Robot Kitty Army

Shane: Wanna know what I'm going to do when I grow up?

Me: Yes, what?

Shane: I'm going to be an inventor!

Me: Cool. What are you going to invent?

Shane: Robot kitties.

Me: And what will they do?

Shane: Whatever I tell them to!

Brilliant, right? The boys spent the better part of two hours refining the specifications for the robot kitties. There will be 53 of them; 40 belonging to Shane and 13 to Weston. Shane's will all look like Henry or Jake, while Weston's will be white and fluffy. For some agreed-upon reason, they will all answer only Shane, and they will do whatever he says, except for robbing, stealing, swiping or killing. If he gives an order consisting of one of these forbidden activities, they will stand down.

Now, I'm not a girl to let a good labor-saving idea pass me by, so I could see the value of the robot kitty army right away, and I was quick to verify that they could cook AND clean up. And, in fact, I was assured that they will do as they are told, except for the prohibited tasks. But why stop there? I asked if they could get jobs and bring home the bacon, and was informed that they can, but their job qualifications apparently only allow them to be police officers or firefighters. I was a little disappointed, because I was hoping for fat cat bankers or hedge fund managers, instead of some underpaid public servants. I guess there ARE 53 of them; they ought to be able to keep me in wine. And I will definitely need copious volumes if I am going to be forced to live with robot kitties, no matter how much money they make.

I had hoped they were going to get started with the construction right away, but no, the boys have decided that the scheme is going to have to wait until they are adults. That's 4,913 days from now. Not that I'm counting. Or stocking up on diodes and fake fur.

The Past Comes Back to Haunt me, and a Turkey in a Dress

Yes, that is a turkey in a dress. No, I do not know why, thank you for asking. I could try to explain it but I would probably not be successful, so I will just say that in my family, we do things like put dresses on turkeys. Seriously, I don't know why. But I do think that particular shade of blue is not that turkey's color and next time we should go for more of a forest green or some other jewel tone. Or a plaid, perhaps- that red and blue and green one. Come on, you know what I'm talking about, admit it.

There is, however, a reason for the turkey itself. The boys and I went to my dad's house today to have dinner with the cousins and the aunts. My dad has been sorting through pictures and other assorted items and there is always a bag or box (or both!) with my name on it. Sometimes I just set the whole thing on fire but once in a while there is some good stuff in there. Today I hit the jackpot with some letters I wrote to my parents from college in 1988. I scanned one of them so you could see the art work. I'm not going to transcribe them, but here are my favorite excerpts:

Letter 1: ....it's really boring here. I even cleaned my whole apartment. I made my bed this morning too WOW!!!!!!!..... it should be another fun weekend. Somebody put a toilet in the middle of the fountain and it wasn't me, and I don't know who it was. Aren't you impressed?

Letter 2: Susannah is going to stay with us over Memorial Day, ok? Her family moved to Alaska and she has no home. Can I have some money? I need to eat. All I have is condiments.

That is some classic literature right there, people... And speaking of classic literature, also in the box today were two college texts on cat anatomy. Interestingly enough, when we got home Shane asked, 'What's the inside of a cat look like?' I'm not sure if he knew about the books in advance or if it was just a freakish coincidence, but either way it worked out well for Shane. The cats, not so much.

Overall, it was an excellent day. The kids played outside for hours- it was freezing cold and they wouldn't even put coats on. They had some awesomely questionable game about grizzlies, guns and dinosaurs. Here, you can see a snippet for yourself:

Then Jennifer and the aunts and I had an argument about the advisability of small children peeing outside. Strangely, I found myself in alone in a minority of one but I PREFER that they pee outside. The bathroom stays way cleaner that way. Who can argue with logic like that? Plus it saves valuable playing time. And even if you don't have a preference, why would you care? I WOULD rather they not pee in parking lots, or at least not when I'm with them, but what are you going to do, right? I will not back down on this one, my friends. Who's with me?

I also got in a good thrifting trip. Good thing, too, because I really needed some wine glasses. I break about one a week; that's probably how I'll tell time after the earthquake. I found six new ones for 69 cents each, but I broke one on the kitchen floor when I got home. It was still wrapped in the paper, though, so the cleanup was super easy.

