The kitty is THERE! I just looked online and they’ve named Black Beauty “Marcy”.
I wonder if that means she’s ok??
It’s only 35 dollars to adopt a cat there and if she has had her shots and a clean bill of health….
I’m thinking about going back and getting her.
She peed on my couch.
She peed on my couch.
She peed on my couch.
I can’t have a cat that pees.
Maybe she didn’t know where the litter box was…I never showed her because I didn’t want my other cats to catch any diseases.
So she could come inside and be pet by the kids, and eat my cats FOOD…but not pee in the litter box. No…that would surely make my cats sick.
I know. I’m a smart one.
Someone needs to talk me out of this…it’s just that there are SO many cats there. What if she doesn’t get adopted. She needs me.
She peed on my couch.
She peed on my couch.
She peed on my couch…
Talk me out of this.
Archives for January 2009
A Day To Play With A Stray You Say?
Hath How Runneth Me Poureth Through Covet?
I decided to become an English major after I graduated from high school. I always got the best grades in my English classes and teachers often used words like “insightful” and “well written” to describe my essays. English was my strong suit. I loved to write. I loved to read. We seemed to be a perfect match for each other.
When you go to a four year university and you declare your major you receive a list of classes that you are required to complete in order to receive the credits necessary to graduate with the desired degree.
I was looking at about 17 English classes and I’m not even going to begin to tell you how much reading and writing and thinking too hard is involved in that.
I’m not a smart person. We covered that with the whole “getting in a car with a stranger” post. School is not something that has ever come easy to me. It doesn’t help that I would procrastinate on 5 page essays and begin them on a Saturday before their due date, after a night out drinking with other struggling undergrads.
I quickly learned that what was “insightful” and “well written” in high school had become “over simplified” and “sloppy” in college.
Entering my Junior year I had put a big dent in the required courses for English teaching majors, but I still had to complete a course studying a major literary figure. In this case, John Milton.
The class I was enrolled in met once or twice a week and was two or three hours long. When I entered the room that first evening, it was dark and snowing. I stripped the layers of winter wear off of me and snuggled into my seat to learn about a guy oozing with sex appeal.
How were they going to teach an ENTIRE course based on one dude?
As I watched the other students file in I became slightly intimidated. Most of them were grads working on their Masters. Some of them actually taught basic English classes at the University.
The professor, Dr. Stacy, was a bore and slightly scary. I thought about how my roommate and cat and best friend were sitting at the apartment eating pizza and watching Survivor and felt pangs of jealousy as Dr. Stacy talked about the requirements for the course. Looking at the syllabus I was overwhelmed by the ridiculous amount of writing assignments we were to complete and I wondered if the extra work was in part due to the grads in the room.
Dr. Stacy asked us to read the first five lines of a poem written by John Milton.
Could someone tell him what the first five lines meant? Anybody? Anybody?
Surely not me. I didn’t have a clue what the guy was talking about in the poem. It may as well have been written in Spanish. I believe it went something like this
Hath how runneth me poureth through covet,
Shant now me covet runneth through?
Though thou covets poureth runneth through
Doth thou dare covet thy runneth ever poureth?
Wander the wandering poureth through covet.
OK I just made that up, but I literally had not the VAGUEST idea of what I had just read.
I mean I was LOST!
Stacy: Can someone translate for us?? What is Milton saying here??
Some whispering, but no hands.
Stacy: Shy tonight?? I’d like one of you new faces I haven’t met yet to help us out here…what is Milton saying….uhhhh……Kathy!
Me: (Gulp.) Ummm….I’m not exactly sure…
Stacy: Oh surely you can come up with something…
Mmmmm. No. No I can’t.
Stacy: Well what is he saying when he says thouh hath covet poureth through??
Me: Yeah….umm….I really don’t know.
Stacy: What’s your interpretaion?
Me: I don’t really have one.
