It's like this stuff calls to me

This past weekend, I picked up four day lilies, a red hot poker plant, a wisteria vine, and the Infant of Prague.

And how cute is this?: When I took off his royal robes to give them a soak, I discovered that he was wearing his jammies underneath:

Yeah, he's a little banged up. At some point, his left arm came off and was re-attached (gulp), but it's not every day you run into the Infant of Prague, so I brought him home with me.

I hope he likes it here.

... and then, this morning ...

COW KITTY!

Right there in my garage, on top of the washer. What you can't see in this pic is Little Girl on the floor, staring up in admiration at her paramour.

And getting a closer look, not only does he have the regrettable Hitler 'stache, he's also got a soul patch goin' on there.

Now, I detest soul patches on men, but on a cat? It's pretty cute.

And I'm sure Little Girl agrees.

... and then, later ON in the park last night ...

Okay, first off, I was just minding my own business, watching TV last night, when I heard an "eee eee EEE" from the garage.

Oh, shit, I thought. I wonder what Little Girl's caught now. I should go shut the pet door before she brings it ...

too late.

WHAM! goes the pet door, as Little Girl comes barreling into the kitchen with a baby rabbit in her mouth.

Now, I know I said in an earlier post that while Little Girl will chase the rabbits, she doesn't actually try to catch them, and that is true - for the adult rabbits, who are as big as she is. But the baby rabbits?

Oh, she loves her a baby rabbit.

And by "love", I mean she wants to love them and pet them and name them George. She catches the baby rabbits and carries them around and plays and plays and PLAYS with them, until the rabbit gets away or she loses interest.

So! It's ten o'clock at night, which, let's face it, is the middle of the damn night for us old folks, and Little Girl's now in the living room with a rabbit, which she promptly drops on the floor.

And chaos ensues. The rabbit's tearing around the living room, Little Girl's tearing around after the rabbit, and I'm scrambling for my small-animal-catching equipment, i.e., a dollar-store butterfly net, an empty Cool Whip container, and a piece of cardboard.

The first order of business was to grab Little Girl and shut her in the spare bedroom, taking her out of the equation. Next up was catching the rabbit, which wasn't that tough, because frankly, rabbits aren't all that smart. They'll just huddle up in a corner, figuring that if they can't see YOU, you can't see THEM. Dipshits.

(I'm beginning to realize that I have absolutely no idea how to tell a story without turning it into a novel. I need to learn how to do the abridged versions, or something.)

But! So! Okay! I have the baby rabbit, who is frightened but uninjured, in the Cool Whip container, with the cardboard on top. I'm off to the park to set him free. Except it's pitch dark over there, and I can't really see where I'm going, but I know I need to get far enough away from the house so that Little Girl can't run right over and catch the rabbit again.

And then, I'm in the park, walking toward the creek, when out of the corner of my eye, I see ... something. A vague, shadowy, large figure over by the brush line. And I'm thinking, okay, what is THAT? when I hear a snort.

SNORT. SNORT. STAMP. STAMP. STAMP.

Oh, f*ck. It's a damn deer. A damn deer who is NOT HAPPY that I am in HER PARK, and is now snorting and stamping her disapproval.

And moving closer.

"SHIT, BAMBI!" I yell. "I'M TRYING TO SAVE THUMPER OVER HERE, ALL RIGHT? CHRIST!"

And the deer gave one final snort and faded into the brush line, and I let the rabbit go and it went frolicking off into the high grass, and I went back to the house and let a highly indignant Little Girl out of the spare room, making sure to give her great praise for her marvelous catch, and then I brushed my teeth and went to bed.

Just another evening here in RockyCat land. C'mon over!

Seen in the park last night ...

... more power to ya, kid.

They think they're hurting me ...

... and I just think it's funny.

