And No One's Getting Fat 'Cept Mama Cat

The past week (more or less, and really more if I am being honest) I have felt a little overwhelmed.  I still haven’t kicked whatever bug is ailing me, I am trying to eat less and exercise more, and this house of cats sometimes feels more like a house of cards, with claws.

Taylor got a clean bill of health from the vet so the pet rescue can start promoting him on their site and Hank has become more trusting of us so he is getting closer to being adoptable, which is all great.  But the drama continues.  Figaro spends almost all his time upstairs to avoid seeing them; when he does come down so he can go in the yard or look out the front window, he always bumps into Taylor and a great deal of hissing and growling ensues.  Generally it ends with me applying iodine to myself.

My hands look the before on a before-and-after ad for Porcelana. 

Several of the “kittens” aren’t fans of the new cats either, so the house is one of discord for the moment.  But I take heart in small victories such as Hank becoming relaxed enough to come in the back door to eat—I do not have to keep food on the patio at night anymore.  The raccoons have very good hearing and as soon as a Fiestaware bowl is placed on the patio they are here to empty it of its contents in about thirty seconds.

Hank relaxing will mean less Iams is ending up in raccoons.

I embrace these small victories but keep hoping for a big one; last night I finally had a big victory, or at least what has the potential to be one.

My friend Nellie often contributes articles and does voice-over work for Haunted Voices Radio Network where anything and everything related to the paranormal is discussed, dissected and considered.  I’ve listened to a few of their shows and to anyone inclined to view these things with suspicion and mockery, I want to assure you this is not a group of bored people taking Ouija boards to graveyards trying to contact Jim Morrison or Houdini.

Anyway, seeing as they are reliant upon donations, and with times being what they are, they need some help to keep things going.  Because I value Nellie as a friend and because she values the work HVRN does, I made a $20 donation.  I tell you how much not so that you will all swoon over my Bill Gates-like generosity, but to make point, which I will do shortly.

A day or two later, I received an e-mail from HVRN telling me that my small donation entitled me to air time.  I felt just like Grandma Simpson in a recent episode.  Did you see that one?  Grandpa Simpson finally meets someone who is willing to listen to all his rambling, although it turns out that the guy is trying to get a bunch of quirky stories he can turn into a book à la ”Tuesdays with Morrie” and win a Pulitzer.  He also plans to kill Abe since the quirky stories of someone dead sell better.

Anyway, I couldn’t think of anything I wanted to promote until last night at eleven as I was ushering in the last of cat, when it  hit me.  I put down my toothbrush and wrote an e-mail.  Before I had finished flossing there was a response waiting for me.  HVRN has asked Nellie to create a one-minute PSA based on my e-mail; it will play during all the network shows, and links to a variety of animal services will be posted on their pages.

I don’t know how many people will adopt a pet, spay or neuter a pet they already have, or donate old towels, blankets or unused inuslin needles to a pet rescue because of this; but someone somewhere is bound to do something, and all it took was twenty dollars and the friendship of two people have never met outside of this strange online world.

I feel like karma is alive and well and making very good use of the internet. 

PS.  Tigger was waiting in the patio this morning for breakfast.  Now that she has been spayed and no longer has to concern herself with her svelte figure in order to get a date she has put on a few pounds.  She looks quite pretty—a little plumpness under her silky calico coat and her eyes still sparkling with kitten-like sweetness and curiosity; she reminds me of a woman I sat next to at the symphony once.

http://www.humanesociety.org/

 

http://www.aspca.org/

 

http://www.petfinder.com/index.html

Hank Entwhistle

Orange Cat visited the vet Thursday and other than ear mites seems in overall good health.  I am treating the mites and taking pictures of him to post at the pet rescue’s site so we can try to find him a permanent home.  The pet rescue calls it a fur-ever home.  I think purr-manent home would sound better, but both are insipid so who is to say?

