Hoo Boy

(ha ha, here I go, getting in trouble in Blogworld again. Believe it or not, that Dooce post is STILL drawing commenters. *sigh*)

So, I'm reading the local paper this morning, and there's this article about local therapists offering free "marriage checkups" for Valentine's Day, and blah blah blah and the article goes on and on and then I hit this part:

"Reeves says she doesn't work with homosexuals, just married couples or those in a long-term relationship. She's a faith-based Christian counselor, she said, and "most homosexuals will not want to come to me and hear they're living in sin.""

(!)

Oh boy. My first reaction was, "How DARE she?! How DARE she turn away gay people?"

And then I was thinking about it, and I was all, "Well, if she really thinks gay people are evil, then I guess it's her right to not have them as clients." But THEN I was all, "But what if it was black people she was turning away? Would THAT be all right? Of course not!"

There was a similar hoo-hah around here a while back, when gay marriage was first legalized in New York, and a local town clerk said she would not issue marriage licenses to gay people, because it was against her religion.

I just ... I don't know. I think gay people have just as much right to be married and miserable as the rest of us. And if their marriage hits the skids, they should be able to go for counseling, just like the rest of us. But what if the therapist thinks gay people are sinners and going to hell? Is it okay for her to turn them away? Should she be FORCED to treat gay people? What if she was a medical doctor, instead of a therapist? Would it be okay for her to refuse to treat them then? I mean, of COURSE not! But she's NOT a medical doctor, she's just a marriage therapist, so does that make it okay? Is prejudice a valid reason for refusing to counsel someone? And as far as that whole "living in sin" thing goes, don't Christians believe that any two people who are living together without benefit of marriage are "living in sin"? But she says that she WILL treat "those in a long-term relationship". Isn't that, like, splitting hairs here? Like, it's okay if you've been "living in sin", as long as you're not gay, and you've been doing it "long-term"? I'm not sure where she draws the line, there.

Frankly, I think she's crazy, and wrong. But if I was gay, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't WANT to go to a therapist who hated me for what I was, so maybe she's right to be up-front about it? But is that even legal? Aren't there, like, laws against discrimination?

Man, now I'm just confused. What do you think?

It's all right to be Itty Bitty

On Saturday afternoon, Miss Molly went off to PetSmart. After I had failed at getting her into a carrier on Friday, the foster coordinator came out to the house to get Molly.


And SHE couldn't get Molly into the carrier. And I have to admit, I was a leetle bit relieved, because at least I know it wasn't just me. The FC finally had to scruff Molly - pick her up by the scruff of the neck - and deposit her directly down into the tipped-up carrier to get her in.


Poor Molly! But she's off at PetSmart to find her new home, so that's a good thing.


And goodness knows that in foster care, they never take away one cat without bringing in another ...







Meet Itty Bitty.

And the best part about it? It's free!

Saturday I went to the Johnson Museum of Art at Cornell. I love this museum - They bring in new exhibits all the time. Of course, I had to visit with my old favorites, like The Goose Girl:

I really like the way the artist did her feet.

Oh, and I got to meet the grumpiest museum guard ever! Most of the guards at the museum are nice and friendly and glad to answer questions. On Saturday, I was wondering how they keep little kids from touching the paintings - none of them are behind glass, and some of them are low enough to the ground so that kids could reach them. So I asked a passing guard, and he literally rolled his eyes and said, "Lady, we TELL them not to touch the paintings", and stomped off. Jeez! I mean, it might have been a stupid question, but that gum-chewing guido acted like I'd offended him by daring to ask. Ex-CUUUUUUSE me! ha.

There were all kinds of funky video installations:

Oh, and this one really creeped me out:

The artist had hung two puppet-things on the wall, and then projected images of women talking onto the puppets - scary and fascinating at the same time.

Oh, and this was my favorite from this visit:

It's a shadow, right? A great big shadow projected into the corner. I walked into the room and turned around to see where the actual structure was, and ... there wasn't one. The artist had air-brushed the image onto the floor and wall. Too. cool.

Oh, and I FINALLY found the secret passage to the fifth floor - but this post is long enough already. I'll save that for another day. How was your weekend?

Romeo's heart

So THAT'S why they named him Romeo.

Great news! Romeo and Mouse, after less than a week at the adoption center, are getting adopted this morning! All paperwork has been completed, and their new family is coming to get them at 9 a.m. I stopped at Petsmart on my way in to work to say a quick goodbye. Bye-bye, guys! Have fun in your new home!

Oh, and in other cat news, Molly was SUPPOSED to go to the adoption center this morning, but she presented a mighty struggle against the carrier and I was not able to take her in. *sigh* Your turn is coming, Molly. Your turn is coming.

The trouble with Molly is that she does not want to be picked up. She LOVES to sit in your lap and purr, but as soon as you try to pick her up, she flips out. I don't know if her former owner, an elderly lady, picked her up and dropped her once and now she's scared, but a cat who can't be picked up presents a bit of a problem, so they are going to have to work with her at the adoption center on that little quirk.

Provided, that is, I ever manage to get her into a carrier to get her to the center. I think reinforcements are going to be needed.

Oh, and if anybody has any suggestions on how to pick up a cat who does not want to be picked up, thankyouverymuch, please let me know.

Common questions I get at the adoption center

When I am volunteering at the adoption center, I get lots of questions. And I love it! I love being able to talk with people, answer their questions, and of course, look at cell phone pictures of their cats. Well, that last part not so much, but it's part of the job. Ha. Here's some of the most common questions and the answers I give. (Or, the answers I'd LIKE to give, in parentheses.) If you think I'm doin it rong, feel free to chime in. After all, I'm new at this.



Q. How did the cats end up here?

A. They each have their own individual story. Is there a cat you're interested in? I'll tell you his story. Unfortunately, none of the stories involve fulfilling a cat's lifelong dream of ending up in the care of an animal rescue group. (No, that is not my actual response. But it's what I'd LIKE to say, sometimes. Often, people seem to believe that there must be some HAPPY reason the cats are in rescue care.)


Q. I want a declawed cat. Are these cats declawed?

A. (Oh my God do not get me started.) No, the cats are not declawed. And no, you may not adopt a cat and then declaw it. If you are adamant in having a declawed cat, I will help you find cats in local shelters who have already (unfortunately) been declawed. Our rescue group strongly disapproves of declawing. (VERY strongly). Would you be interested in a pamphlet on the declawing process and its effect on a cat? (I know, I know, I sound like some kind of PETA weirdo, here, but jeezus CHRIST declawing is brutal.)


Q. I like that cat, but I'm not sure I'm ready to adopt. Would it be mean to go in and visit with it, and then not adopt it?

A. Absolutely not. Come on in! The cats get bored here, and they can use the company. They won't hold it against you if you visit and then don't adopt. You might go home with a little cat fur on your clothes, though. Oh, and only one child at a time, accompanied by an adult - we don't want the cats to get overwhelmed. (And if your child is afraid of cats, this is really NOT the time or the place to try to work through that fear. Do that with a cat you actually KNOW, please. Our cats are not guinea pigs.)

Q. There was a cat here a few weeks ago who isn't here anymore. Did it get adopted?

A. It may have gotten adopted, or it may have gone back to its foster home for a stay. We don't like to keep the cats here for too long in these cages. After a couple of weeks here, they go back to their foster homes for a break. If you can remember the name of the cat, or its coloring, or even just the cage it was in, I can let you know if it was adopted or if it is on break.

Q. Why are the cats so expensive? They're just strays.

A. (cough) The adoption fee is eighty-five dollars. That includes spaying or neutering, all their required shots, testing for feline diseases, a full vet check-up, and microchipping. If you were to
price that out at a local vet, it would be at least four hundred bucks. Plus, some of the cats are ill or injured when they come to us, and require extensive and sometimes expensive medication before they are healthy and ready to be adopted. In the best of circumstances, the adoption group breaks even, and that's not even counting the food while they are in foster care.