First off, it helps to think of my family as being like middle school all over again. There is a bully (my sister TIB), and people who try to stay on her good side so they don't get bullied (my sister Alabama, my brother A.) There are people who just try to stay out of the bully's range (my sister Ditzy), and then there is the target of the bully, i.e., ME.

Except I don't play along. I ignore the bully when she picks on me. I call her out on her bullshit, which infuriates her. I refuse to be intimidated. Oh, I am polite enough to her at family gatherings. I give her nothing to feed her rage, nor do I back down when she starts with her crap. I agree with her when necessary to keep the peace, and then do just exactly what I was planning to do in the first place, anyway.

What none of them know is, I've got a mole on the other side. An informant, so to speak. And this little birdie told me that there's a big party being planned up at the family cottage this weekend. Relatives are flying in from all over the country to attend.

And I have not been invited.

Thank GOD.

Because who wants to spend the weekend in a snakepit? Surrounded by people who smile and chit-chat with you, and then cut you dead as soon as you leave the room?

NO WAY.

They'll spend the weekend congratulating themselves about cutting me out. About "hurting" me. Just like middle school, when ONE KID was excluded from the birthday party of the popular kid, and all the other kids laughed about it.

Except I'm the kid being excluded, and I just think it's funny how grown adults can still act like they're ten.

I may spend a few minutes this weekend wondering how people I actually used to care about, people to whom I am related, turned into a nest of assholes, but mostly?

I'll be working in the garden, and going for walks, and hopefully getting some damn SUN already if it'll stop raining for ten minutes, and just enjoying myself. And probably calling my sister Texas, the one family member who is still my friend, so that the two of us can laugh about how silly this all is. Because the two of us graduated from middle school a long, long time ago, even if the rest of the family didn't.

And I will be very, very thankful that I'm not up at the lake this weekend.

Love is love

After The Runt died, on April 21, at first I was in shock. I mean, two-year-old cats don't just drop dead, right?

Except when they do.


I was in shock, and then mourning, and the next few weeks after that were a horrifying scramble of tests and test results and road trips to specialists and bad bad news, when Little Girl was diagnosed with restrictive cardiomyopathy and we had to learn a New Normal, she and I.


We got the pill routine down and had more tests and she went back to hunting birds and I went back to the daily stuff of life, except that we are both missing The Runt. Very much so.


And I was thinking the other day, of how hard I am grieving the loss of The Runt. Frankly, I am grieving his loss just as much as I did for Rocky, which hardly seems possible. I mean, I had Rocky for fifteen years. The Runt was still practically a kitten; how could I possibly miss him as much as I had missed Rocky? How could the grief be this strong?

And then, over the past weekend, I read this:

"Sometimes love is for a moment
Sometimes love is for a lifetime
Sometimes a moment is a lifetime."





Yeah. That's it.

As a matter of fact, I AM the grammar police.

Jesus Christ.

This week in the garden

So! Nobody wants to talk about pimp cups, eh? FINE. Have some flowers.

Here are some tiger lilies, which came from my sister Alabama's old campsite up at the lake:

Those tiger lilies are spreading like crazy, which I love. I moved some to the side yard this year to see how they do there.

Jupiter's Beard, which I bought because of the name:

Did Jupiter have a red beard? I have no idea.

This honeysuckle is growing next to the shed out back:

Honeysuckle smells so good. I had a giant honeysuckle at the old place, but a couple of years before I moved it developed some kind of blight. It would still leaf out, but the flower buds would turn black and wither up before they blossomed. I took some small shoots off of a part of the bush that didn't seem to be affected and started them in another part of the yard. They came with me when I moved, and now that plant's a good five feet high! Now if I could just get the trumpet vine to bloom ... *sigh*

White delphinium:

and daisies:

Blooming soon: Stargazer lilies. Oh, and a local garden center's having their big end-of-season, half-off-everything sale this weekend, so who knows what I'll end up with. (It's just ALL KINDS of excitement around here.) Maybe a bee balm to replace the one that didn't make it through the winter. Maybe some daylilies to plant by the ditch. I'll let you know what I pick up ...