I have given him the name Taylor since it’s a good all-purpose name; it will likely be changed by whomever adopts him so it really makes no difference—I could call him Euripides if I wanted to.  He thinks he is in charge of the house and Figaro spends a lot of time muttering what I assume are profanities in my general direction.  It’s a real treat.

The cat formerly known as Ginger Rogers is now known as Hank Entwhistle.  I think people who have no idea where that name came from will still like the idea of a cat named Hank Entwhistle.  I makes you want to talk to the cat just so you have reason to say Hank Entwhistle repeatedly—if a pet does not serve to expand upon our eccentricities there is really no reason to have one.

Hank likes his name, or at least he pretends to.

That’s the original Hank Entwhistle on the right.

Slim expressed her displeasure at the new residents by peeing on a dining room curtain.  They are heavy chenille (I bought them because I like to use the word chenille) so I had to wash them in the bathtub.  Agitate them by hand, drain tub, refill, agitate to rinse, wring-out by hand, all like people did it a hundred and however-many years.

There’s a reason people died younger back then: so they could get out of doing laundry.

Those who have never owned a female cat are often surprised to know they can pee on a vertical surface.  Some have better aim that others, but doing it does not require any special skills or training; they just lift their tail and fire away.  Male cats generally do a little dance with their back feet when they are peeing on something to make a point, but the females mostly just let their work speak for itself.

I hope this has been informative. 

Ginger Rogers Has a Penis

I know, Cat Boy should be able to tell a boy cat from a girl cat, but they don’t all develop at the same rate, and the amount of fur this cat has makes it hard to see anything down there.  But today, Ginger was washing herself with her foot stuck up in the air, and I noticed something a little unusual for someone named Ginger.

I can’t believe I mistook the sex of two cats in such a short time.  Big George used to be Fannie, and now Ginger will have to become I-don’t-know-what.  Fred seems too obvious.  We’ll figure it out.

Doesn’t he look like a Ginger?

The cat is giving me some good blog titles, anyway.

Jenny Robin Wants a New Post

Those who do not stay until the end will be missing out. Really, you will.

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I have the flu/bronchitis/something-I-have-not-gone-to-the-doctor-for-so-Ican’t-give-a-name.   Before you tell me I should go to the doctor let me give you a sample conversation of my visits from the past two winters.

Doctor: “Take a deep breath.”

Me: Takes deep breath.

Doctor: “You have bronchitis.  Let me see, you always get allergy-related bronchitis and antibiotics won’t help; it just has to run its course.  I can give you something to make sure it doesn’t go into pnuemonia—it won’t anyway, but since you’re here you should at least get some free samples.

“Where did you get that jacket?  I’d like to see my husband in something like that.”

Me: “Men’s Wearhouse.  But it was a few years ago and I don’t think they stock this style anymore; you might try the Kenneth Cole section at Macy’s.  Wait until they have their take an additional 20% sale.”

Doctor: ”I always enjoy our visits so much.”

I do, too, but they cost me $75 a piece so I try to limit them.

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I’m getting tired of people joining facebook groups and having to read about it.  Especially when people join groups like “Why the hell do I have to push ”1″ to continue in English?”   Did pushing  “1″ really inconvenience you all that much?  Did it inconvenience you more or less than you’re voting for Prop 8 inconvenienced a lot of people? 

I also do not enjoy reading that someone became a fan of not liking something.  Wow.  How rude have we become that we have to do that.  If someone wants to waste their time playing Bingo or planting imaginary begonias online why the hell do you care?  They aren’t wasting your time doing it.   But you are taking the time to tell them they are wasting theirs. 

That makes me think of a cat I had who would sniff another cat’s ass and make a nasty face afterwards.  Quit sniffing it then.

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Orange Cat is not going to be companion to an ailing child afterall; they already found the little boy a cat.  But, the pet rescue is setting me up with a low-cost voucher to get her a health check and if that turns up good, they will post photos on their website to help find her a home. 