Q. The cats don't stay in those little cages, do they? Do they go into bigger cages at night?

A. They stay in the cages you see until they are adopted, or until they go back to a foster home for a break. They do get one-on-one time in the back with volunteers, when volunteers are available, and the volunteers let them out into the visiting area to stretch their legs and play. But no, there are no "bigger cages" in the back. (And THIS is why I am conflicted when my fosters go to PetSmart. The odds of them being adopted skyrocket, but ... little cages.)

Q. Why are there so many older cats here?

A. Many older cats come to us when their elderly owners have to go into a nursing home. It would be great if people would think about who would take their pets if something happened to them, because a lot of the time, the pets end up here.

Q. Why aren't there any kittens here?

A. In this part of the country, there is a "kitten season", which runs from spring into fall, when kittens are available. Few cats get pregnant in the fall, as this would mean having kittens in the cold winter, which is an evolutionary "no-no", so there aren't very many kittens available in the winter time. (That's why the odds of getting your daughter a kitten for Christmas aren't actually all that great.) The few kittens that do come through this time of year are adopted almost immediately.

So! There's some answers to some of the most common questions I get asked. Please keep in mind that I am by no means an authority, and feel free to correct any of my answers in the comments. I'll do another Q & A post as I get more questions - hopefully I'll get some doozies soon!

Last night

Okay, first of all, I just got done with another AWESOME experience in the dentist's chair *cough*, so I'm a leetle out of it this morning. But I've been thinking about Obama's speech last night ...

I like the man. I voted for him. I will vote for him again. And I truly believe that he is trying his best. But I'm beginning to wonder if he isn't a little bit too worried about his legacy. I think maybe he needs to stop trying to play nice, and start doing the nut-busting it's going to take to accomplish his agenda.

On that note, I think Andrew Cuomo, the current governor of New York, is going to run for pres in 2016. And I think he's got a good shot at it. Because he's the grab-you-by-the-throat-and-f*ck-you-up-if-you-don't-do-it-my-way type of politician the Democratic party needs. Sad but true.

Oh! Jackie Bray! The woman in the audience whom Obama pointed out as a rags-to-riches story? Veneers.

It seems kind of odd that the President is just a year older than I am. And my dentist is YOUNGER than I am. By quite a bit. When did I get so old?

So that's my thoughts on last night. Yours?

Okay, NOW they're just f*cking with me

At work, I am responsible for compiling data for the Federal and State tax forms. It's just one of those many, many things that were not part of my original job description but have somehow mysteriously landed in my lap over the years, mostly because nobody else wanted to do them, and shit, if there's something you don't want to do at work, just dump it on the secretary! Bah.

And the thing about the tax forms is that they change every goddam year. Shit, sometimes every quarter. They're always tweaked, just a leetle bit, just enough so you have to learn a bunch of new shit just to be able to figure out what particular information they are asking for.

I love the (tax) code! NOT. CHRIST.

So here I am, filling out this one particular yearly form, and you've got to take the payroll numbers and subtract this and multiply by that and simple, right?

Except this year they've added a twist. This year you've got to take your final numbers, then divide it into the first half of the year and the second half of the year. You have to reverse-engineer the numbers.

And for the love of GOD I cannot figure this out. The numbers are NOT complying. They are NOT adding up, no many how many times I work it through.

And why did they do this? Why did they split the year, causing my brain to melt? BECAUSE THEY CAN.

I think for my next career I want to work for the IRS. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em, right?

*sob*

Cats in cages

On Saturday, the rescue group I volunteer with held an adoption event at the local Agway.

It's so funny - the first thing a lot of people do when they see the cats is whip out their cell phones and start taking pictures. So, of course I got out MY camera and took a picture of THEM. I wonder if someone was taking a picture of me taking a picture of them taking pictures of the cats?

The weather was awful and the roads were terrible, so I was really surprised at the number of people who came out. And we got adoption applications on three kittens! Yay! Unfortunately, none of them were for Romeo and Mouse. Boo.

So it was off to Petsmart with the boys. Oh, I felt awful. I DO NOT LIKE seeing cats in cages, especially young ones. But I did a shift at the adoption center on Sunday, so I was able to take them (and the other cats there) out of their cage so they could play for a while. Lots of people were interested in them at Petsmart. If they don't get adopted after a couple of weeks, they'll come back to stay with me for a while. Of course I'm torn. I WANT them to get adopted, but geez, the house sure is quiet ...

and how is Molly? Oh, it took Miss Molly all of about two minutes on Saturday to decide that she liked the house MUCH BETTER without those annoying damn kittens in it. I even got her chasing like crazy after the laser pointer - a ten year old cat playing like a maniac. THAT was fun. She's still pretty grumpy a lot of the time, poor old girl. And she gets overstimulated - If I pay attention to her for too long, she'll start to hiss and swat at me. Easy, cat!

Here she is on my lap:

Let's see if I've got a better shot of those pretty green eyes.

There. Green eyes.

So there's your weekend cat update. You're welcome. Heh.

Look Back

'

'

Six months ago today ...









A hundred and three outside. Eighty-eight inside. At six twenty-one in the evening.


Man, I miss summer.

Doin' the Kitty-Cat Shuffle

Betty Sue, my most recent foster, was feeling poorly. (Don't worry - Nobody dies in this post.) Sometimes she'd act okay, and sometimes she'd sit all hunched up, like she was in pain. She was on steroids for suspected IBS, but the vet wasn't sure that was the correct diagnosis. And when it got so she was hardly eating, I called the foster coordinator. Who decided that Betty Sue could use a little observation. So Betty Sue went back to the FC's for a visit. And in return, I got Molly.

Molly is ten years old. Her elderly owner went to live with a daughter who owned dogs. Molly did not care for the dogs. And so, BAM, into the foster system she went. *sigh* I would like to expound a little bit on the necessity of having a contingency plan for your pets should something happen to you, but I'll save the lecture for another post. Aren't you glad?

Like most new fosters, Molly spent the first twenty-four hours or so hidden under the bed in the spare room. And then she started making furtive exploratory forays out into the rest of the house. I think she may have cataracts - her eyes have an almost-cloudy, sorta-scratchy look. But it doesn't seem to bother her. So far Romeo and Mouse are giving her space, unlike poor Betty Sue, whom they delighted in tormenting. So far ... we'll see how it goes.

And poor Molly, I'll try to stop singing "Good golly Miss Molly, sure likes to ba - oops, sorry honey" to you. Honest. I need another song with the name "Molly" in it. Anybody got any suggestions?

No more magical thinking, dammit!

Okay, first of all, I feel pretty stupid blogging about this, but then again, I don't think you guys come here expecting to find a Rhodes scholar pontificating, so here we go.

Hello. My name is Rocky, and I have OCD - Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

At least, I think I do. I've never actually been diagnosed, but I'm pretty sure that if you think you have to tap the toaster - with all five fingers of your right hand simultaneously - sixteen times exactly to prevent something awful from happening, you've got OCD.

Sometimes it gets worse, and sometimes it's better. When I'm under a lot of stress, it can get pretty bad. But I cope.

But it can get tiring, thinking that you have to open and close the shampoo bottle a certain number of times or else something bad will happen.

And the "something bad" in the OCD scenario was almost always something involving The Runt and Little Girl. As much as I tried to tell myself that it was ridiculous, that it was just some short-circuit in my brain wiring, that there was NO WAY that something bad would happen to the cats if I didn't open the fridge X number of times, I still kept doing it. Better safe than sorry!

