If a picture is worth a thousand words...

The last few weeks have found me trying (that's the operative word here, trying) to clean up and organize my kitchen. I've made some progress. But as we all know, spending hours on end trying to decide where to put stuff is exhausting. So I rounded up a couple of old cardboard boxes and labeled them for all the unplaceable, non-yard-saleable miscellaneous junk.

Because I don't know what the fuck to do with the stuff going in this box.

Naturally, almost as soon as I'd taped on the label, I had curious kitties.

Thank you, 'Nesto. The box fits you well.

But Ernest soon had enough of WTF, and leaped out. Who should follow but...

...Martha Ann (aka Squirrel), who was already pretty pissed off that I wouldn't let her outside. I'm not sure what Ernest was doing sniffing her.

Squirrel has a permanent look of utter disappointment on her face. Doesn't matter what you do, Squirrel's always disappointed with the results...and with you.

Here, though, I see disappointment and cluelessness. She stayed in the box for about 15 minutes.

Mama will have to kill.

Yesterday morning, I got up early to make a mad dash for Division II University, as all faculty travel applications for the summer were due, ummm, like, Tuesday. I rolled out of bed at 7:00 to show up at Dr. Pepper's* office with app in hand as soon as she arrived. Since my travel funds had already been awarded, I was hoping against hope that she and the dean would approve my application. (Profs who travel on university business always need to file applications—in case of an accident, they're covered by insurance/workman's comp.) As I ran out the kitchen door in an outfit only slightly better than my raggedy chenille bathrobe and mowing-the-lawn shoes, I smelled a distinctly non-culinary odor.

Cat poop.

In the kitchen.

"All right, who took a shit in my kitchen floor?!" I yelled at the assembled kittehs. Clark and Ernest looked entirely too innocent. I knew it wasn't Graya, the matriarch of the Happy Kitten Cottage family; she's too dignified to crap outside the litter box. Rumpled little Joy cowered in fear; all she had wanted was a bite of breakfast.

Nobody meowed a word.

But I had my suspicions about the phantom shitter's identity. After all, I'd caught Davy peeing on the carpet three times in the last week, and had just about had it with him. It wasn't as if the boxes weren't clean—I'd cleaned them out the day before. These were small puddles of urine, sort of a marker as to where his territory began and ended. All three were within 36 inches of where Fred sleeps. Mm-hmm.

I made a very quick search of the kitchen perimeter to check for poop; I found nothing. I looked on the table and counters, in the windowsill; nothing again. Another two careful searches of the kitchen came up empty, too. I concluded that someone must have pooped in the floor in front of a litter box, several rooms away. The HKC was built around 1915 and is undergoing serious renovations, so air currents (especially along the floor) flow in weird directions. The smell must have simply wafted in here.

"Damn cats. I'll clean it up when I get back," I muttered as I ran out the door.

A couple hours later, I arrived home and expected the kitchen's cat shit odor to have at least died down a little. Wrong. It was still there, maybe a little less pungent, but still right there in the kitchen. I went and cleaned out the litter boxes yet again just to be sure it wasn't my fault. Kitchen still smelled poopy.

I could've looked for it all day, but I had other things to do. The Colonel would be arriving around 1:00 to take me out to lunch, so I had to shower and dress and make the house somewhat presentable. Oh, and maybe I'd actually find and clean up the shit source before he arrived.

The Colonel was only a few minutes late; I hadn't had any more luck. (It didn't help that I forgot what I was trying to get accomplished six times in one hour. That's depression for ya.) He's been to my house hundreds of times over the years, but I really hated for him to be punched in the nose by my cats' asses as he walked in the door. He opened the kitchen door, and I hugged him as he stepped inside.

"I will have you to know," I began, "that nobody has beshat this kitchen, no matter what your nose tells you."

"Eeeuwww," he said, wrinkling his nose. The odor was awful; I sighed and hung my head. Who would eat anything that comes out of a poopy kitchen? Seriously. "Let's get outta here, I'm hungry."

"It's not in here," I sighed. "I looked all over this damn kitchen; I think it's just the weird drafts coming in from where the cat boxes are, and someone just took a big crap and didn't cover it up." I got distracted again. "Aaaargh! Where IS it?!?" I started looking high and low again around the kitchen. None on the cooktop, or the island...

The Colonel opened the kitchen door and stepped onto the patio. "Look—I don’t mind looking for cat shit after lunch, but before? NO. C’mon, let’s go.”

We went to lunch, had a great meal, and returned to the HKC. And the smell was stronger than ever in the kitchen. I was embarrassed yet again. Sure, I keep a messy house, but this was outrageous for even me. I got back to looking for the poop while the Colonel brought a few things indoors from his car. I kept sniffing around one area where the smell was really strong—the corner of the kitchen where the fridge and the east-wall cabinets come together. This space is just about unuseable because the fridge is only 20 inches from the edge of the counter; I've had cats poop over here before. Even though this time I saw no poop, I smelled it very, very strongly.

But wait. I was leaving out one more place where the kitties often hide out: the tops of the upper cabinets. I grabbed a tall chair and stepped into the seat.

There it was atop the fridge, stinking from here clear to Birmingham. Two huge piles. "Mama will have to kill," I muttered, and looked directly at Davy, who sat in the floor cross-eyed and clueless.

The Colonel walked back into the room a minute later and must have seen the look on my face. "Did you find it?" I pointed behind me and up. "On the fridge?"

"On top of the fridge," I replied. "Just make yourself comfortable; I'll have this cleaned up in a few minutes." He stood there as I put on my elbow-length orange rubber gloves and grabbed paper towels and a container of disinfectant wipes. "Really, I'll be done in just a few minutes."

He looked around my tornadoesque kitchen. "Got an old paper, something you can stand to throw away? Ah, here's one." He grabbed last quarter's Tiny Technical College bulletin off the table and stepped to the refrigerator. "Here we go."

"No, no, really, I can get it. Don't worry." I was kind of embarrassed; no, really embarrassed. The Colonel and I had planned to spend a fun afternoon together, but now we were dealing with cat turds in a place where cat turds should never, ever be. And they were turds from my animals, not his.

But he got right up next to the fridge and looked on top. (He's 6'3", so it wasn't difficult.) He carefully scooped up the poop with the old bulletin. "Got a trash bag?" I grabbed an old plastic Wal-Mart bag, and he dumped poop, catalog and all inside. "Hand me a wipe." I opened the container and pulled off a couple.

