- jimlouis 3-23-2008 2:11 am [link]
...more recent posts
Cat Love
You can't really raise a cat without sometimes engaging in tough love tactics. My cat is coming up on eight months old and I just had her spayed the other day. The doctor told me a couple of things to be on the look out for that would warrant bringing her back in. When she didn't eat the first evening I didn't worry too much about it. Midway into the second day I got a little worried but decided to try her on some soft food, which she has never in her life had before. Oh she ate that right up. No appetite problems here at all. I explained to her that you're not getting this everyday. We'll finish up this can and then you go back on the dry. I got you that big bag of Science Diet kitten formula and there's still pounds and pound of it left. That's your food. That's what you're going to eat. The next day I put the dry out and she wouldn't touch it. You damn well better eat that food missy. Bernadette and I agreed, oh she'll eat it when she gets hungry enough. 24 hours later she still wasn't eating so I mixed some of the dry in with a few tablespoons of wet. She seemed to begrudge the crunchy bits but she ate it up anyway. Later in the day I put a small bowl of dry on the ground and she walked right by it like she's blind in both eyes. You can be that way all you want but when this turkey and gravy stuff is gone there ain't no more wet food in the house. And even if I were to get you some more you're not eating it every meal. You hear me? You've got to meet me halfway. You eat this delicious, and I might add, rather expensive, dry food and I'll give you some of this disgusting wet stuff once in awhile. Like once a week. But not everyday. I don't know how long I should withhold soft food from her if she won't eat the dry. I think one or both of us maybe has some kind of emotional or behavioral problem. I don't know if maybe I should schedule us for an outward bound program for troubled fathers with troubled pets. My Vet alluded to a pet psychic that she consulted with about her own pets. Honestly though, I don't think I love my cat enough to consult with a pet psychic. I think I'm having a breakthrough here. I think admitting you don't love your cat enough is half the battle. The other half of the battle will be getting that funnel in her mouth.
You can't really raise a cat without sometimes engaging in tough love tactics. My cat is coming up on eight months old and I just had her spayed the other day. The doctor told me a couple of things to be on the look out for that would warrant bringing her back in. When she didn't eat the first evening I didn't worry too much about it. Midway into the second day I got a little worried but decided to try her on some soft food, which she has never in her life had before. Oh she ate that right up. No appetite problems here at all. I explained to her that you're not getting this everyday. We'll finish up this can and then you go back on the dry. I got you that big bag of Science Diet kitten formula and there's still pounds and pound of it left. That's your food. That's what you're going to eat. The next day I put the dry out and she wouldn't touch it. You damn well better eat that food missy. Bernadette and I agreed, oh she'll eat it when she gets hungry enough. 24 hours later she still wasn't eating so I mixed some of the dry in with a few tablespoons of wet. She seemed to begrudge the crunchy bits but she ate it up anyway. Later in the day I put a small bowl of dry on the ground and she walked right by it like she's blind in both eyes. You can be that way all you want but when this turkey and gravy stuff is gone there ain't no more wet food in the house. And even if I were to get you some more you're not eating it every meal. You hear me? You've got to meet me halfway. You eat this delicious, and I might add, rather expensive, dry food and I'll give you some of this disgusting wet stuff once in awhile. Like once a week. But not everyday. I don't know how long I should withhold soft food from her if she won't eat the dry. I think one or both of us maybe has some kind of emotional or behavioral problem. I don't know if maybe I should schedule us for an outward bound program for troubled fathers with troubled pets. My Vet alluded to a pet psychic that she consulted with about her own pets. Honestly though, I don't think I love my cat enough to consult with a pet psychic. I think I'm having a breakthrough here. I think admitting you don't love your cat enough is half the battle. The other half of the battle will be getting that funnel in her mouth.
Pruning With Poncho
As it turns out the rain has not stopped. I have headphones on and am listening to Diana Ross but was listening to Gillian Welch when by sense of vision I thought the rain had stopped. When I took the headphones off I could still hear it though. I went outside to feel it. It's wet. I have a rain poncho but I got to be straight with you--I am not that dedicated. Sometimes I wish I were but I spend most of my energy just trying to be happy with my imperfect self.
