Drunken Encounter With A Cat

My cousin, Kelly, is a whimsical girl.

I love her with all my heart, but I also know she's a little goofy. (It adds to her charm.) My husband was on a trip (when isn't he?) and she and I were on the phone. Kelly lives in Oklahoma.

I was bored and sick of being home alone and I started begging Kelly to fly out for the weekend. She replied "Oh, I wish I could." Well, hells bells, what's keeping you from doing it? "Money." Oh yeah, that. Never mind, I'll pay for the ticket. Just get the flight you want and I'll book it and put in on my card. Kelly hemmed and hawed over it until I threatened to catch my house on fire just to get firemen to come over and entertain me.

She finally agreed. I arranged for a limo to pick Kelly up at the airport and rather than go straight home, we had the driver take us up to the Napa Valley for wine tasting. This was about noon so we stopped first and had lunch at a beautiful bistro and shared a wonderful buttery oak infused Chardonnay with our lunch.

We visited a couple of wineries after that and had the limo take us home. Both of us were having a little trouble walking at this point. Naps were in order. We slept for a couple of hours and then got ready to go out for dinner.

Kelly is very meticulous about her dress and she asked me for an iron to press something. While searching for the iron (that I do not use), I decided to open us a lovely bottle of wine. Probably not my best idea ever after drinking the afternoon away.

We had a lovely dinner with, yes, more wine. When we got home and opened the door, our new cat, Smokey, slipped past us as we were walking in and ran out. He was not really an outdoor cat so I was concerned. Kelly said, "Oh, he'll be back when he gets hungry," but that really didn't satisfy me. I told her I was going to change clothes and go out looking for him and she said that she would come with me.

It had to be close to midnight at this point since we had taken a long time at dinner, oh yeah, and then we stopped in the Biker Bar and had a drink or two with some motley guys.

If you are keeping score, we had quite a lot of booze in one day. This did not deter me at all from my quest to find Smokey. We walked the streets calling his name. After about a 1/2 hour, we were ready to give up when we called his name one last time. A pretty white cat (Smoke is black) came running to us out of the shadows making a jingle sound when she ran from a bell on her collar.

We sat down on the sidewalk and Kelly started talking to the cat. The cat vocalized right back at her. Kelly said "That cat knows right where Smokey is and she wants us to follow her." So we got back to our feet and followed the cat as she kept looking back at us.

About 3 houses from my own, the cat took a turn down a driveway and under a fence into a back yard. Quietly, we opened the fence and whispering "Smokey" we started to go into the yard. (This was a house where a single man lived, but I did not know him and had only seen him once or twice before.)

"Hold it right there!" a loud voice came. "What are you two doing in my yard?". Kelly and I grabbed each other in terror. A man with a flashlight came out the back door. At first I thought he had a gun. We froze. Kelly started explaining that we were looking for my cat. I tried to interject that I was actually his neighbor from 3 houses down, but Kelly kept talking and telling him that this pretty white cat had told her to follow her and that Smoke was in this back yard.

The guy sort of chuckled and said "Have you girls been drinking?" Well, of course he already knew the answer to that question.

He flashed his light around the backyard and Smokey gave a little "meow" and ran out from behind a bush. I grabbed him in my arms.

We apologized to the man, David, we learned by then and after offering him a drink that he wisely refused, we went back home.

Kelly still swears that white cat talked to her.

Are They Going To A Prom?

The blonde is my daughter, Sheila. The brunette is my granddaughter, Ari Yasmin.

18 year old David was sure they were sisters and going to a senior prom. David is my neighbor boy. Well, neighbor man, since he's almost 21 now. I have secured David's services now because my husband is away and a woman's got to do what a woman's got to do.

Okay, the kind of services I'm hiring David for are dog walking services. Harry is a big orange dog and while he has great manners and understands commands, the sight of a squirrel sends him airborne. This could be a problem for me walking him. Harry knocked Honey (my older and smaller female dog) down the stairs this afternoon ass over tea kettle, trying to get to a squirrel on the fence in our back yard.

Harry is what Double O refers to as a "potcake". Potcakes are dogs of dubious heritage where she lives on an island in the Bahamas. She says they are the color of burnt rice. Harry is orange, and that is close enough.

David agreed to walk Harry for me. Since I have known David since he was an 8 year old boy scout selling me magazines I didn't want, I expected him to be fairly reasonable about his price. Also, I know from his dad, that David's currently working at a part time job making $10 per hour. I figured walking the dog would have the same approximate price tag.

I figured wrong. I mentioned 20 minute to half hour walks every afternoon and suggested $5 per 20 minute walk. David looked slightly offended, but quickly recovered and said "Well, whatever you want." I asked if he had another amount in mind, and he allowed as to how a friend of his walked a dog for $25. That seemed a touch high to me for 20 minutes to 1/2 an hour.

