The Remorrisful Day*

 

 So long, Butterscotch Lion, Fluffball of Love, the kitten born behind Sophie's bed, the one we kept. The Stealth Pooper.

Rest in piece, Morris. I'm sorry I wasn't there to kiss you on your forehead one last time.

 

*Title courtesy of MathMan who knows how to make me laugh through the tears and the Inspector Morse series.

Another indication you might have too many cats

A brief peaceful moment.

After observing the shenanigans happening in the living room amongst a -- what do we call a lot of cats? You know like a murder of crows, a phrase I love, or a school of fish, what's a set of cats? --- anyway, you know you have too many cats when after watching the cat rasslin' in the living room, your husband invites to you to join him on the bed where you're naively expecting him to give you a nice cuddle.

Alas no. He grabs in you in a headlock and proceeds to rabbit kick you in your belly.

And there's no foreplay.


P.S. It's called a clowder. We now have a clowder of cats. Please pass the hairball medicine.

P.S.S. Thank you for the donations and empathy. You people complete me.

P.S. 2.7 If you're in the path of Irene, please stay safe. We're thinking of all y'all.

XOXO,

Lisa

12 Signs You Have Too Many Cats

Source

1. You realize that you've been referring to scooping the litter box as panning for gold. For a while.

2. You find hissing a perfectly appropriate response to people who annoy you.

3. You call those little afternoon naps naps.

4. Maybe you drank from the toilet this morning, you're not telling.

5. Foreplay involves kneading your partner's thighs with your claws, gentle bites and purring. Lots and lots of purring.

6. You don't care if the salmon skin has been at the bottom of the trash can since yesterday's dinner.

7. Hang on, I have to scratch.

8. There's something caught in your throat and the only way to dislodge it is to get on your haunches and painfully hork it into one of your partner's best shoes.

9. When watching Tom and Jerry, you root for Tom.

10. It's not licking. It's grooming.

11. The clockwork mouse is a total bore but:

12. That catnip ball? Yeah.................roll that thing my way.

Put on a Poncho, Play for Mosquitoes

I'm thinking in lists today.

1. This draft of major rewrites is finished and only one day behind schedule. The sex scene remains unwritten and I'll let beta readers tell me if it's necessary of it's better to let the reader fill in the hot blanks. #amwriting

2. I lied. The draft isn't finished. I must adjust the dates in the chapter headers. Dates are critical to the story. Once I've dropped in those dates, I'll email those of you who have volunteered to beta read. I've added a Work in Progress page (see tab above) with the opening of the novel so you can see if the style and genre are something you might want to beta read. I hate to give this very mainstream writing to those who expect something literary because I promise you, you'll be disappointed. The novel has maybe one or two metaphors in the entire 73k words. So if you've volunteered to beta, but find that this won't be your cup of vodka, that's cool. #amediting

3. Scott Farkus and Grover Dill remain sequestered in the garage. This causes some difficulties because the refrigerator in the kitchen isn't working properly so we've moved all the fridge stuff to the freezer side and all the freezer stuff is in the fridge in the garage. Before you go wondering how broke-ass people like us can afford two refrigerators, take note: the one in the garage belongs to our landlord.

Anyway.

Every time I have to fetch something from the freezer or the overstock in the garage fridge, Scott and Grover rush the door and suddenly it's Kitty Rodeo! Bets on how long it takes me to give up and just introduce those boys to the rest of the band?

Also, this nonsense makes it even harder to sneak the ice cream I have hidden in the back of the freezer.

Also, too, thank you, Randal, for reminding me that Toady's real name is Grover Dill. #yeehaw

4. I did not watch the Republican debate last night on Fox News, but I can tell you this: I hope to hell that Tim Pawlenty's political career is over soon. I don't know if I've ever shared this, but certain words trigger food cravings for me. I know. Weird, but there it is. So whenever Pawlenty's name is mentioned, I'm all Homer Simpson "mmmmm polenta.....aaaaaahhhh." It's kind of disturbing. I don't need this shit. Polenta is high in calories and tricked out with crazy genetic shit thanks to Monsanto's messing with corn seed.

At least if Mitt Romney wins the nomination, I won't get fatter. I'll just have to listen to MathMan call him Mitten for the next year and half. Gain more weight or be jailed because of a domestic dispute turned violent? It's a clear choice to me.