So that was my day; I hope you are having a fantastic weekend!

2011

**** updated to add: there is a duck in my backyard. I am not even kidding. Does it not recognize the danger it's in, just traipsing around willy-nilly in suburban back yards? I thought wild animals were supposed to be wily. The jokes are just boiling over right now, dying to come out, but I have already promised Ina, as you can see below. Curses!

It's the very last day of 2011, can you believe it? I was just looking for last year's 'Goodbye, 2010, I Hate You with an Unending Passion' post so I could compare, but I guess I hated 2010 so much that I didn't write one. It seems unlike me, but I guess you never know what wacky thing I might do, or not do, next. Oh well, it's probably better; who needs to read a bunch of dreariness from the past when we can look to the future and talk about delicious squirrels or similar? For example, look at the picture of my backyard this morning! See all those beautiful, tender birds??? The bite-sized ones are best, I hear.

Naturally, though, I can't do a New Year's post without remembering the best New Year's Eve ever, when Janelle's washing machine caught fire and her cat saved their entire family. I didn't write the part about the cat before, but it's 100% true. Because she has multiple small children, her washing machine is always running, including in the middle of the night on New Year's Eve. They turned on the 6,583rd load of the day, shut the cats in the laundry room and went to bed. Pretty soon, they were awakened by Speedy's unholy yowling and frantic scratching. It could have been because he was choking to death on the belching black smoke but I prefer to think he was thinking only of his loving family. And that, C Mike, is why we don't eat cats.

Let's see, what else? I would keep going on the dog/squirrel/cat/bird eating theme, only Aunt Ina wrote me a note yesterday and told me I was very gross. I guess she's kind of squeamish. Also, she is one of those people that feeds the squirrels in her back yard. I'm not kidding, she has at least three feeders and she goes through sunflower seeds and peanuts like I go through wine. So Happy New Year, Ina! I will try to not gross you out for at least a month.

I hope you all have a fantastic New Year's Eve and a great start to 2012 tomorrow. I don't have any big plans to go out and drink too much and get in a ridiculous fight with friends or family members, because I can do that without leaving my house. It's much cheaper and more convenient that way, plus I don't have to wear spanx and lipstick. I'm practical that way. But tomorrow, I plan on making the most of the traditional New Year's Day thrift store shopping spree. All of a sudden, I have a compelling need for some very small saute pans. Happy New Year, y'all!

Catwalk

I know, I know: WHERE ARE THE UPDATES?!?!??! Sorry, peeps- I have just been all discombobulated this week. So in lieu of an actual post, I have a picture of cats on leashes and some links.

Jake and Henry have been just itching to get outside but after the death of the original Henry, we have been VERY reluctant to let them out. I'm not sure how well this really worked out, but there were no reported injuries to either the boys or the cats. Aren't all four of them just the cutest? Boys and their cats; I love it!

And for some links- here is a new blog someone just shared with me. You know it has to be good when it's called People I Want to Punch in the Throat. And, another one- do you guys read Thought Catalog? It's home to multiple essays every day about weighty topics such as The Different Types of People You See at the Gym, how there is no such thing as too many cats, and the quiz to determine if you are Springsteen or not Springsteen. Actually, now that I think about it, you don't really need a quiz for that. It's one of those things you just know, like if you're gay or not. And, if you must know, I am DEFINITELY Springsteen. And not gay. I couldn't care less if you are gay, but I have to admit I might discriminate against you a tiny bit if you're one of those deviant not-Springsteen people.

Okay, gotta go, because baby, I was born to run................ Smell ya' later, friends!

My Life in Cats, take two

This is me and my sister in 1973. I am on the left, holding Charlie (probably). My sister is holding an unremembered cat.

