Well, thanks!

In the middle of a day where just about everything went awry, this public restroom graffiti made me smile.

Chicken Monday: 8/29/11

Here are some recent photos of eggs I gathered in the HKC chicken coop. Sometimes eggs have dirt, poop, or feathers stuck to them, so it helps to gently scrub them off before you use them.

The Colonel, commenting on Division II University

"Ugh, that place! I swear, it's like B.F. Skinner meets Sesame Street."

Friday Unimpressed Kittehs: 8/26/11

O hai. Mai name iz Holly, an I'z 1 uf Dr. Bill's offiss/blood donur kittehs. I iz moastlee Siameez. Also, I iz srsly unimprezd wif Miss Kitteh an awl dis tweekin uf mai eerz. Evry time she bringz in her Hobo, evry week or sew, I haz 2 put up wif awl her pettn an "ooh, ur a purrty girl." Plz, hoomin. Wut-EVAR.

Nao gib me mai cheezburger, kthxbai. Ur dizmissd.

Dogs! Helping!

Here are some doggie pictures from a couple Sundays ago, when Mom and El Seebeno spent most of the day installing two new window-mounted air conditioners at my house. I've featured Lucky a lot in the past, but haven't posted many pictures of sweet little Pomeranian-mix Bella. So these pictures are mostly of her.

I also took some hilarious photos of Mom and El Seebeno as they were working, and will post those before long. Very busy week around here—and I'll post on that too, when I get a chance.

He's not a cat! He's Pie!

Mom and El Seebeno spent all day a couple Sundays ago installing two new air conditioners at my house. Anyone who's owned by cats knows that no DIY project can happen without the "help" of said cats. So of course, Clark E. Pie, more frequently known as Pie (or Pah, as we pronounce it down South) had to make himself useful. Or at least part of the action. Yeah, that's more like it.

Mom opened the designated window in the kitchen, and El Seebeno stood outside behind the native azalea and removed the storm window and screen. But they quickly ran into a problem: the window had grown a 17-pound gray tabby lump. Every time Mom or I removed Clarky from the windowsill, he'd hop right back up there again when we weren't looking. Such is the way of kittehs.

Finally, Mom had had enough feline "help" for one day. "Dammit, cat, will you move?!?" With one elbow, she shoved Clark off the sill and out of the window, where OOF! he fell into the flower bed around the azalea. Feet-first, yes, but still surprised. He shook his head to regain his equilibrium.

Paw-Paw, of course, jumped to his grand-kitty's defense, immediately lifting Pie out of the dirt and ferns and brushing off his fur. "AWW! Is Grandmama mean to dat kitty? Mm-hmm, her is! My kitty otay? Hmm? Is my big boy otay?" El Seebeno glared at Mom with Clarky still in his arms, our furry DIY assistant now purring and eating up the sympathy. "He's not a cat! He's PAH!"

Chicken Saturday: 8/20/11

Ida B. Workin, so named by longtime E&P reader Woolywoman, is the most picked-on chicken in my flock. She's lowest in the pecking order—why, I'm not sure, but that's how it goes. And yes, that's where the phrase "pecking order" originated. Chickens are very social animals. Not necessarily friendly, but social. There is always a hierarchy with chickens, whether it's an all-fowl or mixed-species group. The legendary Myrtle Mae, rest her soul, kept all my outdoor kittehs in line from the moment she arrived at the Happy Kitten Cottage.

You can see from these photos that Ida's often the target of feather-picking from the other two hens, Lucille and Henrietta, and Leroy's frequent mounting her as well. She had a hard time wearing the Hen Saver vest I bought for her—maybe it was the crossed bands of elastic on the front? Maybe they squeezed her crop too much? I'll have to e-mail the manufacturer for advice—so I took it off and sprayed some antiseptic veterinary liniment on the places on her back and under her wings where I saw scabs and scratches. (The liniment is a deep purplish-blue, and stains whatever it touches: feathers, feet, skin, clothing. Took three days for it to finally wash off my hands and fingernails.)

Ida mostly stays inside the chicken coop, either in the egg-laying corner, or up on a deep shelf that serves as her living quarters. The other chickens gang up on her almost as soon as she ventures out the door; they remind me of mean little junior-high girls in that way. What did Ida do? They neither know nor care. They see only a target with feathers and feet when she sneaks out into the chicken yard.

So I set Ida up with her own food and water in the chicken coop: an old one-gallon "gravity" water bottle that used to serve foster kitties in the shed out back, and a couple old bowls holding mixed scratch grains and layer pellets. I sprinkle oyster shell nearby in case she feels the need for extra calcium. While Lucille (and Henrietta, back when she was still laying eggs, the lazy old biddy) gets plenty of eggshell-hardening calcium from the bugs she eats and the dirt she picks up with them in the yard, Ida B. generally needs another source of calcium since she's pullus non grata outside the coop.

Bless her little poultry heart, though—Ida B. still lays eggs nearly every day. I'm not quite sure which ones are hers; she's a little bigger than Lucille, so perhaps the larger eggs are Ida's, and the "medium grade A" eggs belong to Lucille. The variation in colors is beautiful; several shades of brown, sometimes a smattering of dark-brown speckles on the shells, and lately the light brownish-pink that reminds me of a Clinique eyeshadow set called "Pink Chocolates" that Pixie gave me for Christmas many years ago.