And if Michele Bachmann wins? Let's just say it will be a veritable smorgasbord of tasteless jokes chez nous. Followed by a lot of Bless her hearts because we don't want to be totally cruel. That sets a terrible example for the children. #areyoufuckingkiddingme

5. Speaking of MathMan, I can't convince him to keep a respectful distance when we're in bed, so I'm insisting that he study this. #middleagedsexcapades



6. Now I'm craving some John Stamos with a side of Bob Saget. Fucking inconvenient since the closest I'll ever get to them is watching Full House reruns as I serve Sophie her breakfast. #guiltypleasures

7. My blog stats continue to be enhanced by people doing research on Nancy Pelosi's breasts. I wish some foundation would form to help those people get to the bottom of whatever important social concern they're trying to solve. Maybe that foundation would hire me to be its CEO. #stillneedajob

8. The new Indigo Girls song Making Promises has a Monkees vibe to it. Now I'm craving Pop Tarts and Peter Tork because that's what I remember eating when I watched Monkees reruns as a child. Pop Tarts, I mean. #foodandtv

9. Someone needs to vacuum this house. Know what that leaves me craving? A maid. #suckthis

10. Your comment goes here. The best comment wins two cats (fill in with a lot of legal jargon and disclaimers.)


With all good wishes,

Lisa

Neil Gaiman says it best

"Tramps and vagabonds have marks they make on gateposts and trees and doors, letting others of their kind know a little about the people who live at the houses and farms they pass on their travels. I think cats must leave similar signs; how else to explain the cats who turn up at our door through the year, hungry and flea-ridden and abandoned?"
 - The Price, from M is for Magic by Neil Gaiman

Well, here we go again. It's like we've become the Underground Railroad for stray cats.

Two cats this time. A couple of slinky fellows currently dubbed Scott Farkus and Brown Eyes. Both males. Would love to see them go as a pair because they seem very close. Brown Eyes is a climber. He was tiptoeing along the top of the fence and toppled off and into the yard next door. Scott Farkus went crazy until he could see him again. They're buddies, for sure. I'd hate to see them broken up.

You know the drill people. Free to a good home. All they need is love. I think they've been indoor cats and were dumped here in the subdivision. They appear healthy, happy and about 4 - 6 mos old. Lean and muscular, like they'll be big cats.

Who wants a visit with bonus cat leave-behinds?

Man, that doesn't sound quite right, but you get my drift.

Love and gratitude,

Lisa

P.S. I missed my self-imposed deadline for finishing revisions. There's one page that has just this:  Sex scene goes here. And I've got about forty pages left to revise. There were more new scenes to write than I realized. Blah, blah, writing, blah.

And we can listen to XRT!

It's going to be a busy weekend. We're leaving today to take Pork Chop to his new home in Illinois with Lyra and her family and while we're there, we're going to visit family and friends and eat. So far our list of food musts includes:

Super Dawg
Lou Malnati's
Adreani's Pizza
Marie's Pizza
Bagel Country
And one of any number of coffee shops like Kappy's on Dempster.
We'll also be bringing home a sack of Kaufman's bagels, I tell you what.

When we come home, I'm going to weigh 20 lbs. more, I tell you what. And yes, I realize that our list lacks a certain variety, but we'll probably squeeze in another hot dog joint or two, if we can. There's a fiscal method to this madness. After this trip, we won't have to buy groceries for the remainder of the month. We'll live off our fat.

We're also stopping at the halfway point and I hope I get see amyg show is celebrating her birthday today so you might want to go wish her the best.

I am really looking forward to this. I've been so homesick for Chicago, I can't even tell you. So on Monday, if you hear of an incident involving a silver-haired woman who had to be forced to stop clinging to the Welcome to Illinois sign while she cried that she wanted to staaaaaay! you'll know who's been at it again.

Here's our route. Fascinating, I know.


View Larger Map
 

See you on Monday or Tuesday. Until then...love, peace and all the rest.

P.S. CSPAN''s Washington Journal read one of my tweets this morning. It was both cool and odd to see my face on TV. Good thing I stopped using that avatar where I'm mooning the camera.

 P.S.S. In case you're worried about my reckless broadcasting that our house will be standing empty, please note that the house is under tight security. You've heard the stories about my crazy ass neighbors, right? Well, they're keeping an eye. And the five Pussies for Peace will remain at home where they are in very bad moods about being left behind. They have a few stern words for Rahm and are pissed to be missing the opportunity to meet with him in person instead of via Skype the way they usually conduct their bullying advocacy. Be warned.

Thursday Confessional

Good Thursday to you. I'm on a tight schedule so let's get started.

With the addition of the new (TEMPORARY) kitty, I thought it best to get Fiona to the vet for her shots and to be spayed. Before I was confident that Kitty Noir would be temporary, I had a little freak out that he and Fiona could produce even more cats. Yes, I realize I've been lagging here. Confession number one. I wasn't a responsible pet owner. Please don't tell Betty White.

