My kids love books, just like me. They passed the time during yesterday’s inclement weather by reading, and finished their respective books at almost the same time: my son’s being The Outsiders, by S.E. Hinton, and my daughter’s being one of the Warrior Cats books (I can’t remember which one). My son suggested that, since they still couldn’t go outside, they should swap books and continue reading. My daughter read the blurb on the back of the book and said:

“Nope. No way. This book is totally unbelievable.”

Son: “What are you talking about? The author based it on stuff that happened to people she knew!”

Daughter: “No one would ever name their kid Ponyboy.”

That’s right. She has been simply devouring a series of books that revolve around wild cats who fight each other–and apparently humanity–to save their forest home, but can’t suspend her belief enough to accept a human protagonist named Ponyboy.

Thank you Halbert.

It seems like just yesterday when my beautiful cat, Hazel, was an innocent kitten; chewing on my toes, shredding the toilet paper, dreaming of bird snacks. But I blinked and–suddenly–she was eight months old. And you know what that means.

The damned cat is in heat.

I’m typically allergic to cats (I don’t question why that’s not the case with Hazel…I just accept and move on), so I’ve never had to witness this phenomenon before. It’s a rather disgusting spectacle. It’s like watching Spock going through Pon Farr, but with much less dignity. If I wasn’t such a strong proponent of controlling the animal population I’d just let her outside so she could get it on with our neighbor’s cat and end her longing. He’s a big, handsome, orange Tabby–all the neighborhood cats think he’s totally hot–and the resulting kittens would probably be too cute for words.

But no. Instead I called the vet. Bob Barker would be proud.

I met a man at the store tonight from South Georgia. He’s 75 years old and this is first time he’s been North of Tennessee. He decided to spend the winter up here in Maine, smack dab in the middle of the first real winter we’ve had in years. I had to ask him why.

“Because,” he said, “last fall I realized that I was about to turn seventy-five and I’d never tasted snow before.”

He is my new hero.

I’m reading Code of the Woosters again. P.G. Wodehouse was a genius. If you haven’t read any of his stuff, then get started on it. Right now.

Scientists recently grew a rat heart in a jar. It started beating and everything. There are so many one-liners bouncing around in my brain about this that I don’t know where to begin. Please feel free to leave yours in the comments section. I’d really appreciate it.

People need to stop using the term “baby mama.”

That goes double for “bling.”

“Many of the truths we cling to depend greatly on our own point of view.”

This made me laugh. And so I share it with you.

A smile is a powerful weapon. You can even break ice with it. Unless you can’t. Smile, that is. Then, breaking ice–and life–is hard.

http://www.myspace.com/1darwinwasright1
http://www.myspace.com/honor_student

That’s right. I said, “Valentine’s Day.” Even though it’s only the beginning of January.

Have I ever mentioned how very much I hate that holiday? It is, to quote Joel Barish in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, “a holiday invented by greeting card companies to make people feel like crap.” The latter part doesn’t really apply to me, since I’m happily married. It’s the fact that Hallmark, FTD, and Russell Stover all want to dictate when men give the woman in their lives a little bit of attention. Even worse are those idiotic jewelry commercials that make men feel like shit if they don’t fork over a year’s salary for a gaudy, disgusting diamond covered monstrosity.

Here’s my idea of a romantic gift. A few days ago I used up the last of my Cascade dishwashing liquid. The next night my hubby came home with a brand new jug of it. Why is that romantic?

1.) I didn’t ask him for it. I didn’t even tell him we’d run out. The jug made that funky farting noise that happens when there’s more air left inside than soap. He heard it, knew what it meant, remembered it, and bought me a new one.

2.) He got the right scent. (Melon…I love the way it makes my kitchen smell.)

3.) Did I mention that I didn’t have to ask him to pick me up a jug of dishwashing liquid?

I’ll take a jug of Cascade over a card with a corny poem my husband didn’t write, a dozen roses that’ll make me sneeze, a box of chocolates that’ll go right to my ass, and a diamond that some abused little kid dug out of a mine any day. Even Valentine’s Day.

Got a digital camera? Then you can do a 365 Blog.

The basic idea is you start a blog (or a new blog, if you’ve already got one) and every day you post a single picture on it related to whatever is happening in your life at present – something you saw, did, thought, read, people you know, people you don’t know who interested you anyway, your first cup of coffee of the day, a place you went, a gift you bought … etc etc. Just one pic a day with a caption (or short few words). It’s basically a year in pictures.

It’s also about keeping a camera with you wherever you go, and learning to capture the moment – making memories, living in the present, appreciating what is good around you, becoming aware of the not-so-good and thinking about it, about how you can make a difference maybe, learning to look at life through the camera’s eye … that kind of thing.

At the end of the 365 days (or 366 days for 2008, since it’s a leap year), you get to look back over your year and see what you did, how you spent your time, and what you thought was worth remembering.

Here’s mine:

View From The Cheap Seats

My daughter wrote an acrostic poem for school this week. Here it is:

Vroom!
Engine with lots of
Horsepower on the
Icy roads. Oh no!
Collision with a
Lamborghini!
Eeeeek!!

She’s obviously destined for greatness.

It happened at last: we had an honest-to-goodness winter storm up here in Maine. And it was real snow, light and powdery; the kind that wasn’t mixed with rain, freezing rain, sleet, or ice.

Here’s a picture of a female cardinal* red bird of indeterminate origin** Purple Finch out in our bird feeder. No doubt she’s dreaming of summer.

And here’s a picture of my cat, Hazel. No doubt she’s dreaming of eating the female cardinal* red bird of indeterminate origin** Purple Finch who is dreaming of summer.

* It’s been brought to my attention that this bird is not a cardinal. Thanks Mav!!!

** The bird has been identified as a Purple Finch. “Not as common as they once were and nowhere as common as the Cardinal. Actually a nice find these days. Carpodacus purpureus is the specie.” Thanks Tom!