Biding My Time

That "new" cat is still here.  I can feel him.  I can smell him.  Sometimes, I think I hear his yodeling.  I stay in the home office downstairs and take naps in the cedar closet.  After everyone but my mistress goes to bed, I come upstairs for Mommy/Kitty time.  Mommy/Kitty time is the best.  One of my scratching posts has disappeared, a suspicious circumstance. 

I haven't gone batshit again, but I don't have to like this.  Now I'm napping on the sofa.  Downstairs is cool without the summer heat.  Fur is warm enough.  I have a cream-colored cross on my chest, and sometimes my sobriquet is "Sacred Kitty." 

Maybe the Pope will adopt me.  I've heard he likes cats.  I love my mistress, and I know she's not responsible for bringing a new cat into MY HOUSE.  How dare they?  The thought makes my tail twitch. 

At least I'm getting my treats regularly and there's always a little can of moist food in my dish when I trek upstairs in the evening.  Good things come in small cans. Life has been stressful and a cat likes peace and quiet.    Why do humans have such a hard time understanding that.  Change is bad.  Repeat after me.  Change is bad.

Enough.  Back to napping.  Aloha.

Thisbe

In Disgrace

I went batsh_t and chased one of the houseguests up the stairs this morning, spitting and growling.  My mistress called the vet.  I overheard her talking while I was sulking and having private time in the cedar closet.  When I emerged I was very lovey and hiding my Attila the Hun on Steroids side.   I can't believe it myself how fierce and protective of my turf I've become.  The Vet said it was a territorial thing.

I don't know where the other cat it, but I can smell him in the living room.  As long as he's not in my face, everything is just fine.  As long as no one is in my face, which I am currently washing.  I find that vigorous grooming relaxes me.  It's what a cat does, after all, and  A CAT'S GOTTA DO WHAT A CAT'S GOTTA DO. If I could paint or knit or whatever, do anything except clawing, I would put that on every wall in the house.

I'm going upstairs for a snack and to watch the Red Sox, which is something else I always do.  I  sit on the rug and my mistress reaches down and pets me and all is well.

Anti-anxiety meds were mentioned and I don't want no pills.  Egad, my diabetes shots are bad enough.  I feel like I could demolish 40 chipmunks and take on a fox.  Well, maybe not.

Attila on Steroids, aka Thisbe

I made a total ass of myself

So, the strange cat smells continued, but I was pretty cool with that.  The lawn mowers came with their dastardy noisy machines this a.m., and therefore I retreated, as is my wont, to the cedar closet.

My mistress came home and I was just coming to greet her, when our house guest, whom I have known for years, approached with a strange cat!  We rubbed noses, and what can I say, this was NOT the cat I had expected.  I growled and spat.  He retreated.  I raised my fur and fluffed my tail out until I was huge.  I lunged.  I spat.  I growled.  I totally lost control.  Strange cat retreated to a chair in his room.  I continued my advance until herded out of the room.  I growled and spa at the guest.

My mistress said this wasn't what she had expected of a gracious hostess.  Everyone said, "well, back to square one.  We tried to do this too fast."  I sulked for a while.

Later, they opened the storeroom door, and I got another look at the strange cat.  A handsome orange Tom.  Now he spat at me.  I went into the room and climbed into his carrier; that was when he spat.  I sniffed the bedding which smell somewhat like me.  WTF?

We stared at each other for a good long time, in a kind of Mexican standoff.  Everyone seemed pleased and we both received treats.  I feel somewhat better now.

What does the morrow hold?

Thisbe

Strange Happenings

The workman left.  My mistress came in a rubbed me with a towel that smelled like another cat.  Naturally, I masked my astonishment.  Later I sniffed around at the door to the storeroom, where there has been lots of traffic, but the door has been kept closed, piquing my curiosity.  I scratched at the door a bit, but no one let me into the storeroom.

In the meantime, my mistress and I have been having "Mommy-Kitty Time," and I'm purring and sitting in front of her computer where, like on the newspaper, it is difficult for her to ignore me.  I have to make sure I am loved best.  Her hands  have the strange cat smell.