Now, let me tell you, if you want to see a parade of crazy cat people and other assorted weirdos, line up at the Catsnip Project van at 7:30 a.m.

The phrase holy cats takes on an even more significant meaning. I got pummeled verbally and in writing because the cat carrier was missing a clip. One clip. I felt contrite, but was not contrite enough apparently. The intake woman wrote it on my information sheet and it was written again in bold green letters on the envelope holding Fiona's records. Finally, before she would hand the sedated cat over to me, I got a stern warning about being more responsible. How would I feel if my cat got loose and ran into the field next door to become coyote food or got into the street and hit by a moving vehicle?

It was like I was ten all over again.

These people take cat stuff seriously. And you thought me -  with my five cats - was crazy....

Confession number two. Kitty Noir has found a home and I'm not feeling sad about it. Lyra has decided to adopt him. We're sorting out the details and MathMan and I will drive KN/Inky/Anakin/Darth to Illinois to his new home. I can't wait to meet Lyra who has become an important force in getting me to sit down and write/edit every day (sometimes against my will) and I hope MathMan and I will have a chance to visit Chicago, too. I am so homesick for that place I can barely stand it.

Thank you, Lyra, for wanting this kitten. He's going to love being part of your family.

Confession number three. I don't get Google+. It's not like I've put a lot of effort into understanding it, but right now it feels like another train whooshing by while I fuck around with my lipstick on the platform.

Confession number four. I fear I'm developing a slight drinking problem. Worse - I intend to do something about it when I'm certain which may be never because I like the slightly loopy, happy, devil may care sense it lends to the end of each day.

Not that I'm placing blame but someone in my list of Facebook friends invited me to a girls' night party at her house last week and I got turned on to the tasty and tart Airmail Punch. Then another guest showed up with a makeshift Pimms. You can't find the real thing in C-Vegas. Okay, have you tried this stuff? And if so, how did you go this long without telling me about it. I thought we were friends.

Mind you, we weren't exactly drinking Pimms, but rather a recipe including non-carbonated lemonade, raspberry vodka and chopped, fresh strawberries and cucumbers with sprigs of mint. It is, in a single, shouted word - fantastic! And bonus! I counted those strawberries and cukes as fruit and veggie number four and five on my food tracking thing. Of course, I had the good sense to leave off the vodka and the champagne and rum in the Airmail Punch. I know that Sparkpeople Tracker with its mean streak. If I typed in that I drank three punches and two Pimms, it would come back to me with a message reading "Time for a visit to the Betty Ford Clinic, Miss Piggy. And stop trying to pass off alcohol-soaked vegetables and berries as something virtuous. You may as well have had some cake, you liar."

Which I did. Oink oink.

Your turn. Confess your sins, secrets and embarrassing habits. Instead of dishing out the absolution, I'll be serving the Absolut.

Care and Feeding

Photo: Lisa Golden

Thanks to those of you who have donated toward the care and feeding of Kitty Noir. You're wonderful. So far KN has no new home, but he has found a place on top of the antique radio where he likes to sleep. His presences is still causing a stir, but we've been through this before. Eventually, everyone settles into a timeshare routine and we move on.

I'm taking the day off from writing here so that I can work on my manuscript and catch up on some reading. Now I have to decide which book to read today because I've started two at the same time. Bad habit, I know.

Source

Dandelion Wine by Ray Bradbury or The Beginners by Rebecca Wolff.

Source

What are you reading?

Whipped

Kitty Noir. I sink deeper. I'm already referring to him as my Familiar. I'm going through the boxes of long-stored baby stuff hunting for the Snugli so I can carry him when I mow. I might have referred to myself as Mommy in context to him. I've given him worm medicine and looked carefully between his legs because, yes, I did once name a cat Phoebe only to discover that his love for me was less than pure.

For now, I'm calling him Kitty Noir because listening to NPR and loving cats go hand in hand like butt sniffing and hissing. Yeah, there's a lot of that going on. We're working on proper etiquette. And let me tell ya, Kitty Noir is not the problem. Fiona's hisser is cranked passed eleven. You can take the girl out of the ditch, but you can't take the feral out of the girl.

Thanks to Nan for posting the Free Kitten ad on her workplace's website. Nan is here in Atlanta, but I meant it when I wrote that I'll bring this cat to you. I mean, hell, people, it's not like I have a job or anything. I can pretend it's a vacation without the kids fighting in the backseat. Hey, I could do commute chat with the kitty!

