Okay, this is how it happened. Jason and I got the kittens. I started sending him emails about how they were driving me insane. How I couldn't get a thing done because they were either too cute to stop watching or too bad to be let go unattended.
He thought they were funny. So did other people. Everyone kept telling me that I should expand on the emails and make a sort of "Rasing Kittens" bit out of them.
Then Jason said, "Hey, I now have a blog. It's free."
So I thought, "Hey, I could use a blog to do this kitten thing."
But I was never happy with it. I mean, the kittens are now seven months old. I'm writing about things that happened months ago. Not about how an agent wanted the first fifty pages of my manuscript and how I had to hand it to her in person and nearly died of terror. Not about our all out blitz through Capitol Hill during our 19 hour stay in Washington DC this past Tuesday.
So today I stopped by the wine store to hunt for new wines for under $10. Stopped by my mom's store first and she slipped me a ten dollar bill and asked me to pick up another bottle of Raccoon Ridge's "Rocky's Red Wine" for her. It's bad enough that I've become a wino but I've turned my 70 year old mother in to one too. She won't go herself, she sends me. Just like she wouldn't buy lottery tickets because her church was against gambling. She'd send me. But that's another story.
While at the wine store, I picked up a couple copies of the Charleston City Paper just in case Jason had an article in this week's issue. (He did not) But I skimmed through it, dripping my guacomole dip lunch on most of it. They have this feature, The Free Will Astrology. Which I usually read because like most horoscopes, it's so dead wrong.
But this one kind of wasn't.
It basically said that I and my fellow Tauruses (Taurusi?) were at a three forked path in the road and we needed to stop listening to anyone but ourselves.
The only problem I'm having now (other than Loki wanting to lick my thumb while I'm typing) is what to do with this blog. My three choices were to continue as is, abandon the entire thing, or just write whatever the hell I felt like writing.
There was my three forked path.
At my age, I've learned a thing or two about myself. And one of them is that I tend to flounder around in a new situation for a while before understanding what it is I'd like to accomplish. So pardon me if I thrash around a bit. It may just be the written equivalent to throat clearing.
Or it may be Loki forcibly dragging my hand off the keyboard. It's hard to keep a coherent thought with kitten claws in that tender web of flesh where the thumb attaches to the hand.