Day Two Hundred Fifty Two

Goodbye 2015

Yesterday was one of those days when you are lulled into a false sense of "all is well." Most of the day was rather mundane. Andy and I caught up on a show we never even knew existed - "Burn Notice." I think we're on Season Two out of seven. I like that the hero, a former secret agent, has inadvertently been thrust into a position of helping people. Cool show.

Anyway, the day was almost over when I got a text asking if I could recommend female vocal pop songs from the 1950's. First of all, I was a small child in the 50's, so my knowledge of pop culture from that decade is somewhat limited. But I am always up for a challenge. Andy went straight to Pandora on the TV and scrolled through the 50's. I went to Google.

Guess what we discovered? There were very few female recording artists in the 50's. They were mostly white men like Frank Sinatra, Elvis, Buddy Holly and Dean Martin. I eventually happened upon a list of 100 songs from female groups in the 50's and 60's. Most were obscure songs, but it was a list nonetheless. Mission accomplished.


While I was on the computer, I checked Facebook and was dismayed to read a post from my friend, the Abyssinian breeder. Dash and Boo's uncle, Lumiere, the sweetest cat on the planet, has been diagnosed with lung cancer. They are understandably devastated.

I remember the first time I met my friend's husband. I was visiting them when Dash was still a tiny kitten. Her husband walked into the house, said hello to me then went straight over to Lumiere, picked him up and declared, "This is my buddy!" The look on Lumiere's face said he felt exactly the same way. So sad...

This is not a picture of any of our cats -
just a beautiful representation of the breed.
They are special beyond words...

While I was still walking around teary-eyed and heartbroken for my friends, Boo! decided to shake things up a bit. It is impossible to stay in a funk for long with her around. Almost as if she knew she had to turn up the dial, she went into a fit of insanity.

Dash trying to decide if Boo! really
sees something worthwhile.
She looks like a mountain lion in this pic.

I had stupidly left her in the bathroom after I went in to get a tissue. No sooner did I turn my back when I heard a crash followed by glass shattering. I was frozen in place for a moment, as were all of the other residents. I looked up to see Boo! racing past me like she'd been shot out of a canon; Andy, Jack and Rooney on the couch looking like, "What the heck was that?" and the cats all looking at me with enormous eyes. I could also tell they were in no way going to take the blame for this. You could almost hear their chorus of, "She did it!" Boo! just went flying on to something else.

No sooner did I get that mess cleaned up - oh, it was the bathroom wall clock, completely destroyed after she knocked it down and it went crashing into the bathtub - when I found her winding her way through the electronics in the wall unit. Then, when I opened the door to the garage to tell Andy I had taken the trash out already, she ran past me and flew under my car. Thank heavens the garage door was closed or we would still be running around Orange Tree trying to catch her.

I am losing some mobility as I age but, thanks to Boo!, my reflexes are getting Ninja fast. She is impossible to catch, but like a Grizzly bear trying to snag a salmon, if I'm patient and quick, I can almost always catch her. Holding on to her is another matter. She is a combination ferret, rhesus monkey and meerkat. There is nothing to hold on to. She slips through your hands like a greased pig. Unless I want to walk around wearing Velcro gloves, I have to get real creative when I want to catch her.

This went on until I went from sad, to amused to aggravated to exhausted. Her final trick of the night was to fly past me into the bedroom; straight under the bed then under the dresser. Don't tell the Pope but I grabbed my rosary beads to try to entice her from under the dresser. There I was, on my knees, not praying, but waving poor Jesus on the cross back and forth hoping to trick her into grabbing the shiny object so I could grab her. I am sure, in the history of Christianity, a crucifix has never been used in such a blasphemous manner.

Praise God, it worked! I grabbed her, gave her a perfunctory kiss then deposited her outside the bedroom door. I was not quick enough, however. Fancy pushed his way in and under the bed. I gave up and fell onto the bed in exhaustion.

The entire time this charade was going on, Andy was in bed reading. Unlike most people who enjoy the ability to hear, Andy is sort of enjoying his hearing loss. He just pretends like there is no chaos going on around him. He never even looked up as I gyrated around the room trying to herd cats.