And although she still clucks up a storm when I enter the chicken house, I think Ida B. might finally realize that I'm here to take up for her. She's started spending time outdoors in the cool of the evening, when the other birds are on their roosts; Lucky and Bella generally keep the yard varmint-free. (I found possum fur and bones in the back yard last weekend, and will post about it in a day or so.) During the day, whenever I'm out in the chicken yard, Ida B. often comes out to see what's happening, and seems to worry a lot less about the other three birds.

Especially if I'm refilling the big 7-gallon waterer. With the hose sprayer set to "jet," I squirt the hell out of Leroy and the girls if they even act like they're going to pick on my sweet, shy, hard-working little chicken. Today, they paid attention to the unexpected feather wash, and left Ida the cluck alone.

Bob

(Note: All names have been changed.)

My lone commercial writing client, Bob, is in his late fifties and one of my former Division II University students. A Vietnam-era veteran and longtime small-business owner, Bob is in the Honors program and has earned accolades as a top-notch tutor. He's just two semesters away from finishing his political science degree with a minor in Southeast Asian Studies. His professors tell me he's the sharpest, most enthusiastic, most promising student they've had in years; they've written him glowing recommendations to well-respected graduate schools as he prepares for a Master's in the field.

Knowing all this about Bob, you might not imagine that he never expected to attend college. But in the summer of 2007, when his son Jimmy got out of the Army and began studying at D2U, he told his father, "Dad, you should think about going to college. You'd be a great student, and you'd love it. Besides, it's not like you don't have the time these days."

Jimmy had a point. Bob's auto insurance business once boasted 40 employees in three states. Because of the economic slump, though, the company was down to five people, including himself. Bob's five children were all grown; he and his wife Barbara were empty-nesters except for the half-dozen grandkids who got off the school bus at their house every afternoon. "Why not? I've always wanted to go to college," Bob said. "That's the one thing I've missed out on in life. I started a successful business, raised good kids, have a happy marriage, bought a house...but I've always wondered what I could've accomplished if I'd gone to college." He applied to D2U and was accepted.

In the fall of 2008, his son was in my English 1101 course on the first day of the semester. After our second class period, Jimmy took me aside. "I know this class is completely full," he said, "but my dad just enrolled here and can't find an English course to get enough hours for Financial Aid. I'm wondering if you could add him as an override. Trust me, he'll be an asset to the class." I was hesitant to add one more person to the roll, but I told Jimmy I'd add his father to the course. After all, a couple of people usually drop within the first week or ten days, so maybe the override would work out.

Bob turned out to the one of the best students I'd ever had. His enthusiasm and years of life and professional experience seemed to bring the younger students around, and made them pipe up and participate. The next semester, Bob enrolled in my English 1102 class, and again I wished I could clone him and have one of him in every course I taught. (A few months later, I got to know his wife when she enrolled in my summer semester Comp I.)

Bob often stopped by my office just to chat and exchange ideas. Seeing him in the doorway cheered me up when I was having a crappy day. One day around noon, I was on my way to the vending machines for another sorry chips-and-soft-drink lunch when he and Barbara came knocking. They were carrying a good-sized cooler. "We went home to Texas before school started," Bob explained, "and loaded up on boudin and chorizo while we were there. You spent your whole lunch hour Wednesday going over my paper with me, and I felt bad about it. So we brought you lunch, and some boudin to take home." I then proceeded to have the best damn breakfast burrito on the face of this earth, complete with sour cream and salsa and a big link of marvelous Cajun sausage.

In May 2009, Bob nominated me for D2U's Excellence in Teaching Award—and I won. I was humbled that he thought so much of my teaching that he went out of his way to join the Excellence in Teaching committee just so he could nominate me; most D2U students stay as far away as possible from any outside activities or commitments. And Bob stayed on that committee, too, seeing to it that the award went to instructors who could actually teach. In years past, the College of Business had railroaded the entire process, even going so far as to keep the committee from announcing the award, and stuffing the nomination box with their own generally mediocre professors.

But Bob put an end to that mess tout de suite. Humanities and science professors loved him for his courage in telling the Biz people to shove off, even though he was a longtime businessman himself. "I know good teaching when I see it," he told me once, "and it sure as shit ain't comin' from the College of Business. Those people couldn't teach if their lives depended on it." It was good to hear that, but also hilarious that it was coming from a silver-haired business owner on the windward side of 60, and who maybe stood 5'4" in his fancy yet well-worn Lucchese cowboy boots. Bob called them his "ass-kicking boots," and wore them to campus frequently. The boots kept Texas in his heart—well, on his feet, anyway. His family moved to the Lone Star State from Pennsylvania when Bob was in high school. After he got out of the Navy, he met Barbara in Baytown, and often pined for his new home state as they moved around the country wherever Bob's company took them. (Of course, he'd rather take a beating than admit to homesickness.)