I am eating bread. Mr. BC came out to see my visiting siblings just before Bernadette and I returned from NY on Friday and pulled a Rodney Dangerfield at the local gourmet market. I'll take two of those, one of these, give me three of those thingies, some of that cheese, one each of every kind of bread you have and one each of everything you can put in a container and two of those ice creams (the pistachio one my bastard nephew must have eaten for breakfast, he's not really a bastard, he has two parents, but you know what I mean) and BC brought almost a whole case of wine from the Napa vineyard of Adman's friend, Spence. We had to drink three, or maybe four bottles before we decided that yes it really was a pretty tasty offering from Spence's nascent vineyard. I'm pretty good at pretending ignorance so I could pretend that I don't know what it costs but Adman told me what it cost when we drank it at his place in PA so I'm not drinking any more of that Spence, unless I run out of things to write about and feel the need to once again make fun of BC for his abundant and ongoing generosity and misplaced trust in me to leave his wine alone. No, I'll save that wine for a rainy day. Ha, get it, Mr. BC?
I don't know, it's not raining that hard, maybe I should put the poncho on. Bernadette is illustrating all day and the cat is sleeping (probably trying to figure out why her belly is shaved and where the hell did her ovaries go). I don't think I can sit here any longer. The cat woke up. She hears a bird outside but is supposed to stay inside for 5 more days. I'll give it a try anyway, with the poncho.
As it turns out the rain has not stopped. I have headphones on and am listening to Diana Ross but was listening to Gillian Welch when by sense of vision I thought the rain had stopped. When I took the headphones off I could still hear it though. I went outside to feel it. It's wet. I have a rain poncho but I got to be straight with you--I am not that dedicated. Sometimes I wish I were but I spend most of my energy just trying to be happy with my imperfect self.
I am eating bread. Mr. BC came out to see my visiting siblings just before Bernadette and I returned from NY on Friday and pulled a Rodney Dangerfield at the local gourmet market. I'll take two of those, one of these, give me three of those thingies, some of that cheese, one each of every kind of bread you have and one each of everything you can put in a container and two of those ice creams (the pistachio one my bastard nephew must have eaten for breakfast, he's not really a bastard, he has two parents, but you know what I mean) and BC brought almost a whole case of wine from the Napa vineyard of Adman's friend, Spence. We had to drink three, or maybe four bottles before we decided that yes it really was a pretty tasty offering from Spence's nascent vineyard. I'm pretty good at pretending ignorance so I could pretend that I don't know what it costs but Adman told me what it cost when we drank it at his place in PA so I'm not drinking any more of that Spence, unless I run out of things to write about and feel the need to once again make fun of BC for his abundant and ongoing generosity and misplaced trust in me to leave his wine alone. No, I'll save that wine for a rainy day. Ha, get it, Mr. BC?
I don't know, it's not raining that hard, maybe I should put the poncho on. Bernadette is illustrating all day and the cat is sleeping (probably trying to figure out why her belly is shaved and where the hell did her ovaries go). I don't think I can sit here any longer. The cat woke up. She hears a bird outside but is supposed to stay inside for 5 more days. I'll give it a try anyway, with the poncho.
Spring
I ran across the property dodging raindrops. I was on rosebush 81 when the rain started. Pruning them way back in an attempt to correct the deformity of their growth caused by hungry deer. There are about 200 more around the bighouse but I won't have to prune all of them severely. I have two different kinds of deer repellant I will be trying this year. One is made from putrid egg concentrate, garlic, pepper, and other essential ingredients. The other is supposed to be odor free. I have weed killer. I have rose fertilizer. I bought two bags and then got them home and read they treat 100 square feet. Make me laugh with your 100 square feet of coverage. I need a bag that covers 5,000 square feet. There's a thousand square feet of yellow roses just by the bocce court alone. I ordered 4 pounds of single feeding, strongest on the market mouse killer from Gemplers and a dozen of their high quality spring traps and three faux rock outdoor bait stations. I am preparing for a massive campaign of death to all rodents. There will be the smell of death in the air, make no mistake about that. I tried to make friends with them but that hasn't worked out so well. I am not a hunter or a murderer by nature but evidently circumstances arise in life where you have to play out roles that you did not foresee. I will survive it and remain primarily a pacifist. My apologies to the souls of a hundred dead rodents. Looks like the rain has stopped. Let me get out there to rosebush 82.
I ran across the property dodging raindrops. I was on rosebush 81 when the rain started. Pruning them way back in an attempt to correct the deformity of their growth caused by hungry deer. There are about 200 more around the bighouse but I won't have to prune all of them severely. I have two different kinds of deer repellant I will be trying this year. One is made from putrid egg concentrate, garlic, pepper, and other essential ingredients. The other is supposed to be odor free. I have weed killer. I have rose fertilizer. I bought two bags and then got them home and read they treat 100 square feet. Make me laugh with your 100 square feet of coverage. I need a bag that covers 5,000 square feet. There's a thousand square feet of yellow roses just by the bocce court alone. I ordered 4 pounds of single feeding, strongest on the market mouse killer from Gemplers and a dozen of their high quality spring traps and three faux rock outdoor bait stations. I am preparing for a massive campaign of death to all rodents. There will be the smell of death in the air, make no mistake about that. I tried to make friends with them but that hasn't worked out so well. I am not a hunter or a murderer by nature but evidently circumstances arise in life where you have to play out roles that you did not foresee. I will survive it and remain primarily a pacifist. My apologies to the souls of a hundred dead rodents. Looks like the rain has stopped. Let me get out there to rosebush 82.
