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.