An unusual New Year's Eve at the HKC

It's New Year's Eve, and 2009 is finally coming to a close—and not a moment too soon, I might add. It's been one helluva roller-coaster year.

So what's going on tonight here at the Happy Kitten Cottage?

Mom's long overdue for a colonoscopy and upper-GI series, so she decided to go ahead and get it over with before the year was over, so her health insurance would pay for most of it. When she called in November to make her appointment, the receptionist informed her that since the clinic was so booked, she wouldn't be able to get in until the end of the year.

That's right: December 31, at 12:00 noon!

So for the last few days Mom's been doing the whole garden-hose-and-flashlight-up-your-ass thing, complete with the liquid diet, the barium milkshake, and the Super Colon Blow 3000™ to be totally ready for the procedure. Since she'll be knocked out with general anesthesia, she won't be able to drive home, so I'll be going with her to the clinic and bringing her back to my house to sleep off the Demerol. Chances are she'll be ready to go home in the late afternoon, so I've got clean linens on the bed and comfort food already made and in the fridge.

When my sister—who has always been a morning person—was a toddler, she would often awake around 6:00am and pitty-pat into the bedroom where Mom was still sound asleep. Pixie would creep up to the bed, waaay up on her tippy-toes so she could see Mom's face, and reaching out with one tiny little hand, she would patpatpatpatpat Mom's cheek and sweetly whisper, "Good morning, Mommeeee!" Mom—who, like me, has never been a morning person—would crack one eyelid and begin to snarl. Except for the sweet little heart-shaped face looking right into hers with such earnest joy to be wide awake and stirring about at the crack of dawn. "Good morning, Pixie," Mom would mumble. Once Pixie crawled into bed with her, Mom would try to snooze for a little longer until she could no longer contain her youngest child's early-morning excitement, and then they would both get out of bed and shuffle off to the kitchen for cinnamon toast and Hi-C juice.

Of course, Mom tells the story a lot better than I have here, and with a lot more laughs, too. But Pixie's three little words have become a phrase we use all the time; often, we replace "Good morning" with whatever happens to be the topic of conversation (usually sewing). Whenever one of us presents Mom with a new and difficult pattern, fabric, or project—for example, the seven yards of tan 60" wide 100% camel's hair coat fabric I got on super-sale a couple months ago—Mom gives us deep, deep sigh as she looks over the materials. We/I smile, pat Mom gently on the cheek, and say happily, "Happy sewing, Mommeeeeee!

And her look bespeaks pain, exhaustion, martyrdom, defeat, I-swear-to-God-I'm-going-to-get-you-for-this.


Happy colonoscopy, Mommeeeeeeeee! [patpatpatpatpatpatpatpat]

And here's Mom's reply:

Have a safe and happy New Year's Eve, everyone!

Update, 9:13pm: Mom's procedures were successful and went smoothly. She does, however, have a rather large bleeding ulcer in her stomach, which explains a lot about the heartburn and back pain she's been having the last few months. The doctor prescribed ulcer-specific meds and will see Mom for a checkup in about a month. Thanks to all of you for your thoughts and prayers today!

Wisdom

For the concert of life, no one gets a program.
—Dutch proverb

Nothing is permanent except change.
—Heraclitus

To be truly happy in this world is a revolutionary act because true happiness depends upon a revolution in ourselves. It is radical change of view that liberates us so that we know who we are most deeply and can acknowledge our enormous ability to love. We are liberated by the truth that every single one of us can take the time and pay attention. That is our birthright. Our own happiness can change history, and it does.
—Sharon Salzberg, Lovingkindness

Can't say I blame you, Squirrel.

It's hard to be anything but disappointed when nightly lows in your warm, sunny home state of Georgia are in the low 20s and upper teens. Squirrel here (also known as Martha Ann) is beautifully fluffed out for the cold weather, and it helps some. Still, she's a smart kitty: she stays indoors as much as she can.

Chicken Monday: 12/28/09

Today marks the last Chicken Monday of 2009, and I'm still running short on new material. However, here's a video of the late, great Myrtle Mae, who passed on to that Big Henhouse in the Sky this time last year.

We found something that works.

After a combined 70 years of trying, my sister and I have finally come to realize that we cannot embarrass our mother in public.