I said - well I won't print what I said, so use your imagination - and turned off the light. I knew Fancy would jump into bed; his ultimate goal. Sure enough, within moments, there he was, cuddling up to me. He just wanted some alone time with mom.

Now Andy has a "no cats in bed" policy. I allow him this attempt at feeling like he's in control. Fancy is a rather large cat and, while his head was on my lap, his tail was brushing Andy's back. I wondered how long that was going to fly. In Rhett Butler fashion, he slowly turned and said, "Is that cat going to stay here?" If you are familiar with Rhett's manner, that question really meant, "Get your cat out of this bed or there will be hell to pay. And, frankly my dear, I don't give a damn."

My dream - Andy's nightmare

However, like Scarlet, I had a plan and he just screwed it up. My plan was to wait until Fancy had calmed down, then carry him out of the room. As soon as he heard Andy's voice, however, he panicked and jumped off the bed and under it again. I wanted to shoot myself. Finally, Fancy made the decision to leave all by himself. I guess he weighed his options and figured it wasn't worth it to stay in the room with two huge dogs, a grumpy man and no litter box. All cats out finally.

I could not close my eyes. I was physically exhausted but my brain was on turbo speed. The final straw was in Andy, who was fast asleep, lying on top of the covers. They may as well have been nailed down. I think he was messing with me - we're like that after so many years - because after a few moments he released them and I was finally able to get comfortable and drift off. What a way to end a year.

I does sum up a life though, running the gamut from happy to sad to perplexed to frustrated, etc. I just wish mine wasn't all that within the span of a few minutes! Hey, Happy New Year!

Day Two Hundred Fifty One

End of 2015 Editorial

If I had one wish as we head into a new year, it would be that people become enlightened as to how everything fits together like a giant, cosmic puzzle. Yes, that's a lofty wish, and a mouthful, but it is my wish and this is my blog.

I have to laugh (and cry a little as well as shake my head) when people wage war on what they consider "a pest."

Feral cats, for example. People easily demonize them by convincing themselves they are "evil." "Feral cats kill birds; spread disease; dig up my flowers, etc." First of all, need I remind anyone ALL creatures serve a purpose? Ferals keep down the rodent population. Now, we still need some of those furry buggers, which actually DO spread diseases like plague and hantavirus, otherwise we would be overrun with garbage, but ferals keep the population at bay.

On to other examples:

Bees. Stop anybody on the street and ask them what they know about bees and most will tell you they sting and make honey. Right. That they do. But few realize without bees, our food supply would cease to exist. That's right. Tiny bees hold that much power. They are, in fact, more important to the survival of civilization as we know  it than you or I ever could be.

Moles. Those moles you despise because they "dig up" your lawn, actually are making your lawn healthier by aerating it and eating grubs which literally eat your grass. They don't harm anyone or carry disease, but people wage all out war on the poor things.

Maggots. Even the lowly worm is vital to our health and well being. They eat those things nothing else will and act as nature's clean up crews.

Now - how to convince a non-believer that we must work together to preserve nature not destroy it. The Bible certainly hasn't convinced them. There are numerous references to God's creation and how we are considered stewards of that creation. Steward means caretaker. Many hold the Bible in one hand and a gun, can of Raid or other weapon of destruction in the other.

Politicians are ignored if they seem too liberal. Scientists are, for the most part, ignored. Ordinary people with brains who try to point out the ways we are destroying the planet are treated like Chicken Little.

Ironically, we believe commercials from companies whose primary goal is to make money, yet we ignore experts with absolutely nothing to gain. Those ads for weed killer and bug killer and whatever killer make it look so harmless and easy to rid your life of pesky weeds, bugs and germs. While the share holders of those companies rake in the dough, the planet is getting quickly exterminated by those so-called "harmless" products.

What is it going to take? Well, I'll tell you. I'm afraid to say it will take a cataclysmic event. When that happens people will say things like, "Why didn't somebody tell us or do something?" "How could God let this happen?" "Why me?!"

