it's raining cats . . .

now they are four. Yep, Moak came home with Katie for Thanksgiving and life has had it's ups and downs ever since.

Moak - Happy to be home again, he sniffed out all his old favorite napping sites, did a pool patrol and headed directly to the food bowl as if he had never left. You could almost see him grin. That is of course until Bear and Ninja coming running, full tilt, up to greet him and Moak in utter displeasure hisses and snarls at the monster babies. He still does not like them and I, of course, am watching him like a hawk to make sure my bed does not get baptized a second time because he is dismayed.

Bear - Yesterday morning, I walked half asleep into the bathroom only to be rocked fully awake by walking in cold water. Huh? The bathroom floor was sopping. One look at the water bowl was the key to he who was responsible. Bear doesn't just lap. He sticks his paw in the water and licks the paw. Always. And then he gets bored and tips over the container. Note to self: buy an un-tipable bowl. So just on the off chance, I check Snoops bowl in Katie's room and although not upended like the bathroom bowl, it is half empty and the carpet is squishy. And, Katie wakes up to tell her tale of woe . . . someone (Bear - of course) tipped over the bud vase, at 2:00 a.m., containing six baby yellow roses that Frank had gotten her.

Ninja - Seems least phased by the commotion, perhaps because she is too busy causing her own. Darting here and there, she has learned to fetch with little golf ball size wadded up balls of paper. I spent good part of an hour, while watching TV with Frank, in bed, tossing the ball and having it delivered back into my hand. Love her hi jinks. That is until she, at 4:00 a.m., delivers the ball anxious to renew our game. Not.

Snoop - Has become, of all things, the indulgent, favorite uncle. He watches over the crew meting out playful swats when necessary, chasing along with the babies, and over lording the entire hierarchy. He is happy in the midst of the din until he has had enough and retreats up under the box springs of Katie's bed. To prove how further he has mellowed, he has actually allowed the shy Bear into his inner sanctum when visitors arrive.

Now four days into the visit, everyone has seemingly gotten used to everyone else and I do believe that Moak, who will be happy to once again be a solitary cat, will be missed by all.

i repeat, we do NOT live in the woods . . .

After the feasting was over, the table cleared and the dishes done, the guys and Katie decided to check out the hot rod show over at the Plaza while the rest of us gals hung out watching TV and chattering. A couple of hours later, they returned all excited . . . we could hear them through the screen door as soon as they pulled in the driveway. But they weren't excited over the show, no they were babbling about the sound of the impact, how many there were, who hit whom . . . grabbing for flashlights to access the damage. It took me a minute to piece the story together and realize that less than a mile from the house, on a four lane divided highway, a deer had run into the back of the CR-V. A deer!!! And apparently, there were two . . . both of whom scampered off. This is not deer country. Further north or west, yes. But here in town no. It is too developed . . . or one would think.

This morning Frank is going to take the CR-V in to get the rear panel refastened into place. Apparently some gizmo broke and it needs to be fixed before Katie heads back to school on Sunday.

Nope, I do not, I repeat, do not live in the woods.

in the morning light . . .

you might just see a room, but as I head downstairs to start my day, I see a place my heart loves. It is where we hang out, where we eat dinner on Tuesday nights, where we scrunch up to read, where we sit in front of a roaring fire on cold winter evenings, where we discuss our lives and celebrate our holidays. This is where we feel safe . . . this is our home.

signs I should not clean . . .

Tomorrow being turkey day and all, I decided it was time to remove the top layer of dust, sweep the dirt under the rugs, move the furniture over the stains and collect the tumbleweed sized fur balls for my next knitting project. Yesterday, I started upstairs, all going well until I got to the toilet. I grabbed the new bottle of bleach from under the sink, uncapped it, flushed the toilet and looked down to see an ever increasing puddle growing around the base of the bottle. I scooped it up, twisted the cap back on and flipped it upside down only to discover the cap leaked as well. So here I am straddling the porcelain goddess holding this large container of Clorox which is dripping and splashing from both ends. Did I mention that I was also talking to my SIL at the same time, so add balancing the phone on my shoulder to the mess? I finally tossed the bottle into the sink, ran downstairs to get an almost empty one from under that bathroom sink, ran backup stairs and poured the new contents into the old one.

Meanwhile, the kittens are ecstatic about all the commotion and are doing a happy dance in the puddles of straight bleach still on the floor. They immediately found themselves in the sink getting foot baths and towel dries. That did not go well.

Fast forward to this morning and after being side tracked to the mall by he-who-must-be-obeyed yesterday, the floor finally becomes sparkling clean with no further ado.