Some Family History
A thing that most of us are ignorant of is that my grandmother gave birth to my mom and then a year later, in 1918, went off for a ten year stay to the State Hospital in Austin. It is my understanding that she died there. My grandfather we knew nothing about until two years ago, four of my mother's step-siblings showed up at her funeral. She had never met them in life. They were in their seventies and although I did not meet them at the funeral, my sister did, and kept up with them by email for awhile after that. Apparently grandfather had tried over the years to establish contact with the family but our mother, who I guess was confused and upset by a lifetime's worth of imagined abandonment, was resistant to his efforts. She was raised briefly by her grandmother on the farm east of Austin near Elgin, and then by an aunt and uncle in South Texas, near the King Ranch. In her lifetime all but the most convoluted and possibly twisted facts of her brief memory of her father were kept from us. I know nothing of the events that led to my grandmother's insanity or if the nature of her illness was actually severe or just something similar to that suffered by the many of my contemporaries who pop anti-depressants, but even allowing for the primitive state of psychology in 1920s Texas, ten years seems like a long time to be institutionalized for a minor illness. Grandpa remarried and had another family and they have lived all their lives in small college town south of Austin. One of my brothers went to college in that town over thirty years ago and by accident ran into my grandfather's new wife, who was working in the college cafeteria, and so I have known most of this story for that amount of time, but wasn't sure I believed it until it was confirmed two years ago. My brother had confronted my mom about the story back in those days but apparently she did not want to talk about it. Some people like to hold onto things, to the grave.
Grandpa parked his truck on the side of the road and got out to get his mail. The parking brake failed and he was run over and killed
I sent an email off to the State Hospital in Austin to inquire whether or not it was possible to access patient records from the 1920s. I received back a failure of delivery notice.
A thing that most of us are ignorant of is that my grandmother gave birth to my mom and then a year later, in 1918, went off for a ten year stay to the State Hospital in Austin. It is my understanding that she died there. My grandfather we knew nothing about until two years ago, four of my mother's step-siblings showed up at her funeral. She had never met them in life. They were in their seventies and although I did not meet them at the funeral, my sister did, and kept up with them by email for awhile after that. Apparently grandfather had tried over the years to establish contact with the family but our mother, who I guess was confused and upset by a lifetime's worth of imagined abandonment, was resistant to his efforts. She was raised briefly by her grandmother on the farm east of Austin near Elgin, and then by an aunt and uncle in South Texas, near the King Ranch. In her lifetime all but the most convoluted and possibly twisted facts of her brief memory of her father were kept from us. I know nothing of the events that led to my grandmother's insanity or if the nature of her illness was actually severe or just something similar to that suffered by the many of my contemporaries who pop anti-depressants, but even allowing for the primitive state of psychology in 1920s Texas, ten years seems like a long time to be institutionalized for a minor illness. Grandpa remarried and had another family and they have lived all their lives in small college town south of Austin. One of my brothers went to college in that town over thirty years ago and by accident ran into my grandfather's new wife, who was working in the college cafeteria, and so I have known most of this story for that amount of time, but wasn't sure I believed it until it was confirmed two years ago. My brother had confronted my mom about the story back in those days but apparently she did not want to talk about it. Some people like to hold onto things, to the grave.
Grandpa parked his truck on the side of the road and got out to get his mail. The parking brake failed and he was run over and killed
I sent an email off to the State Hospital in Austin to inquire whether or not it was possible to access patient records from the 1920s. I received back a failure of delivery notice.
For Me And You
As a person not so musically adept it oddly struck me that one of the string players was out of tune or out of sync and if that ubiquitous number played at so many weddings was discordant to my ears then what must it have sounded like to those know their music?