You. Me. Us. We're all part of the problem and therefore need to be part of the solution if there is any hope. First of all, listen to the experts, not the snake oil salesmen. If there is a profit to be made, avoid it. USE YOUR BRAIN! Chemicals are not the answer. Nature has a solution for just about every problem. Unfortunately, that solution may be to rid the planet of the worst pest - humans.

Have a wonderful New Year!

 

 

Day Two Hundred Fifty

Tripping Over Myself Down Memory Lane

My trip down Memory Lane yesterday got me thinking about my grandmother - my maternal one. My cousin and I are the same age - born a few months apart - and when we get together we laugh a lot about our crazy family. At just under five feet tall, Grandma was the High Priestess of the clan.

 

A picture of Grandma in April,1952
I guess she was giving Tweety some fresh air

Katherine Schmidt was only seventeen years old when she boarded a ship to escape Hitler's Germany - alone - bound for America. It had to take grit to do such a thing. Waiting for her here were cousins she had never met. At some point, she met and married our grandfather, Henry, who was twenty years her senior. Throughout their marriage, he served as her husband, father and entertainer. Nobody laughed harder or louder at his silliness than Grandma.

From left to right -
me, (being a brat,) Grandpa, cousin Deb
and Grandma with a cig in her hand

She was a hot mess. Grandma loved betting - bingo and poker. There was always a cigarette hanging out of her mouth and she was quite adept at dealing cards or dispensing "bennies" (pennies not pills) at the kitchen table all the while puffing away on that smoke. And, like the caricature of the Army cook, I'm pretty sure she dropped more than a few ashes into Sunday dinner. 

And her mouth! She was like the love child of Mae West and Lenny Bruce. She loved a good (dirty) joke and would have told them herself had she ever mastered the English language. She lived into her nineties and never lost her thick German accent few could understand. 

Every family member's name was prefaced with "our" as in - "you belong to us." My mother, the oldest child, was "Our Margit." That her name was Mar-ga-ret didn't matter. Then there was, "Our Dad" (grandpa.) Aunt Kathleen was, "Our Katleen." I never quite understood why she named her children names she couldn't pronounce. Like Raymond. Her version of that was, "Laymon." Maybe in her head it sounded right. That, or the rest of us were clueless. Maybe their names really were Margit, Haddy (Harry,) Laymon, Leon and Katleen. We'll never know...



Deb and I on Easter Sunday, 1958
Wish I had that car today...

Our grandmother had five children - all born at home - and ten grandchildren. She outlived one of her sons and never quite recovered. Grandma always favored the youngest, so my cousin and I, as the oldest, were practically outcasts. I was fine with that because, for awhile, I had my other grandmother living next door. It's only now, in my old age, I realize how deeply she loved her family.

Every Sunday she prepared a family meal which consisted of either a pot roast or a pork roast, knaedels, mashed potatoes, spinach or Brussels sprouts and a salad. She fed up to twenty people on one small roast. Knaedels, in case you are unfamiliar, are grated potato, onion and bread dough balls which are boiled and served with gravy. They are vile. As were the vegetables she overcooked and mixed with a roux. I hated that awful, gray sauce. To this day I cringe at the sight of cooked spinach. I did, however, like her salad because she made a sweet and sour dressing with lots of sugar.

As a kid, I hated her cooking. Oddly enough, three things she made have come back to taunt me in my old age: her salad dressing, spaetzles and herring salad. I never cook with a cigarette hanging out of my mouth, so my food doesn't have that distinctive smoky flavor, but I've managed to adapt the recipes to my liking. My son has asked me how to make all but the herring salad. I'm afraid that family delicacy will die with me. It may actually kill me because I've been living on my version of low carb (sans potatoes) herring salad the entire month of December.