This, of course, is the fabulous Henry

I've been thinking about cats again. Dead ones, because sadly, all my cats are dead. A long time ago, I wrote a post called 'My Life in Cats' on Stories from Korea. You can read the original post here, if you want. I think I was reminded of my life in cats by a couple of things. Swistle, who writes a blog I really like, recently got a new cat that reminds me of Henry. And, the snappy red purse I wrote about recently reminds me of the dead cat tote I bought to take the mind off the death of my sweet cat Lewis many years ago. They are both bright red and cheerful, only the new red bag cost 1.29 at Goodwill, and the old dead cat tote was a brand new Kenneth Cole that ran me WAY more than a bag of potato chips. You may remember that Henry died in February, and I think I might be almost ready to re-cat. But right now, I'm thinking of cats past:

Charlie- I got Charlie when he or she was a kitten and I was a small child. The mother cat lived in my Aunt Luella and Uncle Butch's barn and I had my choice of kittens. He was black and white and ever so cute. Unfortunately, Charlie and I did not have long together; the cat had some sort of seizure and dropped dead in my arms shortly after. It's a wonder I wasn't scarred for life, don't you think?

Smoky- My dad found Smoky tied up in some trees in the woods near where we lived, and cut him down and brought him home. He was a beautiful big gray long-haired cat who liked to yowl and car surf. One morning he rode off on my dad's car and never returned. I find myself partial to gray cats to this day. There don't seem to be a whole lot of gray cats, though; I wonder why?

SillyBilly- My dad found SillyBilly, a beautiful calico cat, when she was a kitten. He's always been a little vague about the details of this late night acquisition, but my sister and I were thrilled the next day when we got up and found our new pet under the bed where we kept our scraps of material for sewing. You know, I'm getting a little suspicious of these mysterious cat-finding trips of his, now that I think about it. Anyway, she lived with us for quite a while until she got hit by a car down the street and was returned to us in a cardboard box by one of the neighbors.

Fluffer- Fluffer was the son of SillyBilly and was a fluffy black cat. SillyBilly had three kittens, and my dad made us choose just one to keep. We went to school, and when we came home, Fluffer was an only kitten. He was very mellow and would let us dress him up and push him around the block in a stroller, but I don't remember what happened to him. I think he just disappeared. We lived in sort of a strange neighborhood, and when someone in MY family thinks the neighbors are weird, that's saying something.

Chebosco- Chebosco was a male orange and white cat with a wonderful personality. His middle name was Yumpsa, which means 'jumper' in one of the Scandinavian languages. Probably. I might need to go look that up. Chebosco means 'shower' in Spanish. Possibly. At least, I thought so at seven or eight, so it must be true. I haven't heard it on Dora or Diego, though, so I'm starting to get skeptical. I don't know where he came from or where he went. That's funny, because I really liked him. You know what? I'm getting a little suspicious of these unexplained cat disappearances and might need to have a little chat with my dad.

Katie and Kelly- When I got out of high school, I worked in a pet store for a year or so before I went to college. I should totally write a post about that place because it had everything: flashers, larceny, pathological liars, and mud puppies, which my friend Cammy and I might or might not have liberated in the middle of the night. One day, a kid brought in these two teeny tiny siamese kittens and said his male cat had dragged them home. They were only two or three weeks old, and I took them home and we bottle-fed them until they were strong and healthy enough to eat cat food. Katie, the boy cat, was always glossy and a little wild- he moved around my parents' neighborhood for years until finally they didn't see him anymore. Okay, now I'm definitely going to talk to my dad about this. I just hope he doesn't have some cat-fur quilt hidden in his closet or something. Kelly, the girl cat, was the sweetest cat ever. She had an obsession with pushing her paws into things and was a big licker. She was always sickly, probably because she had to have formula instead of catmilk, and died when she was just a couple of years old. I don't know if my dad has an alibi or not.