I wonder what is going on, but I'm pretty relaxed about it. Everyone is watching soccer with that awful noise in the background.  Hmmmm.  Think I'll go upstairs for a snack.  A snack is always good.  I snack all day.  Dry food, moist food, treats, bring it on.  Quaffed down with bottled water, of course.  I think some new cat toys arrived home with the groceries, but they are still in the package.  I already did catnip this morning.  I am in a get-insky mood that may bring trouble if I chew on forbidden things.  Onion bags are my favorite.  I used to chew on fabric softener sheets after they came out of the dryer.  Sometimes I ate them, and then I threw them up, causing great consternation.  After we moved, the dryer sheets were no longer available.  But life is good.

Maybe a nap.  I can't wait to see who is in the storeroom.

Thisbe

A Strange Cat is In the Storage Room

They think I don't know what's going on, that I haven't seen the bed, the litter box, the food and water in the store room.  And now a scratching post has disappeared.  A new cat smell has appeared downstairs.  I'm playing it cool and hanging out like everything is normal.

I can't go upstairs anyway, because a workman is in the house, the thing I hate most.  Strangers.  Stranger making noise.  Clumping around, disturbing a cat's peace and quiet, her most precious moments. 

I heard them talking about the new cat who was in a carrier for almost 14 hours except when he had to be taken out to go through something called security.  They said he sniffed at the litter, the food and water, snooped all over his new space and found a hidey hole where he settled down for the night.   The visitor is totally traumatized by these new non-desert surroundings and his long journey.  How glad I am not to have had his experience from yesterday. 

I empathize.  Do I look forward to meeting him?  My mistress, who titles herself, "mommy," says I must be a gracious hostess.  Quatch!  Gracious and hostess are not in my vocabulary.  Now it is time for my insulin, known in the household as my "meds."  I get a yummy treat with my meds and sometimes catnip.  Life is not all bad, especially when I am catered to and get my own way.

Moist food, fresh water, cat toys, and lots of brushing and attention.  I do like to be petted.

Thisbe  

Cat Blog Day

Sometimes I blog about the cat, and now it's the cat's turn to do a bit of kitty blogging.  Thisbe will be 11 years old next month.  She is diabetic AND fat.  It takes a long time for her to bathe her vast stomach.  She has recently lost her forever housemate, Annie, and has grieved for a month.  She's getting back to normal, but what she doesn't know if that a house guest is bringing his male cat for a month's stay. And a young guest that Thisbe has never really cottoned to is also coming.  Thisbe has always been a "fraidy cat."  Her world is going to be turned upside down.  Cats hate change.  How will Thisbe greet her new housemate?  Will she be a gracious hostess?  Share?  Is our household going to be topsy-turvy?  Stay tuned.  Rulon, the (neutered) orange male has a 12 hour trip from the West Coast today.  He won't be in a very good mood, although he is a sweetheart.  Yikes! 

Summer at our House

"Low key" describes our summer routines. Gardening, reading and drinking (everything from lemonade to margaritas) on the deck. Bird feeding, bird watching (see photo) grilling, informal cooking (see photo), swimming (eventually), writing, entertaining, houseguests, trips to New England sights. Lately, we have had soccer, golf, hockey, basketball, baseball on television.  Sports overload.

I watched the season finale of Treme last night. Very moving. What a great show. The actors are so fine.

At last I'm getting into I-Bank, which I have bought to replace Money 2002, after a not-so-good experience with an Intuit product which did not have the functionality I have come to expect. You wouldn't think home finances would be so difficult. Why Microsoft didn't just sell Money continues to mystify me.

My soul loves working in the garden, but my back and knees don't. What to do? Leftovers from grilling tonight: chicken breast, zucchini, peppers. We have a salad of tomatoes and avocado with lettuces from the garden. Black beans (cooked with onion and garlic) are garnished with Mexican cheese and cilantro and basil from the garden. I love those three little words "from the garden."