This entry has nothing to do with animals, other than this grandmother did not like them. The grandmother I was closer to, my father's mother, loved animals and I loved her, so I guess I picked up on her preferences. Her dog, Belle, was a cherished member of the family. The aforementioned grandmother did not think dogs belonged in the house. Poor Puddles only got to come in when the grandkids begged her to let him join us.

l-r Me, Puddles, Cousin Jeff and Deb

I am a lot like my father in that I prefer animals to most people. And, my own granddaughter is well on her way to carrying on that family trait. I'm still working on my grandson, who thinks animals are okay, but Legos are much better.

Day Two Hundred Forty Nine

Laughter (and Animals) are the Best Medicine

Like many people my age, (those raised in the 50's and 60's) we took everything, including ourselves, very seriously. Our parents went through the Depression and WWII and let you know it every chance they could get.

1953
I am the baby on the far right trying to pull
my mother's hair out. She is smoking a cigarette.
My father is on the far right, looking very much like
my son. My grandfather is holding me. He is wearing
a kid's Easter hat to be silly. My cousin is the baby
wearing a red dress. She is being held by our grandmother.

Religion was serious. If you were a Catholic, you either went to Parochial school (poor thing) or had to endure Catechism classes (ditto,) where you learned how to be a great reproducing Catholic. If you so much as giggled in front of a nun - well let's just say - you never giggled in front of a nun.

School was serious. Remember the air-raid drills, where we had to hide under our desks in case the Russians dropped "the bomb."

Duck and Cover
Sure to save you if a bomb was dropped

Home was serious, for me. In mine, one was cursed with some unknown fate if one dared laugh at the supper table. There were other ridiculous superstitions that made it almost impossible to move freely through life.

Health was serious. I nearly died when I got the measles and I wasn't allowed to go to a public swimming pool for fear of contracting polio.

I learned two things from the experience: I would be a much different parent and I preferred the company of animals.

The parenting part was a bit of a challenge because, as it turns out, when someone is raised in the manner I was, it is virtually impossible to come away unscathed. Most of us, with a similar upbringing, developed severe anxiety in adulthood. That meant I was sure my kids were going to die if they so much as coughed; get kidnapped and die if they went outside unaccompanied and crash and die if they ever drove a car. I did, however, encourage laughter. Predictably, most of their laughter was directed at me... 

I actually looked just like this
for about twenty years

The animal part has carried me through life's stages. I've written about the various situations in which an animal companion brought comfort and laughs when I needed them the most. For example, I am at a place in my life when I really need laughter - so voila - I have a houseful of crazy animals. Boo! is at the top of the list. Speaking of which, she is having a particularly whacky morning.

Some say we should be relying on other humans or a higher power to get us through life's transitions and traumas. I'm inclined to think God works in whatever way we need. If people are there for you - that's a God send. If nature brings you solace - that's also a God send. For me, it's animals. I trust them and they've never let me down. Well, there was Rocky - but we don't like to talk about him...

Last night, our granddaughter called and wanted to speak to Gigi. That would be me. She was concerned because Copper was acting agitated. I told her to turn the phone so I could see and when she did, sure enough, the poor lizard was clearly upset. 

My grand put me on speaker phone and I started talking to Copper. I used my sing-songy voice - you know - the one you use to talk to babies and annoy others. I told "her" everything was going to be okay; that this was her new home and they would take good care of her. I never broke into lizard-speak like Harry Potter 's Parseltongue (thank God) but the results were the same. Copper calmed down and fell asleep.

Is that you, Gigi?

I guess I can add "lizard whisperer" to my list of life accomplishments. It's a short list, so I'll take what I can get. In my opinion, the real accomplishment was in showing my grand how to relate to other species. This is going to come in handy when she becomes a veterinarian. Just to seal the deal, I told her I'd buy her a car on graduation day. Hey, I've not gone completely other-worldly.

Day Two Hundred Forty Eight

Servant to the Slave

Uh oh. I do believe I have entered the "blues after the holidays" phase. My thoughts are running deep. Maybe I can pull off finding the funny side of depression. We'll see...

Although my life has been made somewhat easier by the departure of our guest (aka Bearded Dragon aka Copper,) in that I do not have to chop veggies twice a day, or sacrifice crickets to the cause, or fight the Abys over their incessant need to enter that room - I miss it.

