Loki's belly is so fat that we've named it Paul Anka.

That's all I got. I have coughed myself to the edge of a massive cerebral anuerysm and plan to spend the day with my cough drops, my cough suppressant/expectorant and the couch.

Do people really make New Year's Resolutions? Or is it just one of those things that we say we do because everyone else says they do so we don't want to seem like out of the loop geeks?

My public resolutions: Overcome my dentist phobia and get those bridges done. Exercise more. Take my vitamins. Drink more water. Lose those last ten pounds. Write everyday. Finish my novel in progress by this time next year. Actually do the paperwork to change my name. Get my hair cut before it becomes a floppy mess resembling the Brady Bunch's mom's shag.

My real resolutions: Turn the CD player up way loud and sing along as often as possible. Resist the urge to bash this computer's so-called brains out with a baseball bat (given the fact that I'd have to go buy a bat at a place called DICK'S makes this one easy). Take even MORE pictures of my kittens. Continue to polish my super-human powers of procrastination.

Hey, why set yourself up for failure when you can set yourself up for success?

Okay, I feel bad. I've put kitten pictures galore on here. I even put one of the guinea pig!

Some props for my eldest of felines. The amazing scaredy cat Sutu, seen here in one of his two modes of being: asleep or hiding/running in terror. And since the hiding/running thing usually results in pictures of his anus......well...sleepy is certainly more attractive.

I have 18 days to complete a short story to enter in the SC Fiction Open. Nothing like waiting until the last minute, huh?

Truth be told, I hate and despise writing short fiction. Mostly because I suck at it. I need more time to make a point.

I wasn't even going to enter this year, but have been semi-shamed, semi-challenged in to it. For Pete's sake.

So, I'm going to be lazy and carve out a section of my novel (STILL haven't heard from the agent, don't know if that's good, bad or ugly). The part I chose is a bit that I read last February at the Monday Night Blues Open Mike night when the poetry people let us poor fiction writtin' shmucks hang out with them for a couple of hours. It was well received, so now I just gotta make a short story out of it.

Which means it needs a point. I asked the cats, but they don't understand pointing, much less points. So I am off today in search of meaning for my poor little story wanna-be. I think I first need a clue. If I had a clue, I might could find a point.

Sigh. I think I'll just use Jason's name as the title, then they might think he wrote it and won't even read it. They'll just toss it on the winner's pile. The man's short fiction ROCKS!

Surely you must understand that with a blog title like mine, I am one of those crazy people who buy Christmas presents for my cats.

And take pictures.




Thor ripped all those feathers out within a day.

But my favorite picture of the batch shows the fundamental personality differences between Thor and Loki. Loki is an intelligent, thoughtful young cat. Thor is, well, if Oscar Madison was a kitten and had hyperactivity disorder, he'd be Thor.

I had a very practical Christmas this year. I asked for and received new pots and pans (really cool dark cherry red color - LOVE them) and new knives that are actually sharp.

My absolute favorite present though is a little Vincent Van Gogh doll. Now, I love Van Gogh. I have calendars, books and a framed copy (duh!) of The Starry Night over my writing desk. I designed the entire room around that picture.

So my little doll is a plush stuffed toy, all dressed in dark blue velvet with lots of fuzzy red hair and beard. Best thing though?

His ear comes off!

It is attached by velcro.

I love the sick mind that thought this up. I wish I could be so brilliant.
And even better there is an entire website of similiar sicko items. They are going to be getting a ton 'o my money.

I must have a tin of "National Embarassmints" with Duhh-bhya on the front.

And both a Darwin and a Monet doll for my mom.

The Axis of Evil III features Bushie, Condie, Rummy and Dickie. I'm thinking my aunt would like that.

There are also dolls of Schrodinger's Cat and Pavlov's Dog.

Oh hell, look for yourself.

This morning as I was giving change of shift report, I began with the patients in labor and included in this a report of a teenage mom who had recently married, but the father of the baby wasn't her husband, that the biological father hadn't been involved since conception.

There is also a porcelain baby Jesus in a box in the nursery. At exactly one minute after midnight tonight, some one has to carry him out to the Nativity scene in front of the hospital. I just love those blond haired, blue eyed middle eastern Jews

Merry freaking Christmas, ya'll.

ooooh. I gotta early Christmas present from Jason! Viral pharyngitis. Also known as "it hurts when I swallow" or "there's a porcupine in my throat" disease.

I woke up after only four hours of sleep after my out-of-routine night shift last night to the awful truth. Sick. Not only sick, but sick on the HOLIDAY schedule. I think only death, pink eye or ebola virus are acceptable excuses. And I'm not sure about the ebola, they'd probably say "We've got plenty of Vitamin K for injection, we can stop that bleeding."

So, I lay in bed, pretending it was just something like post nasal drip sore throat. But after a half hour or so, I was forced to seek medical treatment by stealing whatever Jason got from his doc.

That made the cats think it was lunchtime. I told them it wasn't. I told them I didn't feel good. I told them I still had to go to work tonight.

Thor has a meow that can peel the paint off the wall.

Okay. During the day, I sleep with two fans going to block the noise. I can't hear the doorbell ring. But I can hear Thor meow.

So, I'm up. They are fed.

It hurts when I swallow.

A month or so ago, I bought a window sticker from a store in the mall. It says "Native" with the "i" being a Palmetto tree. As we natives are now an endangered species in our own state, I felt it time to join the few remaining in a show of solidarity.

When I bought the thing, I handed the teen-age girl my money and asked if that was all. She gave me a perfect "HUH?" face. I then asked if she didn't need to see a birth certificate. I was then treated to a wonderfully executed "cut eyes to friend" manuever, with the eyebrows slightly raised meaning "I think this woman is crazy". She stammered out a "No."

Sigh. I hate when people don't get my jokes.

I'm sure every corner of this great nation of ours that is attracting out of town residents is suffering the same "Everything I can possibly think of was better back home" speeches. It is annoying.

Now, I don't dislike Yankees. Really, I can't. I'm biracial myself: half Southern, half Yankee (and the worst kind of Yankee too - a Conneticutt Yankee). I've even got one living in my house right now. They can be funny, intelligent people.

But they really must stop complaining. And they really must watch the tacky tasteless jokes which they utilize to impart a "yes I live down here, but I am SO much better than the poor slobs who had the great misfortune to be raised here" attitude.

The best I can explain it, it's like how African-Americans can call each other certain things. Only real Southerners can joke about certain things.

Hey? Know the difference between a Yankee, a damn Yankee and a God-Damn Yankee??
Hey! Not so funny now.

Happy Winter Solstice!

I have added another notch to my eccentricity belt by spending a few minutes staking out my feast for the animals. I even ventured into the marsh to set out paper plates (held in place with bamboo skewers) for the more shy creatures.

I'm hoping that the massive pile of dearly departed mourning dove (oh, doesn't that sound pretty? They are really just country pigeons) feathers by the back gate isn't some sort of negative karma. It wasn't any of my cats! 1) Sutu couldn't catch a dead bird, 2) Loki is afraid to go out ever since the wasp incident and 3) Thor would be too busy trying to run into the street to think about birds.

I suspect Lucy, the cat from across the street. But that's life in the wild, I suppose. I just wish she'd taken her prize home. Or maybe she did and Ms. Dot woke up one morning to find a nekkid dove on the front porch.

But I digress. Celebrate the solstice. Make something up if you must. It can be your little holiday before the holiday.

Oh and Happy Birthday Cousin Francine!

Don't be mean.

Or if you prefer a positive spin:

Be nice.

I have an aquaintance at work who I have told on several occasions that she is the best example of Christianity that I have ever met, seen or read about (other than Mother Teresa, but hey, who could live up to that standard?)

Why do I think that about my co-worker? Because she holds herself responsible for following the teachings of her religion. She takes the model she has been given, applies it to herself and lets the lessons learned guide her. She treats everyone she meets with respect, compassion, and (I've thought long about this word) niceness.

It doesn't matter how awful a person she has encountered. She treats them nicely. I'm sure that niceness springs from a deep love of people in general, but it manifests itself in good old fashioned respectful friendly niceness.

I once heard someone ask her how she could be so nice all the time. She just shrugged and said that it was what she expected Jesus wanted her to be.

It just seems these days that people of many religions are pointing to others, telling others to start following the teachings of whoever is in charge of their particular brand of religion, rather than letting their beliefs impact the way they themselves interact with others.

To me, if you distill all religions down to their most basic lessons, it is "don't be mean".