Don't get me wrong—we did our best during Pixie's visit. We gyrated like zombie strippers on crack in the fabric store, giving industrial-Lysol-strength lap dances to whatever product display happened to be within a three-foot radius. Mom just continued to shop, minding her own business and acting as if we weren't even there. We shrieked like spoiled three-year-olds on a sugar high as we handed her dozens of Vogue Designer Supercalifragilistic-Expialidocious dress patterns we'd picked out. But Mom just gave us The Look over her bifocals, and continued perusing the McCall's catalog as if we were someone else's kids. In Home Depot, where all three of us had to pee before any paint choices could be made, we read aloud the graffiti on the ladies' toilet walls, and in response to a scrawled Hannah Montana Was Here over the tissue holder in my stall, made lewd observations about ice cream cones, dance poles, and the I.Q. of someone whose parentage includes Billy Ray "Achy-Breaky Heart" Cyrus. Mom paid us no heed.

As Pixie and I were bemoaning our collective failure to make Mom blush in public, I remembered a conversation from this past spring...

MOM: Question.
ME: What?
MOM: What does "tea bag" mean?
ME: Are you sure you want to know?
MOM: [hesitantly] Is it that bad?
ME: Seeben, do you know what it means?
SEEBEN: Naw, but I hear it on the C.B. all the time.
ME: Okaaaay. [pause] Y'all should probably sit down.
[MOM and SEEBEN sit down.]
ME: "Tea bag" means, umm... [searching for words]
MOM: Oh, God.
ME: Uhh...well...okay. It's when [definition here].
MOM: AAAAAAAAUUUUGH!!!
SEEBEN: AAAAAAAAUUUUGH!!!
[Disgusted yelling goes on for several more minutes.]
ME: I know, it's gross...
MOM: I could've lived the rest of my life not knowing what that meant, and I would've been JUST FINE! AAAAAUUUGH!!!!

With this in mind, Pixie and I had a plan. Upstairs tenant and hot pocket followed, and resulted in looks of disgust on Mom's face that we had never before seen—even after our own most cringe-worthy mistakes. We might not be able to embarrass our Mom in public, but we can gross her out.

Hallmark-worthy holiday memories are highly overrated.

It was a very nice Christmas.

Mom, Steve (aka El Seebeno), and I had a great Christmas—thanks for all your good wishes.

The highlight was the food, as always. Mom didn't cook as much as usual, since there were only three of us.

Manna from heaven must taste a lot like Mom's mashed potatoes.

MOM: [yelling from kitchen] I don't have any gravy for the potatoes, is that okay?

STEVE: Fine with me.

ME: Who gives a shit about gravy? You made MASHED POTATOES!

There were leftovers, but not too many. Mom sent some home with me, and I'm making quick work of them.

This is the last ham biscuit, and it's so good.

MERRY CHRISTMAS 2009!

Leave it to I Can Has Cheezburger? for hilarious holiday kitteh pictures!

Whether or not you're celebrating Christmas, I wish you hope, peace, love, and fun. And in case you're short on these things due to crazy relatives—hell, go pour yourself another rum-n-eggnog, double booze this time. You have my permission!

Ask Mom™ helps YOU prepare for the holidays, Part 2!

Chances are that many readers are warming up for family Christmas (or Hanukkah, or Kwanzaa) get-togethers. And naturally, that involves:

1) cleaning like crazy,
2) cooking up a storm, and
3) praying that Great-Aunt Lula doesn't start drinking until after dinner. (Good luck with that one.)

However, Mom has certainly hosted her fair share of holiday gatherings, complete with crazy-ass relatives and potential food disasters, so she's devoting a second Ask Mom™ column to helping you at least manage any culinary or entertainment fiascoes that might come your way. Because you know one's going to happen. Trust Mom on this. She knows.



Dear Mom,
I don't know how it happened, but somehow I managed to get stuck with preparing the Christmas turkey. Problem is, I've never cooked a turkey before. HELP! Can you offer some advice so I can avoid a major holiday FAIL?
Signed,
Is It Too Late to Order Turkey Sandwiches from Subway?