"Really, honey, I can get this. You don't have to—"

"Hey, don't worry. Not a big deal." He reached for another wipe, scrubbed, and tossed it in the old Wal-Mart bag with the crap-covered bulletin. "There, I think that's got it." I sprayed air freshener all around the room. "Much better. That's an immediate difference."

My face grew warm as I took off my rubber gloves and put away the wipes. "That must be love right there," I said, "helping clean catshit off the fridge—real love."

The Colonel just smiled. "Ungrateful varmints. So this is how they repay you for food, shelter, and unconditional love. Hmph! Well!" He glared at Davy's large ass, which was once again sidled up to the HKC Cruise Lines 24-Hour Kitty Buffet.

I called Mom later that evening to recreate the day's shitty events. She'd been having problems with Jack, Davy's brother, who'd taken to peeing in random places: the dining-room table, the woodstove, the power strip behind the TV. He didn't seem to have any medical reason to pee, so Mom had been keeping Jack outside during the day. She figured maybe he could stand to work off some excess energy, and maybe he'd be too tired to piss when he came back indoors at dusk. Her experiment was actually working, now on its third day.

"Who do you think it is?" Mom asked.

"Shithook." (That's Davy's nickname.) "Or Fred. But my guess is Shithook. He's just so bad-tempered and hates all the other cats, and he and Fred have been fighting something awful."

"Time for pitch-throw-toss?"

"Yeah," I sighed. "I hate it, but this kitteh's going outside for a day or two. Maybe he'll tangle with Elvis, get his ass kicked. You know, an attitude adjustment." I thought for a minute. "I really hate the thought of him staying outside during the day, but the pissing and shitting have got to stop. The house is smelly enough as it is."

And now?




This might not turn out so ignorantly after all. We shall see.

The scent of early summer

Okay, okay. So summer doesn't officially begin until June 21.

But this gorgeous blossom is one of hundreds on the many ancient gardenia shrubs at Division II University. The smell around the English Building and Bosley Hall? Ahhh, heavenly. (It usually smells like cigarette smoke and three-day-old smoothies.)

I'll know more tomorrow. Or next week.

Today's post is an update on my post from last week.

I paid a visit to my doctor yesterday and described my physical symptoms as well as what's been going on in my emotional life. Dr. D is very concerned about the fatigue, weight loss, and possible side effects of the antidepressant I'm taking; we discussed my switching to a different kind. (I've lost 12.5 pounds in the last three months.) And I gave her my three-month update on my depression, which seems to be at its worst (but hopefully bottoming out soon). "If it's not in fact your depression taking a physical way out," she said, "it might be one of several different things." Among them could be:

--mononucleosis
--thyroid problems
--chronic fatigue syndrome
--anemia
--serious B-vitamin deficiency

Those are the ones I can remember, anyway.

So I gave the nurse five vials of blood and managed not to vomit while she took the samples. The test results should be in by the middle of next week.

In a way, I hope it's the depression. That way, I know what I need to do to get better. I'd know it was mostly emotional, and that I'd need to keep working on myself and going to therapy like I've been doing. And in another way, I'd be relieved to find out what God-forsaken medical problem is causing this killer fatigue.

Well, okay, except for the CFS or mono diagnoses. CFS patients may never get well; mono involves months of weakness. My sister had it in high school and was wiped out for a couple of months. If I have mono, should I be hanging around college students? (Summer classes begin on June 9.) I assume I'm an Epstein-Barr carrier since I was in very close proximity to Pixie while she was sick. Even diabetes, that most Southern of medical conditions, would be a relief. I'm related to enough diabetics to know what to do...and what not to do.

Oh, who the hell knows. Seven out of the last 15 days I've had the all-encompassing tiredness. I'm not sure whether I should make the Nashville research trip next week—I would hate to get up there and then have a bad day or two and not be able to go anywhere. Today, I feel all right, about a 7 out of 10; tomorrow may be a 2. I can never tell.

Thanks again for listening. I feel better having posted and gotten my thoughts into the open.

Myrtle Mae Monday: 05/26/08

Okay. I'm actually posting this on the evening of Tuesday, May 27, so I'm behind by a few days. Please stand by.

I was slack last week while my sister was here, and while trying to shake this depressive whatever-it-is weighing me down. Sadly, I gave you no MMM. But here's a great pic of her looking pissed off—or is it clueless, I never can tell—on the back porch. I'll explain the story soon.

On today's menu...

Mom, Steve, and I skipped the grilling out this weekend, as the heat index here in Small Town was 94 degrees today. (We'd already used up all our Stupid while mowing grass the past two days, first at my house and then at theirs.) Instead, we hit our favorite local BBQ joint, where the manager and owner call us by our names every time we walk in the door. It's kind of like a redneck Cheers, except with hickory smoke and sweet tea, and the only time anyone mentions Boston is in reference to baked beans or a cut of pork shoulder.

So I opened the menu to see which Satan's Off-the-Charts Cholesterol-Raising Iniquity Platter I would order today...

At the bottom of the middle page: AN IMPORTANT REMINDER: Now is the best time for your breast self-exam.

Right here? In the middle of the restaurant? With blue-haired old ladies and children in the room?!? Okay, maybe not.

It was a thoughtful reminder—but at the bottom of a BBQ menu? "Could be worse," Mom said. "At least it's not some 'you're gonna burn in hell!' bible-tract sticker." El Seebeno and I agreed.

I got the buttermilk fried chicken fingers and worried no more—hell, I did my BSE two weeks ago.

While Shopping with Mom: Part 2

Provided Mom keeps on making me laugh when we go to fabric/crafts stores together, this could become a regular feature.

Yesterday afternoon, I had to make a trip to Division II University to get a book out of my office and to pick up a special-order book at the library. But with gas at $3.99 per gallon, I wanted to have something else to do while in D2U City. It would be a shame to make the 40-mile trip just for two books, and maybe toodling around town would make me feel a little better. So I asked Mom if she wanted to ride with me. There had to be something in D2U City that she wanted/needed to do.

But she hesitated when I called. "Hmmm...no, can't think of anywhere I need to go in D2U City."

"C'mon. I can't go down there just for two dinky little books. Maybe you can ride along and I'll take you to the Thai restaurant again."

"Mmmm. No craving for Thai food," Mom said.