When it came time for me to leave Division II University, I told very few people—especially students. I'd had enough grief from them over grades, and wanted to grade as strictly and fairly as possible, with as little griping as possible. I wanted to make a clean exit. But Bob was one of the few students whom I told I was leaving. "What the hell are they thinking?!?" he exclaimed as we sat in my office in April 2011. "You won the Excellence in Teaching Award two years ago, but they're going to replace you? Jesus! This place never ceases to amaze me." I explained to him that it was really okay, that I was completely burned out, and that it would be nice to have a break from the classroom. "I'm sure it will," he said. "But they're shooting themselves in the foot. I don't care if the salary line says 'PhD only' on it. They're getting rid of one of the best instructors at this school by letting you go."

But I shared with Bob that I was starting my own commercial writing business. If he ever had a need for someone who could write really well, might he keep me in mind? And indeed, he did. Three months ago, he e-mailed me to ask if I would put together two sophisticated presentations: the first, an e-learning unit to train new salespeople; the other, an investors'-meeting pitch for a new business venture. Back and forth we went, four and five and six drafts over the weeks that followed...and something wonderful began to take shape. "This is looking great," Bob e-mailed me a couple weeks ago. "The website uses some of your copy, and it should be up and running by the end of August."

He also mentioned in this e-mail that he was having a little trouble with his health. In 2010, Bob was diagnosed with spinal stenosis, which had caused his ongoing back pain, but which physical therapy was helping somewhat. He had lost ten pounds since getting his diabetes under control, and that helped him feel a little better, as well. While he knew the stenosis would eventually confine him to a wheelchair, he decided to do the best he could with his health, and live every day to the fullest. He had some tremors in his hands and had developed a slight limp, but those were effects of his spinal bones slowly closing in and pressing on the nerves running through them. "I can still use a computer and type," he said, "and my handwriting hasn't gotten too bad yet." Yes, he got tired more easily than in the past, but his kids had pitched in to help him and Barbara a couple days a week. And the excitement of the new business pepped him up, reenergized him on days when he felt like sleeping in.

On Sunday, I e-mailed Bob to let him know I was nearly done with the latest draft of the investors' presentation—I'm juggling four different tasks this week, I wrote, but I'll have the draft to you by the end of this week. Sorry for the delay.

That's okay, take your time, Bob e-mailed me back a short time later. Not like I can do anything right now, anyway. I'm at the hospital and won't be out until Monday afternoon at the earliest.

Good thing I was sitting down when I read it. HOLY SHIT!!! I replied. Is everything okay? Are you okay? Keep me posted.

Monday afternoon, he sent me a reply:
Well, the doctor just came by and informed me that the lesion they found on the MRI means I have multiple sclerosis. They start me on MS meds tomorrow, but there's a huge list of side effects. I may not be able to finish my degree, or even work anymore.

I sat there a while, stunned. A distant cousin of mine and Pixie's was diagnosed with MS last fall, at age 47. Although Luke's still struggling, he's feeling a lot better than he was before the diagnosis. He can't ride his Harley any more, and sometimes walks with a cane, but to his delight he's been able to keep working. (Luke is a home furnishings-materials researcher, and really loves his job.)

In my reply, I shared Luke's story with Bob, and told him he and his family were in my thoughts and prayers. And I also told him that I was actually just in denial, and that I didn't mean to sound dumb and Pollyanna-like...but I was heartbroken to hear about his diagnosis. I didn't get a reply, but that wasn't a surprise. If it were me who'd just been given a serious, life-changing medical diagnosis, the last place I'd be is in front of my computer.

Taking care of e-mails and other chores this morning, I happened to look down at my cell phone to see two new text messages, both from Bob:

Kitty, I am in St. Xavier Hospital in D2U City, & been here since 1:30AM Sunday morning. It appears I have a brain tumor. I am now waiting for them to do a
11:25:04am

biopsy to tell me how far it's advanced & how long I may have. All depends on what they find. There's a remote chance it's scar tissue that's calcified
11:27:33am

Please keep Bob and his family in your thoughts and prayers.

Tempted.

These three little sweeties were in a crate in the waiting room at Dr. Bill's vet clinic when Hobo and I came in for another post-surgery checkup. The two black kittens played so hard that they turned into a small, dark funnel cloud of fur and feet and ears and "Meowowwwrrrrr!" The gray kitten, quite a bit larger than its litter mates, managed to get in on the hell-raising and deliver a few well-placed bunny kicks to heads. But Little Gray Kitteh mostly wanted to play with my fingers through the bars: "Plz 2 taek meh hoam, Miss Kitteh? Plz? I'z gud bebeh. I nomz ur fingrs! Nom-nom-nom!"

As much as I would adore having little bat-like ears and radar tails and tiny Jellybean Toez (of Doom!) around the HKC, I didn't bring any kittens home. "Rly sry, I gotz bit bai a bigger kitteh," I said as I reached through the cage to pet them. "I haz plentee problumz rite nao. But I noes Dr. Bill findz yu a gud hoam."

Ohhhh, but how I am tempted. Especially in light of Mom and El Seebeno's new bebehs. [deep sigh]

At Home Depot with Mom & El Seebeno

Sunday morning after breakfast. For a change, the three of us have finally beat the Baptists to Shoney's. At Home Depot, we plan to buy two window-mounted air conditioners for which I have carefully budgeted my limited funds, and which Mom and El Seebeno will then spend the day installing in my den and kitchen.