Dear IITLTOTSFS,
(damn, I thought that said "HALITOSIS" for a second there)

Well, my first piece of advice about cooking a whole turkey (or a whole chicken, for that matter) is REMEMBER THE PACKET OF INNARDS IN THE VARIOUS BODY CAVITIES!!!!! One of the first Christmases I was in charge of the turkey, I left the little plastic bag of giblets inside the bird. (I haven't always been perfect, you know.) Fortunately, I remembered it halfway through...my dad thought it was hysterical. Yeah, real funny, Dad—I'm trying to poison the entire family, and you think it's funny. [sigh]

My second piece of advice: Don't be scared. It will take you years to learn the right combination of of herbs and salts. Me, I use a lot of seasoned salt in my cooking, and on my holiday turkey as well. You can use less salt if it's seasoned...strange, but true. Since the advent of pop-up timers in the bird and plastic baking bags, preparing a turkey isn't as daunting as it used to be. Just for Gods' sakes make sure you have enough room in your oven for the bag to inflate properly! I managed to mess one up at Thanksgiving this year, and the bag looked like someone was trying to encourage dreadlocks on a baby, with little colored twist-ties all over it. Everyone had a good laugh about that. But a 15-pound bird vanished between five people (and nine cats, and 5 dogs). And, naturally, the dogs are now completely spoiled rotten: "Umm, lady? You call this shit dog food? Where the hell's the turkey broth that's supposed to go on it? And you expect us to eat this garbage? WHAT are you THINKING?!? Dog abuse! DOG ABUSE! Somebody call the ASPCA! Say hi to Mike Vick for us, ya ingrate!"

**********

Dear Mom:
What's your take on holiday cards? I usually like sending them out, but it seems like my Decembers get more and more packed, leaving me no time to get them done. Are they really necessary?
Yours truly,
Tired of Paper Cuts

Dear Tired (and hell, who isn't these days?),
Holiday Cards are the bane of my tenuous existence. I never have any where I can find the damned things. I think the cats are hiding them 'cause I KNOW I find them in August-- I KNOW I've seen them! It's Oliver. I'm sure of it. Anyhow, about a week before Xmas the cards come pouring in. I only have one niece/nephew young enough to cause the parents to send cards that include a school pic. There's the Grand Daughter, however... She and her parents I get to see, so I can hand-deliver the card, which includes a $20 Starbucks gift card: "Go get your caffeine fix, and Merry Xmas! Enjoy." So do what you want with your Christmas cards—don't blow a gasket over them. I bet all your friends & family are thinking the same thing as they write up their holiday cards. Nobody does cards, nobody stresses, and everybody EPIC WINS!

**********

Dear Mom,
Every year at our family Christmas gathering, Uncle Ralph shows up late, dressed like a bum and smelling like stale Pall Malls and earwax. (He has a decently-paying job, so I'm pretty sure he's got some clean clothes somewhere.) He complains about the food being served, but contributes nothing to the potluck meal—not even paper plates, sodas, or booze. The whole time he's at the party, he talks only about two topics: 1) whatever self-help book he’s just read (and self-diagnosed with), and 2) his latest deal on eBay. How should we handle him this year?
Thanks,
Anonymous "Ask Mom" Reader

Dear Reader,
You’re fighting a losing battle, Sweet Cheeks. Vote him off the island.

**********

Dear Mom,
I’m always buying Vogue Designer Advanced dress patterns for my mom to make for me, but when I show them to her, she just rolls her eyes. What should I do?
Signed,
Lazy Fashionista

Dear Fashionista,
Learn. How. To. Sew. [takes swig of vodka] If you start learning now, in about twenty years you should be able to handle those Vogue Designer patterns.

**********

Dear Mom,
I'm hosting my family's Christmas party this year, and my sister’s four children will be there. I’m already drinking at the thought of them wrecking my house and everyone’s nerves, especially my pets’. They are rude, hostile, willfully ignorant, and spoiled rotten. Any time their demands are not met immediately and fully, they throw a tantrum that makes Naomi Campbell look like Mother Teresa. They heckle and torment the other children in the house (who are intelligent and generally well-behaved), and they interrupt and even occasionally insult the adults during conversation. What’s the best way to manage these dreadful people, whom I'm sad to say I do not look forward to seeing?
Thank you,
Preemptive Holiday Alcoholic

Dear P.H.A.,
Take a page from the Jim Jones playbook: Veeeery special Kool-Aid, juuuuust for these kids…laced with Xanax and Ritalin. Make sure that you have some special egg nog for their parents with similar pharmaceuticals mixed in. You don’t mention what the parents are like, but I'll wager there’s a reason their kids are that way. Mazel tov!