I inquired how long his friend walked the dog for, and David said "Oh for an hour or so." Uh huh. Well, we compromised and agreed on $10 for 1/2 an hour. He took Harry out and came back in about 10 or 15 minutes. David took the $20 for his 10 or 15 minute walk that would include walking Harry tomorrow as well.

Somehow I feel this is not going to be a great business arrangement for me.

Maybe my daughter or granddaughter will date him and I'll get a better price.

Alex In Amsterdam

This is where I hope Alex goes tomorrow.

Alex and his friend Brian are driving to Amsterdam. This is the interior of Coster Diamonds, a very famous place in Amsterdam to buy jewelry. I'm sure he could find something really spectacular for me in this shop for our Anniversary on September 29th. Of course, he won't be home for the occasion, but he just might have something special he's bringing home as a late gift. That would be nice, right?

This is where I don't hope Alex goes to spend his time in Amsterdam. Oh I don't care if he walks past the windows because we all know there is nothing wrong with window shopping. The real problem is that if he goes to the Red Light District, he may end up buying me smaller diamonds because he's used his money unwisely. All right, the truth is I don't think celebrating your anniversary month with a prostitute is the least bit kosher either.

I do concede that spending a period of time with a lady of the evening might be cheaper than going to Coster Diamonds for a gift for your wife. But you have to think about the long term with these issues. You spend a half hour or so with Brunhilda, and that's fine. It might cost you $100 or so if you don't ask for anything "fancy". Let's face it, that's not a huge sum compared to $10,000 for a carat of superior diamond. But there's an old adage, you get what you pay for.

Now keep in mind that I am currently crotch sprung. Or maybe it's crotch sprained. No, I think they call it "I've sprained my groin", but then isn't your crotch and your groin sort of the same thing?

Now this sprain has me sort of lying low for a bit of time. I'm hopeful it will be gone by the time my husband comes home with my diamonds.

He knows with me it's always "fancy".

When Harry Met Zoe

Zoe - Pronounced Zoh- eee.

Call the men in the white coats.

I wasn't looking for love, or a new family member but there she was.

Traci, a friend and waitperson at a bistro I frequent in town, was telling me about Zoe, a rescue dog she was fostering. She and her partner would have to surrender the pup to the SPCA next weekend, and Tracy was sick about it. They were under contract with their landlord to not have a Pit Bull in their apartment. They could not keep Zoe.

Traci and her partner had taken Zoe with the idea that they would be giving her to friends of theirs within a couple of weeks, a couple who wanted her. The couple apparently has decided to get a divorce and they no longer wanted a dog.

As I listened to Tracy, I felt like crying. Here is this maybe 9-month old dog who would be put into the "system" and lose her sweetness and her innocence. Shelters are stressful places and Pit Bulls are a dime a dozen in the Bay Area.

Some punk might want to use her as a fighting dog, or as bait for a fighting dog. Or, she could be recruited by a big-bellied biker to guard his meth lab. This just wouldn't do at all.

I told Traci I wanted to meet Zoe. I was totally charmed when I met her. Zoe is very small (about 45 pounds), and very young. She is a loving and sweet girl who is already house-broken and crate trained.

Traci and I decided to introduce Zoe to Harry last evening. (Harry has been down in the dumps since Alex left on his month long trip.) We took both dogs on a walk to let them get acquainted and they did fine after some initial posturing.

We came back to the house and repaired to the garden where the dogs would be able to interact off-leash and they had a marvelous time. Zoe let Harry dominate her and she loved it when he chased her. They ran constantly for about 2 hours.

Although Harry is neutered (and Zoe is fixed too), he was very romantic toward her. Zoe seemed no worse off from his clumsy attentions. In return, he bathed her with drool and love nips until she was soaking wet from head to toe. Harry for sure thought this was a love connection, even if Zoe did play a little hard to get.

I need another dog like I need a hole in my head. But, good sense has never been high on my list of worthwhile qualities. I sent Zoe's story and her photos to Alex and he agreed that we might want to take her. (But then Alex has no more good sense than I do, and perhaps even less.)

This is not going to be easy, but we can do it. Honey will not like Zoe, but Honey doesn't even like Harry for that matter. Harry badly needs a playmate. Honey is more "prison warden" than "playmate". We'll adjust.

Zoe is just too young, sweet, and pretty to be turned into a gang banger's Pit Bull.

Well Clutch My Pearls

It happens every time.

I may write something that is a little racy, but I seldom use four letter words. I hardly ever discuss bodily functions. In fact, I don't even show private parts in my photos. Now, I guess my posts might be rated PG, but I hope you would never think of them as crude or offensive.

I write about a wide variety of subjects, my relationships, my husband, my pets, my grandchildren, my children on occasion. I also write about ancient history, or maybe that time better known as the 70's and the 80's.