And then two things happened. One, I heard the phrase "magical thinking" used to describe this kind of behavior. And to me, the term "magical" evokes unicorns and fairies and other things that DO NOT EXIST. And whenever the OCD would kick in (pat the side of the couch eight times. Now eight more times. Now eight more times ... ) I would say to myself, "Cut out the magical thinking, already." and it helped.

And then the second thing happened. The Runt and Little Girl died. Yep, the worst thing happened. The thing that all that stupid, ridiculous OCD crap was supposed to prevent ... happened. And I was just as sure as I've ever been sure of anything in my life that it was not my failure to shut the front door five times on some random morning that caused their deaths. They died. Of heart disease. A congenital medical condition that was NOT CAUSED by my slipping up and forgetting the check the hall light twenty times one night before I went to bed.

And the OCD got better. Better than it's been in YEARS. The relief of finally, truly BELIEVING that I could not stop disaster by stepping on each porch step two times was incredible.

Am I cured? Naw. Every once in a while, I catch myself thinking, "If I just shut the bathroom medicine cabinet four times, I won't get into an accident on the slippery roads this morning", and then I tell myself, "This is ridiculous. STOP with the magical thinking, already", and I'm able to rein myself in.

Baby steps, peeps. I've been doing this behavior since I was in junior high, and it's not going to go away overnight. But I am taking baby steps.

There. I fessed up. I feel better now.

Dooce is getting a divorce. And I'm glad.

Because evidently I'm a spiteful, jealous person.

Look, I used to really like Dooce. She was one of the first bloggers I read regularly. And then she got famous. And rich.

And instead of blogging about her day-to-day life and the random shit we all deal with, she was blogging about flying to New York! to sign a book deal! And going to Africa with supermodels! And buying a new humongous house! And she was showing photos of her fabulous new furniture! And her incredibly, unbelievably expensive wallpaper!

And I couldn't relate. It wasn't even interesting to me, because if I suddenly got famous and rich I would do things differently than she. Humongous houses and wallpaper so expensive it might as well be made out of hummingbird wings are just not what trips my trigger.

The same thing happened with Pioneer Woman. I used to read her every day, until she got famous and rich and became One Of Them. Instead of one of us ... er ... me.

And so when Dooce, who has blogged extensively about how her husband is the greatest man ever in the history of the world, and about how she loves him SO MUCH, and about how if your marriage hits a rough patch, you just need to go for counseling and everything will be ALL BETTER, God, didn't you already know that? - when she announced that she and hubs were splitting up ... I was glad.

Because she is One Of Them. And I am not. Schadenfreude, baby. Sometimes it just feels damn good. And if that makes me a bad person, well, so be it. I never claimed to be Mother Teresa.

25 or 6 to 4

Remember that old "Chicago" song?

"Waiting for the break of day
Searching for something to say" ...

I always wondered where the title came from - what the heck did "25 or 6 to 4" mean?

So I finally did some digging, and here's what I found:

From Songfacts.com -

"This was written by Robert Lamm, who is a keyboard player and singer for Chicago. It's about trying to write a song, with the title referring to the time of day: either 3:35AM (25 to 4) or 3:34AM (26 to 4). Lamm explained on The Chris Isaak Hour: "I was living with a bunch of hippies up above Sunset Strip. One of the advantages of this particular house was that it was in the Hollywood Hills and I could look out over the city late at night. I wanted to try to describe the process of writing the song that I was writing. So, 'waiting for the break of day, searching for something to say, flashing lights against the sky' - there was a neon sign across the city. That song came from the fact that it was 25 or 6 to 4am in the morning when I looked at my watch - I was looking for a line to finish the chorus.Most songs that were written, especially in the early days, whenever I got them to the band and we started rehearsing them, that's when the songs took shape - once these guys got hold of them. There was definitely a lot of raw material, I thought it was a song when I wrote the words down, I wrote the changes down and I brought the charts to rehearsal, but it wasn't really a song until they all played it.""



Ohhhhh. NOW I get it.

Holy shit I almost killed my mom

So! I took mom out to lunch and shopping yesterday. If you've been here for a while, you know that my mom has Alzheimer's. It's kind of like taking a zombie out to lunch and shopping - She's not really there, you know? There's something there, a shell of a person, but it's not my mom.

She forgot how to use a knife to cut her food a while back, so I have to make sure when I order our food that I get her something fork-able. Oh, and she can't really read any more - I mean, she can read individual words, but she doesn't understand what they mean, so I just ask her what she'd like to eat (Chicken and biscuits? Spaghetti? Grilled cheese?) and then order for her. She'll drink coffee, but you have to be quick and put the creamer in fast to cool it down, or she'll grab it and take a great big diner-hot swig. Because she's forgotten that she likes her coffee with cream.

You know, I knew that Alzheimer's was a snot, but I guess it never even occurred to me that someone could forget how to eat. Although they say that a lot of Alzheimer's patients die when they forget how to breathe, so I guess I shouldn't be too surprised.

So, anyway, after lunch we went shopping. She can't figure out stairs any more and escalators are out of the question (hoo boy are they EVER), so we usually go to the local mall. There's only one escalator and that's in Sears and who shops in Sears anyway, right?

The red sweater. Every time we go shopping, she wants to get a red sweater. So about the first fifteen times or so, I bought her a red sweater, until one day I was at my sister's house (my mom lives with her) and I asked my sister what mom did with all of those red sweaters. "I don't know," my sister said. "They just seem to disappear." Ha ha here's another fun fact about Alzheimer's patients - If you buy them new clothes, even if they are THERE when you buy the clothes, they don't recognize the clothes as belonging to THEM, so they throw the clothes away. Isn't that fun?

Yeah, so we leave the mall and head for home, and we're doing 65 down Route 17 when I look over and notice that mom does not have her seat belt on. Every time mom gets in the car, I remind her to put on her seat belt, because that's another thing she's forgotten. Every. blinking. time. she gets in the car, I tell her to put her seat belt on.

Except yesterday, leaving the mall, I forgot. Probably because it flustered me when she forgot how to shut the car door, but still, I forgot. So we're going down Route 17, I tell her to put her seat belt on, and

she reaches for the door handle. She was going to open the door. She had no seat belt on. We were going 65.

Holy. f*cking. shit.

I SLAMMED my hand down on the master lock, right before she grabbed the handle.

Crisis averted.

Except holy shit I almost killed my mom.

Are we having fun yet?

Flag

So, where WAS she?

Recently, my Mom (87; Alzheimer's; lives with my sister) spent a week in a nursing home, as a kind of trial run. When my sister and brother-in-law went to pick her up, they got out into the parking lot, and brother-in-law asked her how she liked staying there.

"I didn't stay here", she replied, a little huffy. "I've never SEEN this place before."

Man oh man. An entire week, she had just left the place, and she had no memory of it at all.

That Alzheimer's is some weird shit.

More Random

Another day, another gigantor check written to the dentist. It's like adding insult to injury - You walk in there of your own free will, they do terrible things to you involving drills and cement and itsy-bitsy rebar and strangers' HANDS in your MOUTH, and then you write them a huge check on the way out the door. I think THEY should be paying ME.

I think the worst job ever would have to be notating the sheet music for Rush songs. Those dudes change times/keys every other beat.

I was watching Miranda Lambert on an old Austin City Limits a while back and she was rocking out in four-inch stilettos. All I could think was "ouch". That's gotta hurt.

In the two-and-a-half years since I bought my place, only one other home in the approximately sixty-house neighborhood has gone on sale. I'm beginning to wonder if I unwittingly bought into a Twilight Zone episode. ("Oh, you'll love it here ... we've been here FOREVER ...")

Evidently this is going to be the year without a winter. It's supposed to drop into the twenties this weekend, and then right back up to the forties next week. I'm so damn glad I could cry.

What's up with YOU? I could use a little distraction from my aching jaw right about now.