Walking through the tool section, Mom and El Seebeno salivate over drill bits, laser-guided saws, routers, sanders, etc.

ME: What else do we need?
SEEBEN: One of EVERYTHING!
ME: Srsly?
MOM: Srsly. Kthxbai.
ME: I take it there are some Christmas presents on this aisle.
SEEBEN: There's some Steve presents on this aisle once I get my paycheck.
MOM: [whispers and points] He's getting those for Christmas, shhh.
ME: Oh, right.
MOM: [to Seeben] Anything else we desperately need and can't live without, before we load up on air conditioners?
SEEBEN: How 'bout a hand truck?
MOM: Kitteh's got two.
SEEBEN: [pointing] Ooooooh! I neeeeeed it!!!
MOM: Oh, look! It's one of those remote camera thingys, with a light on the end. Like plumbers and electricians use to see what's going on down in the pipe, or inside the wall.
ME: That's got to be handy.
SEEBEN: And this one's really nice, too.
ME: I'm glad plumbers know what they're doing with this. Because I do NOT want to see what's in my drain pipes. Mmmmgghh! ["vomit check" noise]
MOM: Oh God, me neither. Bleh! You know, Seeben...we could use this to see what's rattling around behind the dashboard of my truck.
SEEBEN: [grabs flexible camera arm, points it at front of Mom's shorts] Oooh, baby, I could check out your plumbing with this light and everything, and see what I'm doing—
MOM: [gives him The Look]
ME: [fingers in ears] Lalalalalalalaaaaaaa! NOT listening! Lalalalalalalaaaaaa!!!

Recycling: Ur doin it rite.

Like many kitteh people, Mom and I always have empty 40-pound cat litter containers sitting around. Rarely, though, do we send them to the recycling center before getting several years' use out of them. Mom uses them for collecting rainwater, transplanting and dividing all kinds of plants, soaking stained clothing, dyeing fabric, painting, cleaning, moving frogs and/or turtles out of the lawnmower's path, protecting seedlings from a late frost, storing kitteh toys, hiding Christmas gifts in plain sight, drinking fountains for the dogs, and just about anything else you can think of. By the time they're finally ready for the recycling center, these buckets have truly seen better days. "Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without" is one of Mom's mottos.

Another way she uses these rather large plastic containers is as wastebaskets. Life's a little easier when you've got a wastebasket in each room. And the buckets are perfect for the job! They usually measure 15" to 20" tall, and perhaps 10" to 14" wide, which makes them approximately four-and-a-half-gallon buckets, so to speak. They can hold a lot of waste paper or junk mail or lint or fabric scraps or gum wrappers or whatever; you generally don't have to empty them twice a day as you might wimpier trash cans. If you don't like the color of the plastic, you can always hide the wastebasket under a desk, or you can find creative ways to spruce it up.

So I saw a great tutorial at Momtastic explaining how to create a no-sew fabric cover for a two-gallon plastic bucket from the home improvement center. "That's great!" I said. "I should try this with the white Kroger-brand cat litter bucket in the den." A two-gallon bucket is a little small for my purposes, and I'd been thinking on and off for a few weeks about taking a few Tidy Cats containers outside and hitting them with some plastic-friendly spray paint. But no, that wasn't a good idea. In El Seebeno's famous words, it's hot as fuck. While I'm 98% healed up from my feral cat bites, I'm still strangely susceptible to heat and get woozy if I'm even the least bit overheated. Dying of heatstroke at age 37: DO NOT WANT. And if the heat index is 115+ like it was earlier this week, chances are that I'll hurry and just generally be sloppy as fuck. Paint overspray on house, car, and critters: DO NOT WANT.

So here's the final product. Mom looked over the directions with me, and showed me how she interpreted them and determined the pleat size. We draped the fabric around the bucket in various styles, and Mom pinned this one in the places where she needed to cut it. She showed me how she'd go about putting it on, and then I grabbed the hot glue gun and got busy. About an hour later, voila! A great-looking wastebasket from a spruced-up cat litter container. Okay, the pleats are a little wonky in places where I forgot to stretch them correctly, and the ribbon isn't exactly even, but it looks good from this angle. As Mom said, "Well, it's your first time ever doing this project." True. So I just turn the funny-looking side to the wall and enjoy my spiffy 90% recycled trash can.

The fabric is light tan cotton broadcloth that I got on sale at Hancock Fabrics. The ribbon is 1.5" grosgrain, brown with white dots, that I picked up at Wal-Mart. (Mom and I are ecstatic that our Small Town Wally World has *finally* brought back the fabric department.) In these photos, you'll see the finished wastebasket first. Second is a view inside; yep, that's definitely a plastic cat-litter container. The third photo looks a little more closely at the ribbon, and the last photo shows the bucket with the trash can liner sticking out.

