Cat Cardboard

The other week I watched a video on my phone about some guy who put aluminum foil on his kitchen counters to prevent his cat from hopping up there.  I’ve spent my life with cats, recently reluctantly, so the brief recording was only mildly interesting; I’d seen cats react that way from many other situations.  And I can assure the videographer (or should that be phoneographer?) that his cat will quickly learn to ignore and walk around, and even on, the foil.

By Any Other Nomenclature

I don’t know what rose Shakespeare was referring to, but it’s been my experience from ten years in the Garden Center at Exwork that most of them don’t have a fragrance, and some even stink.  Maybe it has to do with the panicked efforts of venders to reduce cost, so they created roses without scent because they took less time to grow. No one at Exwork could or would verify that.

Goofy Stuff: Bar Room Buddies

On 15 February 1981 I wrote a song I called “Passed Out,” which is curious because I drank only coffee, juices, and water then, being that I was in the military and forced to run PT three days a week.  On 29 June 1998, less than a year after we moved into Old House, I rewrote it a little, renamed it “Bar Room Buddies,” and that night I recorded it on my computer at my dining room table.

Rules of Convenience

All around the house I’m annoyed by the inconvenience of things.  Most notably on a daily basis is the rustic tray full of farming knickknacks my wife has on the coffee table that blocks the remote from my recliner.  My choices are to hold the remote higher to change channels or move the tray, which is what I eventually do. Sure, that’s not a lot of work, but it’s inconvenient because she keeps putting it back.

Forgotten Jars

 My wife no longer likes to buy food.  She still does, but not as often and very reluctantly.  Oh she’ll hop in the car six times a weekend to shop at Michael’s, Hobby Lobby, and Joann Fabrics, but if I ask her to get a loaf of bread or a bottle of Glucosamine on the way, she sighs, droops her shoulders, and pantomimes the walk of a lost soul.  Little by little and increasingly I buy the groceries.

Eight Lives Gone

My wife’s male cat was fixed before he fully entered puberty, so I don’t know why he suffers from wanderlust, but he does, and he hunts the house looking for trouble.  Oh, he pursues the usual stupid cat thing of leaping up on tables and shelves and knocking pictures and knickknacks over and onto the floor while rubbing his scent against them.  But lately he’s been onerously adventurous. 

Items of the Fourth Estate

Item:  My grandson, Rex, stopped by with all his gear after baseball the other day and we played Wicket Pong, previously known as Cricket Ping Pong.  After he beat me two owls to two thimbles, basically 8-2 in ten twelve-tile games, I found something on the table that I thought was an elbow guard.  I asked him about it, wondering aloud as I fitted it to the bend of my arm if he had two of them.  As a catcher he had lately been hit on the arm by ball and bat, and I had suggested he get some extra protection.  He informed me he only had one, and that the thing was his cup.  I washed my hands,

Family Theme

   My wife thinks she wants to be a farmer.  She has one cousin up north who actually farms, but that’s not enough to convince me that farming is in her blood.  She started buying farm-themed stuff: a hollow ceramic chicken that contains a scrubby-pad for washing dishes, which she doesn’t use and is in the way; salt and pepper shakers with pictures of roosters, which pour out their contents instead of sprinkling and so should never be shook at all; pillows printed with red trucks full of produce; a blanket stitched with repeating sheep; and a metal washboard that she hung on