"Are you sure? Sure there's nowhere we need to go? The fabric store, or Michaels, or—"

She thought hard. "Well...we do need to go to Hobby Lobby, haven't been there in a while. And the mall. And one time, one time, we had pancakes, and a tornado sat on our house..."

We finish every sentence with "one time, one time" (the little-kid-telling-a-story thing) when A) we're losing our train of thought, or B) when we're trying to come up with a good reason to do something when one doesn't really exist.

"YAYZ! Good enough for me," I replied.

So Mom made the trip to D2U City with me. And once I had my two books, we drove over to Hobby Lobby, which along with Michaels should be illegal. And we spent over an hour perusing all the wonderful stuff.

I'm supposed to be learning to sew this summer—and in this department, Orchidophile is handing my ass to me on a silver platter—but until I have the time and energy to sit at a sewing machine and take it step by fucked-up step, I'm learning embroidery and counted cross-stitch (projects soon to follow here on E&P).

Mom found a cross-stitch baby quilt kit (nobody around here's pregnant, but you never know). I found a beginner-level embroidered pillowcase kit. Then we went all around the store looking at things we can only wish we could afford to do. Like handmade glass beads. And sterling silver jewelry. And cake decorating. [sigh]

Walking through the home decor section...



ME: Hmm. The usual.
MOM: [reading] "Faith, Hope, Love." Why doesn't anything else get any airtime?
ME: Airtime?
MOM: Yeah. Why doesn't anything else get mentioned, instead of all this junk? [motions toward display]
ME: Whaaa...?
MOM: How about "Despair, Oblivion, Hatred?"
ME: [snorts with laughter]

A few minutes later, while perusing all 4,972 of Hobby Lobby's rubber stamps...

ME: Look at all these stamps.
MOM: [points at a shelf of stamps] Look at this. It's the same shit again!
ME: What?
MOM: [picks up stamp, reads] "Dream." How about "Give Up?"
ME: [doubles over laughing]

At long last, we made it to the checkout. As any good arts-and-crafts store should do, Hobby Lobby has lots of interesting magazines in racks near the checkout. On the cover of American Patchwork & Quilting was a gorgeous 1930s-look quilt made from large hexagons and small triangles and squares—a greatly-enlarged Grandmother's Flower Garden. I fell in love with it on sight.

Before we go any further, you must know about Mom's quilting past. Even though she's been sewing since she was in elementary school, Mom came to quilting in her early 20s, after she'd moved down South and married my dad. Her new mother-in-law had pieced some quilt tops but had neither the time nor patience to quilt them; there were dozens of projects she had cut out but never put together. She needed help, and asked Mom to pitch in. And Maw-Maw was also secretly hoping that this quilting thing would run off her new "Yankee daughter-in-law." (It didn't. Heh-heh-heh.) Now Mom is known in the family and our little community as an expert seamstress and quilter. She's stitched up many masterpieces for weddings, baby showers, going-away gifts, retirement presents, and special ones for paying customers.

But there are a few patterns she has vowed never, ever to quilt again. Grandmother's Flower Garden is one of them—the intricate pieceing and appliques will make a quilter crazy in no time. As they did Mom when she finished said quilt for my grandmother in the mid-1970s.

So I pointed to the cover photo of the huge, easier-looking Value-Size Grandmother's Flower Garden...

ME: [points] Oh, Mom, loooook!
MOM: What?
ME: It's a bigger, easier Grandmother's Flower Garden!
MOM: Whatever.
ME: Isn't it gorgeous with all these '30s-looking fabrics?
MOM: If you say so.
ME: C'mon. You cannot stand there and tell me this isn't pretty.
MOM: Hmph.
ME: Seriously. This would be soooo much easier than the traditional Grandmother's Flower Garden. It'd still be pretty, but wouldn't drive you nuts.
MOM: Look. Have you ever tried to piece hexagons?
ME: No...
MOM: Well for God's sake, don't start now.
ME: [feeling mischievous] Awwww, Mom. You know you want to do another Grandmother's Flower Garden. To relieve doing it for Maw-Maw.
MOM: Are you smokin' that shit again?
ME: Okay, okay. What if I do a traditional Grandmother's Flower Garden?
MOM: [gives me The Look]
ME: You'd come help me, right?
MOM: Hell, no.
ME: No?!?
MOM: No. I would drive to your house just to laugh at you.
ME: [now really laughing] But Mooom—
MOM: I would come to your house and sit there with a cold drink in my hand and laugh. "Nyah-nyah-nyah-NYAH-nyah! Nyah-nyah-nyah-NYAH-nyah!"
ME: [still laughing hard]
MOM: I oughtta make you a stamp: "Give Up!" and thunk! right on your forehead.
ME: [now drooling with laughter; can't even speak]

I'll have more energy tomorrow.

That's what I tell myself, because, after all, tomorrow is another day. But most days, I'm flat-out wrong.

I get up around 9:30 every morning and do a few things around the house: answer e-mail, feed cats, wash a load of dishes or laundry. I try to eat a little something, maybe a bowl of cereal or a peanut-butter sandwich with my coffee, but it's tough to make myself eat when I am sooo not hungry. And I'm one of those people who simply cannot eat when not actively hungry; any extra food down the hatch, and I'll barf it right up. It's true—ask my mom about the once-upon-a-time incident with the pureed peas.

Around 1:30, it hits. A tsunami of tiredness sweeps over me, and suddenly it's all I can do to hold my head up, or walk, or talk. There are still a couple things on my "To Do" list, and I've got to get them done, but I have to sit down and rest every five or ten minutes. The tiredness makes me sigh out loud, sometimes painfully—you know the little noises you make when you've been awake for almost 24 hours, running like crazy, lots of physical and mental stress, and you're finally crawling up the stairs to your home? That's it.

It hit while I was having lunch with Mom yesterday; in the middle of our meal, I had to rest my head on the table before I could take another bite. I managed to eat two-thirds of my lunch before I could eat no more—and that was a shame, because Mom had brought some awesome chicken salad for our sandwiches. Last Tuesday, I was in Wal-Mart trying on some cheap dress sandals—and it took me nearly 20 minutes to take off my shoes, get the sandals out of the box, put them on my feet, walk around, and then put the sandals back in the box. I had to sit down right in the middle of the shoe aisle. When I got my cart and headed for the food aisles, I often had to rest my head on the cart handle. And it was all I could do to drive home.

