Genius

Oh, how I wish I'd been the creative person to come up with this idea.  Crafting with Cat Hair is exactly what it sounds like: a book about making felted and handsewn crafts out of cat hair.  I'm not saying I want to make any of these things; rather, I wish I were the person who wrote this book and is marketing it to a cat-loving public.  Think it's not selling?  Think again.  I found it featured prominently on the New Nonfiction shelf at my local library.

Tucson 2012: Cute Things

Cute baby: BFF's great-granddaughter.  The most adorable kid in the world not related to me.

Cute kitteh: Sunny

Cute kitteh: Furby

A Moment of Zen

A New Year's Message from My Cat

Have a Happy New Year or Imma hurt you.

RIP Ringo Stu Kitty, Esq.

It's a sad day here at Old Maid HQ.  Ringo Stu Kitty, beloved cat of Monica of 5 Cats Shy, brother of the dearly departed Seamus Patrick O'Kitty and excellent roadtrip buddy crossed the Rainbow Bridge last night.

Ringo Stu was a six-pound cat with a lion-sized personality.  He always greeted guests at the door like the gentleman he was.  Ringo was an excellent conversationalist  who enjoyed talking on the phone with his grandma Kathleen and expressing himself on many topics.  He was also a talented singer who enjoyed xylophone music and would sing along with Buddy Holly's "Every Day" and the Beastie Boys' "Girls."  His cow impersonations were legendary.

Ringo was a very cuddly cat who would by means of stealth get onto his mother's lap at any opportunity.  He loved his mother very much, and he also had love to share with others.  When we were traveling across the country, I woke up many times with Ringo curled up on my belly.  Ringo was a lot of love in a very small package.

Ringo is survived by his mother Monica, his grandma Kathleen, his aunt Michelle, his aunt Maria, and his cousins Huckleberry and Daphne Clementine Katz.  Godspeed, "Ringo Stulio down at the schoolyard."

Pet Peeve

Dear Veterinary Clinic Staff:

This is a cone.

Image: Allposters.com

This is an Elizabethan collar.  Please update your terminology accordingly.  Thank you.

Hugs,
Maria

[Gentle readers, my cat had some routine surgery to remove benign growths on her ear and cheek.  In person she looks like she's gone a couple of rounds with Mike Tyson on a day when he was in a biting mood, but rest assured, she is fine.]

One Badass Teddy

Yes, that's a Harley-Davidson do-rag.  Henry's cool like that.

Goodnight Irene

Other than the sounds of chainsaws and woodchippers all over the neighborhood, things are pretty much back to normal here at Old Maid HQ. The power went out approximately ten minutes after the wind started to blow and stayed out for about 36 hours, but thanks to the folks at National Grid working around the clock, we got power back days ahead of projections.

I spent the day yesterday with my darling sister-in-law and my nieces and nephew. They got power back around noon, so I was able to charge my phone and scrounge a hot shower and a hot meal before venturing home.

The cat is also really glad the power is back on. On Sunday night she got pretty tired of me shining a flashlight on her to cast her shadow on the wall and then singing the theme from the 1960s "Batman" television series.

Dept. of Home Economics: Trash to "Treasure"

I've been working this week on some things I like to call "swamp yankee crafts," and it has occurred to me that my grandma would be proud since I am taking trash and reusing it. She liked anything that was gussied up for little to no money and was famous at the church Christmas bazaar for her crocheted toilet paper covers.



My first craft is a hillbilly basket. It was designed to go with a John Deere themed room at the Army Dude's house, so that's what dictated the materials and color scheme. I measured the length and width of the areas I wanted to weave fabric through, and cut the denim strips (from an old pair of jeans) about an inch longer. Then I trimmed the ends as necessary once I had them stitched in place.



I glued a piece of cardboard (cut out of a Triscuits box) to the fabric for the bottom to give it some support. I left the cardboard visible because, well, it's a hillbilly basket. If I ever do this again, I think I'll try using strips of thick paper (like magazine covers) and glue. Stitching inside a box was a pain.



