes ago. That's when I realize the fridge is mewing. I open the door. Fluffenella is in the lowest door compartment, attacking a yogurt. She is very cold, so I take a moment to hold her until she is warm, and thank God that I didn't drive off and leave her in there.

I teach my class, and come home to rest up a bit before the night class I am also teaching. I slip out of my clothes and don a light nightie to cool off. I stretch out on the couch and take a little nap. Later, I rise and go to put my clothes back on. I realize my pant leg is mewing. I extract Fluffenella from my pants, and continue getting ready. As I head out the door, I grab my purse and my tote bag. Off to work again...except my tote bag is mewing. Yeah.

Just now, as I was heading for bed, I realized the drier was mewing. Fluffenella had climbed in and gotten entangled in the towels which will now need to be re-washed. I freed her, closed the drier door... then opened it again to make sure none of the other remaining three kits had also climbed in. Nope. It seems Fluffenella is the only kit who lives dangerously.

Fluffenella is ear-marked to go and live with my brother Bill in Texas. I hope he doesn't read this- he may re-think the whole kitten adoption thing.

Travel/no travel...WHAT WAS I THINKING???!!!

I was so looking forward to coming out to San Diego, if only for the cool weather. It's been too damn hot for too damn long in Tennessee, so I was thrilled to be heading to San Diego, where it is always 72. Except that it is 95. You heard me. You can't say the weather followed me, either, since it was waiting for me when I got here. 95. Thank goodness it is five degrees cooler here, or there would have been no point in coming.


I am only here for a week because... wait for it... I am teaching this semester. I know, I know, how stupid it THAT?- but I find I can be guilted/flattered into doing almost anything. I was supposed to teach a genetics class, and was praying it wouldn't make. And it didn't! So, in a moment of weakness brought on by the joy of NOT teaching genetics, I agreed to teach two other things. These things can't keep happening to me without having something to do with me!


One general biology, one anatomy and physiology, two campuses, three days a week... ah, well, it will pay for the carpeting I will have to replace once the kittens have all been claimed by their new owners. All the kitties are staying with Jake and Becca while I am here. I hope all is going well. Tiger and Pusskins will be remaining in their new home when I return, and I will miss them, but the remaining three babies, Scamper, Hiro, and Fluffanella, and their Mama Binx will be back to destroying my bedroom carpet on Saturday.


The carpet is not the only thing that has been destroyed this summer. 100 degree heat for weeks and weeks on end- and in the midst of the heat wave, our freezer in the garage flipped its breaker without our noticing. Odd smells started permeating the house. I, of course, blamed the cats. Carpets were cleaned, refrigerators were moved, floors were scoured, kitty litter was dumped and refilled, windows were opened to let fresh, 100 degree air into the house, all to not avail. It took us awhile to realize that a freezer full of meat and veg had begun to rot malodorously. I hate the smell of decomp in the morning. Just a little taste of the smells forensic scientists must deal with. At least we didn't have to autopsy the stuff. Still, Dave couldn't shake the smell off his skin and hands until he remembered something from a "CSI" episode, and bathed with lemon juice. Store that away for future use: if you ever stink from exposure to decomposing flesh, lemon juice will save the day. Don't say I never give you good advice.

So, even though it is hot here, San Diego has this going for it right now- there is no rotting meat, there are no fighting cats, and there is a complete absence of Febreze. Life is semi-good!

Lions and tigers, no bears, OH MY!

Question: Can I go to the mall by entering my bedroom?

Answer: Yes, as long as mall is spelled m-a-u-l.

I am being mauled daily. There are five wild, mobile, aggressive beasts in my bedroom. Ankle biters. Clawing their way to the top - of my legs, of my bed- with their needle-like claws. They are chewing on my toes with their razor teeth. They are wearing my clothes. They are eating my socks. They wrestle with each other, annoy their mother, and attempt to escape the room every time the door opens.

There is no respite even in the bathroom. Whenever pants are lowered to use the facility, the pants are instantly filled with demented babies. I kid you not. I thought I had shaken them all out. I was mistaken. I have been clawed where no cat has gone before.

Kittens are so soft, so sweet, so ruthlessly spiky. Pleasure is always accompanied by pain, as with roses. Kittens are like mink coats with thorns. Like cockleburs, they attach themselves to laundry baskets, to clothing, to rugs, to shower curtains.

They sleep in David's shoes.

Miss Binx's litter is now almost 5 weeks old. They are out the their box, litter-trained, and starting to eat solid food. Binx is still terrorizing Hobbes and Patches but I hope that will settle down once she has completely weaned the catkins. Then THEY can terrorize Hobbes and Patches.

Here are a few recent shots of my lions and tigers in miniature. They crack me up- and are destroying my bedroom!

Notice how they are going in different directions- divide and conquer mode.

Sometimes a guy just needs some privacy; sadly for this little fella, that's out of the question. All four of his siblings are under there with him, out of camera range.