A lizard is not exactly a warm and fuzzy pet. There are some who say a reptilian brain cannot connect with another creature. All I know is, it willingly curled up on my chest and obliged my attention. And, on Christmas morning, when my granddaughter (it's new caretaker) put me on speaker phone and I "talked" to Copper, it perked up and turned its head from side to side as if it recognized my voice. (heavy sigh)

There is, however, plenty of other stuff to keep me occupied. Boo! is constantly into some sort of mischief. Jack and Rooney are - complex. When Fancy talks, I listen. Eli has his moods and Chance keeps me guessing. Finn and Dash are fairly equal in their status as mellow cats. Oh, dear. Somebody is howling as I type and I should probably go investigate.

Good thing I checked. Dash had a toad. He was "playing" with it. Each time I scooped it up, it would jump out of my hands until I said out loud, "I'm trying to save your life, dude." As if it understood, it let me catch it and sat cupped in my hand calmly until I could release it to safer territory. And miracle of miracles, it did not pee on me. Don't anybody try to tell me animals don't understand when someone is trying to help them.

There are those who believe people who prefer animals to other people are in some way socially inept. Years ago, I actually had someone say to me, "People who prefer dogs to people simply can't get along with them (people.)"

Then there are those who believe animal lovers and rescuers need to be needed. After all, captive animals rely on humans for everything. Copper, for example, is completely reliant on the attention of humans  for food and water and the life giving heat we must artificially reproduce. I'm not fond of keeping things "boxed up." I want to open every bird cage I see. But I do love to have animals around me.

So, call me socially inept. I don't care. I am long past caring what others think of me. I am happy in my world of creatures who love unconditionally; amuse me with their antics and make my life richer because they exist. I am a willing "servant to the slave."

Funny story: Our six year old grandson asked for a science kit for Christmas. Gigi and Pap bought him two - Weird Science and Gross Science. Now, our grandson is known to fly under the radar, so to speak. While the rest of the responsible adults here were preoccupied with other things, he got busy mixing random chemicals together on the kitchen table. When somebody finally noticed, he looked like a mad scientist pouring various things into beakers - some of which caused interesting reactions. Of course, everything was non-toxic, but that didn't stop it from being volatile. Apparently mixing baking soda with other things causes quite an eruption. He literally had a "blast."

Day Two Hundred Forty Seven



There are Kittens and There are Aby Kittens

Poor Dash. I'm afraid the guy didn't realize how much his life would change with the arrival of his little sister. She has shaken up the whole house, but Dash seems to be the one gob smacked. Don't get me wrong - he loves her. It's just that he was a relatively laid back cat (compared to Boo!) and now he is a nervous wreck. Sometimes he actually ducks like he's expecting to get strafed. 

In all fairness, Boo! is simply being an Aby. I mean, prior to her arrival, Dash was the one jumping out and scaring the unsuspecting cats as they innocently walked by. He was the one knocking things off the counters. Dash was also the one trying to engage the others in a game of "Tag." Not only can Boo! match him in all of those areas, she has raised the ante.

It's a good thing this is
Rooney's tail and not Jack's

Just a few minutes ago, while I was trying to persuade Boo! to go outside and blow off some craziness there, Dash carefully walked to the open door and inspected it as if it might be a trick. I moved my foot ever so slightly and he jumped off the ground like I had just dropped a grenade next to him. He is, for all intents and purposes, a nervous wreck.

Who could blame him? Having Boo! around means one must always be on their toes (or claws.) If she wants to enter a room and you'd rather she didn't, you may as well change your mind. She is unstoppable. This is both endearing and maddening. 

This would be the "endearing" part.

Say, for example, you are running late and need to make sure there are no cats in the bedroom with the dogs. Boo! is at her best at times like these. She seems to just know when to really make your eyeballs pop like Panic Pete. 

She hunkers down in a space where no one could reach and darts like a fish if one gets too close. No trick to entice her works any longer. Fool her once...