Keep in mind by this point my face is BRIGHT red…I can’t believe I’m making an ass out of myself and I can’t believe he won’t move to someone else. Teachers are not supposed to take no for an answer…we’re supposed to try to pull an answer from the student and not give them the easy way out. I knew that’s what he was doing, but I had NOTHING to add. I had ZERO inclination of what was going on in the poem and I officially HATED John Milton.
This back and forth went on with the professor for what seemed like too long before a kind soul saved me from my slow death by offering their own interpretation. As the class I continued I had an inner freak out moment.
How was I going to survive that course when I couldn’t even understand the first five lines of the first poem we read in the first hour of the class??? But the class was a requirement. I had to complete it.
Midway through our lesson Dr. Stacy dismissed himself for a 5 minute break. My heart was pounding…I had to get out of there. And with that I threw my books together, grabbed my winter gear and hustled my little petunia out the door as fast as I could. I ran straight into the arms of my roommate and my cat and my best friend to join them for pizza and Survivor.
Two months later I passed a friend of mine who was cramming in the library in an attempt to crank out a TWENTY page essay for the very class I bailed on.
Thank GOD I’m a quitter!!! Aside from crack, saying no to that class was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made.
And because that class was impossible I ended up switching to a Language Arts teaching major which is basically the same thing as an English major only instead of the John Donne class I took a class on puppetry and theater work.
But I still say I was an English major because it’s just easier…and I sound smarter.
Just One More
My dad died when I was seven years old. Never in my life have I felt as devastated and confused as I did at that time.
We were a devout Catholic family. I went to a Catholic school. I said the prayers. I owned the rosary. I wore the plaid jumper. I believed. I believed. I believed!
But when Dad died I wanted to know why. I wanted mercy and grace and miracles and prayers answered. I wanted him back. Oh! How I wanted him back. My teachers were not prepared for my questions. Nobody knew the answers. Nobody ever knows why.
I felt the foundation of my faith shift beneath me. God wasn’t listening. God didn’t answer prayers. God took my Dad.
I would tell God I hated him…whisper it in angry, tear filled prayers. I would beg him to help me. Beg him to bring my Dad back. Beg him to put my family back together again and the smile back on my Mom’s face. Surely He who moves mountains is capable of such doings. I prayed vigorously for the power to fly so that I might go to meet him at the gates of Heaven and be with him again.
I wanted to die. I prayed that God would take me too, so that I could be happy again with my Dad.
And then I started to write. My teacher would give topics or questions and we would write our own little stories on these giant pieces of lined paper. I think that’s when the big people started to realize their was something in that little head of mine. I would play and talk and look like any other seven year old, but I would come home with these heart breaking stories of loss and yearning for my Dad. My Mom kept a lot of them and I thought I had them all.
The other night a couple of my sisters and I were at my Moms when she asked us to go through some trunks that held the last of Dad’s belongings. We’d been reluctant to go through that stuff for years, but my Mom insisted she needed to clean out the storage room and it. was. time.
I did really good. No tears. I couldn’t even remember where most of the stuff had come from. There were a few shirts that were special to me…some funny things he had written as a kid…his yearbooks….some pictures….I was managing just fine until I saw that familiar lined paper folded in the corner of the trunk. I snatched it up and instantly recognized my seven year old handwriting.
It was a story of mine I hadn’t seen yet and whatever walls I had built up in order to survive that evening were totally obliterated after reading it:
“What I would give Jesus if I were alive. I would give him my Teddy bear and if it was too much I would give him a bunny. I would give him a stuffed bear because I Love him of course. I would give him lots of stuff and when he grew up and my Dad Died I’d tell him to go up in heven and get my Dad down for me so I could say good by.”
(Click on the pictures to enlarge)
A tear jerker, right!?! Just think about what my poor Mom must have felt every time I brought one of those home to her!! Talk about twisting the knife.
I think it’s interesting that I talk about giving Jesus stuffed animals…I must have been thinking of Him as Baby Jesus…the tiny infant…because then I talk about Him growing up. Maybe the prompt was “What would you give Jesus if you were alive when he was born”, that would explain why I talk about Him like He’s a baby.