I also write about lust once in a while. I don't think having a yen for the handsome Ramon is terribly naughty. I don't actually pursue Ramon, but I do think about the beautiful music we could make together, and perhaps it gets more graphic in my head, but I never would bring that to a post.

On rare occasions, I may discuss naughty bits, but it's rare. I am not sure I've ever included the word vagina or for that matter penis in a post. I actually don't consider those terribly racy words in the first place.

In my last post, I did write something that was somewhat unusual for me. I wrote about an event that occurred over 20 years ago and that I thought was funny. The punchline of the entire post was at the end and included the words "black bush". Shocking, I know.

Sure as shooting, I lost one of my dear followers over this post. I should have expected it, but I didn't. Too bad. Each and every person who takes the time to read something I have written is very special to me.

But those words, "black bush" just made someone clutch their pearls and move on.

Bye bye.

What Color Is My Parachute?

He was my ex-husband.

He had been my ex-husband 18 years ago. We were held together by the threads of our children. When we divorced, we had a 3 month old daughter and a 3 year old son.

He and I had spent time growing up together and then growing apart as well. Our son turned 21 in August the year I turned 42. My husband John was about 5 years older than me at this time. John had been diagnosed with brain cancer a couple of years earlier. Over the 18 years we had been divorced, we became friends on a totally different level.

On August 31st, we celebrated our son's 21st birthday together, with his wife and my new husband Alex. This is the true story of what transpired.

John had given me a gift certificate for Elizabeth Arden's Red Door for Mother's Day. (No, his wife was perfectly okay with this expensive and extravagant gift.) After all, he was not my most recent husband at all. And she understood that John and I loved each other from "way back".

We took my son to the Tonga Room at the Fairmont Hotel in San Francisco the night after I had gone in for my day at the Red Door. I decided that if I only had one life to live, let me live it as a blond.

I emerged from the day of beauty that included a facial, a manicure, a pedicure, a massage, a professional make over and as a blond after 40 years of being a brunette.

Oddly as a natural brunette, I made a good blond. Light hair throws more light on your face than dark. My former husband looked at me across the table with his wife and my husband and my son sitting there and said the following words. He would die within a year without knowing the answer.

"So what did you do about your black bush?"

Rocky Starts

I think I'm off to a rocky start with Alex being gone doing whatever it is he does for a whole month.

Yesterday, I found that one of the dogs had thrown up all over the 90 year old Persian rug in the dining room. This was in the early morning when I am least likely to appreciate dog vomit.

I looked at both dogs closely. Harry looked to be in good spirits and seemed to be okay. Honey was a little "under the weather" but then she is old and sometimes has trouble getting up and around much before noon. I can relate.

I grabbed a dustbin and cleaned up the mess from about 3 separate locations all the while trying to tell my gag reflex to calm down. Then it happened. I twisted and threw out my back a bit with that all too familiar painful "boing". (Now mind you, a "boing" is much different than a "boink" and I have a much worse reaction to the boing.)

I cleaned up the mess as well as I could while swearing under my breathe (mutha fugger! mutha fugger! mutha fugger!) and tried to get up. Nothing to hold on to close enough to grab and the back spasm went into full attack mode while I wondered how I would manage.

I figured out that if I crawled, I could get to the kitchen and grab the pet poo cleaner-upper solution. No it was not poo, but none the less, I wanted to clean up the rug as well as I could.

I returned to the dining room as Honey was again in the process of throwing up on the rug. I gently moved her head to the hardwood floor and she puked up the rocks that you see in the above photo. Apparently, one of the rocks is actually a piece of charcoal from the bbq pit out in the yard. Oh, why ask why! I'm sure at first it tasted delish coated with meat juice and fat.

I telephoned my vet to ask if I needed to be concerned and they told me that this was not uncommon but to watch her closely to make sure she didn't have a "blockage". Uh huh. Usually I would have insisted that I bring her in to the doctor, but in this case, I figured I'd just watch her for another day. She seems fine today and has eaten and pooed with no problem.

My children have always wondered why I set such a store on healthy poo with my dogs (and with my kids). I've always firmly believed that good looking healthy poo is an important indicator of overall health. If the poo is well formed and "normal" then I can sort of assume all is right with the world. Okay, maybe I have a hang up.

Still, with Alex gone, taking Honey to the vet is a problem. She is a big girl, and at about 80 pounds, she is difficult for me to lift, particularly when I can't even walk. My back at this point is allowing me to walk but I walk with great effort and I doubt lifting Honey's fat ass (or as we lovingly call it "her 40 pounder rounder" into the car would do me much good at all.

Now, on the bright side, I took a nude photo of myself right out of the bath and sent it to my husband in Europe. Oh, and an upskirt too.

He said he likes the photos.