Looking right at you is Tiger. Tiger is the runt of the litter which means, of course, he is the ringleader. His sister Pusskins (black kitty) and he are going to live with my son and his family. The dark charcoal baby snubbing me is going to my god-daughter Kat. The "escape artist" is one of the twins, who look so much alike it's like... well, it's like they are twins.

Here are the "twins" looking at you. As near as we can determine, there are three males and two females in this litter. Apparently Pusskins is the only kit that looks like the Daddy.

I am so in love.

In Memoriam

Adiren M. Neal

Beloved child and mother

August 3, 1977 - July 28, 2007

May light perpetual shine upon her.

I'm so charming, it's alarming

I'm an obsessive kinda gal.

(NEWSFLASH to those who know me).

I obsessively collect teapots, faeries, cats, unicorns, miniatures... OK, so I am spoiled.

My latest obsession is Italian modular charms.

I blame Melinda entirely for this obsession. OK, Marcia helped- but it was mostly Melinda. Sweet Melinda used to work for a high-end gift shop, and it is she who first introduced me to the lovely things. In fact, she and her mother gave me my very first charms. I really loved charms even back then, but they were $12-$18 bucks a pop, and the average bracelet is comprised of 18 charms... well, you do the math.

AND THEN I FOUND THEM ON eBAY!!! Mega cheap! Job lots even ! Oh frabjous day!

Not that I went nuts or anything.

I did assemble some nice jewelry, though.

So... what I am presenting today are four works of art. The first two are entitled "Let's Focus on me" and "Quality Family Time". Let's focus on me is about... hmmm, let me think. You may recognize the photo charm as the same shot on my blog. Hey, I am not photogenic, so when I get a picture I like... Anyway, this bracelet celebrates my various interests, hobbies, past lives (pirate), personality (sarcastic smarty pants) and Happy Bunny enthusiasm. Notice the Old Lady Mafia charm to the right of my lovely head.

"Quality Family Time" is a family in-joke. This bracelet celebrates myfamily- my marriage, my kids, my daughter-in-law, and my grand-kids. The top row consists mostly of our various names, while the bottom row consists of various configurations of birthstones (initials for the guys, butterflies for the women, and little girls for the little girls). Of course, it is also a watch- hence the "time" part of QFT.

Now, for your consideration, two bracelets honoring two of my greatest obsessions- faeries and cats.

Bracelets like these make wonderful gifts. It's like giving someone a biography they can wear on their wrist. Mine are double stranded with mega links holding the two strands together, but most of the ones I have created as gifts are single strand and have been very well received.

Looking for the appropriate charm for a person is great fun. My sister called her son "Bamm-Bamm" when he was a baby, and sure enough, I was able to find a "Bamm-Bamm" charm. I found charms of Orlando Bloom, Daniel Radcliffe and Johnny Depp for my adorable god-daughter, who is in love with all three. Dave's sister has been accepted into nursing school- so I found charms of Miss Piggy and Betty Boop, among others, dressed as a nurse.

I could go on, and generally do, but must go. There is a cat-fight going on in the next room; apparently Binx has taken a break from teat-feeding the Five Little Peepers and is attacking Hobbes again. Gee, I hope she isn't a man-hater. Hobbes is NOT the cat who got her pregnant.

Off into battle with the spritzer I go!

By the way.... would you like a kitten?

Hits on the Old Lady Mafia, and the end of the travels of little Mama

It's been a tough summer for the OLM.

Capo Allesandra sold her house after it was on the market for 15 minutes and had to quickly move into a much smaller rental house ASAP. NORMALLY, the OLM would have been right by her side helping her.

Nothing has been normal about the summer of 2007.

In June, da Godmother (me) broke her left arm tripping over her own big feet. (This on the day Mama was moved into assisted living.... more on that later). No pushing, pulling or lifting for Dona Kate until mid-August.

Yvonne (AKA the Enforcer) had emergency surgery on her neck. I have seen the x-rays- what a mess! The doctors fused four cervical vertebrae together and sent her home, where she is making a steady recovery. No pushing, pulling or lifting for her until mid-August, if then.

Consigliore Marcia has been in pain for a week. Lesser beings would have been to the doctor days ago. It looks like her gall bladder has gone belly up and will soon sleep with the fishes. No pushing, pulling, or lifting for her until WHO knows when if she needs surgery.

I knew but didn't know how much we all depended on one another until this bizarre summer. Yvonne and I have been able to help each other out, Yvonne more for me than I for her, but for the most part, it has been every woman for herself in terms of help from the OLM.

Fortunately, we are all blessed with other helpers; Yvonne has her hubby and Kat, a junior OLM, who have taken very good care of her; Sandie has her hubby to help with the move and aftermath; Marcia has her wonderful daughter, Melinda, also a junior OLM. And I have my PA Stephanie, my son and daughter-in-law, Yvonne, and even had the help of my daughter for a couple of days, so we have all come through all right. Still, I can't remember a time when we were ALL laid low at the same time. Hope it NEVER HAPPENS AGAIN.

In the meantime, God bless us, everyone.