Door to door to door to door

I like my neighborhood. My mortgage payment is very reasonable. The little kid in me delights in the comforting sound of freight trains rumbling by and sounding their horns at all hours. (The HKC is a few hundred feet from a very active rail corridor.) The neighborhood lies just two minutes from the hospital, and four minutes from three different grocery stores. It's within the city limits, the former mill village houses are about 100 years old, and the neighbors are of many different ethnicities and ages. Just about everyone is friendly, and neighbors watch out for one another. While this 'hood was a little rough a dozen years ago when I moved in, it's calmed down substantially. Okay, so I could do without the children whose playtime screams sound as if Freddy Krueger is butchering them before their mothers' very eyes.

No, really. In the spring and summer, I'm awakened by frightened, desperate, guttural screaming first thing in the morning, just to bolt out of bed and look out the window...at my neighbor's grandkids riding their tricycles up and down her driveway. Or the kids two houses down and across the street, squirting one another with the garden hose. Are those Big Wheels made of lava? Is that sulfuric acid spurting out from the hose? No? Then how the hell does that warrant oh-God-please-help-us-we're-being-tortured-to-death noises? I will never know. Even if Freddy and Jason actually DID show up, I wouldn't even know anything was wrong. I can hear the police officer now: "Why didn't you call 911?" "Sir, they scream like that all the time. I thought the youngest had lost another round of Connect Four."

I could also do without door-to-door salesmen.

A lot of people might think that, here in the 21st century and the Internet Age, nobody sells anything door-to-door anymore. But those people have never been to the Cottage Street neighborhood in Small Town, GA. Sure, missionaries still come calling in a lot of neighborhoods all over the country—I've been visited by Mormons, Jehovah's Witnesses, and Seventh-Day Adventists. (They've all been really nice people, too.) Think about it: door-to-door missionary work is a direct way to gain new followers. If someone's going to convert to a completely different religion, chances are they're not going to do it on a whim, or a hair crosswise up the ying-yang. Chances are they've gotten to know someone from that new faith, and have learned about it a little at a time until they decide that this new path is for them. The person-to-person connection means everything when it comes to spiritual matters.

But in neighborhoods like mine, where the houses are close together and the people usually don't have a lot of money, door-to-door selling is alive and well. Maybe it's still doing fine out in the country, too. In the 1970s, when we lived on a lonely stretch of two-lane highway in rural Alabama, my dad got so frustrated with itinerant peddlers—sometimes two per day, every day of the week!—that he cut up some scrap plywood and painted a large, bright-red sign with white lettering large enough to be seen from the road 100 feet away:

NO SALESMEN.

And for the 13 years we called Route 2 Box 96 "home," we had zero salesmen. My and Pixie's kindergarten teacher, Miss Gardette, marveled at the sign. "Every time I drive over to Boogerville past your house, I see that big ol' sign: NO SALESMEN! Your daddy's so smart to put that up!" I always wondered why she said that. It sounded silly, or maybe it was patronizing; Oh my, ditch-diggers have brains! In my mind, the sign was an organic part of where we lived, as much a part of that front stoop as the skinny-legged nandinas trying to grow along the side of the house, or the peeling, chalky white paint, or the wide concrete steps where Daddy always shined his shoes.

Years later, though, I recognized the genuine admiration in Miss Gardette's words. Daddy's sign was spray-painted and stenciled boldness in a South where people are never, ever supposed to say no outright. Even if you have no desire to own a set of wonder knives or Universal Encyclopedias of Cookery or a vacuum cleaner that will make you the envy of the neighborhood, saying "No thanks, I'm not interested" is beyond rude. And my dad was the kind of guy who made up his own mind on his own time. While a strong sales pitch might sway someone more concerned with keeping up a façade of politeness, it only made Daddy more determined not to buy anything. Of course, since our nearest neighbor was a quarter-mile away, he also viewed traveling salesmen as potential thieves and murderers. In the country, these things can (and do) happen.

On Cottage Street and the surrounding blocks, we get door-to-door solicitations all the time. Some are legit: Cottage View AME's youth group offering Krispy Kremes fresh off the delivery truck. High school marching band kids selling citrus baskets direct from Florida. Country Fed Meats and their ubiquitous pickup trucks with the chest freezer mounted in the bed. Earnest volunteers gathering pledges for the latest Leukemia Walk. Others, though, I view with a hearty dose of suspicion. A guy pushing a rickety lawnmower that's older than I am down the street, asking if my just-mowed yard needs cutting? Thanks, but I've got it under control. Those kids selling magazine subscriptions for college scholarships? Yeah, I got my magazines in the mail...six months after I ordered them. (They also failed to mention that the brochure's prices were one-third of what my credit card was charged.) The dude with the sex-offender eyes who says he noticed my roof really needs repair, and he can fix it for real cheap right now but doesn't have transportation or tools or insurance? Get off my porch before my real roofers kick your ass.

Wednesday evening, I was working on a different E&P post when the doorbell rang. I hate it when anything interrupts my writing, but I've learned that the ding-dong! could mean that one of my cats has been hit in the street, or that the folks four houses down have had a death in the family, or that Bella has managed to break into the chicken pen yet again. Thinking that it might be any or all of the above, I went to the door. There stood a dark-haired young man, probably in his early to mid-20s, in a polo shirt, nice khaki shorts, a Camelbak water pack, and carrying a nice portfolio.

