Oh, this is great...

just what this nation needs an even more mysogynistic gang of religious fanatics.

Speaking of mysogynistic religious puds, any-one remember the book, The Handmaiden's Tale? By......uh, can't find my copy...Atwood? Atwater? Bueller? Bueller?

Sorry, my train of thought jumps tracks faster than a...what was I saying?

Oh, yeah, Handmaiden. Remember when the Christiano-facists took over and they fired every working woman in the country, turned all her assets over to a husband, father or brother?

What were they going to do about hospitals? How were they going to keep them running without nurses, of which still well over 90% are women? Because if they think I'm going in to work shifts for free, cause they said God said so, they'll just have to shoot me.


Thor sez: ..stretch..MUST you get so worked up during my nap? Now, go fix me a turkey pot pie. God said you have to. I'm a boy cat.

Living Blue in a Red State

My son says he will never come back to live in South Carolina. I don't know if it is my greatest triumph or greatest failure as a parent that I raised a blue boy in a very red state.

All I know is I raised a man who would never say these words to me:

"If gays want to be married, they can move to a country where they can."

I managed to hold back my first thought (and second and third and fourth) which was along the lines of how I'd heard that hatred spewed about another minority group wanting equal rights in the not too distant past.

Such ignorance is impossible to deal with. It is based in self hatred (as evidenced by the need to find some group to make 'less than').

I'm sick and tired of the South. I'm sick and tired of the venom and mean spirited comments. I'm sick of the division. I'm sick of being smeared with a broad brush of political vomit just because some-one wants to put a 'liberal' label on me. I'm sick and tired of watching liberals spew hatred back at conservatives.

If we are truly a Christain nation, why are we living with so much anger? When are we going to stop letting politicians divide us with sound bites and pokes at our weaknesses and prejudices? When are we going to realize that we all, liberal and conservative, are being deceived and used? When are we going to put aside our fire and rhetoric? It isn't all or nothing. America has never been all or nothing. It's about finding common ground. And today, we won't even try to listen to each other without casting about for "oh, all you liberals think..." or "I see, all you conservatives are...".

I'm sick of it.


Thor sez: Off with their heads! Gnaw. Gnaw.

Halloween trinkets...

Experts say one way to tell a cat's personality is by observing how they react to new things in their environment.
This is true.


Loki: what is this? Some sort of creature?


Perhaps I can eat it?


Oh, hello, may I sniff you?


You again?


Thor: Goody goody goody a new toy. Sniff. Sniff.


Maybe I shouldn't eat it, last time that bug didn't taste so good.


Gnaw. Gnaw. Gnaw.


Die plastic werewolf, die!

Photos by Jason Zwiker (proof that I am not alone in my insanity, thank you very much)

Okay, I'm a dork

Nothing wrong with Loki's eye. A little tiny hair was stuck up under the lid and was wandering around. They put dye in the eye and lit it up, no scratches, no ulcerations, nothing but an embarassed mom.

But once again, my ABSOLUTLEY AWESOME vet - Chad Reynolds at Central Vet Clinic in Summerville - shows how the BEST he is - no charge for the visit, even after I offered to pay for an office visit at the least.


Loki's new favorite toy: green puff ball


Loki's new favorite game: you can't see me

Hi ho, hi ho

it's off to the vet we go. With Loki cat, who is so fat, hi ho hi ho.

Last night I was taking pictures of the cats because they are cute and I am insane. This morning, I downloaded them on the computer and began sorting through them. Then I got to a close up of Loki and there was this thing in his eye. At first, I thought it was a whisker hanging down in front of his eye, but no, on other pictures, it is clearly a big oval blob right over his pupil.

So I went and got the actual, real cat and held him up to the window. It looks like tiny scratches on his eye.

Then, I have my obligatary freak out, compete with stomach cramps and near hyperventilation: Oh no...his retina is detached and now it's ulcerated and he is going to lose the entire eye and I'll have a one-eyed cat and it's not fair because Loki has the best round owl eyes I've ever seen.