Most of the time, I hurt all over as if someone's beaten me with a ball bat...only to have the pain disappear and reappear in another place a few minutes later.

I can't often remember where I set my glasses, my notepad, that book I was reading (or its title), my diet soda/glass of juice/water bottle. I can't remember what I told which student, or when. I forget where I'm going on the road, or why I'm in [x] part of town. I forget what gear the truck's in, what I planned to do this afternoon, what I was going to do just three minutes ago that was sooo important. I have NO idea, and just stand there, completely lost and embarrassed.

While I've never been a high-energy person, this is very much unlike me. It's scary.

For those of you wondering about physical health issues: my doctor's very concerned about this, and has had me coming in for regular bloodwork just to be sure there's nothing funny going on (like thyroid problems, anemia, etc.). Our guess—as well as that of my therapist—is that this is serious depression. Maybe I'm bottoming out now and can only get better from here. I have two syllabi to finish and a research trip to make before June 9, so I hope to hell my energy level improves before then.

So that's why I've been so flaky about posting lately. I have plenty of good ideas in my "Blog Posts in Progress" folder, but have very little energy to get them done. The fact that you folks enjoy reading them keeps me thinking about ways to make them good posts.

Thank you all for your longtime readership and support, and for letting me talk your ears off about all this. E&P readers are the best.

KittehWatch: Day 47

Has it really been 47 days since Stripe's bebehs were born? Time sure does fly when you're playing with kittens.

As I mentioned in yesterday's post, my sister loves coming to visit the Happy Kitten Cottage because of the multitude of kitties, both indoors and out. And she certainly wasn't disappointed this time: she awoke to find Clark, Ernest, Joy, Martha Ann, and Hobo Kitty all on the bed her first morning here.

And, naturally, Pixie couldn't wait to see Stripe and the kittehs in purr-son. She's seen so much of them here on E&P, after all.

Stripe met us as we entered the little house. She's bored out of her little cat skull and really wants to get outside. And she also might be going back into heat—and we will have none of this pregnant-kitty stuff again. Thank you, please drive around. So it was the old foot-in-the-face routine as we walked in the door. (No kittehs were harmed. The foot stays in the air, touching nobody, but keeps cats from sprinting out the door.)

I fed the kittehs while Pixie squealed with delight: "Ooooh! BEYBIES!" I told her not to worry, as I too get all cutesy-squealy when I go out to feed.

"Pick up a bebeh," I said. "They're fweet as pie."

So Pixie scooped up Tiger Lily, who was already raising hell.

Sho squirmy! Squirmy hell-raising kitteh!

"Ooh! How about a kitteh bouquet?" I asked. And Pixie obliged me:

"Hurry! HURRY! I can't control dis squirmy bouquet!"

A few minutes later, Little Black No-Longer-Gooey-Eyed Kitteh—now known as Orson—started a rousing match of Stick Your Paws under the Door.

Pixie helped him try to get other kittens interested. They had to try for a couple minutes, as there was a three-way no-holds-barred Texas Tornado kitty wrestling match going on behind the door.

But—Aunt Pixie! Whose paws are those?

Ding-ding-ding!

Ooooon the back side of the door: the deadliest undefeated tag team in wrestling, Tiger Lily aaaaaaaand YODA!

And on the front side of the door: El Blotito Orson, with his manager Mile High Pixie!

Ding-ding-ding-ding-ding! Let's get ready to rummmbllllle!!!

[begin "Strike It Up" by Black Box]

Stripe was supposed to be referreeing. She took a bath instead.

A few minutes later, I went back into the house to clean and refill the kitties' water bowl. When I walked back out to the little shed, I heard loud, obnoxious meowing. I mean, really loud. But I couldn't figure out who it was, or where that cat was.

Until I looked up.

Moo had somehow climbed on top of the shed.

Help, Mom! HELP!

I started wondering where my ladder was. This would be a Kitteh Rescue Day for sure. Oh, boy.

But the longer I watched Moo, and the more pissed off she got, the harder I laughed. And I remembered that she has this bad habit of climbing big oak trees and yowling from them—until she figures out that she can get down the same way she got up. And then she takes a bath, as if to say, "I meant to do that."

So I went back into the little shed with fresh water. "You'll never believe what's on the roof," I told Pixie. We stepped outside...

...to find Moo now sitting on the little portico over the shed door.

"Do you have a ladder?" Pixie asked.

"Yeah. It's in the house somewhere."

"Shouldn't we go get it?"

"Naaah. She does this all the time. Give her 15 minutes; she'll figure it out."

Moo leaped off the shed roof three minutes later, yowling for food as if she's just come back from an expedition to Mt. Everest. She ran to the back patio and wolfed down the semi-stale cat food in the bowl there. "Ohh, now you're eating!" Pixie said. "Hoggy kitteh!"

More KittehWatch soon—I took 289 pictures during Pixie's visit!

I am still alive.

As I type, it's threatening rain outside; finally, the 30 cents' worth of rain we were promised today seems to be arriving at last in Small Town. God knows we need it.

I took my sister back to the airport this afternoon, and was/am depressed about it. We had a lot of fun; Pixie is my best friend ever. And of course I took a shit-ton of pictures; I've just now uploaded them to the computer. So there will be some fun stuff here on E&P over the next few days: a new installment of KittehWatch, teaching stuff, beautiful plants, supermarket shenanigans, the fabulousness of licorice allsorts, our cookout with Mom & Steve...the list goes on.

Pixie only has two kittehs, as you'll remember: Maddy and Hazel. So when she comes to visit the Happy Kitten Cottage, she's ecstatic at having so many cats to see, pet, and snuggle. (I almost typed pee, set, and snuggle.) While we were Instant Messaging, I asked her why she loves visiting a house with so many kittehs. Her reasons:

--You always hev a different kitteh walking into the room (instead of the same two cats all the time);
--you have sho many purr-sonalities;
--you feel totally *wuvved* because you wake up with twothreetwelve kittehs on the bed;
--even when you're alone, you're not lonely; and
--you're endlessly entertained.

Good points. Sometimes when I visit Pixie, I get bored with just two shy kittehs who warm up to Aunt Kitty only at the end of her visit. Maybe it's because they know I'm leaving and can have the house to themselves again.

