Priceless.

We’re not huge cat-toy buyers.  Our cats aren’t terribly interested in gee-whizzery, and the Kitty Can’t Cope Sack represents the pinnacle of technology to them.  Milo’s favorite toy, when he’s not getting his kitty buzz on, is a crumpled receipt (and his zeal for pursuing them, even in an uncrumpled state, makes entering expenses into Quicken an exercise that would impress the Flying Wallendas).  We are well aware that for the feline imagination a cardboard box is a castle, a TARDIS, and a treehouse all in one.

So why we were enticed by a $5 IKEA nylon cat-hut, I don’t know.  But I’m happy we didn’t listen to our wiser voices for once.  The thing’s a hit at our house, and for some reason we find it endlessly amusing to find our cat-family enjoying its cozy Swedish vibe.

Simon a/k/a "Big Papi" (for his increasingly strong resemblance to David Ortiz ):

Who'd have thunk the evil cat-hut would be such a hit?

Little Milo, happily sharing space with several Kitty Can’t Copes:

$5 very well spent at IKEA

Dash, examining the environs:

Even skittery Dash likes it.

The toys help

…and deciding that he draws the line at sharing.

He draws the line at sharing, however.

Overheard at our house, fall edition

John comes in from hauling the fresh load of wood that was just delivered.  He’s in that "third-day-of-a-cold, dammit-I-need-movement" phase.  He’ll probably be wiped tonight.

"What’s up?" say I.

"Just want to put my boots on.  I almost dropped a piece of wood on my foot."

"Good.  Wouldn’t want a husband with a mooshed foot.  Defective.  I’d have to return you."

"Got your receipt?"

"You’re under warranty.  I bought the extended plan."

"That’s power-train only.  Hands and feet are accessories – not included."

Good thing he put his boots on.

I’m back…

I’ve spent the last week in the great State of Maine (since Milo is busily making himself at home on my lap, I first typed that as the "Great Sate of Maine," and when you consider the amount of good food that was consumed, it’s just as appropriate).

It’s awfully pretty there.

John near Bubble Rock

And we had a very good time. Brother Brian also took some great shots, which you can see here , and we also talked about restarting Literagraphica , which has been on hiatus since Bri’s spent the last year and some doing piffling things like starting new businesses and winning awards and silly things like that. He says he’s got things sorted now, and wants to restart the project, so that’s very cool.  I took a pretty nice shot of him also:

Brian at Bubble Rock

And an arty shot of my own:

Aht

That’s pretty much it. We’re trying to get back into the swing of things here – which is always easier if you take an extra day at home before jumping in to real life.  In our infinite wisdom we… didn’t do that.  I’m already really looking forward to the weekend.

Taking my readers to school

This probably won’t ever become a library blog, but I know a bunch of my readers share my gung-ho-osity* for institutions of literacy.  Therefore, I’m passing along this article from The Economist about libraries in cowboy country that one of my classmates found. Aside from what it says about the reading habits of my own local area in comparison to other areas, it’s very heartening.

* It is so a word.  Okay, so it isn’t.  But loopy neologisms are my thing.

Cookies and rain

We’re riding out Tropical Storm Hanna, so it’s been a quiet day, with lots of curling up and reading and listening to the rain thrum on every surface.  A pot of tea became inevitable, and with it, a craving for cookies.  These cookies, to be specific:

Cookies!

These are my mother’s recipe for oatmeal chocolate chip cookies (though John prefers his with abominations instead of chocolate.  He doesn’t like chocolate – which is fine: more for me).  Of course, by the time I had made them, the tea was gone, so we just had them with milk.

Coooooooookies...

I’m no foodblogger, but these are too good not to share with anyone who might be interested (Fair warning: I’ve given myself blisters mixing these with a wooden spoon.  A stand mixer is your friend here, or a hand mixer if you don’t have a stand model):

Oatmeal Chocolate Chip Cookies

Ingredients :
1 cup sugar
1 cup brown sugar
1 cup shortening
2 eggs
2 tablespoons water
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 teaspoon soda
1 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 cups flour
3 cups oatmeal
1 package chocolate chips (or abominations, if you really must.  Raisins or nuts can also be added if preferred)

Directions :
Cream sugar and shortening.  Add eggs, water, and vanilla and mix.  Sift together soda, salt, and flour and add to the mix.  Add oatmeal and chocolate chips (I add oatmeal first, then split the batch and set aside half to accommodate the chocolate/vile thing preferences in our household).  Use a teaspoon to drop rounded lumps of cookie dough (a bit smaller than golf-ball size) onto greased cookie sheet and bake at 375 for approximately ten minutes.  They tend to be fragile when they’re just out of the oven, so I let them cool for a couple of minutes on the cookie sheet before breaking out the spatula and shoveling them on to a cooling rack.

