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| Mon, 15 Feb 2010 17:07:49 |
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Most people who share their homes with cats profess to love them. However, there's a definite dividing line between those who look on their cats as "pets" or even "property," and those who consider them treasured family members. Consider the number of cat lovers you know who refer to their cats as "my baby," or "my children." These are not mere words, you know; we really do consider them our offspring, and worry about their health, happiness, and well-being just as we worry about our human children. In my opinion, that is as it should be. Adopting a cat (although the paperwork is much less complicated) should be as important a decision as adopting a child. 
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| Sat, 10 May 2008 12:28:12 |
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There’s one thing about cats....they never ask you your personal business. That’s why I nearly fainted when a woman at church the other day looked at my stomach and said, “Is that a surprise you have in your tummy?” After I got over my shock, I replied glibly, “No, it’s just last night’s pizza.”
Time was a woman of my tender years could have said, “Get real. I’m too old,” and that would be that. Today, though, it seems nothing’s impossible. Like a bad science fiction movie, real-life doctors are fertilizing eggs in everything but a martini shaker, and implanting them in females of all ages--even those on Social Security. As a result, women with dentures and bladder control problems are becoming mothers for the first time, (some even having their own grandchildren). I give these women credit. Anyone who can manage a walker and a stroller deserves a toast--Ensure, of course, because she’s going to need it.
At any age, becoming a mommy isn’t something a woman does just because she can. It takes a special person to be a Mom. She has to be loving, understanding, self-sacrificing, brave, and have a good sense of humor. She must be as patient as Job, know as much as the Internet, and be as generous as a Political Action Committee in an election year. Still, not every female is cut out to be a mom. And I think it’s the smart woman who recognizes this. Take me, for instance. When God handed out maternal instinct, I was looking the other way. ‘Cause when other girls were playing with dolls, I was writing poems about them: “Mary’s baby has one blue eye, the other eye fell out. Mary ate it yesterday on a roll with sauerkraut.”
Don’t get me wrong. I love kids, (roasted with little russet potatoes--just kidding). It’s just circumstances weren’t right for me to have them before. And now that my situation has changed, I don’t think I could, or that I really want to, balance deadlines and diapers, colic and bursitis.
Still, thoughts of being a mommy did cross my mind once. It was at the park and my girlfriend was playing with her daughter. The little girl laughed, gave her mom a huge hug, and I felt a sudden pang (which turned out to be gas from a garlic pickle). Later, my friend wanted to leave, but her daughter didn’t. At this, the little cherub kicked her mom in the knee and ran into the playground where a swing hit her in the head leaving us to race madly to the emergency room where the youngster got eight stitches, bit the resident trying to give her a tetanus shot and, after letting out screech that’d curl iron, threw up all over him.
This episode cleared my head, and at the same time reinforced my belief that it takes a special person to be a mommy--someone younger, with a stronger heart and a better stomach. Nevertheless, I have to say, though I wasn’t cut out to be one, Moms are super people. And after all, where would we be without them? I dedicate this blog to my dearest mom, who passed
away in March. She was a one-of-a-kind, and I sorely miss her.
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| Sat, 19 Apr 2008 14:29:35 |
manager |
Angela ran into the kitchen so fast this morning, she slid and almost knocked herself against the wall. Then she head butted me to the front door, and stood there meowing like a crazy person. I had no idea what had gotten into her.
“What is Mommy’s little precious puddy-woodie so excited about?” I asked in amazement. She meowed louder and stood staring at the door. So, of course, I opened it, and it was then I noticed an overnight package. I brought the box inside, ripped it apart, and there, snuggled among dozens of Styrofoam peanuts was... MOMMY’S NEW BOOK!!!! Accompanying it was a press release that said it all, to wit:
“According to best-selling author, Allia Zobel Nolan, we’d all live kinder, gentler, less stressful lives—enjoying a veritable heaven on earth—if we took life lessons from our cats. And her new book, PURR MORE, HISS LESS:HEAVENLY LESSONS I LEARNED FROM MY CAT can get us started.
In it, the author chronicles over 100 observations about cat behavior that, if followed, could transpose our fast-paced, self-centered, dog-eat-dog world into a utopia, where it’s okay to be “kneedy,” and where taking time to chase butterflies, be our brother’s keeper, and stare out the window are de rigueur.
Illustrated in warm, whimsical, and wonderful watercolors by award-winning artist, Erika Oller, PURR MORE, HISS LESS:HEAVENLY LESSONS I LEARNED FROM MY CAT provides readers with a simple, un-purr-alled blueprint for purr-fection—a list of easily followed aphorisms, a sampling of which includes:
You can’t hold a grudge and play with a catnip toy.
