This is a night of waiting. Yearning. Keeping our watch of wondering love.
Ever wonder why such a high percentage of Christmas cards show just the wise men? No Nativity; no angels; just three dudes in the desert. Not to knock those madcap magi, but wouldn’t you love a card depicting the sky filled end-to-end with angels? C’mon. ANGELS. AN ENTIRE SKY FILLED WITH ANGELS.
We can’t all be Santa Claus. We can’t all be Mr. Rogers. But each of us can be all the cats believe we can be.
Don’t let commercials about rich people getting Christmas Cadillacs make you cynical. These are, in fact, the days of miracle and wonder. And I’ve got 120 cats to back me up.
There’s nothing — absolutely nothing — wrong with a Festive Holiday Gathering(TM). But let’s be real (since this is the internet, the safest possible place for sincerity): sometimes such shindigs are a mile wide and an inch deep.
On this 28th day of November, 2019 AD, in Ringoes, New Jersey, United States, Planet Earth, there’s a lot to be worried about. There’s a lot to be angry about. There’s a lot to be weepy about. But there is so much more more more to be grateful for.
Let me guess: you’ve got food on the brain this week. Let’s clear up a few things: canned cranberry sauce is superior to Martha Stewart’s finest (bonus points if it retains the can shape); marshmallows have no business bothering sweet potatoes; and whoever invented “frizzled onions” should be tried for war crimes.
Eyes are for seeing. Eyes are for winking. Eyes are for sending us into the sky with swooning.
First things first: the Ringoes, NJ metropolitan area is not formally having a “cold emergency.” Unlike our very real heat emergency, this one is entirely our invention (and by “our” I mean “mine,” because I am the World’s Biggest Winter Weenie, and I enjoy hiding behind the mantle of “our”). That said, the cats know […]
These are the times that call for parchment and inkwells. These are the hours for which we wait. These are the days of female cats in Suite FIV.