Now, back to the continuing saga of Mama: she had a stroke in April and was in a convalescent home until we could make arrangements to move her into an assisted living facility. When I say we, I do not mean Dave. On June 14, while Kelly was in town, we got Mama moved into her new digs- and I broke my arm. (Thanks to Kelly, Becca, Kendall, Haley, Delaney, Emily, Yvonne and Kat for all the help, by the way. We really got the place looking fantastic!) Mama seemed to love her new apartment, and we were all delighted.

Of course, it didn't last. Mama fell into a deep depression and began acting out- BIG TIME- and then she fell ill and ended up back in the hospital, severely dehydrated, completely delusional and disoriented, with dangerously low blood pressure. She had lost weight because she was refusing to eat. As soon as she regained her physical health, she was sent to Winchester to Senior Advantage, in hopes she could be restored to mental health as well.

She spent almost two weeks there, and is now back at the Assisted-Living facility, where she is doing very well. She is eating properly and taking her medications, she is making friends and "going visiting" with her fellow residents, and her sense of humor has re-emerged. She is suffering from moderately advanced dementia, but the meds they have her on seem to be a god-send. The other day, Mama was trying to figure out how many people lived there with her, and she was using the dining arrangements to make the determination- 4 people per table; she began counting by 4s- 4, 8, 12, 16, clearly trying to visualize the dining room as she counted, until she finally said "There must be at least 36 people living here". I was gob-smacked, grateful and relieved to see her figuring things out. She also explained her schedule to me, rather than the other way around, so... cross your fingers, light a candle, say a little prayer. There may be some good days ahead for Mama. Her daughter Rita is coming for a short visit early in August, and it would be wonderful if they could have a really good time together.

Gotta go. Waiting on repair men and estimates. Sigh.


OH, BY THE WAY... want a kitten?

Binx and my grandkits

I don't know why stray cats always end up on my porch. I must have some weird magnetic field that only felines can sense. Two years ago come November, a sweet little gray tabby nestled into the cushion on my swing and ended up in the house when the temperature dropped below freezing. Someone had abandoned him in the woods near our house, which sadly happens alot. We took the little fella in so he wouldn't die from the weather and he has been with us ever since. Dave named him Hobbes, and, being responsible pet owners, we immediately took Hobbes to the vet where he got his shots and lost his balls. If people would just neuter their pets, there wouldn't be so many abandoned domestic animals being euthanized in "shelters".


About three weeks ago, a dainty little cat with huge green eyes and a slightly exotic face showed up on my porch. This time, hot weather, not cold, brought out the rescuer in me. I started leaving water out for her. Then food. Then my PA Stephanie noticed she was pregnant- the cat, not Steph. Off to the vet we went. I will be honest with you- I was hoping that it would be early enough in the pregnancy to end it.


No such luck. Don't get me wrong, I adore kittens, but it is hard to find homes for them and I really don't want any more than I already have- which is now THREE, since I plan on keeping my dainty, exotic queen Binx. The vet gave her a thorough exam, cleaned her ears, dewormed her, treated her for fleas, gave her her shots, and told me to expect babies in about 10 days.


The very next night, on 07/07/07, Binx gave birth to five teeny little catlets under my bed. I was hoping to see the babies being born but I slept through it. In fact, I fell asleep on the couch and so wasn't even in the room when the miracle occured. I went into my room when I awoke and almost had a heart attack. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted what I thought was a mouse. Wrong mammal- it was a newborn kitten that had stumbled out from under the bed. I grabbed the cat bed I had for Binx and scooped baby #1 into it. I saw #2 and #3, and did the same with them. Binx then emerged and began taking them back under the bed, so I moved the cat bed under my bench and once again began the cat-and-mouse game with Binx. I had gathered four kittens and thought that was it when #5 started crying for Mama. They are all comfortably esconced in a nest Becca made out of a box and I filled with bedding, with food and water for Binx on a tray nearby and a litter box for her in my bath.


Binx has been so calm, laid back (except with Patches and Hobbes) and sure in dealing with the kits that I am convinced this is not her first litter. It is, however, mine. I am enthalled with the little critters. I find them endlessly fascinating and hysterically funny.



Just like human babies, they are so sweet... when they are sleeping. I anticipate weeks of fun with these little guys/gals (who can tell their gender at this age)? I know Dave (and Patches and Hobbes) will not be amused when the babies become mobile, but I am going to be over the moon! I hope this isn't the start of my descent into my eccentric old cat-woman phase...

My left foot.. no, wait a minute, that was Daniel Day-Lewis...My left arm

10 things breaking my arm has taught me...

1. It is almost impossible to pull up panties with one hand (probably NOT much of a problem for guys, I suppose).

2. Fastening the seat-belt becomes an experiment in terror. So does turning corners. For your own safety, y'all might want to stay off the roads until I am fully healed.

3. Getting dressed is a challenge with only one arm and no one to help me. It's EXHAUSTING!! But it is the closest thing to a sex life I have right now.

4. Did you ever notice that the left hand does most of the typing? I did. Do you have any idea how hard it is to capitalize words one-handed? I do.

5. Cats are uncontrollably attracted to broken arms. They want to sit on them and knead them and launch themselves off them.