Next on my list is the daily changing of the upstairs water bowls for the cats. The kittens was already done so I grabbed Snoop’s and headed to the bathroom when I realized the floor was still wet. The sink being not all that far from the door, I figured I could just lean in, balance, refill the water bowl, and propel myself back into an erect state outside the door. All went well until we got to the propel part. I made it back into position, the bowl did not. There was water everywhere . . . another mop job.

These are omens. I should not clean; I do not like to clean. The Gods and warning me. I must obey. Sigh.

it's a done deal . . .

Painting complete and partially stuffed with goodies. (Note the little blue drawer pulls. They really do brighten my day.) I think I have finally found a home for that which needs one. The stamp shelves that are still to come. Then the crown molding, I am beginning to think, I will never see, and a rug. Then DONE. It really is fun to play in my new spot now.

family runs deeper than anything else . . .

Well, since Frank was going to be working all day putting the second coat of paint on my chest, I knew I would feel guilty if I didn't do something, besides laundry that is. So as I was spooning the last of my Swiss Mocha out of its tin and into my mug for my fall morning fix, I realized the empty tin was so alterable. Here it is.

Step 2, part A

Actually, step 3 was going to be the finished product but yesterday while Frank was in the middle of the job, he stops dead, sits back, stares and me and says, "I am shocked!". Of course I wanted to know what he was shocked about. "You haven't taken one picture of me painting!" I told him the saga was already on the blog and I was waiting until it was done and stuffed before I blogged again. He looked me right in the eye and said, "You never not take pictures of things in progress." So, here we are. Step 2, part A. I'm thinking I must be taking too many pictures . . .

step two . . . done!

It got a bath in the driveway and scrubbed with Murphy's Oil soap. Then it got sanded within an inch of its life which really wasn't hard because most of the finish had long since worn off. This morning it got wiped down one more time so that this afternoon we can use a tack cloth and start to paint. I am so jazzed. I love this silly piece of furniture with all its foibles . . . screws hammered flat on the back if they stuck through, gaps between pieces, odd nooks and crannies, a false floor under which someone added fiber board and wheels . . . who'd a thunk it?

Kitten Capers . . .

I am so infatuated with my Zutter, I actually bound this before it was done. I have two double layouts with background paper and journaling spots yet to be finished, just waiting for photos. Sigh. But the advent of the kittens warranted their own album.

disconcerting . . .

remember the turkey buzzards in the dead tree behind the house?? . . they are multiplying. The other day I counted 25, yes TWENTY FIVE!!! And to make matters worse, it was a cold gray morning and snoop who wanted out for his daily patrol on the pool deck, was bombarded by the creepy birds. You could hear the wind passing their huge wing span. Neither snoop nor I trusted the cage screen so in he came. Ticked. The effect is not as great without the bad weather background but this is my morning view. Yuck!

lookie. lookie . . .

I have been searching for another piece of "storage" for the loft. . . yes, I know, I have way too many goodies, ergo the need for more storage. Who knew I had this much scrapbooking stuff stashed under the bed, in the closets, around the corner and under trees? I have dragged Frank to new furniture stores, used furniture stores, galleries and estate sales. Finally, Katie and I stumbled on the perfect piece at a junk shop on the way to the art show last weekend. So much better than anything I had seen before and the price was oh so right.

The only problem is painting it. I have always has this 'thing' about natural wood . . . leave it alone . . . painting wood is a mortal sin . . . catch my drift? And here I am with this piece. It is old . . . but not well constructed . . . we are guessing made by a farmer. It was originally designed as a secretary desk with a fold up writing surface that has long since been dismantled. You can still see where the hinges were and where it locked into place at the top. But, it is still what I was looking for and I am a happy camper. All except for the painting part. The loft is blue and white . . . so my new piece will be painted white and it is freaking me out. Sigh. I can do this, I can do this, I can do this!

my head is spinning . . .

I am a week behind in my digi class and trying desperately to catch up, (the classes are available forever, I am just a tad OCD). In this lesson, we learned how to:

Create a new blank Photoshop document
Add a patterned paper background
Copy and enlarge a focal photo
Create a title using two fonts
Create a semi-transparent, outlined journaling block
Cut digital patterned paper to a specific size
Create a three-photo accent block
Add a grungy-edged overlay and set its blending mode to Soft Light

I am so lost but at the same time so excited. This digi stuff is so cool. But I am beginning to feel a little schizophrenic as I am working on a paper project at the same time as the digi lessons. ACK. Honestly, if you are the least bit interested in getting your feet wet in digi, you need to check out Jessica Sprague's classes. They are so well defined. Now if my brain was just a tad more retentive, things would be fine.

change . . .