Pants on the ground, Part 2

Okay! So, the most plausible idea for how the pants stayed up came from Downtown Guy, who thought they hooked the pants to the underwear. Which got me thinking about little mini suspenders, which cracked me up, and then I was all, hey, waaaaaaiiit a minute, I could INVENT little mini suspenders, for hooking your pants to your underwear, and make a fortune!

Another million-dollar idea!

But FIRST, I thought I'd check to see if somebody had already invented little baby suspenders. And, well, in the market I'd be going for, they'd probably be all blinged out, right?

So I googled "bling suspenders".*

Awwwww. So cute. But not MINI, so my dream is still alive.

So then, I'm at this web site, right? Where they sell all things bling. And I notice that they sell grills. Except, they spell it "grillz", of course. Keepin' it real and all that. Ha! Do you like my "black talk"? Dear black people: Please don't come and kill me for saying that. I'm just a middle-aged white lady. With a cat. Honest. Here! Have a grill:

You, too, can embody the thug life, for the low low price of $19.99!


And then I see a sidebar for "pimp cups".

????

What, I wondered, is a "pimp cup"? For some reason, all that came to mind was "jockstrap".

So! I clicked on the link, because I do this shit so you don't have to, and here is a pimp cup:

I'm pretty sure I want one.

It's going on my Amazon wish list, right now.

Right after I invent mini suspenders for clipping your pants to your underwear. It's GENIUS, I tell you! I'm gonna be rich!

Pass my pimp cup, please.

*My boss loves it when I waste time like this. I'm pretty sure I'm gonna get a raise any day now.

Pants on the ground

Okay, so this is going to mark me as possibly the whitest person on the planet, but here we go:

I went up to the grocery store on my lunch break from work the other day to pick up a couple of things. And there was a kid, well, not a KID, I'm guessing mid-twenties, at the can return.

And he had his jeans belted around his thighs.

I mean, I'm used to the guys with the low-rider look, with their pants hanging low on their hips. WAY low, in some instances.

And just as an aside, young men: Do you know where that particular fashion trend started? In prison, that's where. You see, in prison you do not get BELTS, and so the prison-issued pants tend to SAG, and so when you wear your pants the same way? You are emulating felons.

What's that? "That's the point, white lady"?

*sigh*

But! Back to the dude at the can return! He was wearing plaid boxers, which was obvious because his jeans were belted around his THIGHS. And no, I am NOT talking mid-butt level, I am talking all the way BELOW his butt.

Now, I only take a half-hour for lunch, and he had many, many cans to return, so I couldn't wait around to watch him (try to) walk. And people tend to shoot each other over silly stuff in the neighborhood in which this store, and my office, is located, so I wasn't going to walk up and ASK him how he walked. Lest I get shot. And I am pretty sure that googling "pants around thighs" would take this computer to some places that my boss would prefer it didn't go.

So! How on EARTH do you walk with your pants belted around your thighs? I can only visualize two possible outcomes: (a) You take one step and fall over; (b) You take one step and your pants fall to the ground.

And even standing still, how do you keep pants which are belted around your THIGHS from just falling right off? Gravity is a law, not an option, last time I checked.

Oh man, I've gotta figure this out. Does anybody know how this dude keeps his pants up?

Just one more ...

Wicker Rocker

I picked up a wicker rocker for ten! bucks! a couple of weeks ago. I WAS going to put it out in the backyard, but when I unloaded it from the car, I set it in the garage for a couple of minutes, and Little Girl discovered it.







and now it's her favorite chair.

Sweet dreams, Little Girl.

It's Little Girl day here on RockyCat!

Okay, okay, I know this photo is about as grainy as that Bigfoot video, but I think you can get the gist of it:



That's Little Girl, all crouched down, stalking the wily rabbit who is in the neighbor's ditch.