Well, Hello, Betty Sue

Meet the latest inductee into RockyCat's Kitty Weight Loss Camp, Betty Sue:

Betty Sue, along with another cat and two dogs, was dropped off at a local emergency pet shelter which opened after the September flooding. The owner came back for the dogs, but left the cats behind, and repeated attempts to contact him have been unsuccessful. Bastid.

I was told that Betty Sue was being bullied by the other cats in her foster home, including the cat she came in with, and I was asked if I would take Betty Sue, to give her a little reprieve. Okay, I said, as long as it's on a short-term basis. (I'm not doing long-term care at this time.) Betty Sue also has some medical issues (IBS) which need to get straightened out before she's adopted.

So on Saturday, Betty Sue came to my place, wherein she evidently underwent a complete personality transformation, because now she's the bullier. Poor little Romeo and Mouse were terrified at first, but now they're learning to stand up for themselves. It's actually pretty fascinating to watch the dynamics at play, as the cats learn each other's boundaries. The boys just want to play, which Betty Sue, being older, is wary of. If anybody gets too near she throws a hissy fit, which scares the crap out of the boys. At first Romeo and Mouse wouldn't even be in the same room with Betty Sue unless I was there, but things are improving. I only step in if things get nasty. And I'm going to break Betty Sue of this bully-business right quick, because being a bitch won't help her any when she goes to a new home. Of course, all cats need to define and defend their ground, but there's no need for bloodshed. Betty.

And yeah, she's on the weight-loss plan, too. You can't really tell it by that pic, but her face is tiny. Tiny. You can tell she was meant to be a petite gal, and instead, well ... when I pick her up I grunt. Not to worry - we'll get her back to fighting weight.

Bad-ass Betty. Heh.

You tap on that glass one more goddam time ...

... I'm gonna tap on your head. And it's gonna hurt.

So! Yesterday was my first day volunteering at the adoption center at PetSmart. And it was ... interesting.

It's very good people-watching, if you're into that sort of thing. I talked to a lot of people, some of whom wanted to visit with the cats.

And these cats are from a different foster group than the one I work with, so I had a whole new crew to meet. Most of whom were, well ...

... oh boy, here I go getting in trouble again ...

... Most of the cats up for adoption are fat. Like, really fat. And I just don't understand it. I mean, I could see it if they had just come into the system, and their former owner was a little old lady who just couldn't resist feeding Miss Bootsie one more piece of chicken. But most of these cats, the older ones especially, have been in foster care for quite a while now. Why are they so fat? I mean, I guess I can understand how some of the foster parents would be, like, "oh, poor leetle abandoned kitty, let me give you another dish of food", but you know what?

It's not doing the cat any favors.

Shit, when Romeo and Mouse first came to me, they were overweight. At five months old. I immediately started food restrictions, keeping in mind that they ARE growing kitties and NEED a certain amount of nutrition, and you know what? They're slimming down. They no longer look like little kitty sumo wrestlers. And they're more active. And Romeo's wheezing and breathing problems seem to be improving.

And oh my God, I've got another inductee into RockyCat's Kitty Weight Loss Camp, which I will tell you about tomorrow. Promise.

But it made me kind of mad to see all those fat-ass cats at the adoption center. A common comment from people stopping by: "Oh my God that cat is HUGE!"

*sigh*

Other than that, it was a fun afternoon. I'll be doing it two afternoons a month, unless someone from the adoption center reads this, in which case I'll probably not be doing it again. Heh. Guys, somebody's got to speak the truth, am I right?

Oh! And the glass-tapping! Oh my God the glass-tapping!

The cats are in plexi-glass fronted cages, so that passers-by can see them. And EVEN THOUGH there are SIGNS ON THE DAMN GLASS saying DO NOT TAP ON THE GLASS, do you know what I heard all afternoon?

taptaptap. taptaptap hey kitty kitty taptaptapTAPTAP KNOCKKNOCK

Poor kitties. To their credit, they seemed to be used to it. But still.

DON'T TAP ON THE GODDAM GLASS, GODDAM IT.

Oh, and come see the kitties! They'd love to see you.

Sign o' the times

So, last weekend I went to Oakley for a walk. Trail signs range from the rustic:

To the more recent plastic disks:

But I have to admit, Sunday was the first time I've seen these in the woods:



A metal highway sign, out the middle of several hundred acres of state lands. At first I thought it was a joke, but as I continued walking, I saw a bunch of them, used as trail markers. I don't know, maybe they're more cost effective, but it seems like a giant metal sign has got to be more expensive than a little plastic disk. And somehow it just takes away from the ambiance, ya know? If I want to look at highway signs, I'll head for I-86. Sheesh.

What's next? Traffic lights? Crosswalks? Oh man.

Questions. I haz them.

1. What the heck is a "charger plate"? A plate to put your food plate on? Why?

2. If I haven't been working out for a while, and then I start up again, on Day 2, I'm so sore I can barely get out of bed. Why do they never show Day 2 on The Biggest Loser? Here's a bunch of overweight, out-of-shape people, working out on Day 1 until they puke, but you never see them all moaning and groaning and crawling out of bed the next day. I wonder why?

3. Do you work out when you're sick? I mean, obv, if you're flat on your back with the flu, you're not up to working out, but what about if you've got a head cold? And what about if you're injured? Do you work out anyway?

4. Similarly, do you go to work when you're sick? Not talking about throwing-up kind of sick, but just general feeling-like-shit kind of sick. My work does not offer sick days, so I generally prefer to dose myself up with Dayquil and go make some money rather than stay home and have to take a vacation day. How about you?

5. Okay, since I can't seem to get off this particular subject, how about Mental Health days? Do you ever skip work? Maybe I'm confessing my dweebiness, here, but I've never done it. Have you? Was it amazing? Did you feel guilty? Were you all, "Hell YEAH, let's do it again tomorrow!"?

6. Ever quit a job?

Okay, let's get off the sick-and-work thing.

7. Ever broken a law? I mean, other than the bullshit ones, like underage drinking and smoking pot and ... whoops. Shutting up now. Feel free to comment anonymously on this one.

Okay, I think I've duggen myself a big enough hole, here. Let's hear some answers!

Because I'm a big fat PUSHOVER, that's why

Last night, for the first time since Little Girl died, I opened up the pet door that leads from the outdoors into the garage.

I know where all of the cats I see in the neighborhood live. The big white cat lives three doors up. The cow kitties live one street over. The old tuxedo cat lives five houses up and across.

But there's one cat, a big ol' long-haired gray cat, who started hanging around a few months before Little Girl died. Sometimes I'd see him in the garage in the morning, and a couple of times I found him in the house at night. (There's a pet door that leads from the garage into the house.) Little Girl didn't seem to mind him, though, so I just started putting her food up at bedtime so that gray cat didn't think he could get free meals at my place. I was pretty sure he belonged to someone, because he'd only come around once in a while, and he looked healthy and of good weight. A little tubby, actually. And after Little Girl died, I shut the pet doors. No more gray cat.

But last night, well, it was supposed to get down into the single digits. And I wasn't absolutely certain that gray cat had a home. And I kept thinking about Mouse and Romeo, my fosters, who, if it wasn't for a network of volunteers, would have been huddled out in the cold last night.

And I opened up the pet door from the outdoors into the garage. I KNOW. I know that I might come to regret this in the spring, when I've suddenly got fifteen freaking ferals out in the garage. But I figure as long as I'm not feeding gray cat, just giving him a space to get out of the elements, it's okay. Right? Is it okay? Yeah, you can see I'm a leetle conflicted on this one.

Did gray cat come in the garage last night? I don't think so. Which actually makes me feel good, because that means he has someplace else to go. Will I leave that pet door open for the rest of the winter? Possibly. Because evidently, I'm a big fat f*cking pushover.