6. If you are used to sleeping on your left side and you break your left arm, you have to learn to sleep in a new position. Excruciating pain when you try to sleep in your normal position helps in the learning process, though.

7. You cannot carry a purse, groceries, mail, and a Starbucks one-handed.

8. You can't carry anything and still be able to open the front door one-handed.

9. After the 356,879th time someone asks you "What did you do to your arm?". do NOT- repeat, DO NOT hit them with it... unless they have asked you 356,878 times already, in which case it might just be worth the pain.

10. Small granddaughters are no respecters of broken bones.

Not so much a fall from grace as a fall BY Grace

Maybe I was born clumsy. Maybe clumsiness is a result of childhood polio. Maybe things just like to trip me. Whatever. I fall down a lot. Usually I get up and feel like a fool. But Thursday, June 14...

Thursday, June 14 was moving day for Mama. Since her stroke in April, she has been first in the hospital and then in the step-down ward. The whole while I worked to get her into an assisted living facility. When I got word that a space had come available in a VERY nice place, my daughters and my friends sprang into action to help me get her comfortably moved in. I hired a local moving company and we got her apartment moved into and unpacked in a day.

The minute she was discharged from the step-down ward, I was there to take her to her home. She was delighted to have her own space again and pleased with the way her little unit looked. She should be-it is "purty", as she says. My house, on the other hand, was a disaster. What a mess! So I went home, pooped, and decided to tidy up my room so I would at least have a nice place to sleep. The movers had moved Dave's desk and office stuff into what had been Mama's room and that had opened up a lot of space, so I started to do a little rearranging. That's when my bed collapsed. That's when I tried to uncollapse it. That's when I got in my own way, fell down, and broke my left arm.

I seem to have a pattern of falling to the left. I have fallen and broken my left arm and left collar bone in the past. Not that I am complaining-better the left than the right- but it seems faintly sinister somehow.

Splint, sling, pain, dopiness from the pain pills, (did I mention pain?) and my home in chaos, but do I get any sympathy whatsoever from my nearest and dearest? PUH-LEEZE! My brother suggested that our parents should have named me Grace. That's the closest to soft, murmuring noises anyone made about my arm.

So that was my June 14.

In the meantime, while I am learning the frustrations of one-handedness, Mama is adjusting to her new environment in fits and starts, with an emphasis on FITS! The first time Dave visited her in her new digs, she pulled out all the stops on the guilt front. She was busting his chops, he knew she was busting his chops, and she knew he knew and still it was awful. ''Why did you do this to me, David? Why did you put me in this jail? I have a room at your house. I want to go home to your house." Knowing it was 80% manipulation, acting, and punishment did not prevent the experience from being heart-wrenching.

After her initial pleased reaction to her new home, she has been determinedly glum. It has been noticed. I have been fielding calls from the facility every couple of days. The Director told me that in the eight years she has been running the place, she has never dealt with anyone like Mama. Imagine my surprise!

The concerns of the facility are many and varied.

• They are worried because she is not eating- she apparently has no appetite. (This is a recurring tactic of Mother's for attention. Her little kitchenette is well-stocked. Believe me, she eats).
• She has been snookering them about taking her pills- they've found two of her hiding places so far. (I explained how to ensure that she actually takes her medications. I refrained from suggesting cramming a funnel down her throat and just pouring them into her).
• They wondered if she has always been child-like and stubborn. (They are experiencing for the first time Mama's "simple" act). The Director really wanted to ask me if she is retarded, I could tell. The answer is no, she is not, but she had a mentally impaired sister and can imitate her perfectly.

Today the cable guy came to hook up her box so she can watch the Western channel. I went to be there while he did the installation so she wouldn't get spooked by a strange man in her room. The handsome young man was wearing shorts and Mama teased him mercilessly about his naked legs. I think he was glad I was there, because he was getting spooked by the strange woman in the room. While I was there, three people, in rapid succession, popped their heads into the room and asked me, "Kate, will you stop by and see me before you leave?"

So I did. I met with the Director, the Nurse, and the Aide behind locked doors. I felt like a parent summoned to the Principal's office about a kid about to be sent to alternative school.

Here's what they told me.

Mama asked for a toaster, which she was told she cannot have for fire safety reasons. Mama does not like being told "no". Mama likes having her own way. Mama always finds a way to punish those who thwart her- in this case, she carried a piece of white bread into the Director's office and started yelling "TOAST! TOAST! I WANT TOAST!" Sadly, the Director was speaking to a prospective client at the time.

Even though she seldom eats anything, she does show up for meals. She has had to be relocated from one table to another. Ms. Lucy, one of her new table-mates, is more than a little bitter about that, as she let me know in no uncertain terms today. It seems Mama came to dinner one night in her robe and slippers. Unfortunately, her robe was open and she was only wearing underwear underneath. When the Aide tried to get her to go back to her apartment to dress appropriately, she made a scene in the dining room, refused to leave, and refused to zip up her robe. Ms. Lucy, who at 80+ is one sharp cookie, apparently finds Mama unspeakably gauche.