We grilled corn in its husks yesterday, a first for me, and it came out with an excellent smokey taste.  Now back to writing and associated tasks.  There are a lot of "associated tasks" that go with writing.  Who knew?

Grapeshot

The Tale of The Skinny Girl with Bad Hair and the Wrong Clothes

Once upon a time, there was an only child, a skinny girl with bad hair who never once dreamed of a big wedding with all the hoop-la.  In her senior year of college, she met a young man from Germany and in short order they decided to get married.   She had the wedding of her dreams--a small ceremony followed by a wedding breakfast. Everything was good.

The following summer, the new husband took his bride to Germany to introduce her to his parents who had not been able to come to the wedding.  The girl had studied German for the past year, and could now speak “survival” German, although with a slight Viennese accent from her Berlitz teacher.  The young couple took a German steam ship from New York to Bremen and the girl mastered menu German. 

The boat docked and she was amazed at the sight of so many red-tiled roofs and the little vegetable gardens that grew all along the railroad tracks. The old world was a new world.

The train that carried them from Bremen to Goettingen arrived and the young woman met her all her in-laws.  The first faux pas she committed was to stub her cigarette out in a little snack dish that was not an ashtray.  Oops! 

Her hostess overlooked this gaffe, but it was the beginning of things going not badly,  but also not well. 

The skinny bride was freezing to death.  She had no idea that there were places, especially in Northern Europe that had cold, wet summers. Her suitcase, a very large suitcase, was full of clothes for hotter climes. She and her husband combed the local stores for warm clothes, but the girl was too skinny and the clothes didn’t fit.

Finally one rainy morning (there were no other kind), her mother-in-law took her by the arm and they returned to a large clothing store.  The mother-in-law marched her downstairs into the children’s department and in the girls’ section; they found a skirt and a warm gray sweater that fit.  The skinny girl was mortified to have to wear children’s clothes, yet she never forgot her mother-in-law’s practicality and kindness. It was also nice to be warm.

This girl was not only skinny and a smoker with an impossible wardrobe, she had bad hair, especially in the rainy damp weather.  Everyone was astounded when she went to the hairdresser one day and the following day, she looked like she needed a return trip. Badly.  But what can you do?  Bad hair is bad hair.  She learned the German words for thin and oily and limp.

But her in-laws were invariably kind and except for the fact that she was too skinny, and smoked, with bad hair and the wrong clothes, all was well. 

The time of day she liked best was when her two sisters-in-law came home from work and two young female cousins came over.  They sat around and smoked, laughed and gossiped, and even drank a glass of wine and she felt accepted into her new family.

The skinny girl and her husband rented an old Opel from a used car dealer to drive south for a vacation.  They drove along the Rhine, to Switzerland, and to San Remo on the warm, sunny Italian Riviera.  Now the young woman could wear all her light summer clothes.

One night in San Reno, a man named Domenici Modugno sang his old hit song, Volare, so loud he could be heard all over town. All night long.  Next morning, they saw him at the breakfast table in their hotel, drinking a beer for breakfast.  The old world was still new.

The time in San Reno was wonderful with lazy, relaxing days.  Sometimes the couple ate at a beach restaurant, other times at a bustling trattoria in town and evenings at a pizza parlor near the Russian Orthodox Church. 

The young woman was beginning to have bouts of nausea associated with mealtime.  The waiters in the restaurants took sympathy and offered Fernet Branca, something called bitters.  It tasted awful but settled her stomach.

 At last they left the Riviera and drove north through Italy.  They stopped for lunch at a restaurant they always called, the Italian Howard Johnson’s.  That night, in a hotel in Bolzano they experienced a terrible bout of food poisoning. It was the kind of night where, at first they were afraid they were going to die, and then afraid that maybe they wouldn’t.

The next morning they crawled into the Opel and drove into Innsbruck, Austria where they ate lunch at an outdoor café.  The skinny girl (even skinnier now, after the previous night) felt like the Ugly American as she ordered and downed three bottles of Coke, one after another.   Glug. Glug. Glug.