Then, I calmed down and realized that he was and hasn't been showing any symptoms of any kind of discomfort, no drainage, no squinting, no third eyelid rolling up, he can see out of it (blinks when I flick a finger towards it), the pupil contracts and constricts in perfect harmony with the other eye.

So I called my poor long suffering vet and have an appointment this afternoon. Which surprised me because he is getting so popular (because he is AWESOME) that it's hard to get a right-away appointment.

But they were really cute pictures because it's getting cooler and the boys have taken to snuggling up on the bed because the mattress pad warmers are on low so the humans will have a warm bed at bedtime.

And I'd share them with you if blogger would cooperate.
Edit: Okay, it was my fault, not bloggers. The photos were hi res.

Loki licking Thor's ear.

Snuggle kitties.

Rush to judgement?

Has Rush Limbaugh gone insane? Is the lack of oxycontin in his blood stream making him irritable or something? Flailing his arms, flopping around in his seat calling Michael J. Fox a “faker”? Stating Fox must be off his medications?

If Rush had taken a moment to look into Parkinson’s disease (or is that one of those things that Rush claims is a moral failure, not an illness, like oh, how he used to say drug addiction was?) he would have known (or at least been forced to accept) that Fox’s symptoms are exactly what advanced Parkinson’s looks like, caused BY the medications.

And now the fighting shall begin. Fox is exploiting his illness. Politicians are using him for political gain. Let’s wring our hands for a moment.

Okay, this is what people in power don’t like. You, me, any other random ordinary citizen with such a disease or a relative with such a disease has to just suck it up and do the best we can. We are swept under the rug by a nation that doesn’t really want to look us and/or our loved one in the eye. We are supposed to take our disease ridden selves and lock ourselves up in our homes where we won’t make the rest of the nation uncomfortable.

Stem cell research is easy to criticize when it is a sterile subject of disease names vs. embryo rights.

But when lovable Republican Alex P. Keaton is shaking and trembling in our faces, it becomes messy. It makes us uncomfortable. Because then, as a nation, we know it could be anyone of us. It is no longer some anonymous person that we never hear about, not some word on a newspaper page, but a real person, in real pain, with a real need.

And I know it gets complicated because politicians have tied stem cell research to abortion, portraying supporters as ghouls with knitting needles, ready to pounce on any pregnant woman for her fetal cells.

I tend to look at it terms of organ donation. If something happens to me, I have given permission for the doctors to take any conceivable part of me that might remotely be helpful to a living, suffering person. I’m not going to need anything to take with me. And as a parent, I had the right to make that choice if something had ever happened to my child. And I would have made that choice. What better comfort could I have than the knowledge that my child’s death also meant that others would live? And while I am grateful that I never had to make that choice, I have spoken with parents who have. They all agree, after the initial grief, it was a great comfort to know that their child “saved” the lives of others.

Frozen embryos that the parents have decided not to use will be thawed out and tossed in a furnace somewhere. Why can’t those parents have the option of donating their embryos to research? It’s basically the same thing to me. Give back to mankind or allow the potential life to go completely to waste.

I got nothing

I've been trying to think of something important or profound to write about since I've had a run of fluff it seems.

But I'm coming up blank.

It's probably because I'm not really that smart or profound to begin with.

Recently, I've been going through one of those "I-hate-my-job" periods. I don't want to do this much longer. But I don't really have a lot of options. This whole "best-selling novelist" thing is taking way too long.

I was discussing this with a collegue and we've decided that we are 1) too ugly for flat-backing, 2) too old for pole-dancing, 3) too moral for lobbying 4) too tired to become self-made millionaires.

That leaves the lottery.

Or cat psychic. You know, like that crazy lady on TV? I could come to your house and "talk" to your cat, find out that he hates your smelly feet and that's why he pees in your shoes and solve all your feline problems.