Now, this is all a big show, because Little Girl knows that the rabbit, which is approximately the same size as she is, could kick her butt if she actually caught it.

So she stalks the rabbit, and makes her final mad dash, but then pulls up short as the rabbit bunny-hops away with no particular urgency.

And they do this with great frequency. It is, evidently, a favorite game of both of them.

Oh, Maid ...

... bring me my catnip tea, please.

Oh, great, now I've got an audience

I woke up a couple of Sundays ago to the sound of Little League.

"You've gotta CATCH those fly balls, Kevin! Come on! You're not even trying! CATCH! THE! BALL!"

Very relaxing. They usually don't even PLAY on Sundays, but thanks to this spring's monsoons, they're way behind and making up games.

So, I got up and got showered and dressed and decided to do some gardening, i.e., dig around in the flowerbeds like I know what I'm doing.

First on the agenda was moving some tiger lilies to the side yard. Two successfully made the trip; the third, well ... sorry, tiger lily. See you next year? I mean, your roots are still in the ground, amiright?

The ferns I had stolen rescued from the park last year and planted along the back of the house were doing really well, so I decided to put some more in. I dug some holes, grabbed the bucket and the hand trowel, and headed through the park to the woods where the bamboo is taking over. See? I'm really doing those ferns a favor, because the bamboo takes over everything in its path, and those poor ferns won't even BE there next year, thanks to the bamboo, BUT! They can have a home in my backyard, poor things.

I'm generous like that.

So anyway, I'm headed through the park, and there is yet another Little League game in full swing, or maybe it's the same one from earlier, I have no idea, they all kind of blend into each other when the games start at 9 a.m. and don't wrap up until after 7:30 at night. And I'm feeling kind of self-conscious, passing by the game, except for, shit, the ball field is at least a hundred yards away, and everybody's watching the game and hooting and yelling, not paying attention to little ol' me with my bucket and trowel.


I dig up the ferns, which is a SNOT, because those things have big old tap roots which are hard to break through, especially since I refuse to bring my shovel, because: Walking through the park with a bucket and hand trowel? Semi-normal. Walking through the park with a bucket and a shovel? You're about to bury a corpse.

ANYWAY, I get the ferns, walk back PAST the ball game, and get them lovingly planted in the ground. Except, maybe not so lovingly, since one of them promptly kicked the bucket. That's the weird thing about ferns: Five out of six will take to their new home just FINE, but that sixth one? Will die, like, instantly. Sorry, fern number six. The bamboo would've got ya, anyway. (Me: Queen of Justification.)


And then, I decided to take a walk. (I know: THRILLING! I am getting to the point, here. Finally.) I head out of my yard and start walking past the cars parked at the ball field, when this random baseball dad, who was headed for his car, says, "What were you getting from the woods?"

And I'm, like, "excuse me?"

And he says, "Was it strawberries? I saw you with the bucket - were you picking strawberries?"

Dude was watching me.

Creepy.

I explained how I was digging up ferns. Ferns that were about to be consumed by the bamboo. Ferns that were not going to make it thanks to the pervasive bamboo and NO OF COURSE I AM NOT STEALING hahahahahaha

and he said OK well nice talking to you and got into his car.

hmmmmm

I was being watched.

Now that I've got an audience, does this mean I need to put on a show? I sure hope not. I never was any good at that talent-show kind of crap.

... waaaaaait a minute .... I DID get that Dancing with Cats book at the booksale ...

HAHAHAHAHA NO.

I'm already the neighborhood crazy lady, thankyouverymuch.

Plus, Little League is almost over for the year, anyway.

This one's for the laydeez

This is my nephew, J:





J. is a firefighter. He just bought a brand new car:



He's pretty shy, so I was really surprised when I asked him to flex and he actually did it:



You're welcome, gals.

This week in the garden

Yellow lupine ...

Some kind of yellow thing I dug up by the creek:

Spiderwort ...