That evening, they rolled into Munich, still more dead than alive. The inhabitants were staggering around with red faces.  It was the hottest day in Munich history.  They got a room in a big ugly hotel with the sole window in the room opening into an airshaft. But there was no air.  And no air conditioning.

In the middle of the night, in a desperate search for relief from the heat, they took off their pajamas and covered themselves in wet towels.  They also opened the door trying to get some cross ventilation. Nothing helped.  

The next morning the young husband left the hotel at 7:00 in search of cold beverages. He discovered that it was a religious holiday and all the stores and restaurants were closed, except the bar at the main railroad station where men were drinking beer for breakfast. Must be a European thing.

After a breakfast in the hotel, the waiter ran after them, waving his arms and shouting repeatedly that the orange juice was “not included.”  “Nichts compris.”

Still somewhat the worse for wear, they made it back to Germany for the father-in-laws 60^th birthday.  Birthdays in Germany are events with a capital E.  The skinny daughter-in-law with bad hair and the wrong clothes helped the women in the family cook and prepare for the daylong birthday party that involved serving three different meals to three different groups of people.  By now she could even crack a few simple jokes in German, which everyone appreciated. She really felt like part of the family.   

In the last week, the skinny girl with bad hair and the wrong clothes had developed another remarkable trait.  She threw up every morning after breakfast. 

She and her husband announced that they thought the first grandchild would make an appearance in the spring.  Everyone was ecstatic with joy.  Her father-in-law thought it was the best birthday present ever.

Many happy trips to Germany followed, with many more birthday celebrations, eventually with two grandsons in tow.  Now the skinny girl knew enough to pack warm clothing and a hair dryer. She ditched the gigantic suitcase.  She never put her cigarette out in the snack dish again.  Years later, after she stopped smoking, she wasn’t even skinny anymore.   And everything was good.

After the rain

After the rain of the past few weeks, the garden looked downright jungly.  Tomatoes needed feeding, and sundry tasks, like pruning the forsythia and the wiegelia (spelling?) loomed large. For some dumb reason, I thought I could take care of everything in an hour.

Two hours later, I am sweating (changed shirts once), thirsty and tired.  And more work remains.   Found lots of string beans ready to eat, and harvested some dill.  Cut back the sage and the oregano, which is going nutso.   Garlic is HUGE and looks like it may bloom.  The garlic rose? 

I have to feed the flowers and some of the plants in the wild flower border.  Changed the hummingbird water.  Ant City.  Cheeky little guys were back within the hour.

We are spending like a dollar a day on suet for the birds, and they are insatiable.  Saw tiny frog the size of my thumb nail.  Incredibly cute.  Plenty of vitamin D had for the week.

Tonight we cooked swordfish is an incredible  3 peppercorn/parsley/garlic/butter sauce.   Salad with lettuces and beans from the garden.  Broccoli because we always eat our veggies.  Tiny potatoes steamed to go with the swordfish.

Shrimp salad tomorrow night.  We do eat well.  Onward.

Grapeshot                                                   

Thursday is Fish Taco Night

Somebody made fish tacos on the food channel.  Thought it was Guy, but maybe not.  Couldn't find the recipe, but I did find separate recipes for the beer batter, the chipotle mayo and of course, the tacos themselves.  Bought fresh cod today at Roche Brother.  Practically drooling all day.  Garnished with cabbage, of course, in the south of the border Ensenada way. 

Making cherry clafouti tomorrow.  We'll have steak and cabbage soup with the rest of the cabbage.   Trying to be frugal.  Always a challenge.  We fed the Scottish Highland Cattle lots of citrus rind and (very tasty) melon rinds.   Article in the NY Times about what nice lean beef they make, and grass fed too.  I would never eat beef again if I had to eat those sweet cattle.  Not sweet to teach other.  Old Maggie was lying down in the pasture, and finally got up to see what special treats I had.  She looks preggers.   One can only hope for a sweet calf, which we have been without for almost a year.  I have calf deprivation.

Iris in the pasture.  She is currently molting.