Boo! has definitely made an impression on everyone who meets or lives with her. Of all the cats, she is the one who makes Andy laugh. On the flip side, hers is the name most often uttered in conjunction with an expletive. I'm pretty sure she believes her full name is Damnit Boo! What can I say?

Day Two Hundred Forty Six

Merry Christmas!!!


I hope all my faithful readers are having a spectacular Christmas! At least a day that finds you at peace. Things are typically manic round here. But it's all good.

I can now divulge the identity of the mystery guest. It was a (drum roll) Bearded Dragon. My granddaughter and I share a love of all animals. She really wanted a kitten for Christmas, but that was not meant to be.

On several occasions she mentioned liking Bearded Dragons. I did not get the attraction. I mean, they look all spikey and - well - dragon like. Then we went to a petting zoo and they had one in residence. I was stunned at how laid back and sweet they can be. Those spikey things sticking out of them, which make them look like the dragons from which they got their name, are in actuality quite soft. They also like to be held. Who knew.

So, one day, I was in a pet store and happened to notice a BD on sale! I figured it could live in Petey's old aquarium. Piece of cake. Wrong! $200 later, the $30 BD was outfitted with brand new digs plus all of the paraphernalia required to keep them (hopefully) alive.

They require not one, but three, heat lamps; each performing a specific function. (And those suckers get HOT!) They also eat live crickets. I cringed at the thought of feeding a live thing to another live thing. As my grandson said when I told him I felt sorry for pigs, "You eat bacon, don't you?" He is wise for all of his six years. After a few weeks of chasing after escapees; cleaning up their "keeper" and that annoying chirping they make constantly, I didn't mind one bit serving them up as breakfast, lunch and dinner.

After awhile these things become so annoying
you're happy to see something gobble them up!

So, I left the pet store with a Bearded Dragon, a lizard habitat, three floodlights, a box of live crickets plus a "cricket keeper," cricket food, lizard food, bedding, a cave, a fake plant, a thermometer to measure both heat and humidity, a water reservoir, a food dish - oh - and mealworms which had to be refrigerated.

I swear by all that's holy, this lizard that was on sale cost more than a kitten would have. Not to mention my son will never keep it alive. He is a busy guy and will either forget to turn on/off the lights and either cook/freeze it. In addition to giving it crickets every day, one must finely chop veggies for it. Yea right. I can see that happening! A Bearded Dragon is a high maintenance pet.

Then there was the challenge of keeping the BD somewhere the kids couldn't see it - or the cats couldn't mess with it. I was terrified Boo! or Dash would get burned on the hot lights. They are the only ones who were truly curious. They knew something was in that room and they were hell bent and determined to find out what. Somehow we all managed to survive the few weeks our visitor was in residence.

Of course, I fell madly in love with her/him. One can't tell the sex of it until they reach about one year. This is also the magical time when the cricket feeding can stop. Now, I would give my granddaughter both of my kidneys if she needed them - but I had a tough time packing up the BD in my son's car on Christmas Eve. My husband pulled him aside, looked him the eyes, and said, "If you EVER get tired of taking care of it, bring it back to your mother, don't just turn it loose or whatever. Do you understand?" He understood.

Cuddling together under a heating pad

I am patiently waiting for the phone call from my granddaughter telling me Santa brought her a Bearded Dragon! I hope it makes her happy.

Day Two Hundred Forty Five

Christmas Eve

I'm having writer's block today! Probably because the hamster on a wheel in my brain is taking up too much space. It woke me this morning at the crack of dawn. My hamster/wheel brain that is. Christmas does that to me.

I told myself this year would be different. This year, I would buy online; go out to eat instead of cooking a huge meal and gift my adult kids with monetary presents. No stockings, over the top decorations or a living room filled to the brim with gifts.

The first thing that happened: my granddaughter asked if I "have (our) stockings?" I thought she meant stockings as in tights or socks. I told her they were with all their stuff I sent home with their Dad from the last time they stayed over night. She got real quiet. Then she said, "No, Gigi. I meant our Christmas stockings." Shoot. Shooty, shoot shoot. In year's past, I not only filled a stocking for every human in the family, all the fur kids got one, too. This year, I'm not even sure where the stockings are.