It may be behavior like that that lead the Director to ask me "Has she ever been evaluated by a psychiatrist? Has she ever taken psychotropic drugs?" I mentioned a drug her doctor prescribed for her and it turned out it was missing from her list of meds. The Nurse left the room to call Mama's doctor for a new prescription. I have never seen a woman move that fast.

Both the Director and the Nurse seemed almost relieved to learn that mother was missing a medication. Up until that revelation, I had the distinct impression that they felt I had pulled a fast one on them. Mama technically meets all the criteria for assisted living, but hers is definitely a unique personality, and I suspect that if they had known what her personality is like, they might not have accepted her.

Hey, I wasn't trying to fox anyone. Maybe in the future they should include a personality test in their screening process. And they had plenty of opportunity to visit her in the step-down ward to evaluate her before they accepted her. Now that they have her, they think that getting her back on her missing med will calm her down and mitigate some of her acting out. Boy, I hope they are right. I left the meeting marvelling at how adept Mama is at creating problems.

I went back to Mama's apartment and explained to her that, except in case if fire, she cannot leave her rooms unless she is dressed in street clothes. I told her she cannot yell at people, no matter how upset she may be. I reminded her how important it is for her to be cooperative and to take her pills and not play games with her medications.

She looked at my sling and asked "How's your arm?

As soon as it heals, I may beat her over the head with it.

Mama has been in the place one week and one day, and she is already in danger of being expelled. Jeez. I hope the drug helps. Wednesday I take her back to the doctor. I am going to ask him to increase her dosage. Or add Thorazine.

If Mama won't take it, I will.

(It took me 2 1/2 hours to type this with one hand. Forgive any errors).

Perpetual wrongness

TV, advertising, and even the NEWS help to perpetuate wrongness. Why is that, I wonder.... aside from the fact that this is America which plays fast and loose with information and education all the time.

Words are misused, mispronounced, and generally mistreated by the public media, which is a shame, because most folks get their information almost totally from the public media. There is no respect or love for language anymore. It is a "whatever" sort of world now. Sigh.

Let me share with you a couple of the things the media is driving me nuts with right now. (I heard you say "short drive"! )

My friends, you have heard me say this before, but the word is DISSECT. Look it up, that's the way it is spelled. The two esses are there to tell you that the word has a short "i" sound. It is pronounced "dis-sect", which means to take apart. The word is NOT dye-sect. If there were such a word, it would be spelled "disect" and would mean, like bisect, to cut in halves. If you doubt me, I direct you attention to the words "dessert" and "desert". Every time I hear a supposedly educated person say "dye-sect", it irritates me so much I'd like to give them their just desserts and desert them in a desert.

Okay, yes, I used to teach biology, so it may seem a bit parochial for me to be complaining about a "scientific" word, but it has entered the common vernacular and wrong is wrong! Where is Edwin Newman when we need him? (I guess, at 88, he has given up on correcting people. Too bad, he was good at it).

There is an ad showing a woman signing up for a variable rate loan, and as soon as she does, she has a monkey on her back. Only it isn't a monkey, it is a young chimpanzee. How can it be that in the 21st century there are still people who don't know that chimps are apes and not monkeys? [What am I saying??!! There are still people who think Darwin said we were descended from monkeys... wonder if those people can distinguish us from gorillas?]

And don't get me started on the use of statistics. "Two out of every ten women will face cancer", they say... which is bad accounting on two points. They don't report the age range- most women will be 70 or older when they develop cancer- and they don't report the logical reverse to that stat, which is that eight out of every ten women will NOT face cancer. Granted, a 20% chance of getting cancer is nothing to sniff at, but it's also nothing to panic about. I despise agencies that play with statistics to frighten people, usually to frighten them away from their money.

I could go on, and probably will, but those are the examples that are pushing my buttons right now.

Although I also think it is terribly wrong that the guys who play the cavemen in the Geico commercials will NOT be playing them in the new TV series. What kind of a screwed up world is this, anyway?

He may be a caveman, but he can say "dissect" properly. Can you?

Get me the HAL outta here!

Norton Security is one of the most intrusive and obnoxious computer applications in the world and I hate it. Having Norton on your computer is like trying to work around the Handicapper General.

For those of you who don't know, the Handicapper General was a Kurt Vonnegut character whose job it was to make everyone equal-which made everyone equally mediocre (or dead).

Tired of mediocrity and fearing death, I decided to jettison Norton and return to the McAfee fold. I had McAfee on my old computer but Norton came bundled with the new one, and hey, I'd paid for it... HOWEVER, with 304 days still left on my Norton subscription, I had had enough and tried to uninstall it.

Notice the use of the word "tried".

Tried for over an hour.

I began to feel like Dave dealing with HAL.

For those of you who don't know, Dave was an astronaut in the movie "2001: A Space Odyssey", one of the longest, dullest movies ever made.

Actor Kier Dullea as Dave

Dave was on a spaceship controlled by a master computer named HAL. HAL had a nervous breakdown and started killing everyone.