I like how I seem to think that Baby Jesus grows up and becomes God. I knew a baby was not going to be powerful enough to help me with my Dad. And I knew that when my Dad died it was God who was in charge…not Baby Jesus. And in just four (run on) sentences I was able to give Jesus something (as the assignment required) and then turn the subject back to my Dad and how I wanted to see him again.
Here you go Jesus…you can have my teddy bear…now aboooouuuutt me.
And isn’t that the way it always is? We just want one more minute. One more hug. One more chance to say good bye. Even at seven years old. Just one more.
Click here to read a poem I wrote about my Dad for Father’s Day this year.
Click here to read a poem I wrote about my Dad when I was in high school.
Click here to read about a time when I first realized how sick my Dad was.
Writer’s Workshop: No Woman No Cry
2.) Ask a loved one to use 6 descriptive words to describe you and report your findings. How well do they know you?
Ahem.
Soooooo…I asked Pat to think of six words to describe me.
And he did. But I didn’t like my list. He saw my face drop and was all, “you’re putting this on your blog aren’t you??” and I was all “huh-yeeeah. Well I was GOING to until I got the list…just forget it, I’ll ask Maile instead.”
So I did.
I mean I thought he’d least throw the word pretty in there somewhere!
Alas. He did not.
So here, my friends, is what the heir to my fortune has to say:
I am
1. Speshul.
2. A Sweetie.
3. Pretty. (BINGO! THAT’S what I’m talkin‘ about)
4. Gorgiss (Double Whammy!)
5. Hearts.
6. Love.
I mean really! How cute is Maile right now!?! I love her!
Sigh.
Ok blog…you know I can’t keep anything from you…I will share my husband’s choice words.
According to Pat, my husband, the light of my life, the only man man enough to be my man, I am:
1. Caring.
2. Whiny.
3. Gossipy.
4. Friendly.
5/6. Short Sighted.
Ahem again.
Now…upon hearing these words I first had to get passed the initial shock that the word pretty was not once used.
Then I couldn’t stop thinking about number two and three. I didn’t want to say anything that would change his mind, because after all, he had taken a moment, he thought it through and those were his chosen words. Am I a catch or what!?!
So in my very non whiniest voice ever I said,
“you know…I’m gonna have to disagree with you on number two…I know some whiny people and I really don’t think I’m whiny at all.”
pat: Well I guess I just think about all the times you ask me to do stuff and it just sounds whiny.
me: You mean like on Sunday when I was annoyed that you didn’t help me carry in the groceries?
pat: Yeah…that’s one example.
me: But it’s not like I’m just walking around and complaining and whining about every little thing…
pat: no. And you know it’s funny because the guys at work talk about this kind of stuff…and how women set us up with questions like that and I just KNEW I should have said what you wanted to hear instead of telling the truth.
me: So I AM whiny!?!
pat: NO! That’s not what I’m saying,
me: But you did say that. You just said that.
pat: sigh. That’s not what I meant.
me: You want to know what I think? I think I’ve been asking you to do a lot because I’ve been feeling overwhelmed with the mess that is this house. The kids are driving me crazy, I work long hours with the daycare kids all day, I’m stressed out, and I need help. You might want to call it whining, but I feel like it’s just me looking to my husband for help.
pat: Yeah. You’re right Kat. I’m sorry….you’re totally right.
me: Sooooo…I’m not whiny?
pat: No Kat. You’re not whiny.
me: Can we replace that one with pretty??
pat: Yes Kat. You’re very pretty.
me: I love you…now number three I’ll let slide, because I understand how I can be perceived as gossipy. Most women are…it’s how we bond you know, but I wouldn’t expect you guys to understand that. I’m a little surprised it’s in your top six, but whatever…
pat: You didn’t say that had to be the TOP six things about you, you just said six things. They aren’t in any order.