So be nice.

Please?

Loki raises up on hind feet and bats at the glass of the double window. His target? The birds sitting on the telephone lines outside.

Thor picks up (with his mouth) a feather-on-a-stick toy by the stick end and walks backwards in circles, watching the feather drag across the carpet until he can stand it no more and pounces.

Loki is so fat, he has to hop sideways down the staggered steps of the cat tree.

Thor comes running when you turn on the washing machine, hops up and bats at the water with his paw. (See below)




Sutu meows on demand. Say me-ow. Say maah. Say merph.

I'm cancelling my cable. Who needs it?

Do the mature, responsible, professionals in position of leadership and power not have ANYTHING more important to do than squabble over Christmas??

It reminds me of the huge stink certain elephantine-types made over gay marriage to get certain people stirred up right before an election.

Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Joyous Kwanza, Happy Holidays, Wonderful Winter Solstice, Merry Getting and Giving Presents Day.

Who the freak cares what someone ELSE calls it?

I'm pretty sure it is still within my right to freedom of speech to say something nice to you in any form I choose. Or was that "limited" under some obscure clause in the Patriot Act? Article 4, Section 103B: Real freedom loving, patriotic, God fearing, Saddam hating, terrorists fighting Americans only say "Merrry Christmas".

If you get offended (really? OFFENDED??) by someone telling you to have a happy holiday instead of a merry Christmas, then I hate to be the one to break it to you, but YOU have a serious problem, not the other person.

Is this really what America has come to? Phrase police? Are we so petty now? Are we so ready to hate someone? To be angry over something that we are taking the holiest season of several religions and using it as a battleground?

Why not, when someone utters one of those horribly awful disgustingly offensive phrases, like "Enjoy your holiday", try smiling and saying "Thank you. You too."

I think the Head Honcho's of all religions would like that.

December 21, 2005 at 1:35 pm (EST) will be the Winter Solstice. There is a ton of folklore about this time of year but I have my favorite.

Way back in the way backs (a long, long time ago) certain Germanic/Nordic pagan tribes would go in to the forests on the Winter Solstice, the longest night of the year, and leave gifts of food tied to trees for the spirit gods of the forest animals. This was to help the animals survive the long winter. (Also it is one of the why-we-have-Christmas-trees myths.)

So being that I have a neopagan streak, I recreate this celebration in my yard. Now, I leave bowls of feed out most of the year. Bowls because Ed, the squirrel and his friend from next door, Psycho squirrel, have destroyed every "squirrel proof" bird feeder I have put out. So, hey, they are creatures of the marsh also, so I feed them all.

On the Winter Solstice, however, they get the good stuff. The bird seed with fruit and nuts. Squirrel food with corn and peanuts and sunflower seeds. For the racoons and possoms, I put out suet cakes (I know, it is technically bird food, but the raccoons love it) and that dried corn on the cob. I even had a couple field mice and a marsh rat show up one year.

They get to gorge themselves silly and carry whatever they can back to their nests.
It's fun. I get out the binoculars and get a great veiw of my backyard wild kingdom.

Jury duty cancelled! Foiled again!

In other news, I have declared Griswold Right the winner of the most square footage covered in lights and the most "things" in the yard awards.

I will now attempt to post a photo of the winner.
(This has been a problem for me lately)

I am in possession of a letter requesting my presence in court today. To serve as a juror, for Pete's sake! What were you thinking? I am the very model of good citizenship. I don't even speed. (Speed limit=less gas used. Less gas used=less profits for the evil oil companies. Less profits for evil oil companies=less bed climbing with middle eastern monarchies.) Not that one person in this entire country actually driving the speed limit will make a difference, but at least I know I try to do something.

Like jury duty. Most people would have a list of excuses to get out of serving. Not me. I've been called twice before. Once it was cancelled. The other time, the plaintiff's lawyer excused me. I think it was because of my profession. Not sure. I was disappointed. I wanted to do it.

What has become lost in our country is the notion that we have a responsibility to make the system work. We must participate. Vote, serve in some way, even if it is just jury duty. We are all cogs in the great wheel of America.

And if the wheel is becoming slow and unresponsive, it is because we have abandoned it. Our personal, individual lives are much too busy, our schedules much too important to be interrupted by silly civic duties. And when the ordinary citizens abdicate their role in the system, then the opportunists move in to the void. And we end up with vultures in office who only seek to improve this country for themselves and their friends.

And the ordinary citizen complains. Taxes are too high. No one is doing anything about our failing public schools. The developers are ruining the beauty of our land. Traffic is horrible. The war is wrong. All levels of government failed during the hurricane disasters this summer. "They" failed. "They" aren't doing the job. "They" aren't providing services we need. "They" are letting us down.

Who do you think "they" is? Because it's you. Those people in office were put there to be you.

If you don't vote, it's your fault. If you don't stay current with issues that are important to you. If you don't make your opinions known to your local, state and federal representatives. Then it's your fault. You have abdicated your voice.

Open those letters you get from your representatives. Fill out the questionnaires in them. Mail them back. Find the email addresses of your representatives. Email them. Ask them what they are doing about your favorite issue. Tell them what you would like to see done.

One person can't change the world? Well, if you are looking for some inspirational story, forget about it. You are probably right. Average Jane's letter isn't going to override the influence of some deep pocketed beneficiary. But if what we need is individuals to get involved personally to start swinging the sphere of influence back to the people and away from special interest groups, then we are one person closer to making that happen. Aren't we?

And you will know you did something besides complain.

The Christmas tree survived the night. The electrical cord to the lights isn't where I left it, carefully (or perhaps not so carefully) hidden in the branches. The test-present is still intact. The snow-people are still on the entry way table. Hell, the Christmas cards are still propped up on the entertainment center!

We decided to go ahead and decorate the tree with lights and the glass bead garland that we have. Then I went through my ornaments and found one that I would risk putting on the tree. Jason had a few kitten safe ones and they went up too. We are going for the minimalist look this year.

I did put my Santa wreath on the front door, my only nod to outdoor decorating. I feel like the Grinch. The Griswolds, both left and right, once again can be seen from outer space. Three doors down is a flock of light reindeer grazing around a light Santa sled. Next door is the city of wreaths. Across the street, there are those nets of lights framing the porch. I've got nary a twinkle. You can't even see our tree in the window because it's in the back room.

Maybe next year. I really want a flock of pink flamingoes with either wreaths around their necks or antlers on their heads. I really do.

Yesterday as I lay about suffering the woes of some mild food poisoning or a possible stomach flu, Jason went and bought a Christmas tree.

We decided to put it up in the back room for several reasons one of which being it is the only carpeted room in the house and vacuuming up pine needles is easier than getting them off hardwood floors. Plus, I hate that carpet and am planning to rip it all out next year, so who cares if the kittens spread pine sap all over it?

Jason got out a drill (one good thing about guys-they come equipped with power tools) and between the drill and the tree stand, that sucker ain't going nowhere. Well, maybe if all three of them got on one branch....

Thor was the first on the scene, sniffing like a bloodhound after a possum. Loki wasn't far behind. Sutu glanced, yawned, stretched, returned to his warm spot on the bed. He's been there, done that.

The kittens danced around, sniffing and chewing. Loki so much so that I began to wonder if pine sap had some toxicity level. You'd think that the taste would put him off at least. But, sigh, Loki, I fear, likes to eat. (Nine pounds!! At eight months of age! He is obese!)

They were surprisingly well behaved with it. Well, Thor tried to climb up in it, but he hasn't quite figured out how to do it yet. The biggest problem so far has been the water. Oh yes, the West Ashley Water Cats do love some flavored water. But again, I hate that rug, so who cares?

I'm beginning to think we might be able to put some select ornaments on it. I put out a test present this morning. Thor tried to chew on it once, but since then has left it alone. Dare I hope? I'm worried their supreme indifference this morning is but a ruse to get me to decorate and put out all the presents.

We shall see.

Jason likes the show "Smallville". So I try to watch it with him. I've found that it helps if I have a smidge over my limit of two glasses of wine. Because he likes it, I try not to ruin the "magic" for him. But really. Who writes this show?? Fifteen year olds?

I've managed contain myself to muscle straining bouts of eye-rolling whenever Cloe saves the day with her handy dandy apparantly magic computer upon which she can locate the interior security schematics of the Pentagon in about thirty seconds, all from a field in E.B.F., Kansas.

