Happy Valentine’s Day

Happy Valentine’s Day

I’m sometimes tempted to write off holidays that seem primarily Hallmark driven. But that’s the curmudgeon in me. When I was a kid, Valentine’s Day ranked right up there with Halloween. I can feel the cramp developing in my right hand just thinking about all those cards for school the next day. My first communion picture is germane, because I used the Parish Bulletin as my checklist–to make sure I didn’t miss anyone. Everybody got a card from everybody. You’ll note my check marks end with Janet Nicholas. That’s when my mom caught me using what I guess she considered an important historical document. I wouldn’t remember a thing about it if I hadn’t gotten in trouble. Hah. I guess Mom was right. I still have the damn thing. Okay. What was I talking about? Right. I love getting cards, for any occasion, though admit, I’m not great with a calendar. I have trouble sending the right card at the right time–always thinking everything is waaaay out in the future, until it’s in the rearview mirror. I’ve had some good Halloween cards in the drawer for years. They’re like plants that never make it from the pot to the ground. Is it like that for other people? Of course, flowers are always lovely, for Valentine’s Day, or any old time. Mister likes them too, but in a different way. I don’t want to embarrass him here by showing damage. But you get the idea. Last year I didn’t bring flowers inside because of him. But this year, as dog is my witness, they’re coming in–even if it means guarding full-time with squirt bottle in hand. And since the...
operation outsmart the cats

operation outsmart the cats

I’m spending an inordinate amount of time trying to outsmart my cats. Oh sure, I expected them to be sorta naughty, but dear dang dog, Mister Kitty especially is H-O-R-R-I-B-L-E, and that’s with the French pronunciation. He’s not mean horrible, mind you, but super duper curious horrible. It’s such a paradox, so sweet and affectionate with us, and so contemptuous of everything else. The second Mister gets near you, his purr O’meter shoots to high. And when you hold him, he touches your face so gently with his soft pink paw. No claws, ever. That’s Posy Etta James atop of this post. She looks like an angel, doesn’t she. Well, we’re pretty sure she’s just as bad, but she’s way more stealth. Both cats are wild for Bromeliads, though I’ve yet to catch them in the act. After finding this Cryptanthus ‘Black Mystic’ uprooted a couple times (a gift from Evan Bean), I’ve attempted to get it out of their reach with a little florist wire. But we’ll see. More wire is on it’s way, and I’m considering floating shelves. I’m even toying with the idea of buying them their own piece of furniture–instead of a cat tree. Maybe an open bookcase that could go near a window. Is that too crazy? Hey, what’s that up there. And then there’s the happy time when packages arrive. When we put out something new, anything, anywhere, it takes that Mister 2 seconds to be on it. And it doesn’t matter how many times he’s been warned about curiosity and the cat. I bought a new humidifier last week, because I had a dang cold, and I was feeling so smug having found one that’s...