Pixie enjoyed snuggling the hell out of Clark and Davy. Sunday evening, she had her arms around a purring-in-the-middle-of-the-bed Clark, and was kissing his head and jiggling his belly. "You are sho biiiig! Mah big kitteh! Yiss! Him's large and in charge! Big butt! Big butt! Hambone! Kitteh's a Hambone!"

I cracked up. "So if Clarky's 'Hambone,' then what's Davy?"

She thought a moment. "Pork Chop."

So for your blog-reading pleasure—and until I can post more interesting things—here are Pork Chop (left) and Hambone (right).


And also...

...Streak-O-Lean, with his head on Pork Chop's ass.

What's going on at the HKC

I'm late in posting today because I have no energy left. My sister will be flying in tomorrow for a visit, and of course my cleaning mojo has just about exhausted itself. And believe me—when your house is as cluttered as mine, any kind of cleaning mojo is going to wear out PDQ. But other than that, not much is going on here at the Happy Kitten Cottage.

Well, I guess a little something's going on.

Our usually ill-tempered Davy...

...has been snuggling with Ernest in the window.

For two days in a row.

Even 'Nesto knows: Armageddon must be upon us.

Stranger Than Fiction

Recently, I signed up for a writers' conference. As you can probably imagine, a writers' conference in these parts is a rarity indeed, and the organizers tell me that last year they were slam-up full, with people coming from as far away as Chattanooga, Birmingham, and Savannah. I guess writers from all over want as much help as possible.

I signed up for this conference because of two different writing workshops: one on improving one's writing, and the other a meeting with one of two literary agents who will critique a few submissions. The nonfiction book I'm working on has me very frustrated—I feel as if there's a conspiracy among the people in this area to "keep'at** damn ol' Kitty B. Goode from writin' that thar book." So I figured I could take what I have to both workshops, get some feedback from peers, suggestions from the instructors, a little encouragement, and so on.
**keep'at: rural Southern contraction of "keep" and "that," e.g., "Roy Gene, you gonna keep'at tractor, or sell it?"

But I failed to notice until after I'd sent in my information and check that the writing workshop was for fiction. Short fiction, actually.

Dammit.

I know there are many people out there who set out, as a friend of mine says, "to write the Great American Novel." (I was thinking that was My Antonia, but maybe I'm wrong.) Matter of fact, most of the writers I meet write and love fiction, and they're dedicated to their craft. And that's great.

But outside of the academic writing I do most every day, I write non-fiction. That's all.

It's hard to explain, but I've never had the inclination to write fiction. Never. Don't get me wrong, though. I adore short stories, love reading really good ones...but I've never wanted to write one. Leave that to the pros, I say. Besides, reality is so much more interesting than anything I could make up; you know, "truth is stranger than fiction" and all that. My life's been full of interesting stuff, and so have other (real) people's. Why not write about what really happened/is happening now?

Thinking about writing a short story gave my solar plexus a very strong flip-flumpflumpflump. I was afraid to try it. The idea of writing anything fictional made me want to cry—a rather strong reaction. I can't do what's not true, I thought. This is not me. I'm being asked to do something that's not me. I can't do it. I can't. I just can't.

A lot of it was the depression talking—but it was real fear, too.

Writing a short story would get me way out of my comfort zone—the workshop instructor and the conference chairwoman mentioned that in their e-mails to me. But I absolutely hated the thought of giving up a chance to work with fellow writers. Maybe I could give other writers some help in the critique at the end of class.

After wrestling all day with the prompts for the workshop, I realized I did have a few ideas. Very small ideas, beginner ones, but ideas nonetheless. Perhaps writing short fiction will help my nonfiction writing.

It scares me shitless, but I'll give it a try.

"I Saw the Light"—and made my pilgrimage.

As I prepare for the country music class I'm teaching this summer, my list of things to do gets longer and longer. The syllabus is coming along pretty well, as is the Required Listening list. (I'll post a final version in the next week or so.) The various slideshows are going to be a pain at first, but I'll get better with PowerPoint with practice. I'm gathering information on as many country music pioneers as I can, and it's proving to be a lot of fun.

Back in February, I wrote up a travel grant proposal and submitted it to the D2U Faculty Development Committee. (This summer class was going to need serious work, as will the scholarly book on country music I'm trying to write.) And the FDC was kind enough to award me $500 toward a research trip to Nashville, Tennessee.

Yes, that's right. A research [ahem] trip [ahem] to Nashville [ahemahemahem]. Researching country music. In Printer's Alley. [ahem] And Tootsie's Orchid Lounge. [ahem] No, really—I'll have to go to bars in order to, ummmm, hear all the great live music. Really, I will. Hey! Why are you laughing?

All silliness aside, have you ever been to Nashville? It's a great town: so much country music history, beautiful old homes, a fantastic Farmer's Market, lots of great restaurants and lightlife, and many beautiful parks and hiking trails. You can have a family-type vacation there, or you can totally go wild; bars and clubs close at 6:00am on weekends. The Country Music Hall of Fame is there, along with its library of rare manuscripts; the Ryman Auditorium, RCA Studios, the Grand Ole Opry, and many more fantastic-for-research places are all in or around Nashville.

So I was really excited to get the money for the trip, which will go pretty far toward paying all my expenses. But the trip won't happen until late May or early June—got lots of teaching-related stuff to finish up, plus my sister is visiting this weekend. So what to do in the meantime?

Why, make a long-overdue journey to Montgomery, Alabama—hometown of Hank Williams, the father of modern country music, and home of the Official Hank Williams Museum.

I didn't make the day-long trip alone, though. I drove down with and spent the day alongside a really sweet man. Who seems to have gotten his act together. (Much more on this subject later.)


The Hank Williams Museum is in downtown Montgomery, and from the outside, it doesn't look like much. Actually, the look of this entire street takes me back to small-town Alabama, late 1970s. But inside that door...Jesus, Mary, and George Jones help us.

I have never seen so much memorabilia, so much information, packed into one small space—the Museum might cover 1,750 square feet, tops. Every corner, every tiny bit of wall space, is covered with newspaper clippings; letters home; handwritten lyrics (complete with spelling mistakes!) in pencil on notebook paper; authentic handmade cowboy boots, hats, and suits; original 78- and 45-rpm records and album covers; guitars (lap steel, pedal steel, and traditional); the robin's-egg-blue 1952 Cadillac convertible in which Hank died on the way to a concert in Ohio on New Year's Day 1953—oh, my.