And Oh! Oh! I have GOT to ask! Did anybody watch The Biggest Loser last night? That kid named, I shit you not, "Chism"? Am I the only one who thinks that's an awful name for a kid? Can you IMAGINE what he got called on the playground? Is there some big movie star of whom I am unaware who is named "Chism", thus making the name okay? Because I'm thinking that naming your kid "Chism" is NOT VERY NICE. Sheesh.

Oh, and 2011? ...

... don't let the door hit you in the butt on the way out.



I will tell you what, 2o11 just about did me in. I know that there have been harder years, but they were a long time ago and faded in memory. 2011 is just as vivid as can be, unfortunately. I'm just glad it's over. Whew! Over over over. And I've come to the conclusion that emerging from 2011 still hopeful for the future makes me either incredibly resilient or really, really stupid.



So! Did anybody go out and tear it up for New Year's Eve? I quit doing that many, many years ago, when I woke up one New Year's Day and realized that (a) I had no idea how I had gotten home the night before, and (b) I had no idea where my car was.



Lesson learned!



This New Year's Eve, I spent the day in Ithaca.



Here's Buttermilk Falls:










The trails were closed for the winter, but some intrepid souls were going up anyway. Better them than me, is all I've got to say about that.



New Year's morning was bright and sunny, so I headed for Oakley Corners. By the time I was done hiking, things had taken a dark turn:





Ha! talk about Dismal Swamp.



If you had an awful 2011, I hope your 2012 is better. If you had a great 2011, I wish you more of the same for 2012.



Happy New Year!

Prettyboys

Yep, they're coming out of their shells, thanks to the most fantastic cat toy ever (at least as far as the cats are concerned), the Undercover Mouse:

Not long after I took these pics, they became my first fosters ever to actually break this toy; one of them managed to snap the wand right off at the base. I glued and duct-taped it back together and ordered another one, which is on the way. I hope the replacement gets here before the old one breaks for good; if not, I predict anarchy.

I have never, ever had a cat who could withstand the charms of the Undercover Mouse.

Look at Mouse's (the cat, not the toy) ringtail! I'd never even noticed it until I looked at this pic. You can't really see it in natural light - the flash from the camera brought it out. Awesome!

Oh, and I should probably warn ya: That toy goes through batteries like shit through a goose. I'm hoping they come up with an electric version. Get on that, cat toy makers, would ya?

They stare at that dang toy with the intensity I usually associate with men and p*rn.

Of course, it's not all Undercover Mouse, all the time - I reserve it for times when I have stuff that I need to do without kitties in the way. You know, cleaning, getting ready for work, the boring stuff. It's like plopping toddlers down in front of a TV. Or, you know, men in front of p*rn. Heh.

So, yeah, the boys are doing fine. They're slimming down - you would not BELIEVE the amount of food these guys would EAT if I didn't limit it - I've never seen anything like it. They are friendly-ing up nicely, and hopefully soon they'll find their homes. Fingers crossed!

Maybe I'm not human. Maybe I'm a sociopath.

Okay, so I think it's possible that I'm going to regret hitting the "post" button, but I've been mulling something over for a while, so here goes ...

There are a few bloggers I read who are currently mourning the loss of a parent. And I mean they are GRIEVING, HARD, with post after post about how much they miss mom or dad and how sad it is and how they'll never ever get over this loss and ...

... when my Dad died, in 1999, I was sad. He passed away just six weeks after his cancer diagnosis. The doctors had given him six months; I think he just wanted to get it over with. I was scheduled to fly down to Florida to visit with him and Mom, but he died before I got there. I was sad about that; that I didn't get to see him one last time. But his death was not altogether unexpected; he'd been a heavy drinker and smoker his entire life, and he did make it to seventy-six. So I was sad, but I wasn't heartbroken. Everybody dies ...

... except, apparently, for my Mom, who is now eighty-seven. She was diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease eleven years ago, not long after my Dad died. Mom just keeps fading, and fading, and fading. She doesn't know where she is or who anybody is. Sometimes I think she recognizes me, and other times I'm pretty sure she doesn't. Right now she is in respite care in a local nursing home for a week; a trial run, as it were. I'm sure that soon she'll be in nursing care full time, as she is less and less able to function. Ironically, other than the Alzheimer's, she's healthy as a damn horse - I could see her easily going another ten years, a husk of who she used to be.

And will I be sad when she dies? Yes. I'll be sad that she missed out on so many years, there in the fog. I'll miss the woman she used to be, before her brain started getting eaten away by disease. Will I mourn, will I grieve? Maybe, but I don't think so.

Does that make me a bad person? That I won't be falling on my knees, rending my clothes, sobbing my eyes out at her funeral, like all those other bloggers? I hope I'm not a bad person. But maybe I am. Because you know what? I mourned the passing of my cats more than I grieved the loss of my father. My cats were part of my everyday life, and I only saw my Dad a few times a year, due to geographical distance. My cats loved me dearly, and my Dad? Well, I'm sure he loved me, but he was a typical Dad of his time, and shows of affection were not something he did. Put simply, we weren't very close.

So yeah. I cried more over my cats than I did my Dad, and I don't think I'm going to be too awfully broken up when Mom dies.

Man. Maybe I really AM a shit.

Feral cats and skunks, living together

At the adoption event/fundraisers I volunteer at, people love to stop and chat. Hoo, boy, I'll tell you what - the key part of working these things is being a good listener. Nobody wants to adopt a cat - they all want to tell you about their cats. Which is fine. And you hear some interesting stuff.

Like the man who stopped by and informed me that feral cats will often pal up with wild skunks. No, really! According to him, cats and skunks hang out together all. the. time.

The only experience I have with cats and skunks is that one time Rocky came home after being sprayed by a skunk, but hey! Maybe it was an accident. Maybe the skunk was just trying to be fraynds.

Oh, and then there was the dude who told me that you can get rid of fleas by pouring salt on your carpets. Actually, it turns out there is a little bit of truth to that one, but frankly, I think I'd rather have fleas than have to walk around on crunchy carpets.

You hear about the cats who have been left behind when people move. About the people down the street who have fifteen mangy cats. And about how when the local shelters are called for help, people are told "no". Unfortunately, around here at least, that tends to be the rule rather than the exception. As long as people think that a female cat has to have "just one litter" before she's fixed, as long as people think you can wait until a cat's a year old to get it neutered, as long as people like that awful blogger I stopped reading think it's funny for their cat to impregnate half the cats in the neighborhood, the shelters will continue to be overwhelmed. (The foster group I work for always tries to help - we often do not have a space in foster care for the cats, but we will provide food and, if possible, medical care until space opens up.)

And! you get to hear the stories about how people adopted shelter cats. Or about how they took in the stray that showed up on their doorstep and spent months and thousands of dollars nursing it back to health. One lady talked about how when she adopts a shelter cat, she always picks the "senior citizens", because she knows they don't have much of a chance. And isn't that what you hope will happen - that there's somebody out there who takes the older cats? Turns out, there is.

And now I've got to go google "cats and skunks". I don't think it's true, but hey! Who knows?

Recently Read

So! I hope everyone survived the holidays intact. Here's a Recently Read - skip it if you wanna.

1. Strip Club by Lily Burana - Memoir of a stripper. Interesting.

2. Amy and Isabelle by Elizabeth Strout - Novel about an uptight mom and her teenage daughter. Both of the main characters were so clueless that it made me cringe, although that may have been what the author was aiming for. Meh.

3. Nickel Mountain by John Gardner - Novel about a diner owner. Bo-ring.

Let's do some movie reviews!