I've learned to twiddle my thumbs during the copied-straight-from-the-big-book-of-retarded speeches parents give dialogue written for Clarkie's parents.

I've even learned to view with amusement the post-show phone calls from a certain friend of Jason's moaning about how hot Lois Lane is.

So, I've pretty much learned to endure. But last Thursday, I had to leave the room. It was some stupid premise, some strange tip of the hat to It's a Wonderful Life. Lex could be good and have Lana, but he has to chose in the end to be bad because if he stays good, Lana will die.

First off. Do the writers on that show KNOW what RESEARCH is???? Picking up the phone and calling a grown up to even ask if something is REASONABLY possible?

Number one. Lana has a baby. All happy scene, then she flops back in bed, assumes her standard horrified (but-I'm-pretty!) expression and the nurses push Lex out of the room saying she needs a transfusion. Okay. I thought it was going to be a pulmonary or amniotic embolism. To the writers of Smallville: It takes less time to attempt a cauterization (the burning shut of bleeding vessels) AND do an emergency hysterectomy if said cauterization does not work than it does for the blood bank to cross and type and send down blood for a transfusion.

Number two. The "teamster strike". Cleo has to get Clarkie to use his superpowers to deliver the Toys for Tots toys because the teamsters go on strike on Christmas Eve. Okay. Teamsters have a union. And a damn good one. They do not work Christmas Eve. And Toys for Tots toys are not delivered Christmas Eve. The registered families are given a date to come down to a collection site to pick them up.

I won't even get in to the several well decorated Christmas trees with presents already under them in that Clarkie delivered these presents to after Cleo told him that the kids would get no presents at all if he didn't help her.

Or the drunk Santa about to kill himself over the lack of Christmas spirit.

Thor writes better.

Yesterday evening, after I got home from filing in a few hours at work for a buddy, Jason warmed up the shrimp Kung Pao and I propped my swollen knee (cold and rainy weather moving in) up on the coffee table and sipped a lovely Sonoma Valley Zinfandel from Kunde Estate (well, perhaps gulped would be more appropriate for the first half glass). I had broken my own rule and paid $13 for the bottle and thought it about on par with some I'd found for under ten.

As I reposed, a thundering of kitten paws could be heard heading down the hall towards the den. Imagine my surprise when none other than Sutu the Supposed Kidney Failure Possible Thyroid Condition Grumpy Old Man Scaredey Cat came loping through the kitchen with Thor hot on his heels. Sutu hopped up on the couch, looked at me, then hopped down to lead Thor on a chase around the cat tree, under a chair and then stretched out on "his" window seat and began licking a paw. "Didn't think I still had it in me," was evident in every very carefully posed movement.

Dare I hope that, other than his very obvious mental problems, that there is nothing really wrong with him? That whatever this has been was perhaps a passing illness? He is eating well, without seeming absolutely ravenous as he did before. His coat looks better. He seems to be gaining a bit of weight (but he has always been rail thin, my son nicknamed him "Slats" many years ago). And now he is frolicking with kittens.

It makes me happy. Perhaps I will find three furbags pinned under the fallen over Christmas tree this year.

Today as I was searching every place where I might have put something so that I wouldn't forget where it was, I came across a printed out email that I wrote to Jason. It's dated July 5, so the kittens would have been just a bit over three months old.

I had put in the subject line: Why I need an afternoon nap.

"So, I'm in the shower and notice a movement behind the shower curtain liner. It's the dynamic duo. Thor has learned to open doors. I pull back the liner, hit them with some water and they leave.

So, I get out of the shower. Loki is in the bathroom sink. As I am removing him, I hear a noise from below. I put on my glasses and find Thor in the basket. I toss them both on the bed and shut the bathroom door.

So, I'm brushing my teeth and hear a strange clinky, rattle noise from the bedroom. I open the door. Loki is sitting on the lamp on the beside table as it goes from low, medium, high, off, low, medium, high, off. Strange noise is Thor, hanging from the nightstand, clinging the the alarm clock. As I toss Thor on the bed, the alarm clock falls but luckily, my foot saves it from damage. As I toss Loki on the bed, Thor runs in the bathroom, into the shower and starts licking the floor. (GROSS!!) As I get Thor out of the shower, Loki gets a peice of paper from the trash can and runs under the bed with it. As I get the paper away from Loki, Thor sits on the bedside lamp. Low, medium, high, off.

I toss Thor on the bed where he grabs my shirt and starts to carry it away. Sutu looks in, turns, leaves, muttering something about how if HE'D acted like that when HE was a kitten, HE would have gotten a spanking."

What's funny is I sort of miss mornings like that now.

I was driving home from work this morning and while waiting at the five minute long red light, thought of something really funny to blog about.

I don't remember what it was now.

It's either Alzhiemers or night shift syndrome.

As I told one of my favorite pediatricians last week, "I'm a lot smarter by Tuesday!"

Night shift is unnatural. But I love it. I love the rhythm of the hospital at night. I love that every night shift crew I've been a part of has a special bond, a we-are-in-this-together attitude. That we are a little crazy and a little anal-retentive about doing a good job. It is a unique culture that simply being able to stay awake all night does not qualify you for membership in. I love that we discuss sleep with the same passion some reserve for sex. "Did you get any?" "Was is good?"

But it is hard on the brain cells. And me on Monday morning is a perfect example.
Now, I'm off to nap, saving my good sleeping time for my reversal of the biorhythms tonight.

Last year, Jason and I took the long drive out to Toogoodoo Tree Farm (I'm not sure that is spelled right). We wandered around the acres of trees and found one to bring home.

The other day, I had to confess that I did not want to do that again this year. "Why not?" asked my sweetie.

And I had to tell him the truth. I was having one of those weird neo-pagan post-hippie era moments. I felt like I'd murdered that poor tree last year. After Christmas, we put it back in the marsh to "return to nature" and it took it almost two months just to stop being green. It hurt my heart.

I told him that this year, I needed to just get some poor tree that some one else had murdered so I could give it a loving home for its last few weeks.

It can spend its last days with kittens in its branches.

Hmmmm...maybe we shouldn't put the glass ornaments on this year. Or the bead garland. Wonder if chewing on the lights could electrocute a kitten. Gosh, maybe we shouldn't even put it in the stand. Probably spend much of its time laying on the floor with two furbags pinned under it.

Perhaps this might be the year for a Christmas twig.

I have almost finished my Christmas shopping. All that remains is the on-line search for a particular item for my son and the decision as to what store will provide the slew of gift cards I hand out to my legions of neices and my lone grown up newphew. Little baby surprise nephew is in to super heros, I may just steal something from Jason and wrap it up.

The only challenge left is my mother. She is always the most difficult. She never likes any clothing or household item I buy her. Last year, I scored big when she actually drooled over a cape in Dillards. I was back the next day to buy it then spent the remaining weeks before Christmas worried that she would just get it for herself. She didn't. I was golden.

Usually, I get her a gift certificate. For a few years I would get her a general mall certificate until one year she told me to get her a Victoria's Secret card.

Do you have any idea of how weird it feels to be in line at Victoria's Secret to buy a gift certificate for your mom??

Once, I teased her about it, asking just who she was needing a fresh supply of sexy undies for every year.

She said, "For me."

So now I try not to forget about myself in this season. I try to do, see or buy something just for me. It doesn't have to be extravagant.

Like this year, I bought myself some yarn and a "I Taught Myself to Crochet" book. A whole bunch 'o years ago I had attempted to teach myself. I mastered the very basics and still have an afghan I made.

But it's been a fun morning with yarn. First, convincing the kittens that it wasn't a new toy for them. Then, I felt like a ten-thumbed idiot and the instructions may as well have been in ancient Greek. But slowly, as I worked my way through the initial chain, then single crochet and half double crochet, my fingers started to remember. Loop, pull, loop. Before too long I'd gotten the feel for double and triple crochet stitches. I was ready to tackle the for beginners scarf.

I accidently dropped a few stitches. I learned to add them back. It's fun. It's soothing. It's sooo winter and hot toddies and comfy chairs.

I like my present to me this year.

The competition is on again. I call it the Griswald Competition. Just down the street, around the bend in the horse-shoe are the competitors.

Griswald Right is leading right now. He has his three foot high red and white flashing "NOEL" sign up on the roof and most of the roof lined in twinkling lights.

In a weeks time, he and his neighbor across the street (Griswald Left) will have every inch of straight line in the yards, on the houses, along fences and up every tree glowing in lights. There will be Disney characters in a manger scene. There will be blow-up snowmen. There will be icicle lights dripping. There will be a light-up train pulling a car full of presents. Oh yes. Yes there will.

