I've Been Bitten On My Bum And On My Writing Too

Okay folks, and yes I really did just use the word folks because it's a good word and I can. Anywho, today is one of those days. You know the kind where you wake up late and have three million five hundred and four things to do and only have time for two of them, so you get a short post. Sort of.

And to go with the day, its a random post about biting. Yup biting. And cats. And milk. And yes, they all go together. And I'm writing one more sentence that has nothing to do with anything just so I can use the word and a few more times. And, and, and. And I like it. So there.

Anywho--again, my cat is spoiled. Really spoiled. It's my fault because he's so cute and fluffy and meows when he purrs and luvs me. (When talking cats you have to spell loves wrong, it's a rule.) He also luvs milk, as in stalks us for it.

It all started when he was a baby. Read about it HERE. The problem is he's not a baby anymore and still luvs his milk and will bite our tender sit down spots to get it. Yes, you read that right, he bites our tookuses (or is that tooki?). Not hard or anything, just a nip when we're standing in the kitchen to say, "I require milk and you haven't blessed me with it even after I meowed all cute and fluffy and purry and nice. I even did it a couple of time because you are a human and therefore dimwitted. So now I bite you. Give me milk. Now."

What do I do when my rear end is so abused? Ummm, I give the white, fluffy, demon his milk. Yes, I know, it's all my fault and I'm training him, or he's already trained me, but it's habit. It's a reflex, a no brain function-open-the-fridge-door-and-pour-the-milk-on-autopilot reaction. Oh, and it's lame. Just saying.

Now that you've read all this I'm sure you're asking yourself what does this have to do with anything. Stay with me here, it's like writing. Surprise!

A lot of times we do things that are lame and even a little self defeating when we write. Like what you ask? Oh, how about hopping on the internet to find that one fabulous word in the thesaurus only to end up checking the email nineteen hundred times and browsing Amazon, and checking the news, weather, or whatever just because we really don't want to pound out those pages?

Somehow I don't think I'm the only one who does this. What's wrong with it you ask? Well folks, we're getting snipped on the behind every time we do it. Oh, it's not a bad bite, just a nip really, but when we add all the little chomps together that's one sore fanny. And a lot of milk.

So, today I vow to only check my email twice. And to crank out some pages without surfing the net. I even vow to not use the thesaurus because that just leads to a sore bum.

What do you do that bites?

Oh, and I lied. This is not a short post. Oops.

The Call of the Cat

We have a cat. Okay, we have more than one cat, but this post is about our eldest cat, Yoda. He's going on fourteen now, and that's pretty old for a cat. You know what they say about age and wisdom, well my cat thinks he's a guru. He also thinks he owns us. We think we own him. Can you see where this is going? Yup, you are so right.

Yoda's trying to teach us new habits. Habits that involve nighttime waking. It works something like this.

10:00 p.m.

Yoda standing at the door wanting in: Meow.

Translation: Open the door, my servant.

Me, standing at the door looking at the cold. (And yes, you can look at cold--at least you can in the mountains of Utah in November): Fine, come in.

Yoda: Meow. Purr.

Translation: Thank you. You are a good and faithful companion, and I will reward you well.

Hubby: We are so going to pay for that.

Me: I know, but it's cold outside.

Hubby sighing: I know.

4:00 a.m.

Yoda: Meow.

Translation: I would like to go out for a brief constitutional. See to my needs.

Me stirring from sleep: Uggggg.

4:01 a.m.

Yoda: Meow.

Translation: Now.

Me groaning.

Translation: Stupid cat!

4:02 a.m.

Yoda: Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow. (Repeated until my ears fall off, and a strange desire to yell and throw things fills me.)

Translation: Rise and serve me, puny human!

Me: Stupid cat!

Hubby rolling over and groaning.

Translation: I told you so.

Me covering head with pillow.

Translation: I know. Stupid cat.

Repeat until 6:00 a.m. in a vain attempt to train old cat new manners.