He was selling security-system upgrades. I have no security system, and therefore nothing to upgrade. Well, I had one ages ago, but couldn't afford the monthly fee, so I eventually canceled my service. I also didn't feel that having a security system helped all that much. Several of my neighbors with fancy systems have been robbed in recent years; the thieves cut the phone lines (hence, no automated call to 911) and got in and out before anyone was the wiser. Happily, the HKC doesn't exactly look like money lives here, what with the junk on the porch, the faded vinyl siding that should've been replaced 15 years ago, the unkempt shrubs, and the huge assortment of cats lounging about the yard. Mind you, I'm not a fool—I have two loud and barkalicious dogs; I keep the yard well-lit and lock all doors and windows; I keep an eye on everyone, whether or not they actually give me the heebie-jeebies; I never "advertise" when I've bought something expensive. (If I get a new computer, iPod, stereo, or whatever, I never put the carton next to the curb. Instead, I either use the cardboard to protect the floor during DIY projects, or I take it directly to the recycling center.)

When we lived in Alabama 25 years ago, our house was robbed twice without nearby neighbors or a security system. Last year, my upper-middle-class neighbors were robbed, too, despite the houses on either side being 50 feet away, their location on a well-traveled city street, and having high-tech security systems. The way I look at it, the best I can do is the best I can do. Material goods can always be replaced. Safety is most important; as long as the critters and I are all right, to hell with inanimate objects.

I hadn't seen a security system rep on Cottage Street in...well, since I bought the old system in 1999. I still wasn't interested. Dammit, I was in the middle of a really good blog post! Even if he'd told me the system would file my tax returns and make mad, passionate love to me every night of the week, I still would have passed on it. I do my own taxes, thank you, and when the exceptionally talented Colonel happens to go out of town, Rosie Palm and her five sisters cover for him.

But for a few moments, I did consider getting another security system, and immediately regretted doing so.

The insistent, don't-take-no-for-an-answer sales pitch kicked in. And naturally, my insistent, don't-let-someone-pressure-you-into-buying-something-you-may-not-need-and-certainly-can't-afford counterpitch kicked in. Right away, I began telling the young man that I needed to think it over, that I probably couldn't afford it—I guess it was the unspoken Southern politeness rule working its way out—and he was also polite while keeping up his line.

But then he made four very telling statements:

1. "All I'll need is your date of birth and your Social Security number to get started."
2. "I don't see what the problem is. You can cancel at any time."
3. "I need to get five people in the neighborhood to sign up for the program to pay for it, and you're the fourth one. Do you know ______? Or ______? How about ____? Or ______? Or ______, on Main Street?"
   
4. "I've spent so much time here talking with you, so you should go ahead and sign up."

First, dude was giving me some serious identity-theft-ring willies. Second, dude was not listening between the lines, so to speak. Third: Yes, I know all those people, and can stand only one of them. And fourth, I'll be damned and go straight to hell before I'm guilt-tripped into buying anything. I am, after all, my father's daughter.

The outdoor cats were milling around all hungry, the mosquitoes were feasting on the backs of my knees, and I was ready to be rid of the heavy-handed pitch. "Well, sir," I began, knowing he was used to the occasional rejection. He'd mentioned that he'd been doing this for five years, and nobody can stay in any type of sales without developing ways to deal with noes. (I know from experience.) "I'm so sorry to have wasted your time this evening, but I'm simply not interested." I leaned away from the porch railing to go back indoors.

This is the point where you'd expect a deep sigh and "Aw, ma'am, I'm sorry to hear that. In case you change your mind, here's my card and a brochure." Any sales veteran worth his or her salt knows that, handled skillfully, this week's no could turn into next week's yes. But the young man's face suddenly went pale, and crumpled. In one motion, he put his portfolio and smartphone into his backpack, laid the registration form on the side table, and practically leaped out of the rocking chair and off the porch. "Take care," he mumbled, the very sharp edge of tears in his voice.

I walked directly back into the house and locked the door. Guilt-laced chills ran up and down my spine as I stood in the living room and talked to Hobo Kitty and Clark. "Oh, kitties! Ugh! I couldn't let that guy guilt me into spending money I don't have. And he gave me such a strange feeling. UGH!!!" I rubbed my goosebumps and tried to shake off the weirdness.

In the kitchen, Lucky and Bella wagged their tails and barked at me through the back door's glass. I looked at them, then back at the cats, and scooped a cup of cat food from the container. As I fed the outdoor cats on the front porch and watched them eat, my resolve hardened. I told the kitties, "Nobody messes with us. Nobody. Time to check with an 'employer' and stop by the neighbors' houses. And make our own NO SALESMEN sign like your Paw-Paw Newty used to have." I scratched Smokey's ears absentmindedly. "Better re-load my pistol, too."

ADDED ON 11 Aug 2011, 11:52am:
Well, well! What have we here?
From the Denver Post: Security scam should alarm homeowners
From Canada, but similar to what I heard last evening: Home Security Scam Goes Door-to-Door
Vision Security, LLC Complaint and Scams (yep, that's them)
A page from the company's website: Vision Security Sales Rep Identification

After having read a little bit about the company (and how they treat their employees, who are basically kids holed up in a cheap apartment in a town they don't know, and who don't get paid for weeks on end despite working 18-hour days), I think there's a scam running on more than one level here. I called the neighbors whose numbers I could find in the phone book and left messages for them. The neighbor who lives on the corner is vice-president of Cottage Street Neighborhood Watch, and when he gets home this evening, I'll pay him a visit.