Dave, beginning the shut-down of HAL

H-A-L, by the way, is a play on I-B-M; one letter back from each of the letters in IBM gives you HAL. Why I know this sort of stuff is beyond me. Why I keep making references I then feel compelled to explain may be a function of age.

Norton was killing me, and, like HAL, it died hard, but, unlike Dave, who became some sort of space embryo, I emerged full-grown and triumphant. I solved the last (I hope) Norton related problem just moments ago when I got the theoretically uninstalled Norton firewall to release the email account it was holding hostage.

I could hear McAfee "tsk-tsk"-ing in the background at each Norton attempted end-run; "See, you should have stayed with me and this never would have happened. Oops, the Norton firewall just blocked access to your e-bank." Of course, McAfee was correct, but it was hardly helpful or constructive for it to be disdainfully sniffing while I was plugging (or unplugging) away at Norton disassembly.

Norton at first sneered at my attempts to make it go away. Software contempt is the worst.

BUT I PREVAILED!!! And I didn't have to climb into the computer to do it. But I swear to you, as I finally uninstalled the very last Norton component, I could hear it plaintively lament "Dave... I'm going now, Dave..."

For those of you who don't know... my name's not Dave.

Red lobster... and I ain't talking about the restaurant

Ah, Memorial Day weekend! What a great time! You put white back into your wardrobe (if it ever left); you go buy yet another new grill (it's a guy thing, apparently); and, if weather permits, you putz around the yard, clean up the front porch, and hop into the pool. That first dip of the weekend cools you off, soaks away all your stress- AND BURNS YOU TO A CRISP! Well, maybe not YOU, but I look like a cooked lobster with a weight problem.

No swimming for me for a few days. Just as well. Tomorrow is Mama's 79th birthday and we are bringing her home on a pass to celebrate the occasion. Not that she is in much of a mood to celebrate.

I have been trying to gently let her know that she will not be coming "home" to our home; her health is too precarious and her needs are greater than I can meet. Dave and I have discussed her condition with the doctor, and we are all in accord that the time has come for her to move to assisted living. Note that I did not say "old folks home", "nursing home" or "poor-house".

Dave and I went to investigate one of the two facilities in our town and both of us were massively impressed with it. The facility is beyond beautiful, it's downright posh- CLEAN, open, airy, richly decorated, with lots of natural light and a lovely central courtyard with a well-kept garden.

We were shown three different apartments, all of which were very nice, indeed. The apartments vary in size but feature the same basic staples: a sitting room, a small kitchenette, a commodious bedroom with large walk-in closet and a bathroom designed for the elderly. Rent includes three meals a day, either in the dining-room or in her apartment, housekeeping, laundry, transportation to shopping and/or doctor appointments, a wide range of activities that are entirely discretionary, and, of course, assistance. She will have assistance with her medications and hygiene. There is a nurse on staff as well as a dietitian/nutritionist.

We were both so relieved when we saw how nice it is. There were three or four residents conversing in a communal sitting room when we arrived. We were shown the dining room, communal TV room, beauty parlor, ice-cream parlor, and several meeting/game rooms, as well as the aforementioned courtyard garden. So NOT what we thought assisted living would be like.

There is a waiting list, of course, so we put Mama's name on it. Dave actually expected that we would get a call about a vacancy within a week. Silly man. I knew better. We were told that three units are about to be vacated, one due to relocation, one due to health problems that were beyond the scope of assisted living- and one death. In Dave's mind, that meant the rooms would be available, like, NOW! Kinda lets you know how removed from the real world the business world is.

The plan, I thought, was that we weren't going to tell Mama about the plans to move her until we had some concrete information, and until AFTER her birthday, which I didn't want spoiled. In his infinite wisdom, he "suggested" to her yesterday that assisted living was a possible scenario for her future. Don't ask me why he told her off-schedule. Everything with Dave is on a need-to-know basis, and I never seem to need to know.

She reacted very well, I thought. She has been complaining that she wants her own apartment for some time, so I am sure that a part of her was interested, if not excited, about the idea. Still, Mama doesn't like change, so I didn't expect her to be enthusiastic and was pleasantly surprised that she not only seemed to grasp the necessity of the arrangement, but seemed fairly anticipatory. She especially perked up when she learned she can have her own furniture and things (the apartments are unfurnished) and can decorate anyway she pleases. She can come and go as she pleases as well- no day passes required.

We left her in an upbeat mood. I asked Dave why he had told her before her birthday that she "might not" be coming back to our house, and he said his upcoming travel schedule was the impetus. He didn't want me to have to be the one to prepare her for the move. How thoughtful, I thought- though if the call about the apartment comes while he is gone, I will be HANDLING the move.

So, we went to see her today and the nurse met us in the hall. Seems Mama started the day by packing all her stuff, insisting she was going home, and bursting into tears. She carried on the whole morning about our "putting her in a home" and abandoning her, and snubbed us when we walked in. We tried to cheer her up, reminding her about tomorrow and the party, but she was in a foul mood. "Just shoot me," she kept saying. "I'm ready for the bone-yard". She continued in this mode for some time, but Dave finally got her attention re-directed, and we parted on good terms. She walked us to the door.