My next swamp yankee craft was cat food can tea light holders. I got the idea of recycling cans by wrapping them with something new from Alyssa Watters, who was selling cans covered in prints of her original art at a caft fair earlier this summer (the Army Dude bought several). I don't know how I made the mental leap from that to tealight holders made from cat food cans, but as I'm sure you've realized by now, gentle readers, my mind is a strange and mysterious place.


I stripped the labels off the cans and cleaned them really well. I saved one of the labels as a template because I'm not smart with math and calculating circumferences due to the fact that the math area of my brain has been crowded out by show tune lyrics.

Next, I cut strips from magazine pages with pretty images and glued them onto the cans using a glue stick. Then I applied a thin layer of Mod Podge with a brush to create a lightly textured effect and let it dry.

I worked on these while watching a marathon of Diners, Drive-ins and Dives. It seemed like the right thing to do.

R.I.P. Seamus Patrick O'Kitty

It's a sad day here at Old Maid HQ. Seamus Patrick O'Kitty, beloved cat of Monica of 5 Cats Shy and friend to spinsters coast to coast crossed the rainbow bridge last night.

Seamus was the strong, silent type. He didn't say much, so when he did talk, you knew he had something important to communicate. Things like "My brother just pooped in the cat carrier," for example -- vital information on a cross-country roadtrip.

Seamus and I really had a chance to get to know each other on the road trip we took together in January. Before that, he'd always viewed me as a stranger and best avoided. But he warmed up to me on that trip. I would wake up in the middle of the night, sick with the flu and worrying about my own kitty boarded at the vet for the first time ever, and he'd be on the bed with me -- still silent, not asking to be petted, just there. It was very comforting.

I also like to remember the Wigwam Motel in Holbrook, Arizona, where Seamus and I snuggled on my bed in the evening while I read. I petted him while he purred and purred. It was a happy time.

Seamus is survived by his mother Monica, his brother Ringo Stu Kitty, his grandma Kathleen, his aunt Michelle, his aunt Maria, and his cousins Huckleberry and Daphne Clementine Katz. Godspeed, Little Boy.

Things That Make You Go Awwwwwww

Cat Math

Every time the Army Dude gives my cat a treat, he gets concerned because I always want him to give her approximately half as many as he wants to give her. She's an elderly cat who needs to have good nutrition and not to -- as my mom used to say -- "fill up on junk." For years now, I have been telling him to relax because cats can't count.


I have recently discovered, however, that Miss Daphne knows the difference between "one" and "many." If one treat drops on the floor, she looks at it and then looks up at me with an expression that says "One treat? Really? How much do you like having a poop-free comforter? Think about it. Take your time." If I put down a few treats, she dives on them and eats them gleefully with no sarcastic facial expressions.


Just between us, sometimes I put one treat down because her snarkiness amuses me. But then I follow it up with more because I am no fool. I like having a poop-free comforter a lot.

How I Met Monica of 5 Cats Shy

You know how you can meet certain people and it's like you've known them your whole life? That's how it was when I met my NaBloPoMo buddy, Monica of 5 Cats Shy.

I'd been posting for a couple of years on an internet message board full of women (and a few men), when I received an invitation to join a small group for a weekend on Nantucket. I knew that if I told my friends and family what I was doing, they'd be convinced that I was going to be murdered or sold into white slavery, so I did the only logical thing: I didn't tell anyone and I went anyway.

I had a blast. We stayed in a beautiful vacation home owned by our hostess' in-laws, where nine of us, ranging in age from early twenties to early fifties, totally came together as a group. We hung out and talked, toured a winery-distillery-brewery, and watched a few episodes of I Love The 80s.

I liked everyone, but Monica and I bonded right away. I don't remember what we talked about (alcohol was involved), but I remember we were chatting away in no time like old friends, and she loaned me a shirt to wear to the bar that night.

The entire group arrived at the bar wearing tiaras, boas, and sashes that said "Miss Nantucket," and as our hostess reached out to open the door, she said "They don't know what's about to hit them." They didn't. It was one of those epic nights that goes down in the annals of partying.