Bitten by a Kitten: Day 12, and Nearly Healed Up

Yesterday evening, I took my last dose of heavy-duty antibiotics to ward off infection after feral kitteh Skunk bit me on July 29. And not a moment too soon, either—I sure am tired of everything tasting weird. Gourmet root beer tastes tinny and wrong. Bottled water now tastes like bitter plastic. Same for city water, country well water, fancy Cuisinart-filtered water. I'm glad not to have festering sores around the kitty-tooth punctures, but it would be nice to be able to drink H2O without gagging.

Anyhow, 12 days post-NOMNOMNOM, I feel pretty good. The bites and scratches look much, much better. I provided updates a couple of times here and here, and then got slack. Rly sry, blogger FAIL. Kind of hard to type when you're all loopy on Vicodin. Know what I mean?
[eyeballs waving around in head]

The bad thing about an injury to your dominant hand is not being able to use that hand as you would normally. Another bad thing about an injury to your dominant hand is that it's nearly impossible to take good pictures of the wounds with your other hand. So there's only one picture of the right hand; you'll notice that the 1/4" long cut near the base of the nail is where Skunk's top tooth went in. This was the only decent one of about 12 blurry pictures. I gave up once I had this one.

This whole situation could have been SO much worse; for one, I could be laid up in the hospital right now with my arm rotting off. Or the kittehs could have escaped un-spayed, and would be out doing the horizontal hula with the huge, shaggy gray-and-white tomcat on the next block who has managed to elude every trap that Small Town Cat Savers have set for him. So I'm thanking Bastet that everything has (so far) turned out all right.

The kittehs? They, too, are just about healed up. As a matter of fact, Mom and El Seebeno are coming over later in the week to cut a cat door in the rear of the shed. That way, Tiger Lily and Skunk can still call the shed home while they explore and (re)establish their places in the neighborhood. After a couple of weeks, we'll close up the cat door, and the newly-spayed feral cats will be free to lounge around the HKC yard and take advantage of the twice-daily buffet.

Old Pattern Promenade

Just for fun—and also because I've been very lax about updating you on my kitteh-induced injuries, which I'll be getting to tomorrow—here are some vintage and reproduction patterns from my collection. The first two I picked up recently during a Vogue special.


Originally published in 1946, this 65-year-old design is infinitely more stylish than what's on the runways today. Where will the fashions of 2011 be when their patterns are retirement age? Ha!


This plus difficile-rated pattern was originally published in 1948. The gathered/curved seams are stunning. And would probably drive Mom to drink.

Can you spot the typo? Crap on the runways, crap in the proofreading department. Welcome to the 21st century!


I'm not sure when pattern manufacturers began printing copyright dates on patterns, but this is one of the earliest I've seen (dated 1950). Still looking sharp, too, even if the poor envelope's shot to hell. I'm dreaming of View A in gray/black silk douppioni. Not sure if that's realistic—but it's my party and I'll have delusions if I want to.


This one's from 1959. Love love LOVE the wide, stand-away collar. The two buttons do work, but are kind of ornamental, as there's a nice long zipper up the back. As Mom has taught me: When in doubt, go with a longer zipper in that seam than you think you'll need. Too short, and you'll never get the damn thing on without ripping it (and cursing yourself soundly).


This 1960 all-purpose day dress closes with the three buttons and a zipper that's hidden behind the skirt's placket. One in every color? Why, yes.


This pattern's 1973 copyright date makes it as old as I am. I generally don't care for styles from that decade—see old Sears and J.C. Penney catalog photos—except when Mom sews them. Mom's 1970s clothes look so sharp in all her old pictures because she made them herself and altered them just right. She still has a few dress and blouse patterns from back then that she's made for Pixie and me in recent years, and they're at once timeless yet trendy. The black-and-white number at the far right looks like something Mom might have whipped up for herself back in the day. Her taste has always been light-years ahead of everyone else's.

As I got ready to post this, I freaked out for a moment at the weird black-and-white apparition in the lower left corner. It looked like the ghost of a distraught, forsaken, sobbing Harvey during his Skid Row years, out of liquor and with only one ear left, and I nearly panicked. But then I realized it's just the lady on many 1970s McCall's patterns, the lower two-thirds of her face upside-down. Why they placed her image at that end of the envelope, I'll never know.


This one was a gift from an Etsy vendor when I bought half a dozen other old patterns from her. The copyright is 1970, but it says "Class of '67" to me. The lady on the far left is about to reach into her Pony Express mailbag, pull out a giant doobie, and fire. it. UP.


Gotta love Butterick's Retro line. This pattern, originally released in 1948, is labeled as a robe. Wait a minute —you mean to tell me that once upon a time, housecoats were stylish? I'd feel guilty keeping this on the back of the bathroom door. As I suspected, though, Butterick's website also has it sewn up as an espresso-brown satin evening gown. So you're sure to look sophisticated whether you're out on the town, or sitting home in hot rollers.