me: ok whatever. You’re right, whatever. Still though, that it was one of the first things to come to you mind is…just whatever. Fine. I’m gossipy. I own that.
pat: And number four, what I mean by “friendly”…I mean that you’re all of the characteristics that make up a good friend. You know, like loyal, fun, supportive, all that stuff.
me: But you can only pick one thing and you said friendly.
pat: But I don’t mean it in the sense of that you’re just really nice to people and social and talkative…
me: So I’m not nice to people now?
pat: Shut up. You know what I mean. I mean you’re all the things that encompass what a good friend is.
me: Ok. I’ll take that.
pat: And by short sighted I just mean that you live in the present. For example, you don’t really think about saving as much money as we can for our future, you’re more interested in the here and now and enjoying life today.
me: Sigh. I understand what you’re saying…but I’d feel more comfortable if we could just use the word pretty again.
pat: Ok Kat. You’re pretty. You’re very pretty.
me: Awwww…seriously??? Do you really mean that??
Choose a prompt, post it on your blog, and come back and sign Mr. Linky:
The Prompts:
1.) Describe your latest obsession.
2.) Ask a loved one to use 6 descriptive words to describe you and report your findings. How well do they know you?
3.) Who was your first bloggy friend? How did you find each other? Do you still correspond?
4.) Tell us about your pet! If you have a weird infatuation with your dog or cat we want to hear about it (or if they just plain drive you crazy)…but please don’t compare them to children. It’s just not the same.
Copy KAT
Your assignment for tomorrow is here!
A bunch of you did really cute re cap posts to start off 2009 and I wanted to copy. Here are some of my favorite pictures from 2008!! I tried to pick ones that you haven’t seen yet…
Pat and I brought in the New Year alone. Ahhhh. Enjoy the silence. This is actually one of my only pictures of JUST Pat and I post children. I’ve always got one hanging off a shoulder. They’re like my little monkeys. No worries, I was sure to snag another picture this year that should last another 12 months.
In February Kainoa was seven months old and had developed an unhealthy relationship with his blanket that is still going strong to this day.
In March Maile received her first hair cut.
In May, Laina turned a very mature three…but continued acting like a dog/baby when she fancied.
Sneaky Indeed
I got this book awhile ago…before Maile came down with her gluten allergy and decided I wanted to try sneaking veggies into my kids meals. No child is pickier than MY child. Foods that they I KNOW they like because they ate them as babies/toddlers, they will no longer touch. The worst is when they won’t even TRY a bite of something and I’ll tell you what, I’m a total push over mom. I don’t force them to eat stuff…I should. I will. I’ll try. Baby steps.
That’s not to say that it isn’t offered to them. If I make broccolli, for example, I put some on their plate and encourage them to try it, but usually they’ll opt to fill up on something else that they do like. I’m not trying to have a big fight at the dinner table over food.
The Sneaky Chef was written by Missy Chase Lapine and then in an exciting Hollywood twist Jerry Seinfeld’s wife came out with the same book three months later and called it Deceptively Delicious. I actually have never seen Seinfeld’s book so I can’t vouch for how similar they are, but rumor has it some of the recipes and writing is suspect. Then Seinfeld went on Oprah and became an instant success and Lapine got her panties in a bunch and they’ve been battling back and forth ever since. I don’t know if an official lawsuit has been filed or what…but it’s been a pretty exciting literary battle.
That being said!! I happened to snag a copy of Lapine’s book from the library and like it SO much that I went ahead and bought it. In the first half of the book Lapine provides a bunch of different puree concoctions that she calls by color.
So far I’ve only tried the orange puree…
I just peeled and chopped up a couple of carrots and a sweet potato and then boiled them for about 10 minutes.
Then I stuck them in a food processor and pureed away.
I did it! What do you do with all that yummy goodness you ask?? You just dump about 1/4 cup into whatever food it can be blended with. I put it in spaghetti sauce, french toast mix, quesadillas, and macaroni and cheese.
I think the next puree I try will be the purple one…I’ll let you know how it goes!