Lewis and Clark- After Lloyd and I got married and moved to Pensacola, the first thing we did was adopt Lewis and Clark. Their original names were Tyler and Cassie, and they were not related but had bonded deeply in their foster home. Clark (formerly known as Tyler) was an old male orange and white cat, and Lewis (formerly Cassie) was a sweet, younger, long-haired gray and white female cat. We had a pleasant, but short-lived relationship with both of them. Well, I did anyway. Clark didn't care for Lloyd, and the feeling was mutual. He moved in with the neighbors, much to Lewis' dismay, and soon died of feline leukemia. Lewis liked to follow us on walks through the neighborhood, and one day she followed us down the street, then peeled off to investigate something. When we returned, she was laying dead on the street. I was very traumatized by this and embarked on some immediate retail therapy. One of my purchases was a bright red leather tote bag by Kenneth Cole. I carried it for months and called it my 'dead cat tote'. People looked at me strangely, but that's never bothered me, and it made me feel lots better. After Hurricane Katrina, I donated the dead cat tote, along with my entire work wardrobe, to hurricane victims who were trying to relocate and start new jobs. I hope it helped somebody else as much as it helped me. I got some additional cheer out of it, because it was a splendid tax deduction. Thanks, Lewis!

Bella - I got Bella as a kitten from someone at work shortly after Lewis died. An email message was going around about kittens available for adoption and one of them was a calico, like SillyBilly. I wanted that one, but it was already taken. I decided to get one anyway, and picked out Bella. Her name is Bella because I wanted something derived from SillyBilly and chose a girlish version of Billy. She is kind of a strange cat, not super friendly, and she hated Lloyd on sight. One day, when she wasn't very old, she didn't come home and we started looking around the neighborhood. We didn't have any luck, but a day or two later she hobbled home. We took her to the vet and found that she had two broken legs. Apparently this is a common cat injury when they get hit by a car. The car strikes them, breaking the leg on the car side, then they get tossed down the street, breaking bones on the other side. After several very expensive surgeries, with pins and everything, Bella was almost good as new. I called her the six million dollar cat, and Lloyd called her that stupid f&*!#@g cat. She had a little more bad luck a year or so later when she got lost during Hurricane Dennis and had to spend a week or so at the pound until we found her. She had a collar on so they would have been able to call us right away, except she wouldn't let them near her to read the tag. You know, maybe I need to have a talk with Lloyd, too. After I get done with my dad. She moved with us from Florida to Louisiana, but when we left Shreveport for Korea, we decided to leave her with some Catholic friends there. They immediately took her to family pet night at their local parish and had her blessed with the special water, and she still lives there happily in holy catrimony.

And this brings us to Henry. I'm not sure what else I can say about Henry, except for he was the best cat ever. In fact, I would probably already have a new cat if he wasn't so great. I just keep thinking that another cat would be a disappointment, but I might be almost ready to embrace a cat that's not Henry. I'll keep you posted.

And that's the last of the cats. For now. Don't worry, when it's cat thirty, I plan to keep a VERY close eye on my dad. And Lloyd.

Independence Day

Happy Fourth of July! I don’t know about you guys, but for me, this year is DEFINITELY going to be better than last year. Independence Day 2010 started out fine. For the most part. Sure, we were living out of duffel bags in a tiny garage apartment that was far away from a thrift store, we had no jobs, and we were having Air Force withdrawal trauma. On that last one, by ‘we’, I mean Lloyd. OBVIOUSLY. I WAS having thrift store withdrawal trauma, though. Which is WAY worse.

But the early light of the glorious fourth last year dawned bright and clear; we probably could have seen the broad stripes and bright stars flying over Fort McHenry from our ramshackle abode if we’d squinted just a little. We had relatives in town and a cookout on tap. My dad had picked up a discarded self-propelled airplane from the park where he goes to walk the dog. At least, he SAYS it was discarded. I hope some poor little kid isn’t waking up this Independence Day all sad about the airplane some mean guy with a big dog stole from him last year. Either way, the kids were having a blast flying that thing around the yard when destiny guided it to a gentle landing on the roof. Lloyd bounded upstairs to go out onto the roof through a second story window to retrieve it, and all hell broke loose, along with skin, muscle, multiple blood vessels and most importantly, a tendon. You can read what I wrote about it then, and look at the gory picture.

Thus began the worst six months of my entire life, including the six months between April and October of 2007 when I was enormously pregnant and Lloyd had to go to the sandbox and I had to travel around the country with a toddler and then be on bedrest for my high blood pressure and then have a baby by myself in a Louisiana hospital and then move to Korea. No, that was a walk in the park compared to the descent into the ninth circle of hell of 2010. Hmmmm, now I can’t decide if I should bore you with all the dreary specifics or not. There’s something very satisfying about describing all my travails in painful detail, right up until everyone starts to call me Crybaby McWhinypants and throw rotten tomatoes at me. Now, THAT would suck, because only spoiled potatoes and dead rats are worse that rotten tomatoes.