**********

Dear Mom,
My entire office has had to take the last week of December as unpaid leave so our office can break even. Morale is pretty low, and we’re all wondering if we’re going to have jobs in 2010. Meanwhile, we’re all being sent off to have “Happy Holidays!” with half a paycheck missing and the thought of unemployment looming. Do you have any hopeful words as we drag into the holiday season and the new year?
Signed,
Blue Christmas

Dear Blue Christmas,
The best defense is a good offense, in the form of a good resume and a great cover letter. Otherwise, you and your co-workers should get together at a bar somewhere and bitch/gripe/complain about how ignorant and awful your bosses and company owners are—but don’t get too drunk, or you’re likely to do something you’ll regret. Or not. (And be reeeeally nice to your designated driver, for the love of Johnnie Walker!) Then go home and sleep it off. Take solace in the fact that you’re not the Lone Ranger; a lot of us are in the same boat, and we’ll all see each other on the other side of this.

This day in Elvis history

Today marks 39 years since The King made his unannounced visit to the White House to ask that President Nixon make him an official undercover agent. Elvis Presley sought to counter the "anti-American" influences of the Beatles, as well as what he saw as an epidemic drug use among young people. One assumes that his own prescription drug abuse was exempt from inclusion in said epidemic.

In December 1970, Elvis' substance abuse problems, which would ultimately kill him, were already well-known in the entertainment industry. (This knowledge would become public two weeks before his August 1977 death, with the publication of Elvis: What Happened?) It was in a haze of alcohol, Demerol, and barbiturates that Elvis made his sudden, capricious visit to the White House—carrying a concealed .45 in his waistband. The drugs had already made him paranoid, and a kidnapping threat made his paranoia even worse. The Secret Service agents who met Elvis at the northwest White House entrance dealt with him professionally, though they must have had enormous misgivings about letting any armed person, let alone Elvis Presley, into the Oval Office to meet with the President. Elvis was shadowed the entire time by multiple Secret Service personnel and Nixon aides.

From Wikipedia's entry on Elvis Presley, here is an excellent account of the event and its aftermath:

Presley had engineered the encounter to express his patriotism, his contempt for the hippie drug culture and his wish to be appointed a "Federal Agent at Large". He also wished to obtain a Bureau of Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs badge to add to similar items he had begun collecting. He offered to "infiltrate hippie groups" and claimed that The Beatles had "made their money, then gone back to England where they fomented anti-American feeling." Nixon was uncertain and bemused by their encounter, and twice expressed his concern to Presley that the singer needed to "retain his credibility". Ringo Starr later said he found it very sad to think Presley held such views. "This is Mr. Hips, the man, and he felt we were a danger. I think that the danger was mainly to him and his career." Paul McCartney said also that he "felt a bit betrayed ... The great joke was that we were taking drugs, and look what happened to [Elvis]. ... It was sad, but I still love him. ..."

My students are without fail increduluous when I share this story with them (in making connections between American popular culture and politics). And I always tell them, "Truth really is stranger than fiction. Not even the best novelist could've made this up."

That big a difference?

A student has petitioned our department chair, Dr. Pepper*, to challenge his final grade of B in my Comp class. End-of-semester appeals are nothing new to Dr. Pepper; after all, she's been teaching college English courses for over 30 years.

She was kind enough to forward to me this student's angry e-mail, as well as her very thoughtful and well-reasoned reply to the student. In this reply, Dr. Pepper reassured the student that he'd have plenty of opportunities to make his case, and that she'd be glad to meet with him after Christmas—but that, naturally, he first needed to contact me about his dissatisfaction with his grade.

Funny, but my Inbox contains no post-semester e-mails from this student.

The student did mention in his e-mail to Dr. Pepper a few things I should've done better. No question about that. But—wow. His tone in this e-mail is so angry, so antagonistic towards me in his statement that I had "failed to fulfill my duties as a professor," that my teaching was "useless," my comments "unhelpful," "incompetent." The person writing this e-mail is very different from the fellow who truly seemed to enjoy the class, and not just on a phony, butt-kissing level, either. "I made straight A's in high school English," he writes, "and have made all A's this semester except for Professor Kitty B. Goode's class. Something is certainly amiss."

Oh, and he also wrote in his complaint e-mail that, as a pre-med student, "one B could keep [him] from getting into medical school."

Does just one B really make that big a difference? Or is this another example of the bad Millenial Generation habit of imposing cheesy this-is-how-you-crack-the-SAT formulas onto their academic and career success?