The Garden Yesterday

We bought a bag of impatients which we always refer to as the "bag of begonias."  The alliteration sounds better.  Butterflies and bees are plentiful.  I haven't seen the hummingbirds lately, but we have baby downy woodpeckers, and plenty of other avian friends.  The tomatoes are growing, and we broke out the smoker yesterday and smoked some kielbasa for tonight's MWA party at the Brookline library.

The folks at Whole Foods were very helpful with their suggestion about how to slice mancheco cheese.  We'll have bowls of fruits and veggies, cheeses and special ethnic treats as well as two dynamite desserts.

Late spring in the garden.  The wonder of it all! 

Cat Tales

Normally, Friday is Cat Blog Day, but I'm running behind.  Thisbe, who is in mourning for her housemate Annie, has acted strange of late.   She's always been an Extreme INDOOR cat, never venturing further than the garage or the front porch.  We've let her out on the deck a bit lately, and she's been content to sit under the table or a chair, and race into the house at the first sign of danger.  Noises, strangers and who-knows-what are Thisbe's idea of danger.

A couple times she wandered down the stairs and into the yard and seemed to be somewhat clueless about how to get back to the deck.  Once, I met her around the house and let her in the front door, which she found most MYSTERIOUS.
Yesterday, from her perch on the deck, she spied one of the baby chipmunks.  Ahhh!  Cat toys!  She left the deck and gave chase, but didn't even come close.  She returned, and sniffed around the neighbor's deck and seemed, well, confused.  Decided to go back to where the chipmunk was last seen. Went under the neighbors bushes and then their front porch.  Most uncharacteristic behavior.  I was in hot pursuit.  Thisbe jumped onto neighbor's front porch and wanted in the door. 

Listen, the fuzzy imbecile, this is NOT OUR HOUSE.  She sniffed around and acted obtuse.  Don't know where their dog was, or she would have been catatonic.   Finally I picked her up (all 16 heavy pounds) and carried her as far as I could before she let loose with the claws and wriggling and then growls and hisses.  She lay in the grass and sulked. 

I called her from the steps of the deck.  More confusion.  Can this be MY house?  I thought it was the other one.   Hmm.  Guess I'll check it out.  Oh!  It is my house.  Yikes.  I think I'll go inside and chill and think about this business.  Do I have two houses?  Where are the cat toys?  

She lay on the floor in a state of prostration.  Stress is stressful.  Her housemate, Annie, never liked it when Thisbe went outside.  She has no brains and will get lost immediately.  How true.

One of those cats with no sense of direction.  Who knew? 

Poor Thisbe,  I had to give her extra treats. 

Vampires Uber Alles

I'm always astonished to see news of my alma mater way up here in New England, so imagine my surprise when I read a laudatory NYT article about making-a-big-splash with his new vampire novel Rice University professor Justin Cronin.    

In my craziest musings, I can't imagine getting $3.75 mil for 3 books  and 1.75 mil for the film rights.  At this stage, it's hard to imagine getting a book published, much less a huge advance.  Rice has also produced Larry McMurtry and several other novelists including the late William Corrington. Cronin was formerly a so-called literary writer who has made the switch to "genre."   Mr. Cronin remarked in his interview that "literary is shorthand for appreciated and commercial is shorthand for sells."  That is a pretty clever definition.  He plotted the book with his then nine-year old daughter.  Kids have great imaginations.

Oh yeah--the name of Cronin's book is The Passage and apparently the vampires are not "sensitive."  Cronin has not read Stephanie Meyers which breaks a rule that you should always read deeply in your genre.  He members watching Dark Shadows, which was a soap that I sometimes watched when bored out of my mind by young-momhood.  Excrement occurs. 