She will have a good time at her party tomorrow and then will make a painful scene when the time comes to return to the Life Care Center. Poor old thing, I do feel for her but I wish she would have a little faith in us. When in the past seven years that she has lived here have we ever abandoned, forgotten or neglected her? Before her husband Paul died, she saw us maybe twice a year. Since his death, with increasingly rare exceptions, she has had our company 4-5 times a week (when she had her own place the first time) and daily since she moved in with us. Believe me, she has not lacked for company or care since.

Maybe next week, we will take her to see the place. More likely, I will take her to see the place. I just hope she doesn't make a scene when I do. It's all so stressful. Too bad I won't be able to jump into the pool to de-stress for the next few days. What's an overweight lobster to do?

It's my potty, and I'll cry if I want to...

So I have this image in my mind of how I want the master suite bathroom to look... and I share that image with my partner in crime Becca, who thinks it's a good idea. The plan is that I will buy all the stuff, and, while I am in Michigan visiting my dad, Beck will do all the work. I will come home to a brand, sparkling, new bathroom, with no effort on my part save swiping my credit card. That's how I like things- easy.


So of course, it didn't work out. Mama had a stroke, which canceled my trip to Michigan. Still, the Beckster was determined to press on. After all, the two of us had just created a truly magnificent craft room. How hard could a bathroom be?

Let me tell you.

First of all, two people cannot work in a bathroom at the same time, which left Beck to do all the dirty work (but I got to play with Pookie, so that was fair).

Second, the builders had apparently secured the wallpaper to the wall using the same adhesive NASA uses to glue the tiles to the shuttlecraft. THREE FULL DAYS it took just to remove the wallpaper. Another day to prep the walls. We entered day five before a single drop of paint was spread. We had finished the craft room in three days total!

All the dark, dated cabinets were sanded and wiped down. Two days. The walls were painted. One day. The cabinets were painted. One day. The doors and drawers were reinstalled. One day. New faucet, new lighting fixtures (thank you, son) and new towel bars . One day. Caulking. One day. (I did the caulking, and I am old and fat, so it took some time). Clean-up. One day. Dressing the room. One day.

I hear you out there, scoffing. "One day for clean-up- pfffft. I could have done it in one hour. Dressing the room? Gimme 15 minutes." Scoff if you must, thou nay-sayers, but verily I say unto you- were you there?? We were contending with tight time frames (dropping off and picking up Sunshine, Noodle and Pixie from school), an active 3-year old, a diabetic, and the countless interruptions for which life in my household is famous. I think that the fact that we got it done in two weeks is a freaking miracle.

Trips to Lowe's- 4,556. Trips to various other stores- 2. Total cost- slightly less than the Taj Mahal.


But it was worth it. It is beautiful. Clean, decluttered, roomier, brighter. I am posting pictures that don't do it justice. Why do I NEVER remember to take BEFORE pictures?

If I am crying, it is from joy. I LOVE working with Becca. So, kisses to you, sweetie, and thanks to Jake and Melinda as well. As to my readers- y'all come over and pee sometime. Ciao!

All my children... and Happy Mother's Day to you, too.

It has been my blessing and curse to have two extraordinarily intelligent and multi-talented children. I think the blessing part of that statement is self-evident; they have been a constant source of pride, surprise, delight and camaraderie since they were infants. Both have practical and artistic talents. Both love music, puzzles, wordsmithery, and both are excellent cooks. Jake can build anything. Kelly can act anything. Jake is a wonderful father. Kelly is a wonderful aunt. They love each other, so I am blessed.

The curse is that two extraordinarily intelligent and multi-talented people tend to be discontent. With so many gifts, they find it hard to focus on any one, and with so many interests, they are always striving for perfection on multiple levels all the time and often falling short. Neither one of them has any patience with falling short. And both of them tend to bite off more that they can chew and then stress about it. I wonder who they get that from?

And because they are intelligent and logical, the fact that the world is neither sensible or logical exasperates them- at high volume. At any given time, I am listening to rants and complaints about the work-place, the significant other, those in authority, and the general wrong-headedness of most people to whom they must report. I have been there- it IS hard to take direction or work directly for someone who does not share your smarts- so I sympathize with my cherubs. But it sometimes gives me an ulcer to listen to their rants, well-reasoned and sensible as they may be.

Be that as it may, the blessings far outweigh the curses. My daughter pampers me lavishly when I visit San Diego, which is why I am bummed when I don't get to go. She keeps the apartment in top-notch condition, and cooks extraordinary meals for us (or for Dave, when he is there without me). She is good company and my good friend.

Jake spoils me too. Today he installed two ceiling fans, new faucets in the kitchen and my bath, a new lighting fixture in my bath, and cleaned out the gutters. (He also sprayed me with the hose from the roof- and then drenched me when he cannon-balled into the pool).

Both my kids tease me, and rough joking is par for the course. Unfortunately, I was one of those mothers who gave their children freedom to express themselves, which they do without mercy, expressing their strong opinions on their mother- who, by the way, I find to be a completely delightful woman- at every opportunity.