Because, I've read in the last couple of years, medical schools are finally realizing that straight A's and excellent MCAT scores do not a good physician make. They're paying a lot more attention to applicants' abilities in the humanities—especially writing—and to extracurricular activities and interviews. Med schools have learned a hard lesson after having spent decades churning out brilliant doctors who, inexplicably, managed to miss the 8:45 train to People Skills. How many readers have felt like an object during a doctor visit, rather than a human being? Or that the physician was phoning it in rather than actually getting involved in the treatment? Doctors also need that je ne sais quoi that will make them love what they do, not just good at what they do.

With that last in mind, perhaps this student would be better suited to a career in the law.

Dr. Pepper closed her e-mail by saying that the student was probably just angry about his final grade right when he saw it in his file. She advised me not to worry myself sick about it, since he most likely just needed time to cool down.

Steping back from the situation, I can see more clearly. Sure, I didn't do as good a job as I could have in this student's class...but out of 16 people, he's the only complaint I have so far. Out of 62 students total, he's one of two grade complaints (the other was a data-entry mistake on my part, and corrected in milliseconds once I realized my error). Sure, I could've given more feedback. But if this student is as skilled a writer as he asserts to Dr. Pepper that he is, then how come 1) he didn't ask to meet with me about additional feedback, or 2) just use his Awesome Powers of Writing to know when his writing was Pulitzer-ready to turn in?

Had this situation happened a year ago, it would've meant a deep emotional tailspin for me. I am so thankful for medication and therapy—and to have a department head as awesome as Dr. Pepper.

Chicken Monday: 12/21/09

Chicken Monday is low on new material today—my sister's been here all week, so there's been more fabric shopping and silliness than socializing with the poultry. But in the meantime, here's a cute video re-run from this past summer, when Henrietta discovered the awesomeness of the back porch railing.

Stay tuned to E&P before Christmas hits us in all its fury. Ask Mom™ returns Wednesday to help you manage your crazy relatives and holiday hospitality fiascoes.

DONE.

I have entered final grades for Fall Semester 2009, and am DONE until January 12. HOORAY!

In the meantime, there's a lot going on. My sister, whom many of you know is also my best friend, is here for an extended visit, and we've been having a good time.

• Any Pixie visit means that we have to go fabric shopping with Mom (don't worry, you'll get all the crazy pictures & details!).
  
• There will be a large Purging of the Closets as well, a twice-yearly ritual in which my sister and I clean out our closets and let each other have first pick at hand-me-overs before we carry the items over to Goodwill.
  
• And there's been a little painting at the HKC as well. (The Colonel volunteered earlier this year to paint the entire interior of my house, and will probably live to eat his words.)
  
• El Seebeno will hopefully be home this weekend for Grilling of Steaks and general insanity.
• In other Seeben-related news, Pixie and I are trying to talk him into putting up a Weather Channel audition tape & posting it on YouTube. No luck so far.
  

As soon as my home internet connection is back up and running, I'll post about it all.

Oh, the irony!

This was lying on the steps outside my doctor's office last week. So many ways to interpret this image, so little time.

Has the white-jumpsuited Elvis left the building?

For weeks, I've been trying to find a vertical 24" x 36" poster of Elvis Presley in his white bejeweled jumpsuit—one that looks much like the old velvet Elvis paintings, but is in poster form. Sadly, I can't find one just on paper, and I can't justify spending $200 on something that will go in my office. Anyone out there know where I could find the cheesy white-jumpsuited old fat Elvis in poster form for not much money? Or maybe you know someone who would sell his/her old velvet Elvis painting for (also) not much money.

Because if I were going to drop a lot of cash on a velvet Elvis painting, it would be this one:


Here's a link so you can buy your own from The Velvet Store—only $109.95, once they're back in stock.

Look what the storm left behind

A powerful storm blew through Small Town early Wednesday morning, and very gently placed this 16-inch-long piece of dead oak branch between the passenger-side window and mirror on my car. No damage, thankfully, but it certainly startled me to see it lodged there—especially when there were so many other small branches scattered around my driveway and yard.

Friday Kittehs: 12/11/09

Everyone's favorite kitteh-with-an-attitude, Mooakura, takes a moment to enjoy her breakfast on the Happy Kitteh Cottage porch.