Ginger Rogers is an easier sell since she is quite simply a gorgeous kitten.  All I have to do is get her comfortable enough to allow someone other than my sister and myself to pet her and she can start going to the mobile adoption clinics.  I’m hoping another month will do it.

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I watched a movie on Netflix the other night called Fag Hag.  There is more than one movie with that title—the one I am talking about is sort of early John Waters-ish and Wil Wheaton has a small part in it.  The movie ends with the female lead (the hag, if you will) singing an empowerment ballad, of sorts.

I can’t say if you will think the movie is worth it, but if you have Netflix,  the movie is available for instant viewing and you can simply fast forward to 1:03 to catch her performance.

For those who do not have Netflix:

“There’s a feeling you get, way deep-down below,
A little tinkle that you get when you have to let it go.
I’m going to shake it off, I’m going to do it everyday;
And it’s such a relief to know, I’m going to wipe it all away.

Because I am going to win, my time has only begun;
I’m going to stand on my two feet—I’m going to go number one.
I’ve been holding it in, now I’m letting it run;
It’s going to flow like a river, watch me go—
I’ve got to go number one . . .”

I told you.

Crossed Fingers and Positive Thoughts

I sent an e-mail this evening to the pet rescue that fostered Figaro before he came to live with us; I told them about Ginger and Orange Cat in the hopes that someone in their group has room to take them on.  Well, no luck there.  But, they did say if I can get Ginger relaxed enough to be handled by someone other than me they will make room at any and all adoption events they are having to “showcase” her.

And (and this I hope is not too good to be true which is why I am pleading for crossed fingers) I happened to mention that Orange Cat is declawed (as an indication that she once belonged to someone), and this gave the woman in charge pause.  She told me that she recently got an e-mail from someone looking for a cat for a terminally ill child, but that it was important that the animal be declawed.

Please, let this be like a Hallmark Hall of Fame, no matter how much I make fun of them sometimes.  I have a Gold Crown card if that makes any difference.

I really do have one. 

Ginger Rogers Crapped On My Floor

I guess it might be worth it for that title.

It’s less than thirty degrees here so I allowed Teddy’s girlfriend Ginger to spend the night.  Liberal Californians do that sort of thing, letting their cat’s paramour sleep over.  She doesn’t quite get the concept of the litter box so far, and I don’t know why.

I pointed at the box and said “Use it.” 

It worked with everyone else so maybe she’s slow.  Anyway, it was all fun here with a house full of cats trying to remember who they like and who they do not like.  For Slim it’s easy—she likes Figaro.  Figaro remembers that he is not so hip on me, but keeps forgetting who else is on his shit list.   I think Ginger is now, literally and figuratively.

It’s cold here and I don’t want a bunch of comments saying it’s colder where you are.  Firstly, if you chose to live somewhere it is supposed to be cold then you aren’t allowed to claim you have it worse than someone living somewhere it is not supposed to be cold, since we all know you have it worse most of the time.  Secondly, Bay Area cold is different.

Maybe it’s the humidity or the proximity to the Bay, but when it’s cold here it feels colder.  I honestly don’t know what it is, but whenever relatives and friends are here from Minnesota, Utah or Arkansas in the winter, they complain about how cold it is; if the people with snow in their driveways say it’s cold I assume they know what they are talking about.

That about covers its.  I need to go buy some long underwear and poblano chilies (unrelated uses).

Presenting . . .

. . . Tiny Tim.

I thought it was about time I posted a picture of Tim— Tigger’s baby daddy, and very nearly Slim’s.

His eyes don’t always glow like that; that was my fault.  He is a little bit overweight and he has one foot that doesn’t function, but I guess the chubby gimp is in this year because he seems to have a more active sex life than most people I know.  

Now that I own a cat trap of my very own I am going to try to capture him so he can get a cat vasectomy.  I’d also like to have someone look at that foot and determine if whatever is wrong can be fixed for less than a zillion dollars.  If not, there is a twice-a-year clinic where volunteer vets not only do spays and neuters, but surgery and other forms of medical treatment for feral cats.  I think they ask for a $20 donation. 