Translation: Yeah right. Good luck with that.

What does all this have to do with writing? Yoda sounds exactly like the little voice inside me that says things like: Sit down and write. You're wasting your time. Get of the Internet. You only have two pages today, get to work. Finish this draft. Get up and write. Why are you watching TV? Write. Write now! Don't you groan at me, young woman! I own you. I know how to keep you up at night and don't think I won't do it. Do as I command, and I will reward you well.

So how does this story end? I got up and put the cat out. And I'm sitting at my computer ready to write. So, I guess I can be owned after all.

How about you? What drives you? Is it a voice inside your head that won't shut up? A cat that won't let you sleep? Both? Drop a comment and share your motivation/torment. :)

Morning Mayhem

So, yesterday was one of those days. It all started with the melodious yowl of a cat fight outside my window. Have you ever been jerked from slumber by a cat fight? I'm almost positive that they use cat fights as a form of torture. Not a nice way to wake up--especially if it's your cat and you have to run down the stairs half asleep and rescue the thirteen-year-old puddy from probable death and certain vet bills. Yup it was that kind of morning.

As I stumbled back into the house silently cursing my cat, my sleep-fogged mind realized Kid A was in the shower. I stared at the light streaming from under the bathroom door and sighed. No more sleep for me. Time to wrangle the kids.

I descended into the basement, pulled Kid B from bed, asked-begged-urged-forced him to get dressed for school, and made his bed. Then I came upstairs and oozed into my chair and started opening emails. Kid A came in wearing a very confused look.

Here is our ensuing conversation:

Me: You okay?

Kid A: What time is it?

Me looking at the little clock on my computer. Me still looking at the little clock on my computer. Me staring at my watch. Me glaring at the little clock on my computer: Five o'clock!

Kid A: Why is it five?

Me, still glaring at my stupid clock: I don't know. It should be six. Why isn't it six?

Both of us staring at each other doing mental math.

Kid A: You mean I got up at four?

Me: You mean I got up at four?

Me: Why did you get up at four?

Kid A: My clock said six.

Me: My cat said, "**$#!@#%^&*!"

I almost said **$!@%^&*! as I realized I had missed out on two hours of blessed sleep. Two hours! If any of you are moms, I know you share my horror. And I haven't even mentioned that I didn't go to bed until almost one. Yes, cry for me. I cried for myself.

But there is a silver lining. I sat down on the couch to watch for the different buses with the kids, by the time they all departed, so did I. To dream land. I woke up four hours later with a kinked neck and a few missed appointments. So, if I stood you up yesterday, I'm sorry. But at least now you know why.

So, how was your day?

Texts and A Related Memory

We're home from vacation. It's good to be back, but sad, too. So, to counteract the sadness here are some of the texts I got from a friend while we were gone, followed by a memory they invoked.

Day 1: What day should i expect yr caravan to return in case i need to call the police?

Day 2: You should have seen all the hung over cats dragging outa yr house this morning....Shameful how they're misbehaving. So disappointing.

Day 3: Fragrant haze circling your house...lots of stoned cats....The police have only been by once.

Day 4: I'm not even going to tell you this one...

Day 5: I checked in...the cats have peed in all your pans.

Now, first off, for those of you who don't know me, we don't drink or do drugs. We don't even drink caffeine, just saying so you know. Second off, text number five deserves an explanation. Third, this particular friend wasn't the one watching my cats, so no, my cats didn't pee in all my pans. In fact they didn't pee in any of my pans, although one of them was very naughty and left something in the shower. Grrrr. And on the frog's tank. Double grrrr. The culprit shall be dealt with. How I don't know yet, but it will be dire. Like a diet. I know they're mad a being left alone for ten days, but really, rules are rules, and leaving smelly presents is high on the list of absolute no-nos. Sheesh.

Anywho, the pee in the pan thing reminded me of an event a few years ago that did involve pee in my brand-new pan. Here's the story. I'll try to keep it short.

