Cats: Stealthy, Enigmatic, Easily Insulted, Obsessive-Compulsive

It's a sad commentary on one's life when they can find nothing more exciting to write about than their pet cat. I should make a New Year's resolution to become more exciting. Perhaps I'll start a life of crime as a jewel thief, except that I'm terribly accident proned and not overly secretive. Maybe I'll become a modern day Evil Kineivel (yes I know I misspelled his name, but you still know who I mean) I'll start by pole vaulting across the creek in my backyard. Then I'll work up to the Oconee River, Then the Strait of Gibralter. It'll all be mapped out in my five year plan.

But tonight, with no pole in sight, I sit here quietly observing my cat, Anakin, a large silver long-haired male about eight months old, which makes him about 17 in cat age. (Yes, I know it's only supposed to be seven cat years for every human year, but how does one account for the fact that they're considered full grown at a year old? Seven year olds aren't adults Don't argue with me!.) Anakin has been meticulously bathing his left front paw for the past 15 minutes. He hasn't touched the others. This specific limb doesn't look particularly dirty. From the attention he's giving it, one would think he needs a squirt of Spray n Wash and some Heavy Duty Tide. Maybe, like the three little kittens, he soiled this mitten eating pie. I don't know, but if he keeps up this OCD behavior, he'll need a real mitten because he'll have no fur left on it.

Everyday or so, I run the pooper scooper through Anakin's litter box. When I do, it never fails! He can be down by the creek disemboweling a squirrel. He could be in the top of a Live Oak. He could be wooing the calico female who's been sending out mating signals. But as soon as he hears the scooper hit the sand, he's magically standing there in front of the box, as if he's been shot out of a rifle. He stands there staring at me, a sulky resentful sneer across his face. I'm sure if he were human, his arms would be folded and he'd be tapping his foot. The look he gives shows outrage, as if to say "I can't believe you're throwing that away! Do you know how long it took me to produce that! His face follows each drag, each scoop and each drop, back and forth until I'm done. His look shouts "You idiot, you're throwing artwork into the garbage. All my efforts, all my best work is now garbage, because you can't appreciate talent. If the DOG produced this, you'd have it bronzed, but who am I, just a lowly cat. There'll be no more still-warm chipmunks left on YOUR doorstep. I'm going down to the Tate's house to live."

Even though Anakin is obviously smarter than Kelly, his canine counterpart, and he's supposed to be afraid of her, he adores her. Even though she's 110 pounds and could swallow Anakin like a piece of sushi, they're best friends. They bathe each other, a nightly ritual. I wonder if he'll show her the soiled left paw. Kelly doesn't like any other cats, though. The rest of them are still fair game and definitely chase worthy. The longer she keeps them tree-ed, the better. Last week, Kelly began barking at the window, so I let her out where she took off after Silver-Bell Tate, a sweet gray and white male. As I walked out on the porch I could see that Kelly had him high up in the old elm tree. Jumping and barking, with her head tilted skyward, she was clearly having the time of her life threatening the poor neighbor kitty. Disturbed by all the commotion, Anakin left his napping locale and sauntered toward the tree to offer help or pass judgement. As he approached the elm, Kelly stopped barking long enough to acknowledge Anakin by touching her nose to his and quickly licking his head. Then, she proceeded to taunt poor Silver. What I found incredibly funny in the ironic sense, is that Anakin relaxed on his haunches, watching the whole spectacle as if it were a thrilling movie. I wonder what passers-by would think. Here's a huge dog barking her lungs out at Cat #1-elm dwelling, terrified, potential dog dinner, while Cat#2- same color, same size, sat right next to the dog, unthreatened, unharmed and unafraid, entertained. I wonder what Silver Bell was thinking. "Hey, wait, Cat! You're supposed to be on MY side!"

For more tales from the feline side, check back later. Or pray that I get a life soon.

Childhood Nemisis Unknowlingly Pours Salt in the Wound 16 Years Later

Childhood Nemisis Unknowingly Pours Salt in the Wound 16 Years Later.

Until an hour ago, my day was going quite well for a Thursday. I'd successfully completed two interviews for Georgia Family Magazine without Jack screaming something embarrassing in the background like "Mommmeeeeeee, I have to go poopees!" followed by the inevitable" "Mommmeeeeee, come wipe me!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" I was slowly catching up on laundry and had accomplished the feat of finding matches for all the white socks and most of the black ones. The beds were made, the dog walked, supper was planned, I'd played Star Wars, dinosaurs and lions with Jack. I had even remembered to send a birthday card to my friend, Sharon. I was rapidly ticking things off the to-do list like a robot with new batteries and feeling quite satisfied with my mundane daily successes.

During a short break between turkey sandwiches and picking up Andrew from school, I decided to scan the headlines of the Courier Herald. That's when the day took a downward slope that would even make the Dow Jones cower in fear. There, on the front page sidebar, between Louise Dodd and Dear Abby, stood my high school nemisis in all her glamour, gracing the cover of Pregnancy & Newborn magazine, looking drop dead gorgeous with nary a blemish, spider vein or swollen ankle to be detected. (of course it didn't show her ankles, but I'm sure they were quite slender). The headline read "Johnson County resident featured on magazine cover."

As I read her name, and realized it indeed was THE Kristen Herringdine who made fun of my jeans, didn't invite me to her birthday party and put wadded up paper balls in my hair in Algebra class, I began to feel like an awkward teenager again, all braces, glasses and no boobs. From the newspaper, she stared back at me, carefully taking in my straggly hair, wrinkled t-shirt, eye bags, non-manicured fingernails and the remnants of last week's power zit. To make it even worse, I was wearing my fattest, elastic waist pants. With the backdrop of two overflowing laundry baskets, dirty dishes and a three-year old throwing orange wedges into his milk, I looked like a million bucks. I wanted to hide so she wouldn't see me. I wanted to cry. I wanted to drink a vodka tonic, but I was driving carpool today and I've been noticeably sober lately.

Like a high powered microscope, my magical, magnifying mind began racing through my flaws and defects while simultaneously imagining her life as a fairy tale where she spends her days getting massages and sipping cocktails from a float in her Tahitian-style pool. She probably has a house keeper, a cook, a gardner, chauffer, makeup artist. She has a hot millionaire husband who's constantly saying witty things to make her throw her lovely head back in laughter, exposing her slender neckline and tossing her ebony locks onto her back, which is noticeably absent of fat bulging out of her bra straps.

The article said that she has two sons. They're probably perfectly well-behaved, always saying "please" and "thank you" and never dropping a gallon of milk onto the new loaf of bread or tying the cat's feet together with curling ribbon.

Wait!!!!! In the great Disney movie of life, this isn't how things were supposed to end up. Wasn't I, the blatant underdog, supposed to become a princess who lived happily ever after in an English castle wearing a new ball gown each day for my adoring fans? And wasn't she supposed to be my servant, cleaning the dungeon and feeding the dragon? I'll have to consult my Cinderella guide to life, but I think that's how it should've gone.

I have to admit that I took some solice in the fact that I've never heard of Pregnancy and Newborn magazine. A model....she's probably shallow and not very smart. Has she ever been published? Definitely NOT. I tried puff myself up with thoughts like "I'm a WRITER, an intellectual, witty and misunderstood." Wait, how'd that misunderstood part creep in there. These were supposed to be attributes.

My mother used to always say "Never compare yourself with anyone else because you'll just wind up miserable." Thanks for the reminder, Mom. I'm grabbing a matchbook, the newspaper and heading outside to have a small bonfire and enter the land of Denial so I can pretend that the Courier Herald didn't come today.