Next: Some of the things I ordered apparently had to come from another planet, and it is taking awhile. It seems Christmas on Saturn is celebrated in June of the year X3G7. Etsy didn't mention this. Wouldn't you know, the one thing my granddaughter wanted for her mother hasn't arrived yet. I'm gonna go out on a limb here and speculate Gigi will be braving last minute panic traffic this afternoon.


Wonder how traffic is on Saturn...

Then: I must go out because - now bear with me - I have to replenish the stock of "food" for our visitor. This would be living things that jump - some of which are loose now in the forbidden zone. I purchased five dozen of the freaking things over the weekend and half are dead. At first I was sad and upset to sacrifice live things as food for another live thing. Now - I have grown to despise those stinking things and delight in watching them get gobbled up.

Makes me wonder if that's how God felt when he ordered a flood. God, "Okay. that's it. They stink and I have to feed them and they hop around where they aren't supposed to go. Plus I'm sick of dealing with their mess. FLOOD COMMENCE!" Yes, the hamster is definitely screwing with my brain waves.

This would be me - woodpecker's gotta go!

No one has dared to ask if I baked cookies. They all know I'm trying to lose weight by eliminating sugar - so I guess they figure, don't poke the bear.

Day Two Hundred Forty Four

Christmas Eve Eve

Christmas is coming whether I'm ready or not. Actually, I chose to do things differently this year. Thanks to the cats (Boo! and Dash) the tree trimming was easy. We even caved and bought a pre-lit one - which came in three sections. There is not one ornament on the thing because, as Andy declared, it would be too much of a temptation for our youngest gremlin.

I did ALL of my shopping online. Of course that meant surprises like: pajamas that could fit a doll instead of our grandchild; pajamas that could fit my husband instead of our other grandchild; the angst of wondering if the purchases would arrive on time and a near constant parade of delivery folks that sent Jack into apoplexy. The poor guy literally gave up in frustration and told us we were on our own.

I quit!

And, in typical Matchett fashion, we scheduled home repairs for December. De-freaking-cember. The only "outside" decoration we have is the Christmas tree shining through the living room window. Oh, and there's the reflection of that tree in the mirror in the same room which makes it look like we outdid ourselves and decorated two trees. (Things I tell myself...)

I tried to "do things" yesterday. By things, I mean wrap gifts. I even took the easy route this year and bought giant bags in which to put each person's gifts. This Earth-conscious gal wasn't going to use wrapping paper or bows to clog up landfills. No-sir-ee. However, as I was filling the bags, I had an attack of guilt - not for the poor deserving planet, but for the kids who would be disappointed at not being able to rip the paper off their gifts. I caved and wrapped the gifts before putting them in the gift bags. Hey, I didn't use bows, thank you very much.

Anyway, all that activity settled right in my back. I could not stand up straight. Never-the-less, I had places to go and people to see. Well, we needed dog food. I managed to drive to the vet's office for the food (Rooney's special kidney formula) - cranking up the heat setting on my seat. It was 85 degrees yesterday, but I did not care. I turned down the a/c and turned up the heat on my back. I could only walk at a 45 degree angle. I looked like one of those poor bent over people, who make me feel sad for them. I made it home, thankfully.

Then the piece-de-resistance. Jack and Rooney had to get locked up (as well as the cats) because the front door was getting painted. I heard Andy swearing and, for all intents and purposes, having a major fit. Jack, who had been out, must have saved it up and deposited both bodily excrements on the floor of our bedroom. It looked like somebody had dumped a bucket of water on the floor from outer space. We won't talk about the poop.

I have become quite adept at cleaning up messes. While Andy covered the floor in paper towels, I got my handy floor cleaner that sucks up messes. Then I got my pooper scooper and took care of that. Jack was immobile because he is 1) afraid of motorized things and 2) hates walking/sliding across the wet tile floor. Eventually we got the mess cleaned up; Jack outside and Andy calmed down. He is really not enjoying his "vacation."