It was summer, and my kids broke one of the window screens. Before we could get it fixed, the cats found it and decided it worked great as a cat door. At first I was upset, but then...well, lets just say I didn't have to open and shut the door all day long for the cats. I know this makes me seem extremely lazy, but there you have it. One broken screen equalled less door opening so, I let it stay. Sad, I know.

About a week later, I was punished for this. At two-in-the-morning there arose such a clatter. I leapt from my bed to see what was the matter. (I never realized until now, how useful Twas The Night Before Christmas could be to tell stories, but I'll stop now so you'll keep reading.) Okay, so at 2:00 a.m. a very distressed cat whizzing around my front room like a demented pinball, knocking knickknacks off the shelves and trying to climb the walls, windows, and everything else, woke me from a sound sleep.

It was not one of my cats.

After I blinked the sleepy blur from my eyes and engaged my brain enough to realize what was happening, I yelled at the trespasser, and out the window he flew. I rushed over and slammed it shut.

We fixed the screen the next morning.

Over the next week my cats behaved badly. They slunk through the house like hunters stalking prey. They hissed a lot. They left smelly presents. A lot. I yelled a lot.

Now, despite the two recent presents they left while we were on vacation, they don't usually do this. Really they don't. They're good cats. Really they are, so this present leaving was strange. And ugly. I chastised. I cleaned. Then I chastised and cleaned some more. Then I woke to find a foul yellow liquid in my new pan. I banished them. Enough was enough. They could live outside. Forever.

Then at two-in-the-morning, (why is it always two?) I was once again torn from sleep by my deranged cat flinging himself around my front room. "How did you get in?" I yelled as I, too, went berserk.

I grabbed the broom and chased him around the house, yelling threats the whole time. At last I cornered him under my daughter's bed. And yes, she was now awake and staring at me with a rather frightened expression. I dropped to the floor and glared into my cat's green eyes, and then I realized something. My cat didn't have green eyes.

It wasn't my cat.

As we stared each other down, my mind rewound over the past week, back to the intruder. Everything clicked into place. The strange, stalking behaviour. The naughty peeing. The intruder cat never made it out the window. I'd locked a feral cat in my own house and never realized it. Only the cats had. They'd tried to hunt him, but I yelled at them for it. He'd left nasty messes, I yelled at them for it. He'd been here all week.

My daughter netted him with a bathroom towel. Out he went. I let my cats back in and apologized.

But not this time. This time they are to blame for the smell and the mess, and dire consequences will follow.

How To Train Your Human: posted by Leisha's cats.

Disclaimer: Not to be confused with, How To Train Your Dragon. Dragons are much easier to train and far more intelligent than humans.
We, Sparkle Tangerine and Yoda--Cat Extraordinaries, are not responsible for, or liable if any here-mentioned training techniques fail. Humans, by nature are dull-witted and resistant to training.

Yoda: I've spent my entire life (thirteen people years) with my humans, and I know they can be unruly and stubborn. But if you persevere, they can be quite useful. Even though I'm a cat, and therefore far superior to all forms of life except other cats, I enjoy my humans. I know this sounds like sacrilege, but humans, when properly trained, can increase the quality, and longevity, of your life.

Sparkle Tangerine: Humans are great fun. I'm young (eleven people months) and know how to live it up. Listen to me if you're not ancient like Yoda.

Yoda's tips:

Purr. This soothes their inner human and weakens their mental faculties. Within thirty seconds they will be within your control. Do not be concerned if their speech patterns deteriorate until they say things like, "What a tute widdle meow-meow. Mommy wuvs you." This is normal and temporary. They will still know how to feed you.

Stand by their sleeping mat and yowl at various times in the night until they arise and escort you outside. Humans need to be exercised. Do not neglect this aspect of their training or they may become useless and sedentary.

As with the above technique, continue to exercise your human throughout the daylight hours by demanding to go outside. Then stand at the door and cry to come in. Humans like crying. The cat yowl is scientifically designed to impel humans to action. Without us they would become completely debased. Do not be deceived if they appear upset. They love it.

