I would like to kiss the New Year, but I can’t reach that high. I would like to glimpse what’s next, but I can’t open my eyes that wide. So I will simply sit here, on the floor, with the cats, telling stories.
Do it. Call me “greedy.” I’m not daring you. I’m not seeking absolution. I’m delighting in it. Do it!
As August ambushes July with a Super Soaker, we’re feeling ruffled in Ringoes. Cats are reasonable. They do not expect life to be a constant stream of meat products. They accept that sometimes the best they can do is a burger made of twenty slices of cheese. But no one at Tabby’s Place can accept […]
It happens. It happens, and it happens, and it happens. It happens, and it happened, and it will happen again, as long as we are brave and outrageous. Never bet against the brave and outrageous.
There was a time when kinfolk cloistered in Brooklyn brownstones or Omaha homesteads, Italian and Swedish singing across the clotheslines and generations. There was a time when Suite C was Suite C, and cats of a certain fatness stuffed the years like rollatini, together for (a) forever or (b) until someone slimmed their way elsewhere. […]
My extraordinary spouse recently commented on a very particular habit of those who provide customer service over the phone. He noticed that they all say, “That’s perfect!,” or some version thereof. Turns out, I’m one of “those people.” We finally found a match for your calendar with our availability? Perfect! You received the email and […]
What if we all sat around the fireplace and pulled oysters and pearls from our week? The cats would strongly prefer that we pull all the catfish out of all the bayous and dance like Kokopelli around the bonfire, but they’ll accept this pale substitution.
If you’re a cinnamon roll, the center is the most important part. If you’re a human or a cat or a carousel, you’d be wise to hug the fringes.
O July! We cannot fathom why you did the things you did.
I wish I could tell you why people get mean when they’re really just scared. I wish I could tell you why they don’t write more songs about the smell of thunderstorms. I wish I could tell you why I don’t “get” avocado; no, not even in the form of guac; yes, I have tried […]