Maybe just the tiniest little smidge of a description, for a speck of holiday self-indulgence: Starting July 4, 2010, Lloyd was unable to move his left hand and had to have reconstructive surgery followed by intensive physical therapy multiple times a week. We were living in a garage apartment with one car. He could not drive, carry groceries or children, cook, clean or write blog entries about how miserable was. He could, however, verbalize his dismay at his sudden predicament. Which he did. Also at this time, my mother was having chemo and requiring daily trips to the cancer center, followed by five weeks in the hospital. During this period, I had a job interview. Then she came home on hospice. I got a job offer, and we had to find a new house near my new job, and take delivery of our household goods. This consisted of two semi-truckloads and houses full, one from storage in Louisiana and one from Korea. These things, all 17,000 pounds of them, had to be placed into our small house or otherwise disposed of. Remember Lloyd’s hand? ME, TOO. We had promised Weston as soon as we had a house, he could have a cat, so we got Henry. Perhaps you recall him. Then my mother died. This was followed by a giant steaming pile of necessary planning, and none of it the fun kind. As soon as Lloyd could drive, he had to fly to the east coast to bring his truck, boat, bee hives, pine beams and other assorted items back. These things, too, had to be somehow incorporated into our tiny new home. On the way back, the truck and boat both required expensive repairs and an extended stay in some podunk town in Montana. THEN, I started my new job. You can read about the very first day here, when I had my pants come undone and spilled tea all over my brand new cube. After a while, miracle of miracles, things started looking up. Lloyd could move his hand, the boxes started to disappear, and I was settling into my job. My mother was still dead, but maybe I was getting a little more used to it. And then Henry died.

Wow, that sounds really bad, now that I look at it in black and white. See what I mean? There’s no place to go but up from there, right? Happy Fourth of July and God Bless America. Pass the beer and the roman candles, and make it snappy! I have a lot of life improvements to make and if there's something that can’t be made better with alcohol and fireworks, I don't know what it is. At least that's how it works in Auburn, where I come from.

Rats

If you are my friend on Facebook, you probably already know all about the rat wars at my house. If you're not my Facebook friend, you totally should be, because I have a lot of really important stuff to say on there, as you can well imagine.

Now that the weather has warmed up a smidge and the compost is getting good and rotty, we have had a rat invasion in the back yard. They come through the fence from the sheep farm and burrow under the compost to plan their assault. Then they swarm over the back porch to eat the copious seeds that have fallen from the bird feeder. When Henry was alive, he probably kept them at bay, but now, sadly, we have to battle them without his assistance. Lloyd started sniping them with his pellet gun, but it was a little slow for his liking, and they don't make an automatic assault version. I told him I thought I could convert it with directions from the internet but he didn't like that idea for some reason and went with traps and poison. It's like he fancies himself some big gun expert or something and thinks I have no idea what I'm talking about. You can see one of his ginormous traps in the picture; this particular one set right in the path where their trail from the farm comes under our fence. I could get some stunning dead rat pictures, but I'll spare you. I'm tenderhearted that way, plus I'm getting a little afraid of those crazy PETA people after the whole hamster thing.

Naturally, success in rat-killing leads to a quandary: what to do with the carcasses? They are big, fat, glossy, generously-whiskered creatures and surely would be useful for many things. Seriously, they are the picture of robust, glowing health, except for being dead. One certainly doesn't want to just toss them in the trash; that would be VERY wasteful. But we have to get to them quickly, or the other rats will carry them away. I'm not even kidding. They disappear if you leave them out there; I bet there is a cadre of mortuary rats that pack the dead soldiers away on their shoulders to some kind of ghoulish body shop where they hack their bodies up to make paleolithic body armor and weapons out of bone, skin, sinew and tails.