4. Iron Maiden: Flight 666. Documentary. I stumbled across this one on VH1 Classics one night. I was never a big fan of Iron Maiden, until I watched this doc. I didn't know that it was them who did that song "Run to the Hills" - you know, the one that VH1 (or was it MTV) used for an ad, with the still-frame kitten?





Okay, it was VH1. ANYway, this was a really entertaining doc, and the lead dude can flat out SING.

5. You Think You Really Know Me - The Gary Wilson Story - documentary about a local musician popular in the seventies who kind of fell off the face of the earth. Interesting for the local references.

6. Super 8 - Oh, man, this got really good reviews. The first half-hour or so is fantastic, but the rest of it was WAY too Goonies-ish for my taste. I can imagine that pre-adolescent boys LOVED this movie, but me? Meh. And the ending? Don't get me started.

Okay, let's go back to books.

7. The Miracle Life of Edgar Mint by Brady Udall. Novel about an orphan's adventures. Man, I tried, I really did, but I finally gave up on page 318, with another hundred still to go.

8. Here We Go Again by Betty White. I love her, and I thought this would be a memoir of her personal life, but instead it was more like a history of television. I guess it would be interesting if you're into that sort of thing.

9. World of Pies by Karen Stolz - Not as good as "Fanny and Sue", another book of hers, but still charming. A quick read.

So! That's what I've been reading. How about you?

Merry Christmas!

Christmas Day, 1966. That's me in the front. Ha! Little Bowl Bean.

Happy Holidays!

Christmas etiquette is tricky shit: Now with an update!

So! The other weekend, my neighbor T., the one who I helped out after the flood, gave me a $15 gift certificate to Panera. Isn't that nice?

And almost immediately afterword, I found out that the foster group was having a fundraising bake sale, and could I bring anything?

Well, I'm not really a baker, but I DID have a gift card to Panera, so ... yeah. Which actually was kind of a waste, because never having been to Panera before, I didn't know that they were charging TWO BUCKS A COOKIE. Which is flippin' highway robbery and a total rip-off, as far as I'm concerned.

Now. At some point between now and New Year's, T. will be inviting me and some of the other neighbors over for coffee and cookies. And I know - I KNOW - that she will ask me if I'd enjoyed using the gift card.

Do I tell her the truth? That I used the card for the bake sale? Or do I lie and tell her I used it for myself, which was her intent? And let's not forget that the LAST time I lied to her, the infamous pizza incident, I felt AWFUL afterward. But I don't want her to feel bad that I used the card for something else.

Gah. This holiday shit is confusing.

Update! I've got another one for ya - I just got a letter informing me that the IRS owes our company three hundred bucks. Good news, right? Except the reason they owe us three hundred bucks is because way back in August, I transposed some numbers on a tax form and overpaid them. The boss is not gonna be happy that I (accidentally) overpaid. Do I fess up NOW, upon receipt of the letter, or wait until next week, after the Christmas bonuses have been distributed?

Honestly? I'm gonna tell him today. I don't want that hanging over my head all weekend. But am I being a schmuck? Should I have waited? You be the judge!

... because if a goddam ROOT CANAL won't get you out of work early, what the hell will?

Yeah, I totally pulled the root canal card yesterday afternoon.

Wait a minute, Rocky, you're saying. Didn't you just HAVE a root canal?

Why, yes, yes I did. And here's where things get squicky, so if you don't want to hear about dental stuff, turn away. I hear Pioneer Woman's got pics of a bassett hound up today. Oh wait, that's every day.

What I had done on the Monday after Thanksgiving, f*ck you very much tooth gods, was an emergency pulpotomy, where they pull the nerve to stop the pain. Unfortunately, that is not the total root canal package, as it were, so I had to go back yesterday morning for Step 2 of 4.

Over two hours in the chair. Granted, some of that was due to my glass jaw and having to take a break every fifteen minutes or so, but still, two hours of unspeakable dental shit is a long damn time.

Still all jacked up on novocaine, I made it back to the office, where I promptly informed my boss that I would be leaving early.

You know, it can be kind of risky taking time off in the week before Christmas, considering that we get our year-end bonuses on Christmas Eve, but hey. Sometimes a gal's gotta take that chance.

So I left early, went home, popped a Flexeril, and God only knows what happened after that, 'cause I was OUT.

Best decision I've made in a while.

The Boys Are Back In Town

After their whirlwind, multi-county tour, Romeo and Mouse are back visiting with me.

Their whistlestop engagement started last Saturday, when we had an adoption event at the local Agway. They did remarkably well, mostly just sleeping in their crate as people oohed and aahed over their royal selves. A lot of the attention was directed at another foster cat there, a giGANtic orange named Lawson, who walks on a leash like a dog. No kidding!

Then, they were off to the foster coordinator's home for the rest of the weekend, so that they could go to a clinic in a neighboring county on Monday to have a little *cough* "work" done. Yesterday morning, they went to the vet to get, well, vetted, and yesterday afternoon they came to my office for a couple of hours, and then we all headed home.

Whew!

When we got to the house, they playplayPLAYED for about half an hour, and then - out like trout. They slept so hard I was half tempted to dress them up in the Santa hats and take some incriminating photos, but they'd had a hard few days - I gave 'em a break.

So! Mouse and Romeo, back for a visit. Welcome, guys! Rest your paws awhile.

... and boy, are my arms tired

Last week, I hand-addressed the company's Christmas cards.

All one hundred of them.

Every year, I hope that the boss will forgo the Christmas card ridiculousness. I mean, we send out a SHIT-TON of cards to vendors and clients, and every year we get, like, TWO back. Waste of freaking time.

But every year, some time around Thanksgiving, he brings up the cards. And of course, it's MY job to come up with card options for him to choose from. I always give him a tasteful choice of cards, with cards featuring our profession, and cards featuring a charity, and cards with interesting graphics. And every year, he overrides me and chooses ...

Cards featuring Labrador puppies. From Ducks Unlimited.

Now, I like dogs as much as the next pers- okay, that's a total lie. I hate dogs. I hate that they smell and they're too freaking stupid to clean themselves, so you have to give them baths. I hate that they're too damn dumb to cover up their shit, so you have to clean up after them. I hate that they're so idiotic that if you let one out the door it can't find its own damn way home, so you have to walk them. On a leash. I hate flippin' dog OWNERS, who assume everyone else on the planet loves dogs and wants to be bowled over by an out-of-control dog. Blech. And I hate having to look at pictures of dumb-ass dogs, over and over again, as I'm stuffing the envelopes.

Okay. Change the subject.

So. The cards had been chosen and ordered. Next up, I compile a list of potential Christmas card recipients, based on the previous year's list, and give it to my boss for review. And he promptly places it on his desk and ignores it. For weeks. Until, a couple of weeks before Christmas, I just grab the damn list and start doing cards, because obviously, my boss, the one who INSISTS we do cards every year, cannot be bothered to give a shit about who the cards actually GO to.

Ha! You know what? I think next year I should send cards to, like, NAMBLA or whatever that pedophile group is. And Hitler Youth. And Devil Worshippers United of Central New York.

I'll bet at least we'd get some cards in return. And I bet they'd be really, really interesting cards, too. Merry Christmas, and lock the doors!

ho ho ho!

I swear to GOD this shit only happens to me

First! The foster group got an email from Sammy and Deli's new parents - They are both doing fine and are busy exploring their new home - they've even made friends with the family's golden retriever. Way to go, kids! Also, send kind thoughts to Romeo and Mouse, who are going to the vet today to have their *ahem* snip-snip done. Sorry, guys, but trust me - it's for the best.

Now, on with the story.

I had to run downtown the other day to pick up some papers from a client. I go into his office suite and explain my purpose to the receptionist, who goes and gets the client's secretary, who comes out with the paperwork. I turn around, start back through the offices, and hear someone call out, "Hey Rocky!*"

It's a woman who I SWEAR I had never seen before in my life.