And finally, strategically place your hairballs in high traffic areas. Human feet require exposure to hairballs. It stimulates their speech skills as indicated by the sudden increase in vocabulary right after contact with the hairball. It is important to do this to counteract any overuse of purring.

Sparkle Tangerine's Tips:

Jump on their piano during the night and walk up and down the keyboard. It helps with the whole exercise thing Yoda talked about, and it is more fun than sitting by their bed. Humans need exercise, or they get fat. Fat is bad for them because they aren't as advanced as us. But, hey, who said it had to be boring.

Jump on their faces early in the morning. WARNING: DO NOT FORGET TO PURR AS YOU DO THIS. This is a risky move, but can be a riot.

Race around house, claw the furniture, and scatter litter across the floor. They will chase you. Training your human can be a blast. Just be creative.

Gooder Is Not A Word and Freelance Editing By My Cat

A strange thing happens when you write books. You develop an internal editor that won't sleep. Everything you read, listen to, or see is subject to this inner critic. And I do mean everything. Radio commercials, books, movie scrips, your children's grammar, this blog. If any of you are writers I know you are dissecting this right now because I am, too.

This morning my six-year-old told me she was gooder than she used to be. Instead of being happy with her about this achievement my brain went right to editing mode and, "Gooder isn't a word," slipped from my lips before I consciously thought about it. So I guess I shouldn't get upset when my cat does the same thing to my manuscripts.

Now I know that any readers out there are raising their right eyebrows in disbelief. How can a cat edit manuscripts, you ask? They don't read. I know these thoughts are in your brains, because they were in mine. This is how it was . . .

I was sitting in my writing chair editing my manuscript. When I finished a page I laid it on the ground next to me and moved on to the next one. My cat, the same one who tried to bury the soy milk offering I gave him like so much poop, (see my first post for the full story) came and sat in front of my pages.
He stared at them for several long minutes. I stared at him. Have you ever seen a cat "reading" a book before? If you haven't, you should. It was funny. At least until he stood, flashed me an irritated look, and promptly tried to bury my pages.

My mouth fell open, and I grabbed my precious book. After frowning at my cat and turning my back on him, I returned to my editing only to realize he was right. The pages were rank. Like poop. I rewrote the whole chapter. The only problem is I don't have the nerve to show the new pages to my cat. He's a tough critic.

Starting A Blog and Articulate Cats

Never having blogged before, I've decided that starting one is bit like having an articulate cat. Now I know this sounds odd, so I'll explain. We have a kitten who loves milk. Every morning the little, white puff ball with claws saunters into the kitchen, plants himself in front of the refrigerator and starts mewing. We, as his faithful servants, rush to the fridge and get him a bowl of milk.

You are probably wondering what starting a blog has to do with the cat and milk, but hang in there, its coming.

Yesterday we ran out of milk. Our little demon of cuteness wandered to the kitchen and assumed his milk getting position. The mewing commenced. The milk drinking did not.

Now cats, especially young, spoiled cats, don't seem to understand that the fridge isn't magic and that when the milk is gone, it's gone. I even showed him it was gone. He didn't believe me and the mewing continued. And continued. And continued. In desperation I poured the demanding brute a dish of soy milk.

Here's that part that explains the strange connection between blogs and articulate cats.

My kitten sniffed the soy milk, then promptly tried to bury it. Yes, he tried to dispose of it like excrement. I laughed, but he didn't. He gave me a look that clearly said, "Why have you given me this foul thing?" He then turned his back on me and shunned me for the rest of the day.

My fear is that you, as the potential reader, may decided my blog is soy milk. Now, I like soy milk. In fact, I prefer soy milk, but you may not. So, here's hoping you don't try to bury my blog. I just don't know how I'd react to that. I'd probalby get a big glass of soy milk and shun you for the rest of the day.