Breaking News: Cat Gets Fired for Not Acting Like a Dog: The Cattiness of Broadway

photo by splityarn

photo by splityarn

In another installment of life imitating art, The New York Post has announced that Montie, the cat cast to play The Cat in the Broadway version of Breakfast at Tiffany’s, has been fired.  My fictional story−My Six Days on Broadway: Crossed by a Golightly Cat−posted last week, tells a story of a cat being fired from the cast of Breakfast at Tiffany’s. That’s just what happened, y’all!

Poor Montie was unable to follow cues. Should Truman Capote have written in a dog instead? Probably. Like my fictional cat, Montie was nipped before opening night. Sorry Montie. Look on the bright side. I heard you’re a hell of a waiter. And Oceana! Doggie bags don’t get better than that!

Montie’s been replaced by Moo, who is not a cow but has played one on TV−in those laughing cheese commercials. We wish Moo better luck.

To read My Six Days on Broadway: Crossed by a Golightly Cat click here.

Got Multiples? Baby Names for a Brood

red baby names 007

Practically every time I turn on the computer, I see this headline: “Hottest Baby Names for 2013.” I could’ve used that fourteen years ago when I was pregnant with my first. I knew for nine whole months that a baby would be coming at the end of it, sufficient enough time to figure out a potential girl name and a potential boy name. I blew it. I was on my way to the hospital for a scheduled c-section and I had nothin’.  Well, that’s not entirely true. I had three baby name books packed in my hospital overnight bag. The c-section gave me two extra nights and two extra days in the hospital to pour over the books. Still nothin’. As it turns out, you’re not permitted to leave the hospital with an un-named newborn. Found out the hard way. They wheeled us back from the elevator.

This would seem odd for a person who writes fiction. Many characters in many of my stories have needed names. And none of them have gone nameless. So why the trouble with my own kids? George Foreman also buckled under the pressure and ended up calling 5 of his 10 kids the same exact thing: George Edward Foreman.

I started thinking. What family had the most kids? What did they do? We’re all familiar with Kate’s 8, Octomom’s 14, and the Duggar’s 19. But when I dug a little deeper I discovered the most kids born to one family was 69! I nearly stopped breathing. 69 kids? From one womb? Are you pulling my fallopian tubes? From a total of 27 pregnancies, this woman gave birth to 16 sets of twins, 7 sets of triplets, 4 sets of quadruplets. She lived the better part of her life in a hormonal cloud with no waistline.

Let’s put aside the cooking, cleaning, diapers, terrible two’s, (x 69 = 138?) teething, nursing, sleepless nights, whining that “he won’t give me the remote!” Oh, actually, I should point out that this family lived in the 18th century, so that thing about the remote probably didn’t happen. It was more like, “He won’t let me play with the stick!” Regardless, how the heck did she name 69 kids?!?

I have a theory. After she had ten or so kids, she decided to just number them. Genius, right? “Hey, 14, you give 27-32 a bath tonight.” Like that. Not to say that was easy. Please, I couldn’t even remember my high school locker combination. And that was only 3 numbers! (Still causes nightmares.) I’m sure there were days when she mixed up 34 with 43. (Especially since both were redheads.)

Legend has it she provided the world with more than just a mass of descendants able to fill Yankee Stadium. One day, 57 came home from school and sat on the floor to untie his shoe laces. His mother said, “57, why are you taking your shoes off? You get to keep them until tomorrow morning, when you give them to 45 so she can walk to school.”

57 said, “Mama, I have to do my math homework and I need my toes.”

“Toes? Why do you think I had all you kids? Use your brothers and sisters to count for 8’s sake!” And hence the human abacus was born, an elaborate counting system using all 69 kids lined up in the back yard. Ten rows of six kids and one row of nine. This classic counting apparatus was later fabricated out of pebbles and wood. Many years later it was sold to Texas Instruments for a boatload of money. Unfortunately she didn’t live to see that happen.

What was her name, you ask? That’s the irony of the story. All of the history books refer to this Russian woman as the wife of Feodor Vassilyev. She had no name of her own. I’m sure that’s because in her husband’s eyes, she was always #1.