I was blown away at the amount of careful preservation that must have gone into putting together such a huge collection. The whole museum is a heartfelt tribute to Hank Williams. Without his influence, country music would still be something sung in backwoods cabins and Saturday-night square dances in small Southern towns. I will certainly be back.

In the gift shop, the Colonel would not let me pay for anything:
[picking up object] "Your students will love this!"
[pointing] "Don't you think they need that?"
He plays guitar and sings very well, and has long liked country music, so the trip was fun for him, too.


Ladies and gentlemen: an original Hank Williams 78rpm record, "Jambalaya (On the Bayou)" backed with "Window Shopping." Yes, it's authentic. I almost fell over in shock. And then we bought it.

The Colonel felt like I needed this melamine plate that looks like a record label. [blushing profusely]

The next stop, naturally, was Oakwood Cemetary, a five-minute drive from the Museum. Hank Williams' grave and memorial, as well as that of his first wife, Audrey, are atop a hill overlooking the city of Montgomery.

The memorial itself.

Hank's grave is on the right...

...and has a guitar and cowboy boots carved into it. The detail's incredible, right down to each of the frets on the guitar.

Audrey died in 1975; her grave's on the left side.

Her gravestone, too, is carved with the guitar and boots.

Visitors approaching the memorial step across this threshhold...

God bless both of them. Hank had a lot of problems, and died so young (at 29); even though their divorce had been finalized right before his death, Audrey was still heartbroken.

While the Colonel and I were paying our respects, a carload of people drove up. They did the customary tourist thing: got out, shuffled around the plot, looked around for three minutes, and drove off. Hmph. Amateurs.

As we were leaving, I saw another car headed down the skinny drive toward the memorial, and I commented, "Man, I bet this place has visitors day and night. And hoodlums, too."

The Colonel agreed. "Guess that's why Bocephus had that other marker put up."

An extraordinary experience. Go to Montgomery and make your pilgrimage, too.

Another online dilemma

It must be National Act a Fool in Your Online Classes Week. Why didn't anyone tell me? I could've been ready for it!

Last Wednesday was the midpoint of Spring Quarter at Tiny Technical College, and I submitted to the registrar my list of dropped students. You no doubt know them well: the ones who disappear from the Discussion Board, or haven't logged into BlackBoard in ten or more days, or who just quit communicating in general. I sent in my list as usual, and worried no more about it.

Monday morning, I got a call from one of the dropped students. "Can you tell me why I was dropped?" she wanted to know. Her voice was so whispery, so meek, that I wasn't sure whether I was talking to a small child or an adult.

"Well," I began, not knowing how to explain what's usually evident to most students, "I hadn't heard from you since April 21, and you hadn't turned in the most recent essay, so I dropped you."

The student sighed. "But why did you drop me? I was going to make up the work. I've had a family crisis going on the last few weeks, and I got wrapped up in that."

This was going to be a difficult one. "Yes, [Student], but my syllabus states that I drop online students from the class if I don't hear from them at least every ten days—"

"But I was gonna make up the work," she continued.

What did she think I was, vice-president of the Psychic Friends Network? I started right back where I left off. "Well, sure, [Student], but I had no way of knowing that. Had you sent me an e-mail or given me a quick call, I would've been happy to make other arrangements for you to turn in your work. But, the thing is that I hadn't heard anything from you, and I dropped you from the class."

I heard a deep sigh. "Well, okaaaay...ummm. Do you know how this will affect my financial aid?"

"I'm not sure, but the Financial Aid Office can tell you, or maybe your advisor can. I do know that it looks better than an F on your transcript, though." I thought for a moment. "Honestly, you've missed most of the class, and it would be really hard to play catch-up; almost impossible. Maybe it's best if you wait until next quarter to try an online class."

The student thanked me and hung up. I felt I'd been fair.

I checked my e-mail this morning, though...

mrs. kitty ,

i check with finicial aid like you said and they told me that it would be st for my completion rate if i tried to get back in the class i promise i will work really hard if you give me another chance, because i don,t have the money to pay for school i'am only 19 and i'am sorry i got so caught up with my family emergancy please give me another chance please please email me back

sincerly - [Student]

Two weeks of non-communication and a sloppy e-mail? I'm thinking, "Try again later, dearie."

Myrtle Mae Monday: 05/12/08

Okay, here's the updated, much better Myrtle Mae Monday post that I promised. I took these pictures the other morning while piddling around in the back yard.

[zooooom] from other side of yard

I know you wouldn't walk out the back door without a chicken treat. That's your sole purpose in life, Mama.

Fine, whatever. I'll go poop on the patio.

After this, I felt bad for not bringing Myrtle Mae a treat. She's been a good chicken lately, and since spring is here, there are many more fresh vegetable and fruits at the farmer's market...which means more rinds and leftovers for my fierce feathered girl.

So I went indoors and steamed some rice—white rice, since it was in the canister nearest the steamer.

WTF? Seriously.

Who the hell eats white rice anymore?

I mushed it around a little with the rice scoop; maybe it would look more appetizing that way. "Chick-chick-chick! Tum on, big girl! Tum get shome rice!" This is the same bird who eats funky spoiled yogurt, moldy bread, and pitiful almost-rotten bruised peaches.

Guess what?

Not bad for government work.

Is that moldy bread I see?

Nature's Own Hearty Wheat Berry with Penicillin, here I come.

So I left the forsaken white rice to be devoured by the starlings nesting in the eaves over the east kitchen window.

And of course, here's the filler pic from the original post...taken last spring:

She flew up there by herself, but needed help getting down once she realized there weren't any bugs hiding in the glass.

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY 2008!

To all you moms out there—moms to humans and animals—happy Mother's Day! Hope your day was relaxing. Mom, Steve, and I grilled out last night; I played with teensy little kittehs today. Oh, and I'll update KittehWatch very soon. Bebehs are growing like little weeds!

And The Shits Just Keep on Coming: EPIC FAIL Week #15

No doubt you'll remember the student from EPIC FAIL Week #14—the one who:

--turned in his research paper, worth 15% of his final grade, two days late (and possibly plagiarized it);
--did not turn in the portfolio, worth 30%;
--did rather poorly (high D-low C range) on all his essays, worth 20%;
--was rarely (if ever) prepared for our peer review sessions, worth 10%; AND
--didn't even turn in one daily assignment/reader's response—worth 5%—all semester long.