Orange globeflower ...

Delphinium ...

Yet another showy peony ...

June is bustin' out all over.

All the way from Scotland

When I got home from work last night, there was a package on my doorstep. From Scotland!

Sent via Royal Mail!

It turns out that Pauline, aka Fish Food, had learned of The Runt's death and Little Girl's illness and decided to send me a care package.

There were crafty items, and candles, and butterflies, and note cards, and pictures. Just look at this picture of her garden:

Isn't that fantastic? Doesn't it look like it's in 3D? Pauline, I'm dying to know how you did that.

Here's to friends in faraway countries - Thank you, Pauline! Your thoughtfulness means a lot to me.

The great unwashed

Okay, first off, this post is meant to be humorous, okay? A light-hearted look at Ithaca. Dear gay nude people and unwashed hippies: Please do not show up on my doorstep with pitchforks and torches. Thank you.

Now! Carrying on!

On Saturday I was up in Ithaca, doing a little nosing around. I found a parking access spot for the Six Mile Creek Natural Area and did a little walking, although not ENOUGH walking to get to the notorious gay-nude-sunbathing area. There are some things that can remain unseen, as far as I'm concerned.

And! I went to the Ithaca Antiques Mall, the best store in the world, where I snagged a wicker rocking chair for ten bucks. Who CARES if one of the armrests is duct-taped? Ten! Dollars! They even used white duct tape, to match the white-painted wicker, so you can't even TELL, really. Ha. And I went to the Ithaca Sal, and got a pair of Timberland hikers for seven bucks. This is the BEST time of year to hit the Ithaca thrift store, because all of the college students have gone home and left all their unwanted stuff behind in the dorms for the RAs to box up and haul to the Sal. And we are talking Cornell college students, who are all rich as lords and leave behind insanely cool stuff, like practically brand-new Timberlands. I love you, rich college students!

Where else? I went to the Dollar Store, because I cannot pass up a Dollar Store. And I went to Found, another cool antiques store. There is an exhibitor there who does wacked-out stuff with animal bones and skulls.

I wanted to go to the Johnson Museum (FREE!), but I was running close on time and I still had to hit the Commons. I had to go to Blue Bird Antiques, where I bought the stuffed porcupine. They still have the stuffed duck; he may be mine someday. Blue Bird Antiques is right on The Commons, and there is something you should know about the Commons: It is chock-full of young adventurous souls dirty hippies. Hippies with dreadlocks and huaraches who have not bathed in a long, long time.

And I will tell you right now, if you want to be a dirty hippie that is just FINE with me. To each his own, and blahblahblah. But here is what dirty hippies and unwashed dogs have in common: They don't really smell until you get 'em wet. You know how, if you haven't given your dog a bath for a while, it doesn't really hit home how damn dirty the pooch is until the bathwater hits him and that first wave of smell rises up?

It's the same with hippies. I shit you not. Oh, sure, they look CUTE, and YOUNG, and FULL OF LIFE, but jeezus christ, it starts to rain and Katie bar the door they STINK.

So I'm on the Commons and the clouds roll in and it starts to thunder and the rain droplets start hitting the ground and I skeedaddled out of there, because I don't need to smell no stinkin' hippies.

Don't worry, Ithaca! I'll be back on another day. A non-rainy day. No offense.

Comments I am DYING to leave

Okay, first off, this one blogger is looking for a nut-free, gluten-free snack. And I SO wanted to comment, "How about air? Or ... ummm... water?" Because I am ignorant and insensitive, OBV. And, dear readers, if you leave recipes in my comments? You are missing the point.

And then, this other blogger, who blogs ALL THE TIME about how batshit insane her family is, is talking about getting a nanny, except the nanny can never be alone with the baby, because, as she writes, "The baby can only be alone with family members."

and OHMYGOD I SO wanted to comment in, "Family members? You mean, YOUR family?"

this is why blogworld hates me.