I'm sure it can be seen from outer space.

My next door neighbor isn't quite as bad. He is done. He has a lighted wreath in every window and one on the front door. He has a snowman and a Santa standing at the bottom porch steps, along with some poinsettias.

I've got a 22 bulb snowflake that I hang in my double window. And I'm not quite sure where it is right now. I got it last year out of sheer guilt and shame that I was letting the neighborhood down with my lack of Christmas spirit.

I'm almost afraid to see what the crazy lawn lady across the street will do.

I really want to get a flock of pink flamingos and put little tiny antlers on their heads. That would cool.

My son recently sent me, via email, some pictures. A couple were of an Irish bar, Kelly's Irish Pub, in Rhodes, Greece.

I wrote him back to ask a few questions, the first of which was how did there come to be an Irish Pub in Greece?

I waited, my writer's imagination eager for just a few details upon which I could spin an entire story. A broken hearted Irishman leaves his homeland forever following the tragic death of his one true love but becomes homesick and recreates the Pub where he and True Love met.

Something like that. But alas, the story I got was that there are a lot of British tourists there and it's a gimmick type thing. So much for true love.

Now, the picture of Eric Clapton's yacht, THAT he knew something about. But he is a musician. My son that is. Well, so is Clapton. I asked if he'd knock, knock, knocked on Eric's door and asked to play one of his guitars.

But I really did love the picture of my son wearing the leprechaun hat and beard. That was funny. I'm thinking of making copies for Christmas presents.

Last night, I'm two hours in to a shift from hell (with ten left to go) when my mom calls. She rarely calls me at work so I figure it's important.

Short and to the point my mother does not do well. I try to follow her meanderings through the din of ringing phones, crying babies, sounding alarms and a couple of four year olds banging on the windows like we are a zoo exhibit that is too boring.

About three/fourths through the conversation I realize just what it is she wants of me. Now, let me insert here that my mom and I get along great. We go shopping, to lunch, to movies. Heck, we even took a six day mother-daughter trip to San Francisco about a year ago.

But this!! A two and a half hour van ride to another city, well known for its unrelenting tackiness, to see the Radio City Rockettes perform. Sound good? Well, it would be the two of us and the other members of her over 65 Sunday school class.

Leaving at 10am, arriving for lunch, then see the show, then have dinner, then two and a half hours home. In a van. With ten old Baptist ladies. At least a ten hour trip.

I'd rather have a Brazilian wax job without a bullet to bite on.

So, I blew her off, claiming that everything was written down on my calendar at home and I didn't know if I would be free. Then I spent the rest of the night trying to come up with decent lies.

But in the end, I couldn't do it. I did the honesty thing and told her that I really just didn't have the time this week to take out an entire day. She wasn't too disappointed. I don't think.

Okay, so she gets two Christmas presents this year.

Say, does anyone remember the eighties? When the Soviet Union was going win their war in Afganistan?

Remember how Reagan funded and trained this dude named Osama Bin Laden? Gave this young Saudi upstart weapons and training so that his little band of merry men could continue to stab at the great Soviet Army?

See, the idea was to get the Soviet Union bogged down in an unwinnable war, to drain their economy and military, to create massive civilian opposition to the war to weaken the entire structure of the Soviet government and bring down the communists.

Worked pretty good.

Ah Thanksgiving Day. Time to eat and watch parades. I hear some people watch football, but as I follow no sports, it remains a reported but unobserved custom in my home.

This year I am most thankful that Jason is cooking The Dinner. So far today I have: stubbed a toe, dropped an open jar of pickle relish, dropped half a salad on the floor and pinched a finger in the handle of a coffee cup. I seem to be having a Super-Klutz day. Could you see me pulling a thirteen pound turkey out of the oven?? Shades of "I Love Lucy".

But I am thankful. I'm thankful for my family who has to put up with me and my friends who choose to put up with me. I'm thankful for my job, which allows me the flexibility to write practically full time while still paying all my bills. I'm thankful my son is on a Navy ship in the Persian Gulf and not on the ground in Iraq or Afganistan. I'm thankful for the furballs who make me laugh every day. And mostly I'm thankful for Jason who really is the best guy in the world.

I was reading through a book I started reading about a year ago. Yes, I am one of those people who read a few chapters then set the book aside. I usually have three or four books going at once.

This one was a book by a fellow named Nigel Cawthorne, "Witch Hunt A History of Persecution". A nice charming little book that looks at the phenomenom of the witch hunts/trials in the US and in Europe.

The Middle Ages were a nasty time to be a woman. Or a rich dude who had enemies. You could be strung up with your arms tied behind you, placed on the rack, have a board laid over you upon which hot stones were piled higher and higher until you confessed and named names.

They didn't mess around with such foolishness as evidence. Once accused, you could be tortured until you confessed. In fact, not confessing under torture was considered by some a true sign of your guilt.

In Spain, around 1481, a man named Torquemada was made the Inquistor General. In this role, he sent more than two thousand people to be burned at the stake. Of Torquemada, Cawthorne writes, "Torture was largely Torquemada's contribution to the Inquisition. He instructed that torture could be used in any case where heresy was 'half proven' - in other words, an accusation had been made but no confession had been extracted. Simply being brought before the Inquisition was enough."

Then, if the rack and the strappado (the hanging with your arms tied behind you for a couple of hours) wasn't enough, they would bring out the water torture. Or you could be strapped in to a metal chair with your greased feet (so they would burn more slowly) tied over a grate under which a fire burned. Flogging and cutting off fingers and toes were also popular ways to get confessions.

Gosh. I am so glad that we live in enlightened times and an enlightened country where torture is no longer implemented. Because who would be so stupid as to think that it would result in getting the truth?????

I was looking for a book today. Not just a book, but a particular book. I couldn't find it. I have a sneaky suspicion that Jason has either hidden it or taken it away because it was one of those books that made me say things like: "This should be sent to the White House so some-one can read it to DUHH-bya."

But I couldn't find it.

I looked in the front room, where we have three packed bookcases. I looked in the back room where we have an overflowing little bookcase. I looked in the spare room where Jason has two overflowing bookcases. I looked in the bedroom where there is usually a stack on either bedside table.

I think we have a book problem. Many many years ago, I was moving to a larger apartment. My son got it in his head that he would count my books. He stopped at a thousand. At that time I decided maybe I should thin them out a little. I went through them and came up with a small box full that I was willing to part with. In a short time, I'd replaced those with new books.

When I bought the house, I also bought three six foot tall bookshelves and did another purge (I take my old books to the nursing home where my mom's ex-neighbor lives, the residents there really like getting fresh books). After that, I had room to spare on my bookshelves.

Then Jason moved in, bringing his biblioholic collection with him. I think we could qualify as a library. We've got it all. Literary fiction, detective fiction, women's fiction, general fiction, children's literature, history, social studies, poetry, how-to books, cook books, reference books....

An aquaintance once told me that she reads books from the library. Frankly, it horrified me. Now, I have nothing at all against libraries and have even checked out books from them before, old out of print books that I wanted to read.

But I must own my books. I have to be able to take my time with them, revel in them, let them get splashed with bubbly bath water or have bits of lunch dripped in them. They must endure little kitten scratches from where Loki tries to dislodge my thumb or teeth marks where Thor just flat out gnaws on the paper. I have to be able to go back to them, at a moments notice, to find that perfect sentence or that oh-so truthfully told paragraph, just so I can see it again.

Like a child's blanket or old teddy bear, my books are well worn and well loved. And impossible to part with.

Last summer, Jason brought home the new Harry Potter book, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. He was excited about it. An aquaintance from work was practically sitting by the door one night, purse in hand and her I-prepurchased-a-copy wrist band firmly strapped on, heading out to the midnight give away.

I'd never read any of them. Nor had I watched any of the movies. The only real reason I can think of was that I was afraid I'd get addicted to them.

So Jason bought me a gift set of the first five books. And I read them straight through in about two weeks. See? I know myself to well.

The above mentioned work aquaintance and another were already fans. As they discussed the happenings in Half-Blood Prince, I'd stick my fingers in my ears and sing in a such a dramatic fashion that they would stop. Or maybe it was my caterwaulting that passes as singing I don't know. Probably.

The big question everyone was discussing was the death of "a major character". For those who haven't read it, I'd stop here cos I'm gonna spill the beans.

Spoiler Alert....