Then the guitar player plugged in and asked every one to stand and as it was so shortly after the preacher had just said we could sit down it felt almost like a revolution, one where musicians and preachers battle for supremacy. The guitar strummer instructed everyone to clap along and Bernadette clapped along. I wanted to tell her that being dragged along to these family weddings does not mean you have to clap when told to. Instead, I just waited out the song while occasionally looking at the big screen with the projected lyrics. It wasn't but a bit later that we were instructed to raise our right appendages in the fashion of a laying on of hands and I did this, so who am I to tell Bernadette not to be a hand clapping sheep? She is no sheep I can tell you that and I am sure she clapped only because she felt like it. I on the other hand raised my arm in the air because I felt that being a sheep in this case would be better than being a sacrificial lamb.
It was a nice wedding affair in any case, perhaps a little long seeming at times but then made up for later by a quickening of pace.
At the dinner afterwards my oldest brother led a few devout Texans in the singing of the Eyes of Texas, which is the University fight song and although I won't fact check this, may also be the state song. The wedding was in Virginia.
Who knew that three quarters of the remaining attendees were Canadians? When they got their chance they sang the Canadian National Anthem, which is quite lovely, and again there was the feeling of revolution in the air. A not so old white haired gentleman weaved between the tables waving a small Canadian flag.
Then came a bunch of heartfelt testimonials from friends and relatives of the bride and groom and while I wasn't altogether bored to tears I got within a hair's breadth of it. If there had been alcohol served I would have let my tears flow and when asked if I was all right I would have confessed to one of my new best friends, my new Canadian drinking buddy, that yes I was all right, I'm just allergic to Canadians. We would have gotten a hearty guffaw out of that one and he would have come back--Steers and Queers, nowhere but Texas, which frankly I don't think is very funny.
By all reports, God was in the room and so I should have thanked Him in person for the 9-year-old sister of the bride singing the Sinatra classic, L-O-V-E, which goes like this:
L is for the way you look at me
O is for the only one I see
V is very, very extraordinary
E is even more than anyone that you adore can
Love is all that I can give to you
Love is more than just a game for two
Two in love can make it
Take my heart and please don't break it
Love was made for me and you
L is for the way you look at me
O is for the only one I see
V is very, very extraordinary
E is even more than anyone that you adore can
Love is all that I can give to you
Love is more than just a game for two
Two in love can make it
Take my heart and please don't break it
Love was made for me and you
Love was made for me and you
Love was made for me and you
There is nothing like a clear-voiced and confident 9-year-old girl singing Sinatra to restore your faith in all that is right in the world. She narrowly beat out the Canadians for song of the day and was at last counting in a too close to call tie with the chocolate cream filled cupcakes as things that made the trip worthwhile. The Honorable Mentions go to my few family members in attendance. It's good to be together once in awhile.
As a person not so musically adept it oddly struck me that one of the string players was out of tune or out of sync and if that ubiquitous number played at so many weddings was discordant to my ears then what must it have sounded like to those know their music?
Then the guitar player plugged in and asked every one to stand and as it was so shortly after the preacher had just said we could sit down it felt almost like a revolution, one where musicians and preachers battle for supremacy. The guitar strummer instructed everyone to clap along and Bernadette clapped along. I wanted to tell her that being dragged along to these family weddings does not mean you have to clap when told to. Instead, I just waited out the song while occasionally looking at the big screen with the projected lyrics. It wasn't but a bit later that we were instructed to raise our right appendages in the fashion of a laying on of hands and I did this, so who am I to tell Bernadette not to be a hand clapping sheep? She is no sheep I can tell you that and I am sure she clapped only because she felt like it. I on the other hand raised my arm in the air because I felt that being a sheep in this case would be better than being a sacrificial lamb.
It was a nice wedding affair in any case, perhaps a little long seeming at times but then made up for later by a quickening of pace.
At the dinner afterwards my oldest brother led a few devout Texans in the singing of the Eyes of Texas, which is the University fight song and although I won't fact check this, may also be the state song. The wedding was in Virginia.
Who knew that three quarters of the remaining attendees were Canadians? When they got their chance they sang the Canadian National Anthem, which is quite lovely, and again there was the feeling of revolution in the air. A not so old white haired gentleman weaved between the tables waving a small Canadian flag.
Then came a bunch of heartfelt testimonials from friends and relatives of the bride and groom and while I wasn't altogether bored to tears I got within a hair's breadth of it. If there had been alcohol served I would have let my tears flow and when asked if I was all right I would have confessed to one of my new best friends, my new Canadian drinking buddy, that yes I was all right, I'm just allergic to Canadians. We would have gotten a hearty guffaw out of that one and he would have come back--Steers and Queers, nowhere but Texas, which frankly I don't think is very funny.