Only thing is, I'd be afraid the media would find out about my totally psychotic cat, the Amazing Shrinking Sutu, and I'd be portrayed as a fraud. But in my defense, he only acts crazy when anyone else on the planet is around. When we are alone, he is totally normal. I swear!

So, she asked, fishing for ideas, "What do you want to be when you grow up?"


Thor sez: Have you considered Cat Calendar photography?

Edit: OH MY GAWD. Is the universe trying to tell me something? Today, I write the words: I got nothing. Then I realize that today is the one-year anniversary of this blog. This was the day of my first posting. What does this mean? Have I run out of things to say? Is it the end of Kittens of the Keyboard? Can I realistically still call it that when said kittens are a year and a half old and weigh 12 and 11 pounds each? Stayed tuned for the answers to these questions, mindless cat pictures and random mutterings.

New finds

Nurse Ratched
This lady cracks me up.


This is a cool site for cat and dog owners. I bought a "Thing in a Bag" for Thor. A "Peek a Prize Toy Box" for Loki and some anti-anxiety cat pheromone spray for Sutu the Psychotic cat.

Mystery Solved!

Breaking news. Mystery plant:




has been identified.

Now that it is more than some green leaves, it reveals itself to be nothing more than good old pokeweed.

It did, however, allow me the pleasure of finding a recording of the old song, Polk Salad Annie by Tony Joe White (yes, the song is "Polk", plant is "poke") to play for Jason, who didn't quite believe me when I sang a bit of it to him.

Like I could make such stuff up.

Gators got your granny, indeed.

Grout is gross.

My house and I are the same age. I found that to be a charming detail when I purchased the home. But an old house, like an old gal, needs more in the way of maintenance than a good night’s sleep and a tube of lip gloss.

I’m fairly handy with repairs and remodeling (for a girl!) Who replaced the kitchen floor all by herself? Who ripped out the carpet from the back room, peeled off baseboards and put down fake hardwood floor strips? Who dug out the entire front flower bed and replanted it? Who painted every room in the house? Who fixed the warped part of the wall in the back bathroom? Who spent three months removing the ghastly wallpaper from the kitchen walls?

Moi.

Who fixed the leak in the laundry room wall and replaced all the sheetrock? Okay, that one was Jason.

So when the front bathroom’s tub grouting began to turn grey and peel away from the tile, I had to finally admit that the approximately thirty different mold/mildew/grout/soap scum cleaners I have purchased over the last year were NOT going to get it clean because that grey color was coming from underneath. I decided that ripping out the old grout and putting shiny new clean bright white grout on would be a snap.

But alas I am beginning to find that nothing is easy. The peeling silicone grout that the previous owner (one of my brothers) had put on peeled right off. Easy cheesy as they say.

But then there was the second layer. No problem, consult with one of the ten gazillion experts on the computer. Improvise a grout removal tool – flat head screwdriver – and begin scraping away.

To reveal the THIRD LAYER of grout, from beneath which some forty-odd years of mold and mildew and God-knows-what was lurking.

Five applications of mildew killer, three applications of rubbing alcohol (that’s what the label on my new grout said to use), three old dishtowels thrown away (cause ain’t no way in HELL I’m using them again, probably got bubonic plague on them), fifty conniption fits thrown by Thor because he couldn’t come in to sniff, and only three scratches to the porcelain later, I have shiny bright white new grout.

Next up: insulation for the attic.

Uh, can I pay some-one to do this for me?

Thor sez: I just wanted to help.

I have an idea..

..how about we ditch the entire current school board (really just who do these people think they are? Some kind of big-shot politicians because they preside over one of the worst school districts in the state?).

We'll replace them with ten and eleven year olds from the schools.

Why?

Well, they'll be more mature.

This entire espisode is so completely disgusting that I'm saddened that I'm not more shocked by it.

No Child Left Behind! Children Are Our Future! Children Count!

No, petty squabbles best left to the eighth grade popular kids lunch table are what are important to these people. Finger pointing, he said/she said, falsehoods, smear campaigns, accusations without evidence.

No wonder our schools suck. This is the quality of leadership?