"How have you been?!" she asks.

"ummmm, great!" I reply. "How have YOU been?", frantically searching my brain because oh my God who IS this woman?

"Oh, I've been good," she says, "Are you coming to the Christmas party?"

(long pause)

"Gee, I don't know!", I say. Is it someone new from the foster group? A neighbor's kid? Someone I used to know from someone else's office who is now working for this client? Who IS she?

"Oh, you've GOT to come," she says, describing the party.

"Well", I say, "Sounds like I'd better not miss it, then!"

"Okay, see you later!", she says, as I make my exit.

You know, it sounded like kind of a lame party, anyway. Just as well that I won't be there.










*Not my real name.

Meet the new kids ...

... who finally came out from under the bed in the spare room. And are now driving me crazy.

Here is Romeo*:






And here is Mouse:




Doesn't Mouse look like a chunkier version of Dumplin'?

And speaking of chunky, it is a mystery to me how these kittens, rescued ferals, came to me as candidates for Weight Watchers. I mean, I know a kind lady was feeding their colony, but what the heck was she feeding them, Twinkies and steroids? And yes, they have been wormed, so it's not worm-weight. Did I just squick you out? Sorry. You would be amazed at the amount of worms one kitty-belly can hold. Whoops - sorry again.



Look at those fat faces! Look at those big necks! If you look at them from above, it's like looking at the freaking Goodyear Blimp. Blimp. That's what they should have been named: Blimp and Zeppelin. Geez. Needless to say, they are on diets. RockyCat's Kitty Weight Loss Camp diet. No treats for you! Okay, maybe a leeetle one. Now, on to the exercise machines!

In the last week, they have friendlied-up sufficiently so that they will be going to an adoption event tomorrow. And you know what finally turned the tide? Toys. I started out with the "good" toys, the battery-operated ones that spin around and squeak and move, in the spare room where the kittens were hiding. A couple of days after they started venturing out from under the bed to play, I moved the toys into the hallway. Then into the far end of the living room. Then right in the middle of the living room, so if they wanted to play with the awesome toys, they had to tolerate my presence. And petting. And it worked!

Ha. All it took was an Undercover Mouse, and they broke. Patsies.

So anyway, wish us luck for tomorrow! And let's all hope that nobody gets food poisoning from the cupcakes I made for the bake sale.

* I DID NOT NAME THESE KITTENS. I am NOT the one giving the kittens these horrible, awful names, I SWEAR TO YOU. It is not I.

Grinch

'Tis the season for the Salvation Army bell-ringers. Who make me uncomfortable for two reasons:

1. They look like they're freezing their asses off. Here in upstate New York, standing outside a grocery store ringing a bell for hours at a time is NOT where you want to be this time of year. I feel guilty as I rush by them, all bundled up, to get into the nice warm store.

2. Okay, here's where the Grinch in me really comes out. I'm sure that the Salvation Army does many, many good things. And one of the good things is that they have a residence hall, not far from my office, for homeless men. That's good, right? Except, every freaking time I drive past that place, there's a bunch of the guys from the hall out by the curb, smoking.

Now. If somebody wants to smoke, well, that's their right. I did it for many years. But. These are the homeless men, whom the Sal has given a place to live. Where are they getting the money for the cigarettes? In this neck of the woods, cigs are now, like, NINE BUCKS A PACK. Shit, one of the reasons I quit smoking was because it was getting so expensive.

And I've got a sneaking suspicion that the money for the cigarettes? Is coming, directly or not, right out of the bell-ringers' red kettles. Oh, I'm sure the residence hall director isn't exactly saying, "Here, Joe, here's ten bucks, go buy yourself some smokes", but realistically? These homeless men are being supported by the Sal. And are somehow able to afford cigarettes. And I put two and two together, and, well ... it's been a long time since I've put any money into those red kettles.

Just call me Grinch.

Anything about Christmas that ticks you off?

Aaaaaaand ... they're off!

I was invited to attend Sammy and Deli's adoption last night, so OF COURSE I went. I took along a CD of "baby pics" I had made for the new parents, which you may think is dorky, but hey, my middle name is "dork", so whatever. And I'm pretty sure that saying "my middle name is "dork"" just further confirmed my dorkiness, so I'd better quit while I'm ahead, here.

The new parents were very excited to take Sammy and Deli home and get to know them better. I'm sure it's a great match all around. The new mom actually hugged me when they left, which was pretty cool.

Bye Sammy! Bye Deli!




Lay off the booze, okay?



Bye, guys! Have a great life!

Before! After!

First off, in case you haven't been following the comments on the previous post, Sammy and Deli are getting! adopted! tonight! Yay! They will be going together to their home. Yippee!

Now, I'm pretty sure I do this every year, so here we go -

Before!

After!

Hey, folks, I do the best I can.

And because I was feeling kind of down, and missing Little Girl and The Runt, I decided that more lights were in order:

Yep, I'm pretty sure the neighbors were about ready to call the fire department. More! lights! This is the first year I did outside lights - they do look cheery, don't they?

Oh, and here's a little bit of random:

That's a turkey, in case you can't tell. Sorry about the crapola pic - I took it through the car window facing the sun.

There's a spot on a local road where the turkeys cross all. the. time., and they have absolutely no fear. Every time one strolls out in front of my car, all I can think of is that video of the reporter frantically trying to avoid the menacing turkey. Dun dun DUUUUNNNNN! I'll tell you what, these suckers are BIG, and if one started toward me I'd probably run, too.

Just call me chicken. Bwahk bwahk bwahk.

The Angels Sang

First off, an update on Thug Life - They are both coming out of their shells. Progress! Robyn had the excellent idea of separating them so they can't feed off each other's fear, and I will try that if they don't continue to improve. Thanks for the advice, Robyn!

And now! On Saturday, I happened to be at PetSmart. I had been there earlier in the day, visiting with Sammy and Deli (I miss them so much!), and I had to stop back later that afternoon to fill out some volunteer paperwork.

Oh! And in case you were wondering, I asked the foster coordinator if it was okay if I visited with the fosters at PetSmart. I didn't want to upset them, but the f.c. explained that no, the kitties would enjoy having familiar company, and I could visit all I wanted. So unless I learn otherwise, that visiting does bother the fosters, I'll continue doing so. They sure seemed glad to see me on Saturday.

So! I was at PetSmart. There were a couple of people there, a man and a woman about my age, looking at the cats in the adoption center. I couldn't help but overhear the woman saying how she wished there was someone there to show the cats (the volunteers working that day had stepped out for a minute and people can't access the animals when volunteers aren't there), so because I can't seem to mind my own business (cringe), I asked who they were interested in.

"These two", the woman said, pointing to Sammy and Deli.

Well.

You just KNOW that I had to start chit-chatting, explaining that I had been their foster mom and talking about the cats, while we waited for the volunteers to come back and open up the adoption center. The woman explained that they had had a cat who had just passed away, and they were looking for one or possibly two kittens to adopt. They had a golden retriever who got along well with cats, and they were really, really looking forward to taking in a kitten or two.

So I kept on talking, telling them how sweet Sammy and Deli were, and how they loved biscuits and peas and pasta, and how they liked to sleep next to each other, and the woman kept saying, "I can't believe you just happened to stop by. It's like it was meant to be. What are the odds? It's like, the angels are singing because you came by just now."

And she was laughing and a little bit teary, and when I left, they were in the adoption center visiting with Sammy and Deli, who were being their adorable selves.

Now. A lot of weird, weird things happen in foster world. Who knows? They may have visited with Sammy and Deli and decided that they weren't the cats for them. But they looked awfully happy when I left.

Fingers crossed, guys, fingers crossed.

Thug Life

So! Sammy and Deli went off to PetSmart so their new owner could find them. And in return, I got two new kitties, Romeo and Mouse.