Ask Mom™ helps YOU prepare for the holidays!

Even though this is supposed to be a joyous time of the year, people tend to get very stressed out. All those expectations (spoken or otherwise) from society, family, and our First National Church of Wal-Mart consumer culture sure can make the winter holidays into one long torture session that makes Abu Ghraib seem like a Sunday School picnic.

And that, dear hearts, is why Ask Mom™ is here to help, with the first of two very special holiday columns! Hooray!

******************

Dear Miss Kitty's Mom:
I have a brother who showed up at Christmas last year only because one of my cousins married someone who's vaguely famous. My brother was disappointed when Vaguely Famous Spouse couldn't be bothered to come to our little family Christmas get-together. (I didn't get to go because it's a five-hour drive to get there—but this year, the event's being held at my uncle's house, closer to where I live.)

Anyway, it seems that Vaguely Famous Spouse will actually be attending our family's party this year, so my celebrity-hound sibling will probably be there. But I haven't even SEEN my brother in ten years! What should I get him for Christmas, on the off chance he actually shows up? I know you'll think of something really, umm...appropriate.
Thanks,
Joeymom

Dear Joeymom,
Honey. Bless your heart. You know, every family has one. [deep sigh] There's a schmuck in my unclear family (yup, you seen it here—unclear) who's just like your brother. So I suggest a bag of coal, right up-side his lip. SMACK! On the other hand, I find that doing the minimum sideways-hug-and-air-peck-on-cheek thing works, too. That way, you can ignore the bastard the rest of the party. If he button-holes you for a Catching-Up-Chat, just let your face go all mildly-amused, deer-in-the-headlights, oh-my-Xanax-is-kicking in. At the very least, he'll lose interest and go bug someone else.

Now that I think about it, though: Don't get the jerk a damned thing. When you see him, go get yourself another eggnog, and this time double the rum. Couple years ago, I gave El Seebeno a Christmas t-shirt (that he won't wear—don't get me started) with a sunglasses-wearing Santa Claus, pointing his index finger at the viewer, and smiling, with the caption: YOUR ASS AIN'T GETTIN' SHIT FOR CHRISTMAS! Maybe you can find it online and wear it to the party. And I hope Vaguely Famous Spouse completely blows off this ignorant social climber. Hmph! Bah humbug!!!

Dear Mom:
I have a rose bush in a container, and it *really* needs re-potting. (I keep it potted because the soil where I live is terrible, plus the water table's about six inches below ground.) Do you have any advice for what kind of soil to put around it in the new pot, or what to mix into the new soil?
Thanks,
Kim C.

Dear Kim C.,
Umm...rose? If it has flowers, I generally have a mega-FAIL. I can't even grow gera...gerany...geramiums? Whatever. Now, I am a great success (there's a word I learned to spell in high school, during basketball games; don't ask)—where was I? Oh, right. I can grow the hell out of gardenias. I've got a *huge* one at the edge of the front porch. (Calling it a bush seemed like a TMI moment.) The damned thing decided to swap seasons and bloom like crazy this fall instead of back in June, when you'd expect flowers. Go figure.

The roses I *do* have are the "Feed me, Seymour!" kind that eat houses, barns, pets, and husbands. My grandmother grew the one that's at the west end of the porch (I live in her old house, BTW) just to knock back the afternoon sun. I started a bunch of cuttings from it, and voila! I've got TWO big-ass climbing roses. They grow well in the crap soil we have around here. But a potted rose...geez. Hmm, something I use on all my "potted" plants is a systemic insect killer. Says it's for roses but I use it for everything. Red Spider Mites are the cockroach of the aphid world, and they always show up when I bring my potted plants indoors for the winter.

So, to sum it all up, YOYO: Yur On Yur Own, Baby. This is one place Ask Mom™ can't go. Hey! Wanna know how to grow sweet potatoes?!

Miss Kitty adds:
Kim C., try this link for some rose tips from a well-respected grower of antique roses. I also once read that all roses like to have a little alfalfa meal and a couple handfuls of red clay when you plant/re-pot them. Plenty of both of those around here, so just let me know if I should FedEx a package to you.

