But Call Me Betsy

We've been talking for the last several months about getting a dog, so much so that a part of me thought that maybe one would appear at Christmas, and when that didn't happen, I thought maybe it would occur on my birthday last week. No dice. Anyone who knows me for more than five minutes understands that I love animals, and especially dogs and cats, and then anyone who knows me for more than fifteen minutes learns that I miss my cats, who are now under the constant care and supervision of my mom back in Philadelphia. I never had a pet growing up, unless you count fish, and I don't. To me, animals you can't pet or interact with are non-pets. Real fish are 1,000 times worse than say a stuffed pretend fish, because they require care and they appear to be trapped in these small containers and they don't interact and then they die, sometimes in dramatic suicide- like events where they throw themselves out of the tank, and you find them later, when you step on their dri...

Not really. But I've had the same item returned to me twice this month, one of great value, one that impacts me on a daily basis: my city SEPTA pass. Last Tuesday, I ran out of class to catch the train and discovered I didn't have it. A few days later, my teacher emailed everyone to let us know she found the pass. I got it back yesterday, after only a three day/$20 loss. Then today, I got to my stop at Snyder and realized the pass was gone again, even though I remembered putting it in my pocket when I walked out of the house. I retraced my steps all the way back to my house, didn't find it, started back to the subway and checked between the cars, and there it was, forlorn. I want to make something more of this about the universe giving back or perseverance in searching for lost things, but I don't know if there isn't maybe just a simpler lesson, which is that I need to keep hold of the damn thing and quit putting it in my coat pocket where it can flutter away. And...

I blame the iPhone for my morning delay and detour. I downloaded the newest update last night, and so was messing with my phone this AM and missed the Walnut Street stop (note: I haven't noticed anything different with my phone except now I have this thing called a Passbook?) . When I looked up, we were arriving at City Hall. I promised myself I would walk in halfway today, so I got out and tried to find my way out of the belly of the subway. I wish I could find a map of the place, because it makes no sense to me.Here's what I imagine the map must look: If you happen to go up the wrong stairwell, you end up in an entirely different part of the subway, going West instead of East, for example, and the only way to get back is to walk through the West part or totally backtrack and start over with a different stairwell. There are no signs to point you in the right direction, so you have to guess where you might be going. Consequently, when I finally emerged into the light,...

Leigh Ann sent me a link to "30 Renowned Authors Inspired by Cats." I found this video under Jean Paul Satre. The cat featured has the same name and spelling as my dearly departed Henri. And sort of the same attitude about the world.

Just 3 kibble bits left in the bowls.

This is what we talked about in our fiction writing class last night. I asked the participants to do a free write on two things--something that they were scared of and something that grossed them out. We were going to be discussing two pretty distressing stories ("The Shawl," by Cynthia Ozick and "First, Body," by Melanie Rae Thon) and I thought it would be good to have them start thinking about how to exorcise some of those fears/anxieties/grossness in their fiction. These are some of the things they mentioned on the gross scale: bodily fluids, snot (see "bodily fluids"),  milk (because she grew up in Poland and mile their came in these strange cartons, and was never refrigerated) and hair on plates (this from someone who waits tables and so really does have to face this ick on a regular basis). In the scared of part, people talked about:  rats (one guy has a rat problem in his kitchen. This brought on a whole slew of stories about rats. We suggested he r...

I just found this photo, and it was taken by me right after I was crying about something--I think I was crying about Henri being put to sleep. And then, for some reason, we decided to take a picture; maybe for a holiday card? Anyway, I think it's funny and sad.  And I think Dan looks extra cute and sexy. As does Ernesto.

I had to put Henri to sleep last Monday. He was about 17 years old--give or take six months. We took him to Penn Vet Emergency Hospital and they were very nice--gave me all kinds of options about euthanasia--if I wanted to be there or if I wanted to just leave; if I wanted his ashes or not, gave me time to say goodbye (too much time. When you know you're about to put your cat to sleep, it's difficult to do anything like enjoy your time with him. I just wanted it to be over); they wrapped him up so he was cozy in these nice blankets. I had to do this one other time with Gretel, and that was terrible and this was terrible too--not terrible as in traumatic, because he was so out of it, he didn't seem all that upset. Just terrible to have to make that decision. What that must be like when the creature in question is a human? I can't imagine.  I stayed in the room. It helps to see it happen. Otherwise, I could imagine myself worrying about how it went down, if he was dis...

Even though I haven't been walking quite as much lately, I do find the occasional moment to snap pictures of windows.It's been rainy and gross in Philadelphia lately, but next week should be better and I will try to get out and about more. Until then: An Ernesto look-a like And this cat looks like it's looking at the cat about it ala the boxes in the opening of The Brady Bunch He just wants to go outside Perpetually looking as if she's saying, What is this mess on the floor? Awaiting your return   And this is the second in the series of ink drawings Dan is doing wherein he takes regular song lyrics and substitiutes the word kitty or cat somewhere.