As I approach my 60's, things change: styles change . . . body's change . . . attitudes change. I'm talking about blue jeans, the mainstay of my closet for now well over 50 years. I am the definition of the "barefoot and blue jeans kid". In the 50's my jeans were flannel lined, rolled up to make a cuff until I grew into them, in the 60's they had 2.5" zippers, sat on my nonexistent hips, had wide bells and dragged on the ground. In the 70's they were long and lean and tight, worn with heels, (oh how that amused my father), in the 80's I discovered painters pants and took a quick hiatus, in the 90's LLBean won my heart and I stayed in mom jeans for way too long, which of course brings us to the new century and me still in mom jeans.

It was time for a change. My first foray into the modern world of jeans was an eye opener to say the least. My hips are not just no longer nonexistent, they are prominent . . . my derriere which used to perkily follow behind has now dropped a story or two and my thighs now fit that old cliche: thunder. Add a little cellulite and you have the full picture and it is not pretty. Back to the mall . . . the first couple of pairs I tried on went up the legs but put on the brakes at the hip line. Pairs 18 and 19, managed to scale the hips but missed closing around my burgeoning waist by several inches. What had happened to my size 4's? Where did my 6's go? I don't even remember 8's, I think I just shot though to 10. I finally found a pair of size 10's that met the basic requirements until I bent over. OMG, I could give those construction workers whose pants never seem to cover their . . . um . . . cracks, a run for their money. I ran out of the store.

Dragged by my sister-in-law and daughter, we tried again. This time we found a pair that actually fit, pulled off a back shelf, covered in dust by the sales waif who to her credit, did not giggle. By today's standards, they fit. Sort of. They covered everything that needed to be covered, were not grungy and could be worn with heels for all those events I never attend. I bought them. And another pair I found several days later.

But yesterday, Katie and I went to the annual outdoor art show. I love this show and the weather was perfect. Fall has finally hit our neck of the woods. So as I headed for my new jeans, I realized there was no way I walking the show in heels . . . and I wasn't rolling them up. Panic stuck, I tried on my mom jeans . . . still to tight in the waist and miserably uncomfortable. What to do???? I finally dived into my collection and discovered half buried at the bottom, a pair of men's, Levi's jean painter pants . . . they not only fit, they were comfy, they sat on those hips but covered the necessities. Were they stylish . . . NO. Was Katie frantically telling me the new jeans were fine . . . yes. Did she suggest I apply to "What Not To Wear"? Yes. Did I budge? N0. So off we went. Katie in her teeny tiny low cut size miniature jeans and me in my oh so comfortable, oh so outdated jeans and flip flops. Were they perfect for our lunch break of hot dogs and root beer on the grass along the river, you betcha!!!! Am I ever going to change. Probably not. I am a happy camper and intend to stay that way. Now that is attitude!

we're back . . .

Never mind the Nor'easter or Tropical Storm Noel . . . the blinding rain, high winds, radical drop in temperature. . . we ran away. It was great. I mean GREAT. The weather actually broke late on our first night. But back to the beginning. There we were watching TV in bed . . . BORED. So half heartedly, I said, time to run away again. Got a huge smile on that one, so while he finished watching some football game, I threw a dart at my computer screen and landed on a boutique hotel on St. Simons Island next to the light house.

I never really did understand what a boutique hotel was. Now I know. It's a hotel where each room is different. Ours was full of antiques. The armoire was stunning. But, so was the new price tag complete with bar code. Seems antiques cost $860. Giggle. And you could actually own this room full of barely aged antiques for a mere $220,000. Thankfully, they lent it to us for two nights for a heck of a lot less . . . it being off season and all.

St. Simons Island is a really neat place. The most popular form of transportation seems to be bicycles. There are bike paths from the village at one end to Fort Frederica on the other. In between are gorgeous homes old and new, fun shopping (yes I did some damage), churches galore and wonderful restaurants.

The next day we decided to head over to the more famous Jekyll Island. It has an amazing collection of old monies homes now restored but not much more. Then we accidentally stumbled across the driftwood trees on the north end of the island. I was in awe. What a wonderful spot.

After heading back to St. Simons, we tried to visit Sea Island. Nope. It is private, private, private. They unceremoniously showed us the door. Ouch!!!

The next day, on our way home, we got to have lunch with my one and only. What could be better. Oh, yeah, that's Frank with one of the goodies from Katie's halloween package.

So now we are back home, watching TV in bed again. Happier. More content. Until next time.