Dear Mom:
This year, I'm hosting my family's Christmas party. I've got everything under control, but am wondering how to keep my cheap Polish mother from drinking all my expensive liquor.
Thanks,
Anonymous E&P Fan

Dear Anonymous Chickenshit Who Is Probably One or Both of My Own Daughters:
Boy howdy, you got stainless-steel balls to write your POLISH Ask Mom™ about this! My advice: GOOD FREAKIN' LUCK, SKIPPY! Polish mothers work, and SLAVE, and what thanks do we get?!? Ungrateful children, THAT'S what!

I for one spent my younger years drinking very little cuz I'm such a cheap drunk: two drinks used to put me in the cab home, sound asleep. However, having done hand-to-hand combat with menopause at 43 (I'm now 60), I can drink pretty much drink what I want, and as much as I want. Or can afford. Or am driving myself and El Seebeno home and have to be careful. (Karma's caught up with him—all the youthful time he spent knee-walking, toilet-hugging drunk is OVER! Two drinks and he's out cold.)

So come on, Cheap Ass: share with yur Mom! She's earned it! Don't make me go Jewish/Polish Mother on ya! But let's just hope no one decides to slip a Myron Floren CD in the stereo during your party. Watching a short, fat, Polish woman doing the polka or mezurka around the house is NOT for the faint of heart. Mazel Tov, and Happy Holidays!

You, too, can Ask Mom™ your very own questions. Just drop me a line at misskitty_ep[AT]bellsouth.net with "Ask Mom" in the subject line. No question is too outlandish to ask—Mom answers them all.

Student Essay Insanity #65!

Just in time for Hell Week—also known to college professors as The End of the Semester—Student Essay Insanity returns to brighten your day! Or make you weep and gnash your teeth. Either one.

This batch of boo-boos comes to us from the Division II University Freshman Writing Improvement Project (FWIP). The essay prompt asked students in many different courses (the sciences, math, history, English, psychology, etc.) to identify a course objective and then write an essay explaining how any one assignment in that course helped them achieve the objective. They were very explicitly told that they essay was NOT a critique (i.e., bitch-and-gripe session) of the professor, but as you can guess, some students chose not to read that part of the essay prompt.

There are some memorable lines in this group. Each blooper is written by a different student. And, as always: real students, real essays, real(ly) awful.

I shit you not.

**********

• I have some issues with the methods of teaching that are used in the classroom, for example the lack of class participation or interaction.
• Being a pre-pharmacy student, chemical formulas are very important.
• I can apply all the information I have leaned from this course, both in my future college courses and in the real world.
• Driving down the road, cows were visible on all sides.
  
• People around the world treat the world around them poorly.

This last one blows. me. away. with its 13th-grade expectations and sense of entitlement:

• I have the type of professor that likes to make his tests according to his lectures and does not give a study guide. Everybody in the class can not possibly have the same notes so I really do not think that is fair. ...I had to make flash cards and read every single word in the book.

And with that, we cut to my fantasy episode of South Park:
STAN: Oh my GOD!
KYLE: The professor made you learn?!? That BASTARD!

It's only Tuesday?!?

Not even fierce little Prue, the HKC's most bad-ass outdoor cat, can believe it.


No, she is NOT impressed with how slowly this week is going. Not. at. ALL. And neither am I.

Chicken Monday: 12/7/09

Today's Chicken Monday consists of pictures from July 2009. Chickens, a kitteh, and a puppeh—who could ask for anything more, Toyota?

We just can't have nice things, can we?!?

Yesterday afternoon, the Colonel surprised me with an early Christmas present: two sets of top-of-the-line satin sheets, in black and red. Somebody cue the porn music! Of course, before we could even try them out, the kittehs beat us to it. [sigh]

Friday Kittehs

This installment of Friday Kittehs features photos from July 2009.


Squirrel, Kamakura, and Erngeakura hang around on the front walk after breakfast.


Stripeakura wants to know who the hell is rustling around in the azalea bushes by the porch.


Davy (aka Shithook) glares at Elvis from his perch by the steps.

Clark, meanwhile, girths it up while waiting for Mama to let him back in the house.

Insulin, anyone?

Today is my last class with my three sections of Comp I. And what better celebration for young people than a good old-fashioned diabetic coma?!?

Seriously, though: all these goodies are for last-day-of-class celebrations in each of my Comp I classes. Students are often 90% of how a class goes, and thanks to the 48 wonderful and diverse young people in my English 1101 sections, this has been the very best semester I've ever had.