Peeps, I swear, it's like two old, cranky, fat-ass senior citizen cats have been somehow placed into kitten bodies.

They haven't tried to shiv me in my sleep yet (as far as I know), but these are the two most non-kitten kittens I've ever met in my life.

You know how most kittens are friendly and playful and adorable? Yeah. These two are terrified of people and spend ninety-nine point five percent of their time underneath the bed in the spare room. They only come out long enough to eat and use the litterbox (as long as I'm not anywhere near, natch). Oh, once in a while one of them will make a brave foray into the hallway, where they sit and shoot a death-glare at me in the living room, until I happen to look up and notice, at which point they make a mad flail to get back under the bed again.

Day-um.

I've dealt with ferals before. Heck, The Runt and Little Girl came from a feral litter, and were deemed "unadoptable" by the shelter I was volunteering for at the time. But Romeo and Mouse? They give new meaning to the term.

They were part of a small feral colony in a local town. A woman who has been feeding them contacted the rescue group, who managed to catch Romeo and Mouse. Romeo and Mouse are estimated to be about four months old, which means time is running out, kitten-shelf-life-wise. If they don't calm down and friendly-up real soon, it's going to be awfully hard to get them adopted.

Oh, kitties. Come play with me! I am friendly! I promise! And unless you want to go be barn cats (which can be a glorious life but, unfortunately, often a short one), you need to learn to trust people.

They are supposed to go to an adoption event next weekend. I've got my work cut out for me. Wish me luck, guys.

Samson and Delilah's Big! Adventure!

Yesterday was hectic, as space unexpectedly opened up at the PetSmart adoption center, and off Sammy and Deli went so that someone can see them and fall in love with them and give them a home.


Goodbye, Sammy!






Goodbye, Deli!



Don't worry, I won't put those embarrassing pictures of you guys in Santa hats up on the internet or anythin ... whoops.


Okay, readers, cross your fingers and send good thoughts this way. These guys need a home.

The hits just keep on comin'

This past summer, my brother's wife was diagnosed with lung cancer. She started treatment up here, and then they went back home to Florida where she continued treatment. She was responding well, and getting ready for a break from the chemo.

On Tuesday, I got an email from my brother titled "Cancer Update". And you know how there are some emails you just don't want to open? The ones where it's hard to click on?

Yeah.

My brother has been diagnosed with throat cancer.

Shit.

This good, fine, funny, gentle man has been diagnosed with cancer.

They are hopeful that it's curable, but the treatment is going to be ... not pleasant. Thirty-three consecutive sessions of radiation therapy.

The kicker, of course, is that after being a life-long smoker, he quit. Over two years ago. It wasn't soon enough.

You know, I always had a laissez-faire attitude about smoking. Hell, I did it myself, for almost thirty years. But now? No. This is too hard. It affects too many people. There are no benefits.

Shit.

Weather Report

It's snowing outside right now, big fat flakes mixed in with the rain that's been coming down all day. We're supposed to get more snow tonight. How much? Who knows? Anywhere from 1 - 3 inches to 2 - 4 inches to OMG ARMAGEDDON STOCK UP ON GROCERIES 4 - 6 inches, depending on which radio station you're listening to.

I guess I'm ready.

If it's going to be December and dark by four o'clock in the afternoon, we might as well have snow. This has been a weird fall - last weekend, I was out putting up the outside Christmas decorations in fifty-degree temps, which just seemed ... wrong. As much as I hate winter, I can't get amped for Christmas without some cold weather. And I'm gonna get it - By this weekend, when I will (hopefully) be getting a tree, the high is supposed to be thirty degrees.

Of course, cold weather means icy roads which means that everyone who has forgotten how to drive in the nine months since we last had snowy weather, i.e., EVERYONE, will be sliding around and skidding into each other and deck the halls and call your insurance agent on your cell from the side of the road.

Winter? Well, it's gonna get here, whether I like it or not, so we might as well get it over with. I guess.

Ho ho ho?

Don't EVER wake a sleeping baby

Lest anyone think that fostering kitties is all sweetness and light, let me paint you a picture of last Saturday, when, after the cats had broken a lamp, knocked over three houseplants, and repeatedly tried to scale Mount Rocky by climbing up my pants leg, I finally put them in Time Out.

Gah.

Oh, I know they just wanted to playplayPLAY, but it was like someone had unleashed a couple of whirling dervishes in my house. If I could only harness up their energy, I could probably heat the place with it. Now, with The Runt and Little Girl, when they got a case of the crazies, they'd just go outside to run off some steam, but of course, with the indoor-only fosters that's not an option, so I finally just ran them around chasing a feather duster until they weren't quite so frantic.

And then they slept. Oh, boy, did they sleep. Right past dinnertime, as a matter of fact. And did I wake them up? HELL, NO. Every parent knows that the first rule of survival is don't EVER wake the baby.

But did I see a chance to enact some revenge? Well, maybe ...

Payback, amigos.

I call bullshit

You may remember my niece L., the one in her mid-thirties with pancreatitis due to chronic alcoholism. Yeah, that one.

I haven't seen her recently, so at Thanksgiving I asked her dad how she was doing.

"Oh, well, she's still drinking", he said. "But just beer now. No more of that vodka. It's the hard stuff that caused the pancreatitis. Beer's okay."

Well. All you have to do is google "pancreatitis diet" to know that beer is not "okay" when you have pancreatitis.

Evidently my niece has convinced her family, and possibly herself, that she can drink oceans of beer, and as long as she stays away from the "hard stuff", it's "okay".

I guess denial is a powerful thing. And so is addiction. This niece's boyfriend claims he "has" to keep drinking, because when he stops, he has seizures. And if he keeps having seizures, he'll lose his job, so, he says, drinking is actually job security.

I used to know a barfly who had to have a couple of beers first thing in the morning in order to get her hands steady enough to put on her eyeliner.

And oh, man, I knew a guy who woke up one morning after a historic bender and couldn't remember his name.

I think I know too many drunks.

(More) things that are driving me crazy.

1. People who say "Me no likey." Stop it. Just stop it. See also: People who declare someone to be their "brother from another mother", "sister from another mister", etc. JUST STOP. IT'S NOT FUNNY.

2. People who don't let other people merge into traffic. See also: People who start to merge three miles before a lane closure. UR DOIN IT RONG. You are supposed to use BOTH LANES of traffic up to the point of the closure, BOTH LANES, and then take turns merging. If you merge three miles back, thinking that you're being a good doo-bee, and then refuse to let anybody in at the point of closure? YOU ARE AN ASSHOLE.

3. Calling people "ginger" instead of redheads. "He's a ginger." I don't know why this grates on me so much; it just does.

Okay! Must be I'm getting mellow in my old age, because I can only think of three things right now. How about you? Anything driving you crazy this morning?

Cards here! Getcher cards here!

Because pinched nerves, root canals and a couple of highly entertaining kittens are evidently not enough to keep me busy, I'll be doing Christmas cards again this year!

So! Here's the deal: If you got a card from me last year, you are on the list for this year. If you did NOT get a card from me last year and you would LIKE a card, email me (rockycat24 AT yahoo DOT com) and you'll go on the list for this year. If you DID get a card from me last year and you now hate me and are not speaking to me, email me (that doesn't count as speaking, heh) and you'll go OFF the list.

Got it? Personally, I'm kind of confused. Bottom line? If you want a Christmas card, and you haven't gotten one from me before, email me. Rockycat24 AT yahoo DOT com. Most of the cards will be homemade, and as I am quite possibly the least-crafty person on earth, prepare to receive a card that looks like it was made by a third-grader. Peeps who got cards in previous years, you KNOW what I'm talking about.

Let the gluing-together-of-the-fingers begin!