A couple weeks ago I had a conversation with a younger friend who is shopping around her second novel and had recently received some good feedback from her agent.  She asked me if belonging to all these writing organizations--MWA, Sisters in Crime, etc. was helpful.  I mentioned networking, yada yada.  She asked if other writers read my work.  I had to confess that only my writing group reads my work, because an unwritten rule is that you would never dream of asking a published writer to read your work.  It just isn't done. Like asking someone on the tennis circuit to hit a few balls.  You have to pay for workshops, etc. where you might get  5-10 pages critiques, but no, I don't ask writers to read my work.  Critique groups will read your work.   Apparently in the literary genre, where she writes, people exchange manuscripts all the time.  I felt a soupcon of envy.  No, I felt a tsunami of envy. Are "literary writers" more supportive than genre writers?  Something to consider. Would YOU ask a "real" writer to read your work? In my very early days of writing, I tried that a couple times and the results were, well, they were humiliating.  Actually, it's very hard to have a literary agent, whose business it is, read one's writing.  They pass judgement on a page or two.  Or perhaps their assistants do.  Snap judgments abound.  Well, it's a hard business.  The head of a mega publishing house got sacked today.  They brought someone in who had a better knack for picking best sellers. 



On the boob tube, I miss Damages, Mad Men, Big Love and now The Good Wife.  Can the Red Sox make up for all that drama?  Just finished a wonderful book, a memoir by Gerald Durrell about spending a couple years with his family on Corfu.  His brother Lawrence of Alexandria Quartet fame was a drama queen and a royal pain.  The book was delightful.  My Family and Other Animals. Get a copy if you can.  Won't disappoint if you like nature writing and nutty families. His writing is excellent.  The whole family had talent.  Some great minor characters, too, both human and animal.

Onward, and listening to the beat of the different dummer, maybe even doin' a little dance.

Grapeshot

Living Well

Yesterday's dinner (see photo) was a nice Spanish entree from Bon Appetit!  We decided we were likely the only folks in Foxboro feasting on this particular dish.  Tonight was Mexican with a new recipe for tortilla soup.  I have maybe half a dozen recipes,  but had never made this particular one.  Mega yum. 

Last night I dreamed my old high school friend showed up in the Berkshires at another friend's house.  She said, "I brought some cookies."  I tasted one, and it was great.  I tasted it again.  It contained bacon.  Meanwhile, the hostess, eschewing all cookies was parading around showing off  her recent weight loss.  What did this dream mean?

The tortilla soup  makes enough for three meals if we practice portion control.   Here is the photo of the grilled sausage and shrimp kebabs with tomato and onion.  It's served and basted with a spicy sauce of olive oil, garlic, red pepper and pimenton.  Ole!  

The other photo is a view of the deck with the newly planted box of red petunias and the red flowers (begonias)  in colorful pots.  It is so restful to sit and read and drink (soft and/or hard) looking out over the slough. 

Cell Phone Rant

As a long-standing member of Red Sox Nation, I would give my eye teeth to sit right behind home plate during a game at Fenway Park.  I mean, what could be more exciting that to see the team close up and personal and watch the batters deliver a few home runs into the stands, watch the pitcher hurling those 95  mph fastballs, and see the exciting plays at home plate?  Second guess the ump?

Apparently talking on one's cell phone or texting is more exciting than actually watching the game once you're made it into those oh-so-pricey seats.  I see it all the time.  So-called fans with cell phones glommed onto their ears.  I mean, how can you hear jack-shit with 34,000 screaming fans?  The dead give away for texting is watching someone with his/her eyes lowered toward an invisible phone, arms at sides, sitting very still. Except for the thumbs.  Gee, don't spill beer on your precious device. 

"I'm at the ball game."
"Who's leading?"
"Aaaa, just a minute, let me check the scoreboard. Oh, the Sox are leading."

"What inning is it?"
"Aaaaa, just a minute.  Oh, it's the bottom of the third."
"Who scored the runs?"
"I don't know.  I'll text you back after I've looked it up on the web."
"Hey, never mind.  I can do that, too."

"I'm at the Red Sox game."
"What's the score?"
etcetera.

Such a waste.  I know.  Give ME the tickets and you can sit in a bar, watch the game and yak all night.  Text till your thumbs drop off. 
Your display of self-importance just makes you look dumb.