Ask Mom™

Whew! Thanksgiving's over, and we can breathe easy for a fraction of a second before Christmas comes barreling along. But Mom's certainly not taking a rest—she's still "got plenty of shit to do," in her immortal words. And that includes answering some long-overdue questions from faithful E&P readers.

Dear Mom,
What kind of gifts do you recommend for the older woman who has everything?
Thanks,
Darra (Augusta, GA)

For the Love of GOD, Don't. Give. Her. Anything. That. Needs. DUSTING!!! Asking what she needs is always a wise move--so she can smile benignly and, in her best Martyr Mom voice, say, "Oh, I don't need anything, dear." (Hear the quaver?) Dinner at her favorite restaurant might be nice, unless she's like El Seebeno's mother. (That old bat won't go out to eat with anyone, for any reason. I guess she figures someone will put her in a nursing home if she leaves the house for even an hour. As-fucking-IF. She's now living with El Seebeno's brother and his family—DO NOT GET ME STARTED ON THOSE PEOPLE.) Or maybe you could surprise her with a gift certificate for a pedicure or a massage. My cousin Sarah and I always HINT appreciate a visit to the spa HINT a nice mani-pedi is always appreciated HINT.

Dear Mom:
I work at a large national retail chain (it has a circular logo) as a cashier and customer service rep. Most customers are nice, but some make me want to smack them. My favorite today was the guy who snapped at me when I asked him whether he wanted a cash refund or a gift card; it made me feel a lot better to give him his $3 all in quarters, dimes, and nickels. Anyway, you seem to have some experience dealing with cerebrally-challenged folk—do you have nay advice on how to deal with them and not lose my job in the process?
Thanks,
Charissa



Wow. I love the idea of all change. Too bad it wasn't more like $15.... hur-hur-hur! Ever seen $15 in loose change? It's impressive. Kitty and Pixie's father used to work away from home and was gone much of the time; he'd come home every couple weeks with an orphan sock full of change he took out of his pockets every night. Man, you could do some serious damage with one of those socks hidden underneath your register! "How do you want your change, sir?" WHACK! (Think it'd get you fired? Probably. *sigh*)

Have you thought of "accidentally" dropping the change as you hand it to the customer? When I'm standing in line and see/hear something like you experienced, I pipe up and tell the customer to keep a civil tongue... or simple, "GET OVER YOURSELF, ASSHOLE!"

I like people; it's the public I can't stand.

Dear Mom,
How many cats are too many?
Signed,
BaxtersMum

While we're on the subject: NEVER in your weakest moments even PONDER the idea that cats are domesticated. In fact, don't even let them hear you even IMPLY that they're "tame." Ever tried to give an adult cat a bath? Ever tried to give one medication? After they've shredded your arms/hands/face/torso they look at you with that "Told ya, dumbass" expression.

Seriously, though: the best minds of the age have been pondering this very question ever since cats were taken into human homes. Stephen Hawking is using untold brain cells trying to solve the how-many-is-too-many-cats riddle. But my theory is that you can have as many cats as will tolerate each other. Note that I said TOLERATE, not LIKE or LOVE. Cats will play together sometimes—looks like Russia vs. Chechnya to me, but they call it playing. This also depends on what kind of cats you happen to have. Siamese cats are more social. Calico cats are NOT. Calicoes hate everyone, except ONE human...and THEY get to pick which human, too. Everyone else can Eat Shit and Die.

For example: little calico Fluffy is currently giving me the stink-eye because she can't sit on my lap while I'm typing. I mean, that's what my lap is FOR, right? It's Fluffy's bed/sofa/chaise lounge. Fortunately, the weather's warm today, so there's no way she can stand to sit on me for very long before she gets hot and goes off to take a bath or plot Armageddon. Only because it's warm today can I do other things: clean out litter boxes, feed, sweep up spilled litter, feed, dust-mop for cat hair, feed, brush off furniture, feed. You get the picture. Did I mention feed?

How much of this can you handle? Your answer to this, too, is how many cats are too many.

Do you have a question for Mom? Just ask it in the Comments section of this post, or send it to me at misskitty_ep[AT]bellsouth.net. And remember, no questions is too outlandish to Ask Mom™. She'll answer them all.

Intermission at the Happy Kitten Cottage

Beignet has slowed down a little since she got spayed a couple weeks ago. A little. Here, she's snoozing, between acts of Evening Crazies: The Musical. And those are old issues of Yoga Journal serving as her bed.