By all reports, God was in the room and so I should have thanked Him in person for the 9-year-old sister of the bride singing the Sinatra classic, L-O-V-E, which goes like this:
L is for the way you look at me
O is for the only one I see
V is very, very extraordinary
E is even more than anyone that you adore can
Love is all that I can give to you
Love is more than just a game for two
Two in love can make it
Take my heart and please don't break it
Love was made for me and you
L is for the way you look at me
O is for the only one I see
V is very, very extraordinary
E is even more than anyone that you adore can
Love is all that I can give to you
Love is more than just a game for two
Two in love can make it
Take my heart and please don't break it
Love was made for me and you
Love was made for me and you
Love was made for me and you
There is nothing like a clear-voiced and confident 9-year-old girl singing Sinatra to restore your faith in all that is right in the world. She narrowly beat out the Canadians for song of the day and was at last counting in a too close to call tie with the chocolate cream filled cupcakes as things that made the trip worthwhile. The Honorable Mentions go to my few family members in attendance. It's good to be together once in awhile.
Breakfast On Houston
The woman at the next table said she didn't like it when it rains. She was into sunny days. Bernadette forgot her reading glasses and so did I. Instead of walking up five flights to retrieve them she had gone into the basement and picked up some spares. Mine weren't strong enough. I could read the menu ok but not the newspaper. Bernadette read with reckless abandon. I picked up various sections and read all the headlines. In short, the world is in trouble but there is March Madness to look forward to.
I also like sunny days.. I wasn't about to disagree with the woman. The woman's friend had opinions but spoke them quietly and seemed to accept her role as spring board for the thoughts of others.
I ordered The Lumberjack--two eggs, pancakes, bacon, ham, and sausage. Bernadette had two over easy and some kind of grain which I've seen her order before but am not myself knowledgeable about.
The thing is, the woman explained, I don't like phony people. Her friend didn't either. I had to glance over there for the first time to see if maybe she was a Playboy bunny but by all appearances, she wasn't.
I read a headline that made no sense to me but was unable to ferret out any meaning from the microscopic print below. I moved on to an advertisement that promised to make my penis erect for up to four hours. I'll be completely honest with you, I'm not sure I would know what to do with four hours of erect penis. I looked at the fat link sausage on my plate and knew I would not be able to eat it. Give me an Elgin hot gut any day but keep the rest for yourself. I started thinking about a companion manual to erection drugs, an activity guide for people like myself who may be flummoxed by the idea of how to make best use of a four hour blood engorged penis.
Bernadette read something funny and laughed. I did not ask what it was because I was afraid it would lose something in translation. The woman who wasn't a Playboy bunny had moved on to politics and she felt that politicians should be more honest. I had a muscle spasm and nodded.
A couple came in and sat down in the booth behind us. The man seemed eager to please and the woman acquiesced to his eagerness.
I haven't really decided which of the college basketball teams I will be rooting for because I can't read the fine print.
The woman at the next table said she didn't like it when it rains. She was into sunny days. Bernadette forgot her reading glasses and so did I. Instead of walking up five flights to retrieve them she had gone into the basement and picked up some spares. Mine weren't strong enough. I could read the menu ok but not the newspaper. Bernadette read with reckless abandon. I picked up various sections and read all the headlines. In short, the world is in trouble but there is March Madness to look forward to.
I also like sunny days.. I wasn't about to disagree with the woman. The woman's friend had opinions but spoke them quietly and seemed to accept her role as spring board for the thoughts of others.
I ordered The Lumberjack--two eggs, pancakes, bacon, ham, and sausage. Bernadette had two over easy and some kind of grain which I've seen her order before but am not myself knowledgeable about.
The thing is, the woman explained, I don't like phony people. Her friend didn't either. I had to glance over there for the first time to see if maybe she was a Playboy bunny but by all appearances, she wasn't.
I read a headline that made no sense to me but was unable to ferret out any meaning from the microscopic print below. I moved on to an advertisement that promised to make my penis erect for up to four hours. I'll be completely honest with you, I'm not sure I would know what to do with four hours of erect penis. I looked at the fat link sausage on my plate and knew I would not be able to eat it. Give me an Elgin hot gut any day but keep the rest for yourself. I started thinking about a companion manual to erection drugs, an activity guide for people like myself who may be flummoxed by the idea of how to make best use of a four hour blood engorged penis.
Bernadette read something funny and laughed. I did not ask what it was because I was afraid it would lose something in translation. The woman who wasn't a Playboy bunny had moved on to politics and she felt that politicians should be more honest. I had a muscle spasm and nodded.
A couple came in and sat down in the booth behind us. The man seemed eager to please and the woman acquiesced to his eagerness.
I haven't really decided which of the college basketball teams I will be rooting for because I can't read the fine print.