I must say, I read the book with a certain amount of apprehension, worrying who it might be. But when it turned out to be Dumbledore, it didn't surprise me at all. It made perfect sense. In almost all mythology (and this is mythology), the young hero must face his enemy alone. There can be no hope or possibility of help or rescue. It is his moment to stand alone and become the man he never thought he could be. The one his teacher always knew he would become.

Then, because I'm such an addictive thing (right now it's TicTacs, can't stop eating them, it's insane), after I read all the books, I had to watch all the movies. Then after I watched all the movies, I wanted to read all the books again.
I didn't get much done last week.

Tonight, we are meeting a work friend to see the new movie, The Goblet of Fire. I'm excited. It'll be the first one I've seen on the big screen. And now, I must go dig out my huge going to the movies purse, the one that will hold a bag of microwave popcorn, some candy and a couple of sodas.

Kidding! Kidding! Calm down, I know it's against the rules, Hermione.

It's true, you know. No good deed goes unpunished.

Once upon a time, my clan would gather for Thanksgiving dinner at a local restaurant. Only people who've never done it think it's a terrible thing. Just imagine: Thanksgiving day, you lounge around in your robe and slippers, sipping coffee and watching the parades on TV. Maybe take a mid-morning nap. At some pre-determined time, you put on some mildly dressy clothes and meet everybody at the designated site.

Nothing to cook, nothing to haul over to some-one's house. No dishes to wash. Just all you can eat in public without embarassing yourself. Go home, take a nap. Wonderful Thanksgiving.

The only drawback is no left over turkey, dressing and cranberry sandwiches, but that can be remedied with a little nerve and a purse full of plastic baggies.

But this year, the clan is scattered (the farthest being my son who is floating around the Persian Gulf somewhere on a government owned ship). No deal on the restaurant thing. So, I offer to have a small dinner here for myself, Jason and my mom.

Then my mom suggests that maybe my brother who is recently separated might need a place to go. Okay four.

Then my recently separated brother tells me that his soon-to-be-ex-wife's new place isn't in the shape the landlord said it was and well......

Sure, I say, bring the girls. Six. Gulp.

Well, he wants everyone to come. They are on good terms, it would be mean to take the girls and leave their mom alone since her family lives in another state.

Okay! Seven!!

Here's the problem. I have exactly one 36 inch round dining room table with two chairs. It can accomodate four if we use the director's chair from the back room and the computer desk chair. And we all like each other. A lot.

I have one section of counter that is about four feet in length. I have one frying pan, two big pots, one medium pot and one small pot. I have two big bowls and two small bowls. And since I broke two dinner plates a few months ago, I'm going to have to count them to see if I even have seven of them.

I don't entertain much.

Luckily my family is far removed from the hoity-toity downtown elite as we can be. We don't need a perfectly decorated table set for twelve with perfect, matching china and crystal goblets. We wouldn't know which fork to use, well my mom probably would, she's a Southern Belle trained in the old school.

Mix matched dinner plates, three different styles of drinking glasses, plastic serving bowls, sitting on the floor around the coffee table, swatting curious kittens out of our plates, that we can handle.

That's who we are. A little rough around the edges maybe, but there for each other no matter what. And that is something to be thankful for.

I went shopping with my mother today. I hate shopping. Really. I do. I hate clothes, I hate shoes. I think pajama's should be fine for everyday wear. Sneakers in the winter, barefoot in the summer.

I'm spoiled because I get to wear what are essentially pj's to work and comfy shoes are a requirement. So I never HAVE to wear stupid things like panty hose and toe-pinching shoes with ankle breaking heels.

But I need some new clothes. I'm getting a little old for the tee-shirt and jeans routine. So I was in a mood to shop, which is rare.

First off, shopping with my mom is a love/hate thing. One, she can shop circles around me. Two, she's still a perfect size six and can wear short skirts because she didn't get her mother's varicose veins, I did. Three, she keeps her glasses in her purse until she needs to look at a price tag. It's annoying and when I tell her what the price is, she still gets out her glasses to check.

Because I am such a natural born slob, I can't go into stores like Bloomingdales or Nordstrom (YES! We have those down here in hickville, thank you very much!). I can't do it because no matter how much I like something, if it is more than say, $60, I'm not buying it. No piece of cloth is worth that much. I don't care how cute it is. I dont' care how darling it would look with that black suede skirt.

But I did alright. I found a really cute dusty rose pink jacket (that DOES, in fact look darling with my black suede skirt). And two sweaters, one red with black beaded flowers and the other a rich ruby red.

Anyone in the Charleston area who hasn't been to Consigning Women in the Avondale area (near Gerald's Tires), I highly recommend it. The clothing is in excellent shape and the prices are awesome. I got the two sweaters in mint condition for $17.

So good it may make a shopper out of me yet. Or maybe not. If I buy clothes, I have to buy shoes. Shudder.

I feel a little bad. I go on and on about my kittens and Sutu the Amazing 'Fraidy Cat, but we do have another pet.

Well...."pet" is a strong word. As is "we". Can I say there is another non-human animal co-existing in the house with us who belongs to Jason?

Now don't get me wrong. I don't dislike Mick Jagger. It's just that a "pet" that pisses and shits whereever it happens to feel the urge, including his own food bowl and MY LAP, doesn't exactly fall under the category pet. In my personal opinion.

The name fits him. Let his food bowl or his water thing get empty and he'll throw a tantrum to match any rock star's finest hissy fit.

And he is cute. From the shoulders forward. When he doesn't have a mushed up turd hanging off his butt or between his toes.

See:



Photograph by Jason Zwiker

People have asked me about having a guinea pig and cats. It's okay. Sort of. Sutu ignores him. Loki is mildly interested in a some-day-if-I-feel-like-it-I'll-kill-and-eat-you sort of way.

Thor. Sheesh. Mick and Thor are buds. Best buds. Open Mick's cage and Thor is in there in a flash, hanging out and squishing Mick turds between his own paws. The problem is that Mick is a randy little thing (whether due to his guinea pig-ness or just taking after his name sake, I don't know). And Thor is just a little innocent kitten who doesn't know any better.

How do I put this? We have to supervise their visits because Mick sexually molests my kitten. I don't hold it against him personally (very much) because he is an animal with a brain size that allows for only five life functions: eating, sleeping, pissing, pooping and having sex. But it is highly disturbing to find your kitten rolled over on his back with a guinea pig fast at his private parts.

Animals are weird.

Yesterday I decided I needed a filing system. Tossing all bills and paperwork in a huge pile inside a cabinent may have worked when I was younger, but I'm a grown up professional homeowner now. For Pete's sake.

Mostly, my joints are failing at an alarming rate (a gift from my father's side of the family: we are tall, but arthritic) and sitting on the floor sifting through a small mountain of paper to find the one thing I'm looking for is getting not only too time consuming but painful.

I waited until the kittens were taking a nap, helped along by a pile of catnip, then I tossed all the paper on the floor and began sorting.

Everything important separated out in individual piles and one big ole "to be shredded" pile.

Holy actuary tables, Batman!! Do you know how much freakin' insurance you gotta have these days? I got your basic homeowners insurance, I got flood insurance, I should but don't have earthquake insurance, I have auto insurance, health insurance, dental, life, disability insurance, long and short term, nursing home insurance, and if I wanted it, I can now get cancer insurance. I have malpratice insurance. I've got one of those home warranty things that is essentially insurance for my appliances. I've got everything except the fridge and the cats insured!

By the time I realized I didn't remember to get file folders to put all these papers in, I'm tired, I'm sneezing out five year old dust mites and I'm in no mood for Highway 61 afternoon traffic. I call Jason and beg him to steal some folders from work, which he does not do, he stops like a good person and buys some on his way home.

So now, I have a nice, neat and tidy file box where my mountain o'paper used to be. It's like a grown up lives here or something.

I have minor hissy fits frequently. I think it's good for the psyche to just rant for a moment or two. A few days ago, however, I had a major melt down fit. Yelling and cussing and kick-a-kitten mad.

I'm over it now. And no, I did not kick a kitten.

See, most people don't understand what it means to be poor. The working poor. That undercurrent of worry and fear that threads through every waking moment and often even appears in your dreams.

I don't mean the kind of poor that most people think they are when they can't afford to eat dinner at Charleston Place.

I'm talking the kind of poor where you find yourself selling your blood plasma a couple times of year so you can buy vitamins for your child because you can't afford the good food you know he/she needs to grow up healthy.