For Heather

Not to make light of your feelings, but your recent post reminded me of this scene. We humans need to share our fears and perceived failings more often. I think it reminds us of our commonality more than sharing our triumphs.

From my novel, Garden of Weeds.

It wasn’t long, maybe the fourth or fifth Sunday, the congregation was softly singing “Just As I Am”. Pastor Hank was praying in a whisper, his arms outstretched to the heavens. Keith lurched up out of his seat. He stepped square on my foot in his fervor to get up to the front. The Holy Spirit had come over him and Jesus was now in his heart.
The next Sunday, after the morning services, we all trooped out to the deck and the lawn below to watch Keith get dunked in the hot tub. He came up out of the water smiling, his face full of the same joy I saw in the faces of the people around me. I felt nothing.
Over the next few weeks I noticed two things. One, Keith really cut back on the number of AA meetings he was attending. He said that Jesus was all he needed. The second thing I noticed was that people at the church were starting to look at me funny. Well maybe they weren’t really, but I felt like they were. They were waiting for me to get Jesus.
So was I.
I tried, really. I prayed. I studied my Bible lessons and read my Bible. I made myself quiet and listened for that still voice in my heart. I did everything they told me to do. Still I never felt a damned thing. Different people had described it differently. A sudden feeling of complete peace. A sudden feeling of pure joy. A sudden revelation of the truth of God’s word. All I ever felt was like a big fat reject sitting there Sunday after Sunday. Knowing I was the only unsaved person in the church, knowing Pastor Hank was giving the call only for me. And week after week, I couldn’t heed it.
Pastor Hank told me I thought too much about it and I should just “feel”. One of the deacons wanted to have me anointed in oil and have the congregation lay hands on me and pray for whatever demons that were keeping me from Jesus to depart. Then Bubba diagnosed the problem: Keith and I were living in sin.
Now, it had never bothered Keith before, us not being married. Now all of a sudden, it was a huge problem. One of those Catch-22 kind of problems. Our state of sin was the reason I couldn’t get Jesus in my heart, but Keith couldn’t marry me until I was saved. Pastor Hank quoted some scripture about not being unevenly yoked. It was decided that we should live as “brother and sister” until we could get married. Right. Keith went along with that for about three days, then decided he could just pray for forgiveness.
I just wanted to get Jesus so people would stop looking at me like I was the whore of Babylon come to town.
After another couple of weeks, I took to heart a saying I’d heard in AA: fake it ‘til you make it. I couldn’t take it anymore. Every time that call went out to come forward and accept Jesus, my stomach would start to cramp up. I wasn’t praying by that point, I was begging God, Jesus, the Holy Spirit, whoever, someone to give me a break here. Still I felt nothing. So I faked it.
I felt like a shit for doing it, because everyone was so happy about it. I didn’t know why God had ignored me, but I guess He could just add to the long list of sins I’d accumulated along the way.

You say it's your birthday...

..well happy birthday to you!



Happy 24th Birthday to my boy!

(Glad you lost the mohawk)

So you say you want a revolution?

I think we need one. A good old fashioned revolution.

Remember these quaint old words: Government for the people, by the people?

That's been completely usurped by: Government for the lobbyists for big business by the men they have purchased.

And in the most charming of rituals of our current times, let's place blame.

Oh, my, who could it be? Who is at fault? The politicians? The lobbyists? The billion dollar corporations buying off the politicians?

Right?

Wrong.

It is our fault. It is the fault of a population who doesn't care. It is the fault of the some 85 million eligible voters who aren't even registered.

It's the fault of the average of 60% of registered voters who don't bother to go vote.

Silence implies consent.

The continued silence of the majority of the population implies that we want our government hijacked by special interest groups, that we want the heads of a few corporations to design policy. That we want our tax dollars plundered and squandered away making sure that the very few at the top get what they need to survive and thrive.

The continued silence of the majority ensures that this will continue until the bloated corpse of our once admired model of government topples under it's own corruption.

