Monday, August 27, 2012

Liza Bean

Liza Bean, my cat, is 20 years old. Her black fur is losing its luster. She sleeps 20 hours a day and doesn't hear when I call her name. At night she lays by my pillow and only gets up to vomit a fur ball at the side of my bed. It's sad to watch her slow down and become an old cat.
So, imagine my surprise this morning when she was playful, chasing her tail around the bed before the alarm went off. I reached over to give her a pat on the head, my plea to go back to sleep for a bit until the sun starts to come up and there it was, in bed with us, still alive and ready to run…a mouse.
I screamed. She ran. The mouse flew in the air as I threw the blankets. I turned the light on, grabbed a flip flop for protection and ever so gingerly tip toed around my bedroom in search of a mouse. It was frightened and wounded in the corner. I let Liza chase it into the closet and I sat on the edge of my bed, questioning once again if I am capable of living by myself.
I may never sleep again. Which is fine, it gives me plenty of time to think about how to get the mouse out of my closet.

Wednesday, June 13, 2012

The Cicada. Linoleum block print.

I found a dead cicada and brought it home to sit on my windowsill next to a tomato that needs a little more sunshine to ripen. His iridescent wings are still beautiful. The prehistoric looking shell of a body and beady eyes are perfectly intact.

I don't know how to tell if it is a male or a female. I'm pretending it is a male. It seems more romantic. Only the male Cicada sings. I like singers. Especially human male singers. I don't date them anymore though. Dating a Cicada would be much less burdensome. And they are more likely to be eaten by a squirrel or deep fried.  That is a more heroic way to end a friendship.

As it is, this singer that sits on my windowsill is perfect. He's already dead.

Tuesday, June 5, 2012

Before leaving the house and walking to the park for the field days I had Lily wash the mascara off her eyes. After all these years together I was stunned that she actually thought that she could get that past me. Then there was the Daisy Duke hot shorts issue. Roll them down so that it doesn't look like you are wearing bikini bottoms or put sweats pants on. Two easy choices. Both of which triggered eye rolling, grunting and deep loathsome sighs.

Someone recently told me 11 is the new 14. I get it now.
Let the games begin.