And this is Ginger Rogers. 

She is in my house in this photo but don’t think she has moved in.  She was being especially adventurous at the time.  She is not ready for human contact  yet.  As far as that goes, none of the cats who live here (including Figaro) want me touching them either.  It’s odd, Figaro got mad at me for letting the kittens move in, but despite his now being friends with them, he still pretty much despises me.  He just no longer remembers why he despises me.  (I had relatives who pulled that kind of crap with each other.)

Anyway, I am trying to get Ginger Rogers (who I am calling Ginger Rogers rather than just Ginger because it’s quirky to the point of being annoying and I’ve decided that’s going to be my new thing) to trust me, then I will try to move her in with my parents because I think their Monet might like a kitten, whatever my father may think of it.

I Fried an Egg for a Homeless Cat

I thought it was important to just get it out there.  I’m out of canned food and Ginger Rogers wanted something besides dry food so I figured a fried egg and piece of challah would fit the bill.  She enjoyed it very much.  Monty liked fried eggs (he preferred poached) and something told me Ginger would too.  Figaro gave me a look and ran upstairs to pout.

I offered him an egg too, but he gave me a “No, I wasn’t really hungry anyway” look and turned his back to me.

When I came home this afternoon there were raccoon prints all over the dining and living room floors.  I thought it was important to just get this out there, too.  I had to run to the store and the cats would not make up their minds who was staying in and who was going out so I said the hell with it and left the back door open. 

It had occurred to me that someone could come in and steal my laptop and artwork, but a raccoon helping himself to Iams at four in the afternoon didn’t enter my mind.  I think one of the cats scared it off because the bowl was still half full and raccoons aren’t any better at moderation than I am.

I couldn’t make this crap up—right now, there is a skunk on the patio eating a leftover chunk of challah.  Mazel Tov, Pepé.

I am having hot chocolate.  I use Mexican hot chocolate (those disks you have to break apart with an ice pick), and add a few drops of rose water and some ground ancho chili.  I got the idea from a place in Oakland called Bittersweet.  That reminds me, if you are ever in the Rockridge section of Oakland, go to Who’s Your Betty and Bella Vita Home. 

They are small businesses that could use more customers; Who’s Your Betty is a store that began as a tribute to a woman who died of cancer and would have not been too keen on a pink ribbon.  I got my mom a pair of earrings in the shape of owls there.  Where else are you going to find owl earrings? 

I started my Thanksgiving preparations.  I cut a twelve-pound pumpkin into chunks, roasted it, pureed it, then let it drain in a colander to get rid of the excess water.  I don’t really like pumpkin pie, but it amuses me to spend a lot of time cooking something I have no interest in eating (except shrimp, because even the smell . . . ).

My grandmother and great-grandmother used canned pumpkin;  I have no idea if anyone in my family used anything but.  For all I know the pilgrims used canned pumpkin (I watched Colonial House on PBS, but they never went into that).  I have enough of the puree to make more pies than I will, so I’ll freeze a portion of it for use in other things.

I’m making four pumpkin pies and four coconut pies for a community center dinner, along with instant mashed potatoes.  Making mashed potatoes from scratch for a thousand is not realistic, but adding large amounts of butter and half & half to the instant potatoes I am in charge of is.  I tried them last year.  You bring the spoon to your face and you know just by the smell, but the butter and cream really helped.

For my own Thanksgiving, I am making the dressing (the Victorians changed the name from stuffing because it sounded too vulgar), dinner rolls, cranberry sauce, and some desserts.

I was told to bring an extra dessert so I’m bringing three.  Two years ago something bad happened with regard to dessert and I will never again take any chances.   I’m making pecan pie and I am doing it the way I think it used to be done.  I figured the pie was older than the commercial corn syrup most often used in it so I started Googling; I found it goes back to at least the 1800s (French cooks in Louisiana introduced it) when they most likely used golden syrup or treacle.  I have treacle!