Then we will all stand around and point fingers.

Here's a thought. What if every person eligible to vote actually went out and registered. A fully registered population alone would scare the living snot out of the political machinary of all the parties.

And then what if The People actually went and voted?

All of us.

Who do you think the politicians would be listening to then?

And if they failed to perform their duties for The People, they were voted out?

How many elections do you think it would take before they began once again serving The People?

Ten Things I Need to Do

1. Clean the front hall closet.

2. File the mountain of papers in the "to file pile".

3. Make an appointment to have the house power washed.

4. Dust.

5. Brush the cats. (also known as "donate bood")

6. Have my eyebrows waxed.

7. Really try to meet my 1,000 words a day goal.

8. Buy some Elvis cd's.

9. Toss out some of the approximately seven phone books piled up.

10. Nap.


Thor and The Amazing Shrinking Cat doing what they do best: nothing.
And they don't even appear to feel guilty about it.
Luck-eee!

Routine

One wouldn't expect a cat to follow a routine, it seems contrary to their nature. But this is what I get to watch every time I brush my teeth. If I linger too long in the shower, he will nudge aside the curtains and not so quietly remind me that he is waiting in the sink for me. Highly amusing until I have to wrestle Thor out of the sink and rinse cat hair so that I may finish my own toothbrushing.

Tall Tales, Mysteries and other Family Folklore, Part Two

This is a story my mother has told me several times. I've asked her to write it down, but she won't.

The year was 1942 or 1943. My mother would have been seven or eight. My grandfather was a math teacher at Charleston High School. In the summer, the family would stay at a little cottage on Folly Beach.

This particular summer day, my Great-Uncle Dolph was staying with them, Grand Daddy had already left for one of the last days of school. Dolph had a broken leg and had an ankle to hip plaster of paris cast that I am sure was making him more miserable than the broken bone in those pre-air-conditioning days. So perhaps he had hobbled out on the deck that early morning to enjoy a bit of the cool morning breeze off the Atlantic.

My mother recalls she was just sitting down to breakfast when she heard Uncle Dolph yell up to the house, his voice calm.

"Virginia," he hollered, Virginia was my grandmother, "Get the shot gun. The Germans are invading."

Granny went out to look, while my mother hopped down from the table to follow.

Up and down the beach, as far as they could see were ships and from those ships, small rafts full of fully armed men were casting off, heading for shore.

My Grand Mother told Uncle Dolph to get back to the house, which of course, he didn't. She went back in and got the shot gun that Grand Daddy used for hunting and kept at the beach house to fend off the occasional rabid raccoon. She shooed my mom and her younger sisters away to a back room (from where my mom promptly snuck back out to watch), but when Granny went back outside, she didn't hand the gun over to Uncle Dolph, no sir.

She marched down to the edge of the walk, out on to the sand, her apron pocket bulging with ammunition, ready to met the German army head on.

Fortunately, it was American troops. Practicing for the invasion of Normandy, so my mother tells the story.

Heck, if it had been the Germans trying to sneak past Granny that morning, the war would have been over a hell of a lot sooner.

Tall Tales, Mysteries and other Family Folk Lore

There is a legend in my mother's family that somewhere back around the mid-1800's, there was a native American bride. I've heard various tribes named, most often Catawba.

Records are hard to come by thanks to a little war criminal named Sherman, but there is a census, 1870, I believe that lists the family. The wife's race is left off. I've since heard from a couple of amateur geneologists that this was frequently done when the wife was of African-American descent and the census taker (usually some-one from the area) didn't want to get the white husband in any trouble. You know, miscongenation and all that.

Then, several years ago, my mother's dentist noted a particular pattern of natural discoloration on her teeth that he said was usually seen in those of Eastern Indian descent, you know, Bombay, India.

Of course, that is the angle I like best. It begs for a story. How could a young Eastern Indian woman end up in the wilds of 1800's South Carolina?