The kind of poor where a flat tire means you have to turn off the air conditioning or the heat for a month or so to save money to pay for it.

The kind of poor where going to the phone company or the electric company to beg for a little more time or to set up a payment schedule is something you have to do regardless of the shamed, less-than feeling it gives you.

The kind of poor where you live in substandard housing and if you are lucky, you drive a piece of shit car held together with hope and desparation.

I've been there. I've done that.

So when I got an unexpected bill for a huge gob of money that was either going to wipe out my savings account or send my mortgage payment soaring, I had a little post traumatic flash back.

Luckily, I now have resources. I have savings. I paid the bill. I'll start saving again. I'm not going without because of one unexpected event.

This makes me, in contrast to many in American and most in the world, rich.

I try to be grateful.

I would like to start a grass-roots movement to ban the cruel and unusual punishment of American consumers.

I'm talking about Christmas, people.

There is a local radio station that began playing Christmas music on November first. Twenty four hours a day, seven days a week. Upper management should be arrested, tried, and sentenced to wrap gifts at department stores those last two weeks before the big day. Those days when we consumers are beginning to hate everyone and everything about Christmas because it has been shoved down our throats ever since the very instant Halloween was over.

The music is everywhere. The mall, the grocery store, anywhere you could possibly spend a penny.

It's insane. You're handing out Halloween candy one evening and then the next morning on your trip to the grocery store to buy Pepto for either yourself or the kids because some-one had to sample all the candy, you find yourself standing in the check out line humming along to "Jingle Bell Rock".

My local store was putting up decorations and putting out Christmas junk (cookie scented candles, ho-ho-ho boxer shorts) on November third. I know this because I was there.

"Did I miss Thanksgiving?" I asked.

They laughed at me!

Thanksgiving, pish-posh. The retailers can't make any money off of Thanksgiving. Okay, maybe a few restaurants and the grocery stores. But Thanksgiving doesn't cause guilt trip shopping unto the point of bankrupcty. The retailers of American like that, they count on it.

If we'd start giving Thanksgiving presents maybe we'd be allowed stave off Christmas a few weeks.

I know I'm not the only Grinch in the country. Everyone else I know hates it, along with the few strangers being interviewed on the local news moaning about how Christmas is over-hyped too soon (and now a word from our sponsors: cut to Christmas commercial).

So why is it done?

Because the retailers do not care about what their consumers think. If you don't believe me, try to return something to any store and really notice the hostility and distain with which you are treated. You're probably so used to it, you don't really notice anymore.

All they care about is that they might make a few more bucks off of you.

And they won't stop. Even if every person in American complains, they won't stop. Why should they? We throw ourselves in to a frenzy of spending every year.

Decorating the house inside and out.

Gifts for everyone who even wanders around the peripherary of our lives.

The biggest, brightest, bestest of everything for each child in our lives because "it's only once a year".

Parties that require a new dress and shoes and accessories because the same old people are going to be there and God forbid you been seen in something from last year.

Designer wrapping paper and ribbons because the outside of a gift is just as important as what's inside.

On and on. We have been trained like Pavlov's dogs to drag out a credit card at the sound of a Christmas song.

There is no escaping it either because every retailer does it.

What can we do?

Well, there is plenty we can do.

Like make homemade gifts. Like teaching our children that the number of presents under the tree is meaningless. Like the good old days of one main present per child and the rest being socks and shirts and fruit. Like staying home with your family.

The number one thing we can do is spend less money. Not a little less money, but a whole heck of a lot less money. Because then all those retail executives will look at that holiday bottom line and realize they aren't getting that big fat cushy bonus to pay off all their holiday extravaganzas.

Then we'll see some action. Then there will be reports and investigations and a silly interest what we consumers want.

Then perhaps we won't hear Christmas carols until the day after Thanksgiving. Wouldn't that be nice?

Yesterday, Thor waded through ankle deep (on him) water to stare as the bath water swirled down the drain. I called it a maelstrom once and I think he thinks it is his Viking duty to challenge it.

When he got tired of watching, he sat down. In the water.

I told him that the Cat Licensing Board was on the way to revoke his cat license. He'd have to call himself a dog from now on.

Then, before I left for work last evening, I found him sitting quietly in the window of the spare room. He seemed to be contemplating the world outside. Upon closer inspection, he was found to be trying to figure out how to get the six inches of venetian blind cord he'd swallowed back out of his throat. Thank God I'd cut the cord or he'd have hung himself.

Then bright and early this morning as I returned from work, the front window blinds were open and both Thor and Loki were perched on the window sill. As I pulled in, Loki had a keen look of interest about him.

Thor looked like he might be drooling.

Now, I adore Thor. He is very sweet. He is lovable and loving and funny.

I'm beginning to fear that he really is dumb as a box of toe nail clippings.

But I love him anyway.

I took our older cat, Sutu (it means tiger in Vietnamese), to the vet yesterday. Twenty miles down Highway 61 to Summerville. It's okay. I like my vet. And the leaves are turning and falling and parts of 61 are still green tunnels with sunlight beaming through the gaps like lasers.

It would be a pleasant ride if not for the constant stream of big rig dump trucks and flatbeds carrying loads of freshly slaughtered trees away. Making way for the vanilla slums to be built over land that until now was disturbed only the ghosts of long ago Indians and a few modern day deer hunters.

In other words, I try to enjoy my drives through there. Every time might well be the last time.

And it is enjoyable (unless I get behind an out-of-state license plate, a car full 'o tourists heading up to Middleton or Magnolia Gardens). It's a scary road sometimes. The massive oaks sit literally inches off the asphalt and although the posted speed limit on its winding two lanes is 55, most familiar with it drive much faster.

But taking the cat is torture of another sort. Twenty miles of a pained, fade away, woe is me meow.

Good news though. Kidney fuction tests were normal. In the high end of normal, but normal. Bad news, he has lost a bit more weight. One more month on the special diet food and if no improvement or change, we'll retest the thyroid functions, which were normal last time.

Strange thing, the vet tech, Petra, who is awesome, showed me my chart there. I am client number 12. My old cat, Miss Kitty, was their first feline patient. Kind of cool.

My mom is shrinking.

It's very strange how these things sneak up on you. I met her today at O'Charley's for lunch. I got there first and was perusing the Charleston City Paper for Jason articles when she arrived. I stood up to hug her and that's when I noticed that the top of her head just barely cleared my shoulder.

I was wearing sneakers. No sky high stiletto heels for me. For one thing, I'd kill my klutzy-ass self.

I've been taller than her since I turned fourteen and grew six inches in one summer. When did this happen? When did she shrink?

My mother is seventy years old. Put aside your gray-haired knitting granny in the rocking chair image.

My mom works full time. She travels. She just got back from a week long trip to New York City with her sister. They saw three Broadway plays: Lion King, Wicked and Spamalot, which my mom absolutely loved.

She has less gray hair than me, can shop me in to the ground and has a better memory than me.

She has no significant health problems other than slightly high cholesterol and some osteoporosis.

I know, I'm a nurse. Osteoporosis can make you shrink.

But that's scientific knowledge talk. That has no business being dragged in to my mom's life.

She's shrinking. And some how I'm becoming the parent.

I'm the one checking up on her. I go to her doctor's appointments with her or she calls me and fills me in on what happened with the doctor. She won't ask the doctor questions, she waits until she gets home and calls me.

I find myself admonishing her for things like running along a wet slope to tell me that a one foot long alligator was following me as I tried reunite a baby duck with its family. "You could have broken a hip running on wet grass!" I hear the words tumbling out in the same tone I would have used to scold my son.

As a child, the only girl, I worshipped my mother and looked up to her. I still do.

But there is something about laying my cheek on the top of her head when we embrace that both breaks my heart and fills it with love.

I'm reading Jimmy Carter's new book, "Our Endangered Values".

I love Jimmy Carter. I think he is the best ex-president this country has ever had or ever will have.

I'm not a Christian. I'm not any other major religion either. I don't know what I am. But that doesn't matter.

I love Jimmy Carter.

I have always believed that the teachings of the various religions in the world are good things. They are good guidebooks on how to live your life and how to interact with the world.

Somewhere along the line in the last ten years or so (perhaps longer, behind the scenes), religion, mainly fundamentalist Christians in this country, have stopped applying religious teachings inwardly to themselves and begun applying them outwardly, telling everyone else what and how they should be.