I am Not a Hoarder

junkdrawer 005

Not until I hit my forties did I start thinking about my senior years and the person I’d become. Actually, there was one time before, when I took a theater makeup course in college. For our midterm exam we had to transform our face into the eighty-year-old version of ourselves. That was sobering. After I cleaned up, I applied SPF 80 and a good deal of blush and have kept it on since.

There are many common fears of aging: loss of hair (or growth in unsightly places) or teeth, loss of physical strength or mental acuity, becoming incontinent, becoming sick. But except for losing my memory, the only thing I really fear is becoming a hoarder.

I wish I could say that I only had one junk drawer, like normal people. But more than that, I must admit, I love my junk rooms−drawers. Is that bad? I am not a hoarder. I don’t think. However, I fear I may display some early indicators:

*a cabinet full of cords. I don’t know what they are used for−if I knew that, then I’d know if I needed them. USB, ethernet, coaxial, HDMI, monster cables. Most of these are still in sealed plastic bags secured with twisty-ties. I have a collection of phone chargers, battery charges, camera and portable dvd chargers that I’m scared to throw away. I’m sure I no longer own half the things these chargers are meant to charge.

*paint cans. I have saved every paint can I’ve ever bought. Notice I said bought, not used. I even keep reject colors. Even empty cans. I save those because the formulas are written on the lids. Most of the colors are custom. They are not from a paint chip found in strips at Home Depot. I always return those colors so the paint people can add black or add white to get the colors absolutely perfect (perhaps that’s a sign of another problem). All this customization means the colors cannot be duplicated unless I save the original cans.

*pieces of scrap wood, fabric, foam, metal. Any of these things can be used in the future to create a genius abstract work of art.

*about sixteen years’ worth of shelter magazines. They are all so gorgeous; you never know when you’ll need some advice on color combinations, furniture juxtapositions or a little bit of creative inspiration.

*“box” of hardware. Okay, it’s not really a box as much as it is a bench. I bought the bench for my tools, but my hardware collection is much more impressive! There are screws and nails (indoor and outdoor), hinges, bolts, nuts, washers, knobs, locks, door stops, springs, tacks and some other lesser known pieces of hardware. I sometimes take things apart and save the hardware. Why? I don’t know!

*shipping boxes. I have a special closet just for shipping boxes of every size and shape imaginable (including tubes). These are boxes I’ve received in the mail from ordering stuff, but I simply can’t part with a good box. Although my box collection is extraordinary, it is far exceeded by my collection of bags, both paper and plastic. I have, without intending to boast, clearly the most staggering bag collection you have ever seen. I am not in the least bit biased, I collect bags from all types of establishments, mass or posh, but it’s the bags with metal or twine handles, circular or trapezoid shaped, with gussets, without!, die-cut with logos, matte laminated, 4 color 100% ink coverage with grosgrain handles, that I truly covet.

*shelves of old towels, sheets and blankets. There could be a storm and I might need to host unexpected sleep-over guests. A lot of them. Or, I could end up with a beach house someday. I’m gonna need a surplus of sheets and towels then, won’t I?

*jars and bottles of unique shapes, cookie tins, souvenir shot glasses, as-seen-on-tv kitchen gadgets, camp art projects, crazy-glue tubes forever sealed, AA batteries, old address books, orphaned gloves and socks, buttons, business cards, eyeglass repair kits and a rolodex.

Please help me. Becoming a hoarder doesn’t happen overnight. It’s a slow gathering. An unnoticeable, subtle collecting. I may be exhibiting warning signs.

I may need an intervention.

If you think I could benefit from an intervention, please give me some advance notice so I can clear out the garage.

Let the Storms Come

photo by StormLoverSwin93

photo by StormLoverSwin93

The wind’s fury can lash bruises across my skin. Uproot my soul.

Lightening can pierce a chasm through my heart, as thunder deafens promises.

The rains pelt my resolve and flood my eyes.

Watch my bearings rattle as the earth crumbles under foot.

An avalanche can bury me.

The light is snuffed but I’m not in darkness.

Because you are with me.

And natural disasters can’t damage like man-made ones.