But what ever legend contains the kernel of truth, we may never know. But that there is a hint of some exotic blood flowing through our veins can hardly be questioned when presented with photographs such as this:


My Maternal Grandmother, probably in her mid-twenties.

Well okay then.

See, the other day, I read about this woman who, during a fight with her husband, hit him with their four week old baby, causing the baby to suffer a skull fracture and bleeding on the brain.

I thought: Will someone please remove her ovaries and his vas deferens, please?

Oh, but what a difference a press conference can make. See, this is how it was. According to hubby, people are making too much of this. See, it was an accident. She was drunk. Was just grabbing things to hit him with. Too drunk to realize it was the baby she'd picked up used as a weapon. She feels real bad about it now.

Gosh. Well. Thanks, Dad of the Year! It just makes the entire scenario so much more acceptable that this woman, with four young children in the house, was so drunk she couldn't tell the difference between her one month old baby and, say, a lamp.

And not only was she so drunk she was using her baby as a blunt object, she was beating her baby's daddy in front of the other three children.

This is why people grow up without much of a chance. This is the environment they live in. Middle class, relatively well educated people get all horrified when a story like this makes it through their life-is-wonderful bubble (and they should, not saying they shouldn't) but, WAKE THE FUCK UP PEOPLE!

THIS IS HOW MILLIONS OF CHILDREN IN OUR COUNTRY LIVE EVERY DAY!

And you wonder why kids are doing drugs, drinking, shooting up schools, dropping out, getting pregnant, going no where.

It's the kids that are raised in these environments. And we, as a society that claims to care about our children (call me a crazy bleeding heart liberal, but I always thought that to mean ALL children, not just our personal children), should not be tolerating this.

It has been proven that at-risk moms and children who receive intensive personalized assistance, in-home visits by social workers or nurses trained in child development, who attend parenting classes that provide developmental and nutritional teaching through the first three years of a child's life do better.

There is less abuse. Moms tend to finish their educational goals. Children are ready for school and come to the classroom with less emotional damage so they are capable of learning. They have received proper nutrition during the first three brain-forming years so are not intellectually stunted.

How about $100,000 a minute for these programs instead of that same amount being spent on this war in Iraq?

Or let's just say it: We only care about OUR children. Not their children. They shouldn't have them if they can't take care of them.

Well, you know, I agree, people shouldn't have children they aren't ready to care for, but you know what? They do. Those kids are here. Are we going to continue to allow abuse and poverty to condemn these children to repeat the cycle over and over again? Or are we going to get off our fat wallets and put our money where our mouths are and fund these projects?

Here is a thought: By age three, brain function and social function is pretty much set, influenced greatly by nutrition and the environment, especially the type of parenting received. Age three. Before Headstart.


Thor sez: Guess what I am? America, turning it's head the other way!

This Mockingbird won't sing

There are mockingbird feathers strewn across my front yard. No mockingbird. I assume he is being quietly digested in some cat's stomach. Probably White Cat. She was stalking in my back yard yesterday.

Not that there is a great shortage of mockingbirds around my house. Not that I haven't threatened them with the feline horde from time to time. I dislike being dive bombed in my own yard. Agressive little things they are.

One of the many reasons I don't let my cats out is because I feed the birds and squirrels (and raccoons, possums, mice, rats, bunnies and whatever else creeps in from the marsh). I don't think it is fair to the creatures to set them up for ambush.

That and vague feelings of guilt over Harper Lee's admonishment that "to kill a mockingbird is a sin" because all they do is sing songs for us.

I'd thought the wildlife was relatively safe because White Cat stands out pretty well and anything would see her about a mile away. But I guess she gets lucky occasionally. I hate to stop feeding with winter coming on, so I guess I'll have to just allow nature to take its course.



Hunting Loki and Thor style.

I will go and vote on Novemeber 7. I always vote. I've voted in every election held since I turned 18, except one, when I had a raging case of influenza and a temperature of 104.

When ever anyone starts to complain about politics or the state of the nation, I always ask if they voted. If they did not, I will not listen unless held captive by circumstance. I will, however, tell them that they have no right to complain now if they didn't bother to vote.