In this book Mr. Carter says of the fundamentalist trends in all major religions, "Increasingly true believers are inclined to begin a process of deciding: 'Since I am aligned with God, I am superior and my beliefs should prevail, and anyone who disagrees with me is inherently wrong,' and the next step is 'inherently inferior.' The ultimate step is 'subhuman,' and then their lives are not significant."

It's a scary world out there. When a prominent religious leader can blithely call for the murder of another human being and people just shrug, we are rapidly approaching "inherently inferior".

Every person over the age of fifteen in America, regardless of religious affliation, should be required to read this book.

We desperately need to hear Mr. Carter's message.

Don't fall for that sweet goofy innocent face.

While eating lunch, I heard a crash from the back of the house. I found Thor head first down the A/C vent after he managed to pull the cover grill off. Do they give Ritalin to cats?

Last week we went to Washington, DC. Jason did some photography for the Heart Gallery (it's a charity-type thing that recruits photographers to do portraits of hard to adopt foster children). One of his photographs was selected to be on display in the Russell Senate Building on Capital Hill. And there was a reception at Union Station and some of the photographs from around the country were on display there also.

It was on a Tuesday.

I've worked night shift, Friday, Saturday and Sunday for years. I am used to not being able to do anything with anyone because the entire world is set around a M-F work week.

I said, "We are going."

Jason said, "DC is expensive."

I said, "I don't care."

It was a quick trip. From the time we left the house for the airport until we walked back in to find three very pissed off cats waiting for us was just a hair over thirty hours. Not near enough time to do anything.

Luck followed us the entire trip. Our planes were on time. We had great weather. The shuttle bus put us in different rows of seats. This was a good thing. In the end.

Small airport shuttle. Foreign type driver, from the accent, I thought Greek, maybe. In first row, Jason, strange 60-something-ish lady with the back of her head crew-cut cropped up to her ears. Spiky purple-red hair in front. A five inch rat tail with beads growing out of the middle of the back of her head. There was another lady next to her, but I swear to God, I don't think I was ever able to drag my eyes away from that rat tail long enough to register what she looked like.

In second row, me, a sweet, round, perfectly bleached blond, 40-ish, Georgian from the accent, could have been Alabama, that Jaw-jah peach accent does tend to blur near the borders. Jaw-jah Peach's slightly older friend next to her.

Heading up Consitution Avenue, the traffic bogs down. I can see up ahead, the DC police have a dump truck pulled over. There is a heavily armed policeman walking along the sidewalk beside us, heading towards the dumptruck. He's got a gun on just about every extremity and is carrying one big ass (I don't know nothing about this) automatic type looking rifle.

Jaw-jah Peach: "Oh mah grashious, ya'll! Did ya'll see his gu-uun? Are awwll the PO-licemen down heyah ahmed like tha-yat?"

(At this point, Jason's head came up out of the map he'd been perusing and I could almost see his writer's ear vibrating.)

Now, I know people like this, heck, sometimes I'm like that. We southern girls are expected to be shocked at the realities and ugliness of life. I was fine with her consternation.

As I was starting to point out the situation ahead, Rat-Tail Granny turns around.

Rat-Tail Granny: "Let's just all pretend like it's one of those, those, oh, those heart-starting machines. So's we can put a positive image on it."

Ever have to not only hold back your laughter but also keep a straight face? It makes your eyeballs hurt.

Good luck. If Jason and I had been sitting where we could have seen each others faces.....we would have been......rude.

We made it to our hotel - The Phoenix Park Hotel - at a few minutes before one in the afternoon. Lovely hotel. Marvelous. I'm something of a hotel snob and will spend money for a good one. This one was worth almost every cent. I thought the desk staff could have been a little friendlier, but hey, I was a one night stay hick from the deep South, I understand. I wasn't worthy of being TOO nice too.

By one fifteen, we'd crossed the street to Union Station (which for some reason, I kept calling Union Square). We wandered about a few minutes, looking at the Heart Gallery pictures there before heading to the Russell Building to see Jason's. Then we did a five hour walking tour.

Past the Capital Bldg, up to the National Mall, down the Mall to the Washington Memorial, to the WWII Memorial, to the Lincoln Memorial (where some clunk-head college boys were taking disgusting pictures), then to the Vietnam Wall, where we found my son's Great-Uncle's name and took some photographs for him. Then to the White House, then ALLLLLLL the way back to the Hotel.

See, my mind says I'm still twenty, but my knees remind me of the truth. Jason made an appearance at the reception while I propped up my poor legs. A quick dinner later at the Dubliner Pub (yummy) and off to bed.

The next morning, I tucked the complimentary copy of the Washington Post into our suitcase and we zoomed off to Union Station for the excitement of taking the subway to the Ronnie Reagan Airport. We managed to do it with only looking a little bit like clueless tourists (trying to figure out the ticket buyinging thing).

At the airport, I settled back with the paper. Oh, look an article on the Heart Gallery. Continued on page B5. I flipped it open. Looked at the picture. Nudged Jason. "These people look familiar?"

It was us. In the five-ten minutes we were there at Union Station, we got our picture in the paper. Pretty cool. I can tell people I was in the Washington Post. Never mind that it's my back to the camera and I look like a complete geek because it was hotter than I expected and I had my sweater tied around my waist.

To heck with it, I was on vacation!

Two and a half years ago, I took to my writer's group a five page opening to what I thought might end up as a short story. Most everyone seemed to like it, including the people whose opinions I held in high esteem. One of them told me, "You're on to something there, stay with it."

So I stayed with it and when the state conference rolled around six months later, I had twenty pages. I bravely sent in the first ten for a manuscript critique. It was my first conference and I wanted to participate in everything.

The lady who did my critique was an agent. She liked it. She asked me if it was complete. I felt like an idiot as I had to tell her that I only had twenty pages. She said I was brave to subject it to a critique so early. I felt like a bigger idiot. Then she said that when it was complete, I should query her.

Now that would have lit a virtual firestorm under most people. Me, not so much. It did motivate me to think more seriously about where I wanted to go with this story, which became known in my group as "The Meg Story". (I've tried several times to get a manuscript naming contest going on, as titles are not my strong point).

Two years later, well, truthfully, two years and four months later, it was a nice 80,000 word manuscript. Well received and wonderfully critiqued throughout the writing process by some pretty sharp cookies.

So a few weeks before the state wide writers conference this October, I sent a friendly little email to the agent, reminding her of who I was, what my manuscript was, and her suggestion that I query her. I offered to bring any amount of said manuscript that she desired to the conference.

Two days before the conference, she emailed me back telling me that I could bring the first five chapters, a synopsis, an author bio and a SASE to give her.

Two days! Okay. Problem number one: I, for whatever reason that I try not to worry about anymore, am incapable of writing in chapters. I just write. Solution: average chapter is 10-12 pages, take the first 50 pages. Problem number two: I have no synopsis. Solution: go in to full-out panic mode.

Really. Fine. I'm an idiot. I know. Every writer's magazine, book, conference and workshop stresses the synopsis until the point of nausea. I just didn't have time to get to it. I'd just fininshed the damn thing and was happy to get a first go-through edit completed.

So I emailed Heidi, a fellow member of the group who happens to be represented by this agent. What does the agent want? A short two paragraph summary or one of those scene by scene discriptions of the entire book? (Cross fingers, toes, arms, legs and eyes while chanting: short summary, short summary.)

Both.

Well shit. I have one full day. Who needs sleep? I settled at the kitchen table with the manuscript, a spiral notebook and a pen. And two kittens who think writing is a game where the goal is to jump up, knock the pen out of my hand and bat it under the refridgerator before I can get it back.

By the time Jason gets home, I'm practically manic with the stress. I've outlined the whole story in short declarative sentences. I've typed it up. He reads it over and declares it acceptable. (I've lost all objectivity by this point, so yield to his opinion, besides to agree means I don't have to work on it anymore.)

He does, however, take pity on me and rewrites the two paragraph summary. I read what he's done. It's perfect. It's beautiful and succinct.

It's also so very obviously the work of a writer other than myself. Jason and I have very different writing styles and voices. He is very literary and lyrical. I am very general fiction and matter of fact. But at this point, I don't care. His summary goes on top of my synopsis and the entire package is shoved in a manila envelope. For better or worse.

I spend the first day at the conference wandering around staring at people's chests, trying to read name tags without squinting. (My eyeglasses are about three years old and I need new ones, but the optometrist told me I needed bifocals and I refuse to accept it just yet.) But I don't find the agent. I can't remember what she looks like.