See. I need this cat gone. I so need this cat gone that I'm willing to trade him for a five year old boy. And the only thing I need less than another cat is another kid.

I understand if you can't take this cat, but if you're still here through all this hectoring, then may I suggest that you at least make a tiny donation to help me pay for his fixing and shots. If I'm going to be owned by this cat, then I can at least be responsibly owned.

Or, share this info with your friends, family, acquaintances and associated crazy cat people. Male cat, medium length hair, approximately 8 weeks old, no shots (yet), not neutered (yet).

Honestly, you guys know that I can't even watch those Arms of the Angels commercials where they show the abandoned and abuse animals, right? I turn the channel because even with my back to them, my eyes brim with tears. I'm a complete sap. Like Laura said in comments - I want to scoop them all up in a basket and keep them safe. Rainbows optional.

Help me.

Come back tomorrow for a pussy free post. Well, unless, of course, I decide to publish the draft I've written about why I think women like Sarah Palin and Michele Bachmann get media attention.

Until then, purrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. And thank you.

Resistance is futile

1990. MathMan and I strolled through the baby department at Carson Pirie Scott looking for a gift for our precious niece (who just had the nerve to graduate from my alma mater Indiana University). I was struck by the delicate beauty of a pair of newborn socks. My hormone balance tipped, my voice went up two octaves and in that instant my campaign to grow our family from two to three became my goal like it's Mitch McConnell's goal to see to it that President Obama is a one-term president. I was uncompromising.

A year and half and one purloined used condom later, we had this.

1994. Chloe was such a good baby that I decided we needed another. I started making advances toward MathMan who insisted that he liked the kid we already had. I assured him that we could keep her, too. The hospital didn't have a trade-in program anyway.

After some "convincing," we had this.

1998. Back from a misguided attempt to go home again, MathMan and I moved the furniture back into our house in Illinois and tested out the mattress thus producing this before we even discussed what we'd do next....

Later that summer, Chloe, who had begged for years for a cat, finally got her wish. We visited the Chicago Humane Society and brought home the only cat that was younger than a year old. Mean, territorial. Vicious with her claws, but Chloe loved her and named her, ironically enough, something soft and beautiful. Daisy. Daisy the Hellcat. From Hell. Of course the cat fell crazy in love with MathMan.

2003. The move to Georgia. Daisy remained in Chicago with our wonderful neighbor Dan and his cats until we got settled because we didn't know where we were going to stay when we got here.

November 2003. Daisy was retrieved and settled into her new home with all kinds of cool windows to gaze from and a stunning array of wildlife visiting the bird feeder aka The buffet.

Nathan and Sophie felt left out of being owned by a cat. Chloe made it abundantly clear that Daisy was her cat. A want ad. Free to a good home.

We'll take two.

2004. A pregnant cat is treed by a dog. A sucker brings her in because the tails of hurricanes have been passing through and it's miserable outside. Four kittens are born behind Sophie's bed.

Of course we keep the runt.

Who are you calling a runt?

 2009. I'm hanging out with Becky and not answering my phone when Sophie calls. She's attracted another cat and can we keep it please? Pretty please?

MathMan is disgruntled. Enough, he says. This is insane, he says. It's madness, he concludes.

He's all bluster in the face of this face.

 July 15, 2011. MathMan, Chloe and I arrive home from seeing Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows 2. Sophie and a couple of the Covered Bridge Springs Tarts are on the back porch squeeing about this.

Please, People of the Internets, save my marriage. Free to a good home. Not the husband. The cat. He's precious, affectionate, has a high tolerance for cuddling. Needs a place to live because six cats? That would be crossing the crazy line. Five cats may be crossing the crazy line, but six? We'd be outnumbered.

And yes, I did just conflate cats with kids. At some point, both are just as darling and just as annoying. True, the cats won't care for me in my dotage, but there's hardly any guarantee that my children will either. I assure you though, when it's time for the tough choices to be made, I'll play dirty. I'll remind them that they and the cats are here because I insisted on making it so. Left to his own devices, MathMan would likely be living a wonderful, carefree life with a hot car, a hot girlfriend and more money than he knows what to do with. See how I ruined it for him with my bright ideas?

That's what he gets for drinking tequila shots on October 1, 1987. A lifetime supply of Lisa.

Listen, if you know of anyone who needs or wants a cat, please email me at lisa h golden dot gmail dot com. We'll figure out how to get this kitty to you even if it means  I drive him to you. In fact, he's so smart, he might even drive himself.

Until then, he'll be soaking up the love and leaving gifts in the litter box.