Basically, this student had only done about 50% of the work for the class. He had EPIC FAILed in a way that nobody—not even himself, I thought—could misunderstand.

But I cut him a little slack last Friday. I e-mailed to say that he knew how I detest late papers, and that we had discussed in class every single day of the last two-and-a-half weeks of the term that EVERYONE had to get papers in by 2:00pm, as I was leaving right after that...but, since this was such a high-stakes assignment, I'd accept his paper and take off ten points for each day it was late. And I also mentioned in this e-mail that he'd not turned in a portfolio, which was listed on the syllabus as 30% of the final grade. Oh, and could he please e-mail me the Microsoft Word file of his essay?

Saturday: no reply.
Sunday: no reply.
Monday: no reply.
Tuesday: no reply.
Wednesday between 12:01am and 11:59 am: no reply.

Oh well, I thought Wednesday morning as I entered my grades into the computer. I guess he's expecting to fail. Maybe he was smarter than he'd seemed, and that's why he hadn't e-mailed. Smart students know when to admit they've screwed up; that way, they can move on and get their GPA moving upwards again.

But wait! The e-mail barrage had yet to begin!

Wed 7 May, 4:17pm
MsKitty can you explain why i failed the class

Thu 8 May, 3:45pm
ok i place the research paper the day that it was due under the door so shouldnt that be ten points and if its anyway i can hand my portfilo to you so i can pass this class because i know its not a problem of yours but i cannot afford to fail any class but if you find in way possible of letting me do i would really appreciate that. Thank you, [student name]

Thu 8 May, 3:47pm
[Student has copy-and-pasted the full text of the essay into the body of the e-mail. No Microsoft Word file is attached.]

I haven't e-mailed back—the words simply escape me.

While shopping with Mom

Toward the end of our fun day today, Mom and I spent a good hour or so in Michaels (the craft store). That place oughtta be illegal, I swear. So, anyhoo, on our way from mosaic supplies to the candle section...

MOM: [pointing] Candles are over there.
ME: Okay. [distracted] Oooooh! Look! [rushing over to display]
MOM: What the...
ME: Mom! Pink duct tape! You need it! Only four bucks a roll!

MOM: What is wrong with you?

ME: Whaaaat?

MOM: Duct tape is NOT supposed to be neon pink.

ME: Why not? This is awesome!

MOM: [picking up regular roll] Look, duct tape is supposed to be silver, okay? Not neon pink. End of discussion.

ME: But, Mom! You can't miss this roll of tape. No more lost rolls of duct tape around the house, out in the yard—you need it!

MOM: DO NOT WANT!

ME: Whaddya mean, "DO NOT WANT?!" [shaking pink tape] WANT!

MOM: And it's not supposed to be bright purple, either. Or yellow, or green, or blue, or any of this other shit.
ME: Aww, Moooooom...
MOM: [scoffing] Pink duct tape. Fuck.

Happy Teacher Appreciation Day!

Until this afternoon, I had no idea that today was Teacher Appreciation Day. So I wish all of you teachers out there—college professors, K-12 teachers, community college and vo-tech instructors, Continuing Ed teachers, tutors, Special Ed teachers—a happy May 6th. If you teach someone something, this day's to honor you!

What am I doing to celebrate? Well, my celebration starts tomorrow at noon...when D2U grades are due. Then I'm off to go shopping with Mom and take her out for Thai food, an early Mother's Day present.

KittehWatch: Day 31

HAPPY ONE-MONTH BIRTHDAY, KITTEHS!!!!

Really, I'm fine. And very excited that Stripe's babies are a month old. They've come so far from when they were born, haven't they? It's astonishing how fast they grow up.

To celebrate the kittehs' one-month birthday, I give you a few adorable pictures that I took about half an hour ago. Oh, and I'm working on a name for Little Black No-Longer-Gooey-Eyed Kitteh. Stay tuned.

Myrtle Mae Monday: 05/05/08

At least a dozen readers have posted or e-mailed lately to ask about Myrtle Mae and how she's doing. One reader asked, "We haven't seen Myrtle in so long! I hope you didn't turn her into Sunday dinner..."

Don't worry, chicken fans—Myrtle's fine, although feeling a little neglected these days. She was all excited about having her very own day on E&P, and then I went and got slack on her when the semester got hectic and the kittehs were born. But now that my schedule's lightening up some, here's your poultry fix. Cranky and Orchidophile, I'm talkin' to you.

Good morning, Mama! What's that in your hand? Besides the stupid camera phone?

Mmmmmm! Leftover babka from Grandma! She's my favorite.

And fresh water in the bowl. Ahhh, that's good.

Brrk? Brk-brk-brk-brk-brrrrk?

What? Nothing else? No rice? No cat food? No more babka?

Whatever. I'm outta here.

Shot at and Missed, Shit at and Hit: EPIC FAIL Week #14

I worked a little in my D2U office this afternoon, since I was getting rather little done here at the Happy Kitten Cottage. I picked up another batch of papers, installed a new cartridge in my printer, brought home my graduation regalia to iron, and put a lot of extra paper into the recycling bin. And I hadn't planned on doing so, but I had a gut feeling I should check my D2U e-mail—not that I figured I'd find anything new, since all my fellow professors are at home grading papers this week. But that little instinctual voice told me, Check your e-mail. Just do it.

Lo and behold:

ms.kityyy i know its to days later but i slip my research paper under your desk i just had missed you so i thought the only common thing to do was to slide it under you door so if you didnt get a chance to check your office i can also email you a copy if you like.

The grammar alone says EPIC FAIL.

So I looked around the office for the paper itself—my office looks as if a tornado hit it, so this was no small task. I started moving stacks of books and papers to see where this student's paper might be, as it wasn't under the door when I came in. Perhaps the cleaning lady had moved it. Ah-ha! There it was, on the desk under the stapler. But that was it. Just a research paper.

My students were to turn in either an electronic portfolio (done online through our class website) or a paper one (with their work neatly arranged in a regular student folder with pockets) as well as a research paper. The research paper is a major requirement for getting out of Comp II with a passing grade; in my class, it counts as 15% of the final grade. The portfolio, which is in lieu of a final exam, is worth 30%. And I wasn't seeing this student's portfolio anywhere.