Try to contain yourself for a few minutes while they go from molten to merely hot.  No, really – try.

Enjoy.

Online classes and the commentaholic

Classes have started, the Trapper Keeper is shiny, the pencils are still sharp.  And I am here to report that online classes are as fascinating as a good comment thread – which for me is very fascinating.

I can tell already that I’m going to have to schedule my online class time rigorously.  Otherwise, I’ll go down another online rabbit hole, my husband will never see me again, and I will get to a stage of weapons-grade insufferability.

Seriously, though – this is a good exercise for me in thinking twice before I open a comment window and express an opinion, and I intend to take it seriously as a tool for personal growth.

Dash – not so brave, dear heart

We’ve had heavy rains around these parts recently (though nothing to what the folks in the Gulf Coast are facing – I’m watching those reports with dread).  Dash, always afraid of thunder, now seems to have extended that trepidation to mere heavy rain.

Even heavy rain makes Dash nervous

Not usually a lap cat, he sniffed at the slider the other morning and insisted on sharing the available space on my lap with my computer.  I was able to snag his chagrin with the PhotoBooth program.  Poor dear.

The Chart of Dorian Gray

Marie called last night to catch up and see if my pencils are sharpened and my Trapper Keeper is shiny. I reported positively on the one school event I have yet attended (orientation), and then we covered the Health Report.  Marie, for reasons unknown (and surprisingly not traceable to her husband or two children – I kid, people, I kid) has a mysterious pain in her… bottom.

Me?  On top of unwisely playing soccer last night and feeling a dreaded "pop" and then pain in my calf (if I were a racehorse, I would have been shot long ago) I visited the doctor last week.  The University of Maryland has deemed that any potential disease vectors – um, students – need to produce their childhood vaccination records.  Since I am well beyond my teen years and the doctor who kept his hand loosely on the tiller of my youthful health retired about a decade ago, neither my mother nor I had any notion as to whether or not these documents even exist any more. I was instructed by the Health Center at UMD to visit my doc.

I like my doctor.  Dr. Y is very no-nonsense with a droll sense of humor: my kind of medical professional.  She is vaguely tut-tuttish that I don’t have the documents necessary, but tells me that there is no problem – I just need an MMR vaccine booster, then she’s free to sign the paperwork.  And since we’re at it, when was the last time you had a painful tetanus booster, anyway?  Um.

Then she squints at my electronic chart and notes that I’m going to be 40 next year and it’s been a while since I’ve had a blood panel done.  Tippity-tap, she orders that up on her computer screen like a waiter at a chain restaurant.

Result: I get an MMR booster and a cholestorol check.  Will someone tell me whether I’m entering kindergarten or early middle age, please?

Bringing up the rear

John just about crippled himself with laughter the day Tosh let out an audible fart which caused him to whip his head around and look at his own butt as if to say, "What was THAT?"

Today he did one better.  After farting he started, jumped up, circled around to where his butt had been and commenced a thorough investigation of the scene of the crime.  I believe the theory of the brontosaurus (ehrm, apatosaurus – I was a kid in the 70’s: my brain will always hand me "bronto" first) having a second brain for his rear has been debunked in the case of dinosaurs, but it may have to be revived for our dog.

Ad Bored

I’ve been watching a lot of the Olympics, and even with the TiVo, there are a few ads I haven’t been able to avoid. The first defines the type of ad I would like to ban, because it is a crime against nostalgia:

Yes, that’s a collection of recreations of iconic scenes from "The Breakfast Club." I have a hard time describing the visceral loathing I feel for this ad. Marie and I used to have this movie memorized, but the target market for this ad probably hasn’t heard the words, "So it’s sorta social: demented and sad, but social. Right?"  So the target market probably just thinks this is a bunch of kids doing dopey things to the accompaniment of a moldy oldie.  Good one.

Contrast that with the United Airlines ads called "Sea Orchestra" and ‘Heart" (memo to United – let people embed your video).  I’ve actually stopped ba-booping through blocks of Olympic ads and rewound to watch these.  They’re original and actually relate to the thing being advertised, and I hate to say it, but these advertisements are entertaining.

Which is more than I can say for the continued harping on the Chinese gymnastics age scandal.  Al Trautwig made a particularly ugly comment the other evening, snidely inviting the viewers to judge for themselves as to whether some of the Chinese gymnasts looked old enough.  Excuse me?  This isn’t "America’s Top Sports Scandal."  If the Chinese cheated, it’s not going to be voted on via telephone by the US viewing public.  The only thing this does is make Al Trautwig look like a first-class wart.