These photos show the never before seen journey of Henri outside--for the second time in his entire life (16 years? Maybe 17?). I lured him out using cat treats. He sniffed the air cautiously, like pre-man emerging from a cave after 1000 of years of darkness. He ran back inside when a distant car horn sounded, but at least he will die having actually smelled fresh air two times.

Remember that Ace of Base song, "All That She Wants...Is Another Baby?" Well, taking inspiration from this blog, Dan and I (mostly Dan) drew the cat version of that, presented here. If you have rewritten a pop song to add a cat to one of the central lyrics and would like it transformed into a cartoon drawing, let me know. We were thinking maybe Michael Jackson's "PYT" could be revised to reflect "PYC" (i.e. "Pretty Young Cat"). You see that we have a lot of time on our hands. Just a few more Philly pics before I forget that I took them. I saw this yesterday morning and was really tempted to read it. Was it a fairly benign, move-your-damn-car note like, "Hey, please stop parking next to this telephone pole. This is my telephone pole!" Or was it a love note like "since you won't answer my emails or texts, I was forced to leave this letter. Meet me at the Philadelphia Airport at 8 PM EST. I have two tickets to Barbados. W...

Did you know that it's possible to get lost in Philadelphia, even if you've lived here for going on seven years like I have? It happened to me last Friday, when I decided to walk to Penn's campus via Fitzwater Street. I figured that somewhere around 24th street, I could just cut North and West and find the South Street Bridge. Instead, I found myself faced with a sudden Naval Square and jumbled streets---Catherine meeting Christian, the numbered ones suddenly seeming to veer East/West. I'd accidentally found my way into the no man's land of Grays Ferry. Granted, I have a terrible sense of direction, but it was still a weird sensation not to have any clue which street to take, especially when I knew it was only a few blocks away. I found my way back via the modern version of following pebbles along the path--I used my map app on my i-Phone--the one that tracks your progress as you're walking, which I find to be in equal parts creepy and fascinating. So, this m...

Not time to write, but here are some photos for you. The first is not a cat in a window, but a lion in a yard. Stuck inside on a nice day. 

Remember that song by the Lemonheads? I still don't get what that means. In any case, here's my new ceiling fan (photo request sent in by Mother): Light off. If you look on the far wall by the door, you can see the fan settings--one button to turn the light on and off, and one button to turn on the fan. Very convenient. No real arm work required. The electrician who did it charged $175; I think that's pretty reasonable. Light on. Find the cats. Here they are. Sometimes, they can lay together nicely, and sometimes, they try to tear off each other's throats. They're huddled together b/c the ceiling fan is so effective. Dan also finished painting the back patio. If I ever had any guests over (which I never do), I would be proud to have them outside. The next house improvement will be the kitchen. If I can get myself to  commit to shelling out a few thousand dollars to buy the cabinets and  appliances. My friend Colin came up with some lovely d...

Yes, of course I have a few cat photos to make your Friday better. Here is one. And then his close up. In the upper window, see if you can find a doggie. This might be a little clearer. This dog lives on Carrie and Padhraig's street. He doesn't seem to bark much. Cat in jail. Last Friday, we went to dinner at a Vietnamese/Thai place off Washington and 1-th Street called Cafe Diem. I had some kind of rice paste and chicken. Very good. This is the last picture I have of Carrie and Padhraig without their baby. Carrie just had Seamus on Wednesday. We haven't met yet, but I'm sure he's lovely. If you look closely, you will see a baby deer aka a fawn. This is the last photo I took at Dan's old house. He moved on Monday. He is in a new house now with two bedrooms, a mud room, a front and back yard, and a full basement. Goodbye to the one bedroom with no oven, mo privacy, no working dishwasher. I haven't stayed at the new place yet, but I'm su...

There must be something that occurs in the brain--some kind of procrastination chemical--that makes it so easy for me to think of things I'd like to write about only during those moments where I can't possibly write. I'm late for work, or I'm skiing down a mountain or I'm being mugged and that's when I tell myself, I really have to write this down at some point. And I don't. For instance, I saw this regular looking guy the other day outside of the fountain at Passyunk Square, just circling it and occasionally, very casually, dipping down to scoop the lucky pennies out of it. What's his story? The truth is that I haven't been writing (not in this blog, not in my journal), and it makes my mind and self feel creatively flabby--lazy, unproductive--even though I think about stories a lot of the time. Dan wants to write one about his former landlady, an 80-something year old woman who's living in this giant house where her family used to be, and she...