The flu stayed but Mike flew...

I want my money back. I paid perfectly good US currency for a flu shot and got the flu anyway. Can't imagine why they call it "flu". Flux is more like it. And it does not fly, it drags on forever. I have been sleeping on the couch to protect my hubby from infection. I have been keeping my distance from my students. I have been resting every possible moment. Every time I feel like I am getting better, I seem to relapse. I am sick of being sick. I am sick of the flu.

Hope I didn't give it to my baby brother.

Last Sunday, my wild and crazy little brother Mikey stopped in for a whirlwind visit. He was in Huntsville for business and drove up to see us. I was so excited and so was my granddaughter Emily, who had never met Mike but was looking forward to my "baby brother" showing up. I am sure she was anticipating a playmate. The minute Mike walked in the door, Em was outraged. "NeeNee," she said with that majestic disdain only a four-year-old can manage, "THAT is not a baby brother. That is a grandpaw!"

Not strictly true. Mike is just-turned 50 and has two kids in college, but neither one of them has made him a grandpa yet. Hope I live to see that day, though, because Mike will be a hoot as a granddad. He's basically just an overgrown kid as it is- give him partners in crime, and he will be right in his element.

The visit was wonderful but frenetic and way too short. Once Emily recovered from her disappointment that Mike isn't four, she and he seemed to hit it off. They have so much in common. They are both high energy people- Mike makes hyper-kinetics nervous- they are both the center of attention wherever they are, and they are both (forgive me, bro) more than a little vain. Kindred spirits!

Mike accomplished the impossible by getting hugs from the older girls as they left for home. Maybe calling them "mugwumps" helped. Of course, being as strong as an ox and refusing to take no for an answer didn't hurt- he overwhelmed them, as Mikey does to most people. A force of nature, that kid. Even the flu abates before him.

God, I love him so.

The rules always change when it's my turn...

When I was a kid, I had two grandmothers. My maternal grandmother S. loved me unconditionally and I adored her in return. My paternal grandmother H. didn't like me and was invariably unkind to me. It was easy to be polite and respectful to my mom's mom. It was very hard showing the proper respect to my Dad's. I have never known why Grandma H. disliked me so but I can honestly say that she inflicted a lot of emotional harm with her unkindness toward and neglect of me.

And yet, like most kids of that era, I was trained from birth to display respectful behavior toward my elders and there were painful consequences for any lapse. My grandmother H. may have been a bitch (and she was: she referred to me as "the ugly one" and "the cripple", and went out of her way to belittle, embarrass and torment me) but I never entered her presence without speaking to her. I never refused to answer her questions, or engage in conversation with her, no matter how unpleasant it might be. She got the quota of hugs and kisses she was due as the mother of my father despite the fact that we did not love or like one another. She was my elder, and her age alone secured for her a high level of respectful attention.

Flash to the present, where I am the grandmother, and compare my behavior toward Grandma H. to my eldest two granddaughters behavior toward me. Focus on the age differences between us. They are pre-teens. I am pushing 60. By the rules I grew up with, I should now be getting my propers as an elder. Hey, I've waited long enough for it, and I have earned it. And even if THEY don't think I have, I believe that if I could behave respectfully to a grandmother who hated me, it should be easy for them to show the proper respect and affection to a grandmother who has always been good to them. That would be me.

But once again, the rules have changed when it's my turn. The girls are surly, rude, silent and deliberately hurtful and only part of this hateful behavior can be attributed to raging hormones. If I had treated either of my grandmothers the way I am being treated, I would have felt the back of my dad's hand across my face. Unless my mom got to me first.

Not that I am advocating slapping children, though, believe me, I have been sorely tempted here lately. I am just sorry there isn't more parental intervention and instruction on the proper care and feeding of aging grandparents who DESERVE respect and affection.

On a much happier note, Pixie and Pookie, the two youngest girls, are still happy to see me and show no signs of casting me off in the immediate future. Hopefully, when the horrible hormones hit the little ones, they will remember me rightly and give me my propers. Hope springs maternal.

List, list, O list.... remember me

My hubby doesn't get blogging. He thinks it's vanity. He nevers reads my blog or those of his children, so really, we could say anything we wanted to about him with impunity - and yet we don't. A person has to be very circumspect in a blog, even if significant others aren't peeping in, because you never know who is.

Case in point: I had a very pleasant surprise over the holidays. A dear family friend who lives in England left comments on two of my blogs, including the one I wrote about him in 2005 (Dinner with the Nige). I can't tell you how tickled I was that he'd found my blog and that he'd enjoyed what I had written, even though it was written quite some time ago. All the more reason to be circumspect- old blogs never die, they linger in cyberspace.

Someone once said "The Internet is forever". Of course that's not true, but it may be true enough. In fact, that may be the reason I blog in the first place. Forever sounds pretty good to me.

Perhaps because of perilous health in childhood and too-early experiences with death, I have been alive to the certainty of my death since the age of four. I can honestly say that a day never passes where I don't think about death in general and my own in particular. I know that I am temporary and insignificant.

But like all people, I would like to be remembered. I would like ME, the way I really am, remembered. I will never be famous, will never be published, and will never have much of an impact outside my small, parochial sphere of influence.

Yet I feel connected to the whole of creation. I love being alive, and I love this beautiful blue marble I live on. I love people, and music, and words, and birds, and works of art and I want to be remembered for that.

I am funny. I am smart. I am a good woman. I know these are small accomplishments and yet I think they should be memorable. Maybe I am wrong.

I may live to be 100, but I know I could be gone tomorrow. When I am gone, I will really miss this wonderful planet. Is it wrong to want it to miss me in return?

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.