I really like this 1957 repro, but bra-wise it's giving me fits. The lightweight cropped jacket is adorable and could easily hide any exposed bra straps. However, in the heat of summer I'd need to take it off between the car and air-conditioned buildings, thereby exposing any faux pas de bra. What kind of undergarments am I supposed to wear with a deep-cutaway sleeveless front and a low-cut back? The Girls are large and fighting gravity; braless is not an option. And don't say "strapless" either, because DD cup + strapless bra = HAHAHAHAHAAAA! Might as well just flash everyone and get it over with. We cannot have that, because I'm wearing this to work, complete with hat and gloves. And the built-in petticoat. You heard me.


Mo' glamour, mo' problems. From what I understand, a typical 1950s woman always wore a bra (or girdle) when going out in public. But I'm not seeing any bullet-bra pointiness on bodices here, nor do the low-scooped backs seem very foundation garment-friendly. Hats, gloves, and petticoats do not go with low-hangers. Understand?


This chic reprint from 1955 is a top-and-skirt combo that looks like a long, slender dress. Wearing it is license for supreme diva behavior. "I'm sorry, what was that? Speak up, for God's sake! I can't hear a thing over my ensemble fantastique! Did I say you could stop massaging my feet? While you're at it, bring me another glass of Dom Perignon, and hurry! Is my Chanel No. 5 bubble bath ready? Hop to it!"

Friday Okay-Mom-Whatever Kittehs: 8/5/11

"We are NOT going to get any more cats. We need another kitty like we need another hole in our heads. El Seebeno says, 'Aww, babies need a home, Mama!' when we drive past that house up the road with the FREE KITTENS sign on the mailbox. He has lost his damn mind. You can't just get one kitten. You have to get a pair or they'll drive you batshit. He doesn't remember how bad Oliver and Squirt were. We've got too many kitties as it is, and by God we don't need more. Can't even move, there's so many cats underfoot around here. I don't care what El Seebeno says, we are NOT getting any more cats. No more kittehs blah blah blah no more kittehs blah blah blah blah no more kittehs blah blah blah blah blah no more kittehs blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah no more kittehs blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah O hai guess what I gotz today?"

Like a dog to water

This summer has not only been one of record-breaking heat, but of record-breaking flea infestations. Poor Lucky and Bella have been crawling with fleas—and I do mean crawling, as in OMG I can see fleas swarming all over their bodies! crawling. Usually I deal with fleas by using prescription back-of-canine-necks flea stuff, but my puppehs' fleas were so bad that they needed relief right now. I then spoke the word that all dogs dread...

BATH.

Bella was a very good girl in the bathtub, and that's not very surprising. She weighs only about 15 pounds, and stands maybe 15" tall at most. Her former owners (before they lost their damn fool minds) bathed her every week, so all Bella did while standing in the bathtub was look at me with her huge, sad eyes: Mama, Y yu put meh in teh waturz? Y, Mama? I'z a gud goggie. Y yu so meen 2 meh? But she didn't try to get away; she just winced as I poured clean water over her head and shielded her eyes from the shampoo residue. (Is there such as thing as No More Tears Extra-Strength Flea Formula? I didn't think so.) I laughed my Evil Scientist laugh watching hundreds of fleas trying to escape the deadly veterinarian-strength suds. And once Bella was rinsed and dry and relatively de-flea'd, she felt a lot better.

A couple evenings later, I bathed Lucky. As you can imagine, this was much more difficult. Lucky weighs 50-55 pounds, nearly four times what Bella weighs. He is also long-bodied and short-legged—hence the nickname Low Rider. And, as longtime E&P readers will recall, Lucky and baths go a long way back.

So I dragged Low Rider indoors. Nearly threw my back out picking him up and carrying him into the house. I don't know whether he hesitated because he knows he's not supposed to be in the house, or because Clark was sitting in the kitchen. All the supplies were already set up, so I carried him into the bathroom, set his big brown self down in the tub, and got started.

Nothing like a kitteh in the peanut gallery to add to the humiliation of a
B-A-T-H.


To get this picture, I had to hold his soapy head against my hip with the scrub-mitt hand and balance the camera in the other slick, soapy hand. My clothes were completely nasty and soaked by the time it was all over with. Please note the gross-colored water.


Damn self-timer.



Here, I'm letting the flea shampoo work its five-minute magic. By this point, Lucky had tried to escape the tub half a dozen times, strewing huge brown sudsy streaks all over the bathroom. About time I cleaned it, anyway.


Such a good dog! Him's being still with his front legs propped on an old towel!

After having bathed both dogs, I figured out that it was the slippery tub floor making them so ill at ease. They can't get a firm footing with the water and shampoo under their feet. So I bought an inexpensive suction-cupped tub mat for just this purpose; perhaps next time will be a little more comfortable paw-wise.


LUCKY: What are you lookin' at?
CLARK: Nuthin. [looks away]
LUCKY: Are you laughin' at me? Huh? Are ya? You are. You're laughin' at me.
CLARK: Ummm...nope. Just, uhh, sittin' here. Yeah.


Nasty, nasty water.

It's been almost two weeks. Bath time is nigh yet again! More pictures then.