They're smart, you know, and they learn from their mistakes. If Lloyd had any sense at all, he would let me do the conversion on that pellet gun so he can just mow them down and be done with it. This slow attrition method is risky, like tying Batman to a slowly submerging platform into a shark tank, then walking away, totally sure you've vanquished your enemy. We all know how that ends up, don't we?

In fact, now that I think about it, I'm getting a little concerned. Ever since I read 'Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of Nimh', I have been suspicious that rats are more than they appear to be. I bet they could climb right up on this keyboard and start blogging away. You'll know it's them when they start raising money for PETA and pushing for a revolution.

Happy Quakiversary!

You might not know this, but today is the 10th anniversary of the Nisqually Earthquake. This would be an excellent time to make sure you're prepared. I know you have plenty of Skittles and wine. If not, don't bother coming to camp out on my trampoline. But one thing you might not have considered for your earthquake kit is extra husbands. As you probably do know, I work for an employer that is sometimes concerned with emergency management. We have staff meetings every Monday, which are usually EXTREMELY torturous. Today, though, our staff meeting was the best EVER, and it was suggested that extra husbands could come in very handy for certain things. So you might want to try it. Just an idea. Or maybe just do a trade-in, whichever.

A few other quick items to note, mostly because having pictures of my dead cat at the top of my dead cat blog is just too, too depressing:

-In coming attractions, a trip report and hare-brained scheme from my recent trip to Vegas with the fantastic Helen; and

-In the book department, I cannot recommend 'Walter the Farting Dog', because drawings of Walter, when he was extra rotund and distended with gas, reminded Shane that I have a humungous tummy, so clearly this book sucks, and probably the endless sequels are equally revolting.

-In other book news, I can definitely recommend 'Paradise Built in Hell' by Rebecca Solnit. It is fascinating, and you should read it. Also, it will inspire you to buy more wine and Skittles, and then I will inspire you to come to my house.

Happy Quakiversary!

It sucks having a dead cat

I am very sad to report that Henry, the world's most magnificent cat, is dead. He went out one evening and didn't come home. The next morning, a nearby vet's office called to tell us that one of the staff there found him on the road on her way to work. He was chipped, so they were able to find us. We picked him up and buried him in the backyard. I really don't have anything else to say, except for it sucks having a dead cat.

Introducing the DCL

You know how I've been all dull and uninspired because my life is a living hell lately? Well, no more, my friends! I have found my muse, and it is.... ugly diapers! You guys have all seen those ridiculous disposable diapers that are supposed to look like daisy dukes, right? I was at a birthday party yesterday and got to talking about them with some brilliant friends, and we thought, why stop there? Where are the khakis? The floral capris? I know what you're thinking: JUST USE CLOTH DIAPERS, MORONS! But the sad truth is that clothies aren't for everyone. At least until all those nasty chemicals they put in disposables melt the machinery in the factories, but that will probably take YEARS.



So in the meantime, I present to you the Dead Cat Line, DCL for short. The logo will be a line drawn silhouette of a smushed cat; I'm still working the bugs out. Disposable diaper-included fashions for babies and toddlers for all occasions! Wedding finery, loungewear, athletic apparel, you name it! DCL will have it all.



And DCL is not just for babies! I've noticed a few other fashion needs around here. For just one example, we have a lot of people from India and Pakistan here and I often see large and elaborate turbans on men. The other day, I saw a turbaned guy on a bike, without a helmet and I thought, someone should make a bike helmet that looks like a turban! Well, turbaned biker, you no longer have to sacrifice safety for cultural expression; DCL is here to help you out!



The possibilities are endless! Know how when you're gigantically pregnant and you're dying for a drink but you can't have one because everyone will glare at you like you're viciously beating an adorable kitten in the street? How about a maternity dress with a discreet chest pocket with a sturdy waterproff pouch and straw system for your beer, wine, diet coke or red bull? DCL can even custom make a thermal pocket so you can drink coffee to your heart's content without suffering from society's disapproval! See what I mean? DCL is a surefire hit! Contact me at womanwithadeadcat@gmail.com to contribute your own ideas and/or start up capital! No amount too large or too small; contact me today!