If at first you don’t succeed, take a nap and try again.
You’re one of a kind; so don’t be a copycat.
It’s better to use your head than your claws.
If you must walk over people—do it quickly.
A truly insightful, laugh out-loud book of wisdom, PURR MORE, HISS LESS:HEAVENLY LESSONS I LEARNED FROM MY CAT is a must-have for anyone looking to increase their wellbeing by internalizing the viewpoint of some small, furry, angelic creatures who walk on all fours and are just plain divine.”
After I finished reading the release, Angela and I settled down to read Mommy’s new book together. I may be prejudiced but it made my day. I heartily suggest you pick up a copy, and enjoy it with your favorite puddy.
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| Wed, 2 Apr 2008 13:04:40 |
manager |
“Don’t look, now, McDuff,” I said to my Bubba Boy this morning,
“but there’s a big, fat mouse eating all your boiled shrimp.” No sooner were the words out of my mouth, than McDuff bolted into the kitchen, and jumped on the fake mouse I put in front of his food.
“April Fool!” I shouted at him. He looked up at me, swatted the mouse aside, and walked out of the room in a huff. I haven’t seen him in three hours, and it serves me right. But I couldn’t resist.
See, I’ve always been a pushover for April Fool’s Day. I’d even go so far as to wish Congress would make it a national holiday. Give everyone the day off—a day to forget the pressures of being who we are, or who we want to be. A day to get outdoors and just be silly.
Yup, I think there’s too much seriousness around.
People have forgotten how good it feels to laugh at themselves. We’re in too big a hurry. We’re constantly driving ourselves on, to speed ourselves up, to burn ourselves out. A day like this could help us put the brakes on; allow us to look at where we think we’re going in such a flash.
My perfect April Fool’s would be a whimsical day-long celebration. Everyone would have to dress up in comfortable, baggy old clothes. And there’d be no jewelry or designer labels allowed. This way, no one need worry about how they looked-- whether they were fat or thin, in style or out. Women would not wear makeup (though funny face paint would be okay), and men would not have to shave. So everyone, no matter who he or she was, bank president or bank clerk, would look the same: silly.
On my National Silliness Day, no one would tell who they really were and what they really did. Instead, each person would pretend he worked at a job the very opposite of her own. One day a year, then, we’d see how it feels to walk in our neighbor’s shoes.
There would be no dieting because everything fattening wouldn’t be. And there’d be plenty of food for all. So no one would go hungry.
If a person always had a yen to play the tuba, or walk on stilts, this would be her day to start. Anyone feeling the urge to ride a unicycle could give it a go, too. Since no one would take anything seriously, we could all give things a try we have always held secretly in our hearts to do. We could get a chance to be kids again.
What’s more, since we’d all be silly, there would be no hatred or fighting. And if anyone should get caught making a fuss, she’d get a pie in her face, either chocolate mousse or banana cream.
At the close of my fictitious Fools’ Day, there’d be a contest. To win, a person would need to explain how being silly one entire day would affect the other 364. Since no one’s ideas would be any better than anyone else’s, everyone would be a winner. The prize? Seeing how silly we can all sometimes be when we take ourselves so seriously.
KittyLiterate, copyright (c), April, 2008
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| Sun, 2 Mar 2008 6:47:31 |
manager |
McDuff, Angela, Sinead and I caught a rerun of Saturday Night Live last weekend. Boy, did it bring back memories. As an old married lady, Saturday is just another night for me. However, it wasn’t always that way.
Saturday night used to be “date” night, an evening no respectable single woman ever stayed home alone. So if your plans didn’t include diner with some gorgeous hunk, you were obligated to hang out with friends at a singles bar, where there was loud music and expensive daiquiris with as much rum in them as in a glass of Evian.
One weekend I told my friends I could probably have just as much fun at home. My evening, however, wasn’t four stars. There was nothing on TV and duds at the video store, so I ordered a pizza. Then I gave myself and the toes on the tub a pedicure, rearranged my shoe closet, read the book flaps on War and Peace, and sifted lumps out of a tin of flour.
My pizza arrived, and the delivery guy tried to make a pass. When he asked why a “looker” like me was home Saturday night, I told him I had rabies. Then, I downed the whole pie, a liter of coke, and a box of Oreos. I was so bloated when I got in my bubble bath, the water overflowed.