These people running for the various offices aren't just politicians. They are you. Your voice. It's your responsibility to give your voice to the person you want to represent you.

So, I'll vote.

But I must say that I don't think it will matter any more. I mean, it will matter that I made my voice heard. It will matter that I participated in the process. But I don't think the results will matter. Not any more. Not these days.

But I really don't think it will matter much who gets elected, which party has control of which house. I don't think it will matter at all.

The taint of corruption is too deep on both sides of the aisle, in every house. Politics has never in history been so far away from the ideal of serving your country, your state, your town, your fellow citizens.

It's now a career path to riches. Can't make it in big business? Go in to politics, get your pockets lined by lobbyists, make good connections, pass laws that will help you and your buddies (get more donations), block laws that would hurt you and your buddies, retire on the lecture circuit.

Both parties. All levels. No hope. Not in these times. Not with these problems.

Ah, Mr. Smith, where are you now?



Thor and Loki play network news show, no: House of Representatives, no: Senate, no: Chas. Co. School Board, no: State House. Oh, I give up, what are you playing?
Loki: Fools.

Smoke 'em if ya got 'em

I've long believed that marijuana should be legal.

First for monetary reasons. It's something like a billion dollar a year cash crop in this country. Package it like cigarettes, tax the ever-loving-freaking-hell out of it and put some of that money in the pockets of politicians and bureaucrats who will spend it for the greater good, not on porn tapes and potato chips.

(Removing tongue from cheek now)

Seriously. I've always supported medical marijuana. It reduces the chances of going blind with glaucoma. It increases the appetites and decreases the pain levels of AIDS patients and patients undergoing chemotherapy treatment for cancer.

Yes, I know there is a THC pill that supposedly does the same thing as token up. But it doesn't. I've known a couple people who were prescribed the pills and gave them up in favor of illegally buying and rolling their own. Why take the risk?

Because the pills give them one big whallop. Rolling their own, they can take one toke or two, just enough to ease the pain or jump start the appetite or knock back the nausea. In other words, they can use less.

And really, does it make much sense to talk about the risks of inhaling marijuana smoke when ten different kinds of poison is being pumped into them as a cure?

But now I've got even more reason to want it legal. As a person with several relatives with Alzheimers, I'd kind of want the option to treat myself if it became necessary.

Sometimes I buy cat toys for me..

Because it's fun. Because I can. Because I'm bigger. Because I have access to a digital camera. Because I should be dusting and/or sweeping and/or cleaning bathrooms.

But this is much more fun.


Loki sez: You're kidding, right?


Loki sez: Do I look pretty?


Sutu sez: This is the most assinine, degrading, stupid thing you've ever done to me. I'm going to go yak up a hair ball on your bed now. Bitch.


Thor sez: You're kidding, right?


Thor sez: I'm never going to speak to you again after you take this off me.


Thor sez: If she gets out the Halloween hats from last year, we'll have to make a run for it.
Loki sez: But don't you think the pumpkin hat would look cute with the pumpkin jester collar?

Kitten Wednesday

Because I gave myself a head ache and a stomach ache yesterday. Because sometimes I lose all hope that there is any humanity in man, other than that we expect within our own little family/friend circle - the rest of the world can go to hell and since it doesn't effect us directly we don't care. That is NOT being humane.

Argh. Quick. Thor pictures:

This is how I found him taking his mid-evening, post-supper, pre-playtime nap:



Looks like he fell asleep in the middle of a bath.




Thor sez: What? What's so funny? Haven't you ever seen a cat sleeping before? (cat eye roll) May I finish my nap now?

Words are not enough

Girls sexually assaulted and murdered in school.

Five Amish girls shot execution style in their school room. Five more may not make it.

Women murdered for the babies in their wombs.

Young girls snatched from streets, raped and murdered. Dumped in ponds, buried in shallow graves.

Senators, men of God, teachers, homeland security employees sexually stalking young children on-line.