Deja Cat

You know how once you notice something, or think it up, all of a sudden whatever it is is EVERYWHERE? Like when you're looking for a baby name and you come up with the most beautiful, perfect, unusual name ever and then you find out that everyone in the free world just named her kid that? Or say you are considering a certain car or wall color or coat or purse or stroller and suddenly you see YOUR car or color or coat or purse or stroller every time you turn around. Tres irritating, right?

As it turns out, this strange phenomena also applies to dead cats. There's probably even a fancy name for it that I could find if I was a better Googler but I'm just going to call it deja cat. I suppose someone has already thought of that, too. Anyway, here I thought I was all clever and unique to name my blog after a dead cat and now the universe is mocking me. First comes Amanda with her real-live actual dead cat story. Then, I picked up this Thomas Lynch book that contained an essay called Y2Kat, which is about you guessed it, a dead cat. Well, not exactly, but I don't want to ruin it for you, because you really need to read it.

No sooner had I finished marveling over the most recent strange dead cat coincidence, I was browsing the book section at a dingy little Goodwill and found this little gem called '101 Uses for a Dead Cat'. I highly recommend it; it is hilarious, as well as thought provoking. Check out the Amazon reviews for a laugh or two. Apparently, some people find cartoons about expired felines offensive! And they don't hesitate to share their thoughts, fortunately for the rest of us. Finally, while I'm on the topic of great ideas for any dead cats you might have around the house or in your purse, read The Bloggess' to learn about her brilliant invention called Kitten Mittens.

Don't you think deja cat is freakishly weird? Though presumably one could make a solid point that if one were to waste enough time on the internet and/or at the thrift store, one might find all manner of dead cat related items, hmmmm? I guess the moral of this story is that once again, there is nothing new under the sun and someone else has already taken all the good dead cat ideas. Meeeeooooow.

Sunday linkies

Happy Sunday! Today I have two fabulous blog links to share. First, from my friend Amanda, comes her 'Dead Cat in my Trunk'. I always say we all have a dead cat somewhere, so feel free to share your story, too. I'm definitely a sucker for a good dead cat tale. Thanks, Amanda! Oh, and make sure to take a good long look at the picture that goes with her post.

And, for a nice change from dead cats, check out my mom's new blog, Doraville. She has done a ton of work researching her family history and is putting it up. It starts with her grandfather, Josef, coming to America to escape being sent to prison on some phony charges (according to him, natch). He eventually came to Rainier, Oregon and homesteaded there. One of her brothers still owns and operates the original farm and I used to spend summers there picking strawberries when I was a kid. Take a look for some really interesting pioneer history. There are a couple of installments up already, and she has a LOT more in the pipeline.

Shiny

So, here we are! Welcome to my brand new blog. It's all sparkly and neat and I'm almost afraid to write anything here. I don't want it to get all messy like that old one, what with the inconsistent labels and questionable content. I sort of feel like it's the first day of school, and all my pencils are sharp and have perfect, unsmudged erasers. My PeeChees are crisp and graffiti free. My socks and underwear are snowy white and I have vowed that this is the year that my handwriting will be tidy, my papers will always be in the correct folder instead of crumpled up in my pocket, and I won't keep any dangerous substances in my locker. Well, except for maybe my dead cat. In a storage emergency. And just for the record, just because something smells bad doesn't mean it's hazardous.

Speaking of dead cats, you might wonder what the hell I'm talking about. Or if you're like Lloyd, you might be shaking your head and rolling your eyes right now and muttering about crazy people. I'm not some sort of cat-hating weirdo. I LOVE cats. It's just that, well, you can read about it here. And look here, for a little more of my feline-centric prose to establish my cat person cred. The truth is, we all have a dead cat somewhere, and I like to keep mine in my purse. And, in case you were wondering, you can rest assured that no cats were harmed in the making of this blog.

Anyway, I hope you like it! Once again, I have the extremely talented Stefan to thank for the header, along with Jennifer for her style assistance. You can contact me at womanwithadeadcat at gmaildotcom or through the comments, and you can subscribe for email updates by using the form on the upper right. I haven't used one before, so please let me know if you have any trouble with it. If you're curious about the old blog, Stories from Korea, it will stay up, unchanged for now, but I may take it down or alter it later.