Taken all in all, though, I am pretty lucky in my children. They may be libidinous, they may be all over the place with their interests, they may even be a little bit mouthier that I would like, but they are good kids, good people.

This Mother's Day I realize that no gift could ever surpass the gift of my children. A superlative gift, a gift of great price. Sunday will be my day because these two are my children. I have loved them every moment of their lives, and think I have ample love to last out the next 100 years or so. No gift can be greater than my daughter and my son.

That doesn't meant they shouldn't try to find one.

Wet cats with saddlebags

Our little chair took first place in Children's chairs at the Literacy Council Fund-raiser and was removed from the silent auction to the verbal auction. All of the children's chairs were charming and whimsical so it was very cool to have been given first place. I think our chair might have brought more money in the silent auction, though, as it was among the last things offered for bids and the crowd had thinned considerably by then. Whatever- a very nice woman got a very nice chair for a very good price. Next year, I will put a minimum bid on my entry. Notice I have committed to doing this again. Hope Melinda's up to it :)

The CK Scrapbooking Convention was so much fun. My buds Sandy and Jodie and I spent two days and one night in the big city, and spent way too much money, ate way too much good food, and had way too good a time. I went nuts, I must confess. Knowing I was going to the convention, I had not purchased anything for paper crafts since Christmas. Almost six months. Now that's restraint, people. So I figured I just spent what I would have normally spent during the past six months in one fell swoop. That's my story, and I am sticking to it.

I have not stored all my loot yet, because I want Becca to see it before I do, but thanks to my fabulous craft room and it's brilliant organization, there will be no probs. I have a place for everything.

We made a lot of neat stuff at the convention, and got a LOT of good ideas. I am so jazzed, I want to get to work on about fifteen different projects at once.

However, if you could have seen us after two days on our feet (on concrete floors, no less), toting about 6 tons of stuff, you'd have laughed your dupas off. We looked like wet cats wearing saddlebags. We got over that, thank you.

Interested in the loot I brought home? Look no further, here is a shot of it.

Here is the grand overview... good thing Dave does not read my blog.

Here are some of the cards I made for the card swap. Some of them aren't too bad. I had never gone to a card swap before, so didn't know I was supposed to make 20 of the same design. I'll know for next year.

On the other hand...

Mama is doing so much better, she has been moved to the Skills Life Center for rehab. Today she dressed herself and was quite personable. As much as she wants to come home, even she will admit that the past few days have been good for her. Once her strength and appetite return, she may be able to come home.

She really wants to come home. She misses the cats and her room and the Old Lady Mafia, though they have been visiting her and bringing her little gifts, God bless 'em. She hates her room-mate, who, I must admit, makes Mama seem extraordinarily high functioning. I don't know what Miz E's diagnosis is, but I strongly suspect she has Alzheimer's. She talks non-stop, assumes anyone who is speaking is addressing her and takes off her clothes. Several times a day. She's 85- it ain't pretty. They have her hooked up to a sensor that makes one hell of a shrill and annoying noise whenever she gets out of bed because she tends to fall. She also tends to get out of bed every 20 minutes so Mama's room is pretty noisy. All of this is pretty annoying, but Mama's biggest complaint is that Miz E hogs the TV. If Mama is going to be in there for any length of time, I may take a TV over to her.

The stress level around here has decreased greatly in the past few days. I dreaded moving Mama to the nursing home but after the obligatory high-volume fit- which I missed, thank goodness, but her doctor did not- she was pretty cool about the whole thing. She is being cared for by very good and kind people and is improving every day. All to the good.

I am over being pissed off at Dave, mainly because Mama is doing so well. Stress #2 taken care of.

And, with the help of two members of the Junior OLM, I was able to complete two projects that were either interrupted or delayed by Mama's illness.

My most beloved daughter-in-law helped me paint and reorganize my craft room, which is now beyond wonderful and is my favorite room in the house. I will post pictures of it soon- it's gorgeous. Becca is a fantastic painter. We really work well together and even Pookie pitched in. (I'd post an adorable picture of Pookie helping, but my son has asked me not to do that, so you'll just have to imagine a gorgeous three-year old in a Superman T-shirt rolling Hawaiian orchid paint on the walls).

Then my good buddy Melinda brought her substantial artistic ability to the completion of the Literacy Council project that was approaching deadline. I committed to producing a decorated chair to be auctioned off at the Chair-ity Event fundraiser tomorrow night. It turned out to be quite charming, I think.

I designed the chair. Melinda did all the painting and decoupage. I made the fairy figure and the fairy cushion.

I actually made SIX fairies, as the original design called for, but when we started assembling the chair, they were just too much. SO- as per usual - I did six times more work than was required. Less is more. More or less.

We added a "Flower Fairies of the Garden" book by Cicely Mary Barker, and the chair was complete. I had not realized what a stress not having the chair ready was until I turned it in at the Adult Learning Center and felt like the weight of the world had been lifted from my shoulders. I hope people bid on it.

Off to bed, me.