Next morning, Sheila called to fill me in on all the FAB guys I missed. There was the Latin actor with the (alleged) Mercedes who would have danced every dance with her, she said, had his estranged (fourth) wife not gotten drunk and jabbed him in the eye with a pina colada stirrer.
There was the awesome muscleman, graduate of an Applied Mechanic’s Helper correspondence course, who offered her buffalo wings from the free buffet, and took her number as well as the five Absolutes she bought him because he left his wallet home.
There was the suave, sandy-haired mortician, whose family owned a string of funeral parlors, who promised to take Sheila on a tour, show her the latest in caskets, and give her some makeup tips.
Looking back, I still say it was a toss-up who had the most fun. Saturday night sure ‘ain’t’ what it used to be. And, puddie cats, that’s just fine with Mama.
©copyright, KittyLiterate 2008
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| Fri, 8 Feb 2008 15:32:45 |
manager |
“Mommy, what’s ‘romance’?” my cat Angela asked me this afternoon. She had been looking at Valentine’s Day commercials on TV and was all in a twitter lest she be missing out on something.
“It has nothing to do with cats,” I replied. “It’s an idea humans have devised to make money in February because it’s cold and people don’t go to the stores much.
“You see, Angela, the media has misled human females telling them that the amount of happiness and fulfillment in their relationships is directly related to the amount of goo-goo eyed, hearts-and-flowers romance they experience.
And if we accept what they tell us, this “romance quotient” is measured in certain quantifiable, demonstrative displays—such as how many times the male wines and dines the female (with candles and minimum $21.99 bottle of Merlot); how many gifts he gives, high among which are bon-bons from Godiva (a Whitman Sampler in a pinch); fragrances with names like “Longing” and “Take Me;” extravagant jewelry; dozens of long stemmed yellow (red is out) roses, and at least one impulse trip to a Caribbean island, or if money is tight, a weekend at a cozy B&B in Amish Country.
If any of this is missing, Angela, the human females must face the fact that this thing called romance is finis, because the human male is either taking the woman for granted, bored to tears, or just plain doesn’t love her anymore. (Naturally, it’s the female’s fault. She walked around in her terry cloth robe and bunny slippers too often.)
Mommy thinks this is what keeps lots of people unsatisfied, searching for an illusion of bliss which the world popularizes as achievable, under the right circumstances.
I’m not saying romance isn’t nifty, Angela. But it’s not everything. And if, as the song bemoans, the male doesn’t “bring flowers” anymore, so what? He pays the mortgage, and does nice things for the woman, like rakes the leaves, or plays “Mousie” with you guys—actions which—while they may not categorically be considered romantic—are just as meaningful a sign of love as any diamond and ruby circle pin.
Angela, if I had a human daughter, I’d teach her to separate love and romance as soon as she stopped crawling. Love, I’d tell her, is a permanent, real-life, reality-based bond that allows partners to cherish each other—warts and all—while they experience good times and certain life challenges, such as house alterations, cats, kids, job losses, death, diets, fund depletions, hormone changes, hair transplants, aging, and the like. Romance, on the other hand, I’d say, though it is thoroughly enchanting, is merely a lot of fluff and stuff.
“Okay, Mommy,” Angela said. “I get it. But does this mean no more heart shaped treats?”
© copyright 2008 KittyLiterate
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| Thu, 7 Feb 2008 19:13:26 |
manager |
Welcome cat lovers. KittyLiterate here hoping you’ll enjoy your Purrsonal visit today, and return to read this blog often.
Many of you may know me from my books, PURR MORE, HISS LESS; 101 REASONS WHY A CAT IS BETTER THAN A MAN: 202 REASONS WHY A CAT IS BETTER THAN A MAN, WHY CATS MAKE GREAT KIDS, EVERYTHING I KNOW ABOUT THE RAT RACE I LEARNED FROM MY CAT among other titles, and some may know me from my stint at other cat websites.
My role here is to entertain, inform, and keep you apprised of all things cat. With that in mind, I’ll be blogging on everything from feline fashions and why we need a take-your-cat-to-work day, to general catablogs on male-female-cat relationships, the single-woman-with cat stereotype, husbands and cats, men and cats, and as they say, much much more. Of course, I’ll also cover serious issues and alert cat lovers to news they can use to better take care of their puddies.
My blog will appear regularly on an irregular basis, but at least once a month. So be sure to log in from time to time, as you never know when something new and exciting will be up.
So enjoy, hope to see you often, and remember, Purr More, Hiss Less.
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