I’ll report back on that, as well as my homemade mincemeat, and the bread pudding baked within a pumpkin.  I decided to skip sweet potato pie for Thanksgiving, but I might make it for my birthday.

The rolls will be all-purpose American dinner rolls (Parker House-ish, I suppose) and another roll that has a brioche-like texture but uses pureed pumpkin in place of most of the eggs and milk.  I made it once years ago, but can’t remember what I thought of it. 

You know, I had several things unrelated to food or animals I was going to talk about, but I can’t recall what any of them were.

Except one.  I saw the news today and they were going on about Sarah Palin’s new book.  I’m sure someone has made this observation before, but if I were Peggy Hill, I would sue Palin’s ass for stealing my signature look.  All Palin did was make it more cartoon-ish.

 

Spooky No More

This evening I de-Halloween’d my house.  It was so sweetly creepy but seasonal decorations are called that for a reason.  Nevermind the percentage of people who no longer see a need to take down their Christmas lights (“I don’t turn them on until November” is not a valid explanation). 

It’s like flip-flops—the rules have changed.   Be that as it may, I still say flip-flops in winter is white trashier than anything the white trash I grew up with would have done. 

I have some pumpkins, pomegranates, and persimmons sitting here and there so my house is not entirely back to its normal appearance, and by the time I get around to taking those down it will be time for the next seasons decor.   The mall has been decorated for Christmas since two days before Halloween.

I know they have to start early to sell us all that crap we don’t need, but I have noticed over the past few years (I made a concerted effort to study this) that people seem to be taking their cues from the retail industry: the earlier my mall puts out its decorations, the earlier my neighbors do.

I figure I just have to learn to ignore it.   But it’s not easy when it’s 75 degrees out and someone in flip-flops is mowing their lawn around an inflatable snowman.

I cooked French toast this morning and should have soaked it longer.  It was good, but it could have been a bit more custard-y.  I forgot just how much liquid brioche can absorb and still maintain its texture.   My plum jam went over well so I will give some as gifts this year along with the chili sauce and apricot jam I already planned to.

Aside from six or seven people, I don’t buy gifts anymore.  I give food gifts to most of my family, and friends mostly just get a card and my very best wishes.  I’m glad.  Some of the longest hold-outs were people who would ask me what I wanted and then not buy it.  I don’t think adults should ask for specific gifts as a rule, but if someone directly asks you I think you can respond.  Still not sure why they ask in the first place if they plan to get you a gift card (at a store that does not sell what you asked for).

Speaking of the winter holidays, I started reading a Photoshop Elements tutorial so I can figure out how to use different layers and apply “brushes” and make my own original designs.  I haven’t the vaguest idea what any of it meant.  I am not exaggerating even a little.  I still have a picture of a cat standing on his head. 

If anyone wants to buy barely used Elements software let me know.  I need the money to buy some crayons and construction paper.   You think I’m kidding, just wait until you get your card.

Speaking of cats, Figaro has a girlfriend—  Brick.  That’s what I said.  Whatever, they seem very happy together.  I feel kind of sorry for Slim since she just adores Figaro.  Maybe she’ll take Tigger up on her offer (I told you Tigger has the hots for Slim, right?).  I think I let them watch too many foreign movies.

Teddy has a girlfriend, too, but she is a girl which makes the story anticlimactic.  The little kitten I started calling Ginger seems smitten with Teddy, and vice versa. Come to think of it, I assume Ginger is a girl, I have never actually got a good look under its tail.  Well, she looks like a girl and I’m usually pretty good about getting that right (except for Fannie who is now called George).

I guess that’s it for the moment.  It’s late and I need to take a few minutes to plan my week and unwind before bedtime.

Pictures

Shan asked for some pictures. Here are some pictures. I’m all about pleasing people. (Shut up.)