One in four girls, one in six boys in this nation are sexually molested by age 18.

In North Charleston, a woman and her four children shot in a domestic dispute.

And personally, two babies I sent home were within months beaten to death (alledgedly) by their daddies.

And personally, I have cared for at least six babies under the age of two who were dunked in scalding water and burned - second and third degree burns - by their mothers or fathers or aunts. Why? Because they wet their pants.

When are we as a nation going to admit that we don't really care about children?

70 billion dollars for a war, but a shelter for abused women doesn't have security precautions enough to stop a man from entering and murdering his wife who was trying to do what society tells her to do - leave?

70 billion dollars for a war, but we cut social services - parenting classes, support for at-risk moms and children that could end the cycle of poverty and abuse that so many American children live in.

70 billion dollars for a war, but our public schools have to have fund raisers constantly just to get the supplies they need.

70 billion dollars for a war, but there aren't enough care facilities to house children who need protection from their own families.

70 billion dollars for a war, but there aren't enough drug and alcohol rehabs to help addicted men and women break their cycles and become the parents their children need them to be.

70 billion dollars for a war, but our mentally ill wander the streets and we only care when they kill someone.

It's time to stop paying lip service to "family values".

We've wasted our ounce of prevention. It's time for the pound of cure.

70 billion dollars. To kill, maim, and destroy.

While our children are murdered in their homes, their beds, their classrooms.

No child left behind, my ass. The dead ones, the beaten ones, the ones unlucky enough to be born to the wrong parents are being left behind.

In graves.

Last night at work, the song "If" by Bread came on the radio. I jumped up to turn up the volume (a little).

"Oh," I said, "I remember when this album (yes album you fetus!) came out. I was in high school and we were so poor, I couldn't afford even a cassette tape. All my friends were buying it and I was so jealous. So I baby sat and even took care of the people down the street's rabbits -and I hated those smelly rabbits- until finally I had enough money. So my friend Sherry and I went to Ashley Plaza Mall to buy the record. But I saw a pair of white hip-huggers and I bought them instead. Then I was too shy to wear them to school, so I just wore them in my room."

A bit of a rambling pointless story, but I tend to get gabby at three a.m. It helps keep me awake.

One of the ladies there, however, found this to be the funniest thing she'd heard recently (perhaps her own bit of over-tiredness kicking in) and laughed so hard that the other lady and I started laughing until we were all three crying from laughing so hard.

That's fun. I like that.

And, please, some help from some old-timers like myself. Way back in the day when Ashley Plaza Mall was the ONLY mall in Charleston, there used to be a t-shirt/head shop that sold bongs and papers and paraphanalia. It was along the hallway that led straight up to the theater.

What was the name of that place?

That's where I bought the hip-huggers.


Thor sez: I didn't do it. I was sick that day. I have a note from Loki.

I've been a little sad all summer. One of the things I've been sad about was our across the street neighbor. I'd mentioned her here before as "crazy yard lady". She was the one who vacuumed her lawn with the riding mower all winter. But, I'll tell you, she took a nasty looking, neglected yard and turned it in to a show piece. Then last April, I noticed the old guy from down the street was mowing her lawn. Then things started to appear on the side of the yard. Two signs were posted. One said trash, the other said free.

I got a nice basket.

Then I began to worry. So Jason went over one afternoon when there was a young man out in the yard and found out that she'd died in May. Now this was a woman who was out working in her yard sun-up to sun-down and could swing an axe better than most men I've seen.

So when her gorgeous yard starting blooming, I kept looking at all the beauty she'd created and was sad that she wasn't around any longer to enjoy it. So I try to enjoy it. I look over and admire the crape myrtle blooms. Or marvel over how quickly the eucalyptus tree is growing. I take a moment at the mailbox to breathe in it's menthol like scent. I note how well the pear trees she planted are doing. I'm looking forward to the first fall color on them for her.

I think she'd like that her garden is still blooming, still beautiful.


Loki sez: It's my turn to hop out of the basket!