I double-checked my mailbox in the main office—nope. I scoured the office twice more—not there, either. I looked online at our class website—another big no.

So the student had turned in a research paper, but not a portfolio. Oh, boy. I sighed deeply and got ready to leave, picking up this lonely little paper and slipping it into my briefcase.

My eyes caught sight of the first page. Wait...

I've been teaching for almost 11 years, and have learned to read students' papers very quickly. Like many English profs, I can scan a paper in three minutes or less, say what grade it should get, and almost every time be within one-quarter of a letter grade as to what it actually received.

You saw the sample of this student's writing earlier in this post. He's written like that all semester long, sometimes slightly cleaned up for the final drafts of essays. Most of his papers scored somewhere in the low C/high D range. So I scanned this research paper's eight pages.

It was the first thing he'd written since January 7 that made any sense. As a matter of fact, it was rather well written—somewhere around a B+.

I looked at another of his essays that I had on file. It read much like his e-mail. I e-mailed the student back and told him that yes, it'd be great if he could send along the Word file for his research paper.

What the hell do you do with someone who was on track to fail the course anyway, but then plagiarizes the research paper? Is it a regular F, or a plagiarism F? I guess we'll be finding out.

KittehWatch: Day 29

First of all, I apologize for just now posting baby kitteh pictures. Most of today found me hanging around at Division II University, helping administer the SAT to a bunch of seventh- and eighth-graders. (Yeah, I know—damn helicopter parents. But that's for another post.)

Second of all, KITTEHS ARE ALMOST A MONTH OLD!!!!

[regaining composure]

Mom and Steve/Seeben/El Seebeno invited me to dinner this evening at our favorite BBQ joint. After I rolled myself home (burrrrp!), they stopped by to play with kittens.


We walked into the shed to find two kittehs on the towel covering their basket, and one more—ehn! eeeehn!—considering getting up there.

Mom gave the little fellow a boost.

Before I realized it, everybody was up on the towel—and climbing around, too! Yes, the kittehs' natural curiosity is now in full swing.

Mom picked up Little Black Gooey-Eyed Kitteh, who's all healed up now and turned out to be a boy (we think). We also thought he'd be solid black except for a tiny white patch on his chest, but now he's developing charcoal-colored stripes on his legs. So we shall see about his final fur colors.

El Seebeno picked up Little Tabby Hell-Raiser Kitteh, who has since been renamed Tiger Lily by Mom. Pretty good name for a little cat who, as Wandering Author observed, "has a lot of tiger in her." And, as we've come to expect, she was raising hell when I took this picture.

Little Part-Siamese Kitteh has also been renamed by Mom, who is not strangling him in this photo.

His new name? Yoda.

"When nine hundred years you reach, look as good you will not!"

Mom stuffed Quiet Little Target-Tabby Kitteh (now renamed Clarence) into her overalls pocket and said, "I've got mah kitteh. I'm going home now."

Her kitteh, you will note. This from a woman who already has 11 cats. She's still on the borderline about adopting Yoda.

You talk a good game, Mom, but we know how you roll.

Seeben asked, "Will Mama Cat let me pick her up?"

"Oh, yeah," I told him. "She likes people." Stripe got adjusted and purred like hell as El Seebeno got a good hold to support all her feet.

After a few more minutes of insane purring, Seeben set Stripe back in the floor, where she promptly rolled over and over and over in front of the door. "You can't go! Pet me, dammit!"

So we petted Miss Stripe a little longer, and cooed over a litter of sweet kitties and their very good first-time mama.

"Close" Counts Only in Horseshoes and Hand Grenades: EPIC FAIL Week #13

Wooo-hoooo! (Un)lucky #13 for EPIC FAIL Week!

The original deadline for all my students' research papers and portfolios was April 28. A couple weeks ago, I pushed that date back to April 30 because it worked out better with my schedule. The students were glad to have the two extra days, though I doubt any of them used those days wisely. In each of our last five class meetings, and twice via e-mail, I let the students know that the absolute, set-in-stone deadline for these items was April 30 at 2:00pm. Every time I sent out a message or mentioned it in class, I also added something to the effect of "Y'all have got to turn in all your papers and portfolios by 2:00 on the 30th, because I am leaving at 2:01pm, and I won't accept papers after that. I'm serious—I'm leaving at 2:01pm and will not wait around."

Actually, I left at 2:07pm. A student showed up at 1:58 and was trying to make her creatively-designed portfolio fit into her binder, and I waited jut long enough for her to convince the papers that they needed to be in the notebook. (She got there on time, so I waited; it's not as if she was still writing the paper.) Then I grabbed my purse and keys, turned the sign on my office door to SORRY, WE'RE CLOSED, and left. I didn't check my e-mail last night because I didn't want any sob stories.

However, I checked my e-mail this morning and found this:
Please accept my apology for missing you today and I apologize for any inconvenience this may have caused.I was late (2:10 pm) getting your office because the printer in the student computer lab jammed. My research paper and portfolio is complete and ready. I hope you don’t mind that I left a copy of the research paper and portfolio at your office. Also, I left a message for you at xxx-xxx-xxxx shortly after I missed you. Would you please contact me at xxx-xxx-xxxx or via email to advise how this will be handled and the affect it will have on my grade.

Hmmmm. I made everyone else turn it in on time. And this fellow knew way in advance not to do stuff at the last minute—my getting-assignments-done mantra, which I repeat often in class, is "Start early, because you never know what might happen at the last minute." (It's also in big letters on the syllabus.)

I'm inclined to say that, yes, this is another EPIC FAIL. After all, if I pay my credit card bill even one minute after the deadline passes, I'm hit with fees and a nasty note on my credit report. College is the beginning of the real world, where students face real consequences for their actions (not that they'll take responsibility for any of them, but that's another story). I don't want to budge an inch here; I set the limits and mean for students not to go beyond them.

Of course, the "nice" part of me—i.e., the pushover-ness bred into women by society so nobody will think we're "mean" or "selfish" or "rude," but which often puts us in more danger than sticking up for ourselves would—says "Well, it was only three minutes."

And my hardass professor side says, "He's had eight weeks and plenty of warning to get this done. Tough shit."

UPDATE, 6:54pm: Just re-checked my D2U e-mail—the student says in the message (text above) that he missed me when he came by at 2:10pm...but the e-mail is time-stamped 1:50pm. WTF does this mean? Is he bending the time-space continuum or something?