We were having an impromptu bachelorette party, and the bride had a list of tasks to perform, such as to get a group of strangers to toast to her love and to get up on stage with the band. Monica and I decided we also needed a list, since we'd both had engagements end in disaster. I don't remember the whole list we came up with (did I mention alcohol was involved?), but I do remember one in particular. There was a guy who was obviously very drunk, who was constantly dancing all by himself whether the band was playing or not. The band was Orange Crush, an 80s cover band, so we knew that at some point they would play "Dancing With Myself." We decided that when they did, we would dance with him.

The band came back from a break and played the first notes of "Dancing With Myself." The only person on the dance floor was Dancing With Myself Man, but not for long. Monica and I ran out there and stared dancing all around him. We were laughing so hard we could hardly stand up, but the guy was oblivious to our presence.

That was several years ago. I've lost contact with most of the girls from that Nantucket trip, but Monica and I remain friends. I've visited her twice - one in Burlington, VT and once in Raleigh, NC - and we had a great time then, too. Mostly, we stay in touch via phone and internet.

It's a wonderful thing when you don't have to explain yourself because somebody just "gets" you. For me, Monica is one of those people. And she always makes me laugh. How can you not love a person who keeps you laughing?

Monica has posted her thoughts on the same subject on her blog.

Diana The Huntress

I was awakened in the wee hours this morning by my cat batting something around on the bedroom floor. It's a fairly normal thing. Some mornings I wake up with her toys actually on me, and I think no wonder I had such a lousy night's sleep. But this morning, whatever she was batting was squeaking. She does not have squeaky toys for this very reason. Jingle balls, yes; squeaky toys, no. I do not want to wake up in the middle of the night thinking she's killing a mouse, and in any case, she can't carry the jingle balls up the stairs due to a lack of opposable thumbs.

I listened for a couple of minutes, hoping I wasn't hearing squeaking. I was. I remembered that I'd heard scritching up in the eaves a couple of weeks ago. Apprehensively, I sat up and turned on the light.

The cat's area of operations was at the center of the bedroom floor, a couple of feet from the end of my bed. She had a field mouse under her paw and she was looking at me like "What? It's a mouse, sworn enemy of the cat. I had no choice but to vanquish it."

A bunch of questions went racing through my mind all at once: Should I take it from her? What if she's still in predator mode and she gets pissed? What if it's still alive and runs away? What if it's dead and yucky? Why, oh, why didn't I marry like my parents wanted me to? It would be really handy to have a husband right now - after all what are they for if not handling little wildlife crises? All the while I sat on my bed, whimpering like a schoolgirl.

The cat's next actions ended my ruminations. She began crunching the little beastie's bones (which makes a very disconcerting noise, let me tell you) and swallowed the thing whole. Then she stood up, licked her chops, and went downstairs. Calm as you please, as if killing mice and eating them is an everyday thing for an indoor cat.

I got out of bed to examine the floor. Not a whisker, not a bit of fur, not a drop of blood. She'd killed and eaten the mouse with a grim efficiency. It was creepy.

I got back in bed, mentally debating whether or not I should bother trying to get any more sleep. Then I remembered: she'd been batting something around near my pillow earlier. I'd picked it up in a half-asleep state and chucked it to the foot of the bed. I distinctly remembered the feeling of wet fur.

I started ransacking my pillows, feeling rather ill, looking for mouse bits. Nothing. Then I very slowly picked up the comforter I had turned back when I sat up. There it was, with fur plastered down by cat spit, its pink felt ears looking perky and its blue felt eyes looking at me - mocking me, it seemed. A toy mouse. I picked it up and threw it on the floor. Then I got up and washed my hands, just because.

Oddly enough, my cat - who is on a prescription food because she has a delicate digestion - has shown no ill effects from her unusual midnight snack. Thank God. I can't think of anyone who'd be willing to elope with me before I'd have to clean up after that.