That evening, at the reception, I found Heidi and she kindly pointed out the agent to me.

The next morning, after the keynote speech, I approached the agent, introduced myself, gave her the package, made a small joke based on something the keynote speaker had said, shook her hand and thanked her.

It wasn't until I sat back down that I started shaking. I sat there for about fifteen minutes before it stopped. Jason patted my hand and told me I'd done just fine.

But it wasn't that. It wasn't the act of giving her my manuscript. It was what it meant.

I'd been calling myself a writer for a long time. But it was mostly just a little fantasy, a game, an amusement that I let myself pretend while tapping away at the keyboard, inventing these people.

But now it was real. I'd declared myself a writer to a professional agent who, if she desired, was going to try to sell my story to a professional editor at a real publishing house. There was no going back. No "this was just a lark".

So now I'm grateful that Jason picks up the mail in the afternoon. I'm developing a real writer's anxiety that everytime I see the mail truck, I am convinced that there is a nice little "thanks, but no thanks" letter tucked into my SASE just waiting for me out there.

In the meantime, the weather is nice and I sit on the deck overlooking the creek, watching the fiddler crabs scurry about while the people who live in my next novel whisper their stories to me.

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.

Thor (right) and Loki (left)
Approx. four months old.
Photograph by Jason A Zwiker

At around three months of age, Loki discovered water. Well, not "discovered" discovered, he'd been drinking it all along. He discovered that if he put his paw in the bowl, the water would slosh around. Even better with both paws in it. Best of all if he'd just come from the litter box with some hard clumping litter residue on his paws.

Then he decided that dropping a mouthful of dry food in the water bowl was a sport. He even got Thor to play.

I changed the water bowl and mopped the floor about six times a day. I also gave up on keeping a glass of water around. Finally, an idea managed to make its way through the Swiss cheese of my pre-Alzheimers mind. (Remember high school, giggling and laughing over how many brain cells that toke or chug just killed? It ain't so funny x-many years later when you start to miss those good old neurons!)

Where was I? Oh, yeah, water. If Loki liked the water, how about the bathtub? I filled it so just the front part was kitten-ankle deep.

Oh peace! Oh joy. Oh both kittens occupied for hours. And I didn't have to worry about them drowning like real human babies. Loki waded in the water and patted and splashed and had a good old time.

Thor sat on the edge, staring at his brother, occasionally letting loose with one of his deep, throaty meows that evidently meant, "That's WATER! Dude! We're cats!"

Loki didn't care. He even got a bath one day, courtesy of daddy Jason. So did Thor, which may have been a mistake, because it only made him not fear the water. Ever try to take a shower with a kitten inside the bathtub with you? It is odd to say the least.

I eventually bought them a set of rubber duckies. Okay, what the HELL has happened to rubber duckies? Remember them? Big bright yellow ducks that floated on the water. Holding them under and letting go to see how far up out of the water they would shoot? Well, after hitting almost every toy/baby store, Target and WalMart in town, I finally find a little set of three at the World Market of all places. Three little teeny tiny things dressed as a fireman, a police officer and something else that I can't remember.

They don't float. Well, they float, but either sideways or facedown. I'm glad they are for my flipping crazy kittens and not a child. It would cause a trauma, I'm sure.

West Ashley Water Cats. That's what we decided their breed must be. If not, it is now.

The kittens were home three days when Thor starts sneezing and has drainage from his eyes. I not so quietly go into a schizoid type phase where I know this isn't what Conan had, but still it's the same damn pattern. Day three.

I'm glad this time my regular vet is available. With Conan, he was out of town and the substitute vet poo-poohed my concerns. Chad knows me. He knows I have a background in neonatology, which doesn't transfer 100%, but it's surprising how much baby humans and baby kittens are alike. Mostly he likes that when he says things like penicillinase, I understand him.

So the kittens take the forty mile round trip to the vet. They are weighed. Loki is 2 pounds, Thor 1.8 pounds. They are ooohed and ahhed over by the staff. (They are damn cute kittens.) Thor has a cold. And a heart murmer. Barely a Grade One, Chad tells me. Heart murmers in cats are graded just like in humans. One is the least worrisome, just a sort of "okay, it's there, we'll keep it in mind". I'm given pink antibiotics for both of them since Thor is sure to share it with his brother. Which either the medicine works for Loki or he never gets it, because he never showed a single sign.

The next two days, I'm noticing every little difference in Thor's behavior. He doesn't eat as much as Loki, he doesn't play as long as Loki. Jason reels off his standard, "He is eating, drinking, pooping, peeing and playing. He is fine."

I know he is fine. But that little voice in my head is convinced I'm missing something and this kitten will die also. I spend much of the week saying, "I know I'm crazy, but..."

On Friday, Thor is sounding bad. He is snuffling and wheezing through his nose. When I'm not on the phone with the vet's office. "I don't think the medicine is working." "Is there anyway to suction out his nose?" "Is it okay if he breathes through his mouth when he is sleeping?"

Finally, they give me an appointment for Saturday morning, just to shut me up.

I dig out the cool air humidifier and Thor and I sit in the tiny bathroom in the master bedroom, inhaling the steam. He loves it and tries to catch the clouds. He also starts sneezing again, clearing up a good bit of his stuffiness.

I work night shift on the weekends, so Jason took the kittens for their Saturday morning appointment. When I woke up that afternoon, his report of "everyone was laughing at Thor because he sounded like a snotty two year old." wasn't exactly what I wanted to hear.

But he survived. So did I. And it gave the staff at the vet's office an idea of things to come with me and the kittens.

We have an adult cat. Or rather, I have an adult cat. His name is Sutu, which is the same name as the first cat I ever had, a big fat Siamese. That Sutu was cool. Even the German Shepard next door was afraid of him. This Sutu has the same name. Period. He is and always has been one of those high strung skittish cats that fears everyone and everything on the planet. Except me.

Unless I'm not home and you can show him your cat food can opening abilities. Then he'll decide that you aren't some cat murdering pyscho for the length of time it takes him to wolf down three or four bites. When the worst of the hunger pangs pass, he'll remember that you aren't me and this was all a clever ruse to lure him out so you can kill him.

He's thirteen years old and there are members of my family who think I'm just making him up. They've never seen him. Well, they've seen pictures.

But he likes me. When it's just us, he acts like a normal cat. Always has. But let the front door open and he is gone.

We put him on Elavil once. I was hoping for Valium, figuring if he didn't chill out, maybe I could. That was a disaster. All it did was make him afraid of me. Because I was the only human on the planet who could possible get a pill down his throat without the need of stitches or blood transfusions. So we let him live under the bed. He seems to like it there.

So given his pyschological problems, I was a little concerned about bringing two kittens in to the house. But Sutu was the last of four cats we'd had while my son was growing up and I thought maybe some kittens would give him some playmates, spice up his remaining years a little.

Yeah. It was spicy indeed.

It was only a month of hissing and spitting and growling (and that was just me and Sutu) to come to some sort of detante. Which was that Thor was in charge. Of everything. And everybody. Including the humans.

It started innocently enough, as these things often do, with a phone call.

"I'm at the SPCA and they have an orange male kitten. He's really cute."

I didn't want an orange kitten. We'd had an orange kitten who died after one week in our home. Monday and Tuesday spent falling in love with our brave little Conan. Wednesday and Thursday calling the vet like over anxious parents. Friday, Saturday and Sunday visiting our little guy in the ICU of the emergency vet clinic. Monday making the decision that he had nothing left to fight with. They gave us a diagnosis, some infection which I never can quite remember.

So it's only been a month and as I drive to the SPCA, I know I don't want another orange kitten. I arrive to find Jason in the play room with an adorable handful of orange fur.

"It feels like replacement," I say.

There is a young couple waiting on my decision. They want him.

But, what's this? This unusually marked brown and white tabby kitten zooming around the room? He's cute. It takes me several tries to corral him, which should have been a hint of things to come. He struggles in my grasp, wanting to be free to stalk the toys. A little throat scratching calms him down and he purrs.

"He's cute. We could take him."

We consider the little brown furball. Well, Jason considers. I'm in love. We decide, yes, we are ready for another one. We go to his cage to get his card.

There is his brother.

There is only the two of them.

"I can't separate them," I say.

I'd had kittens long ago, as a child. But those childhood memories did not prepare me for the adult realities of having two kittens in the house.

Bert and Ernie are quickly renamed Thor (God of Thunder) and Loki (God of Mischief) and the chaos begins.