There are lots of things I'm not telling you. Not because I'm secretive, but because I can't remember what I wanted to tell you.
I have a little file where I stash my scathingly brilliant ideas. On days when I don't spy something shiny and sit down to wing it, I peep into that file. I'm sure you all have one. Cathy C. Hall says we need more. More notes to ourselves. I suppose the reasoning there is that with more, at least a couple of them will make sense. So with that concept in mind, I would like to share some of the scathing brilliance that has been languishing in my Write Now file.
1) If you give Farmer H directions/chicken jelly/green beans/pans/Genius not eat
2) class county mice beat by 36 / name off program / facilities
3) Moonshiner popcorn
4) Bone rabbit graveyard delivery men wrong house
5) Each creature in its own manner clung tightly to the twigs and rocks at the river bottom, for clinging was their way of life, and resisting the current what each had learned from birth.
6) The complete lyrics of All Summer Long by Kid Rock
7) Tuna salad, though tasty, is best NOT mixed with a metal fork in a Styrofoam bowl
8) Shoes were mine
9) Dog snouts poking like sharks at a bloody piece of meat, tail whipping like a cane for a hooligan
10) Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the left here I am stuck in the middle turn lane
11) Snakes/flag/tread/ME/copperheads
12) Scream and pull hair out more effective that pull hair out and scream
13) Fatfare for the Common Woman TM trademark not tmi
There you have it. A baker's dozen of Val's tasty puff pieces that don't ring a bell. A couple of them kind of set off a weak buzzing sound...but no bell-ringers. Although it seems like I had an issue making tuna salad. And that one is a quote from Illusions, by Richard Bach. Not that I know what significance it has to something I wanted to write.
What cryptic note do you have laying around? Or, if you're not a note-taker, what scenario could have inspired one of my ideas listed above?
Thursday, July 12, 2012
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
The Changing of the Guard
That freshly unbagged kitty at the top of the page, acting as my own personal Cerberus, is my actual cat. Sure, she's not a dog, and she doesn't have three heads, But I'm an equal opportunity employer. And don't let her energy level fool you. She's been an evil little critter since she was knee-high to a wood bee. To everyone except me, of course. Just let me sit down in a wrought-iron chair on the porch, and she's up on my chest like an urban legend trying to suck the breath out of me, kneading my chestal area with her talons. We've bonded. We're of similar temperaments. Don't mess with the queen or you get the claws.
My goal is to lure you into my bloggy sanctum, and never let you leave. That job falls to Snuggles, the very special kitty. I want her to assist me in becoming the roach motel of blogdom. The Hotel California of your reading list. You check in, but you can't check out. You can check in any time you like, but you can never leave. That's kind of hard for me to accomplish on my own right now, what with two single posts showing. But before I crossed over, I had 499 posts, people! Four hundred ninety-nine posts! Since February, 2011. Somebody really needs to find a better use for her idle time, huh?
Alas, poor Snuggles. She is with me in spirit only. Oh, don't y'all worry your pretty little heads none about scrappy prickly Snuggles. She isn't dead. She forsook me for the neighbors. Not the neighbors with the dog that killed our chicken. The ones next door to them. She used to wander over there, and they fed her, and they let her in their house. They're kind of like the roach motel and Hotel California of neighbors. Because even though Snuggles was not allowed inside our house, I never knew her to be a wizard with doorknobs. So maybe she is plotting an escape, but has not yet had an opportunity to return. It's not like she wears pants to conceal bags of dirt from her tunnel that she can dump and scuff into the soil of her prison yard. And even if she could craft a papier mache head to fool the guards, there's no current for her to ride back home on a raincoat raft. Something tells me that she's not asking for a Raquel Welch poster and a rock hammer, either.
I miss my kindred catty spirit. But I don't worry about her. I know she's livin' it up with two recluses who don't drive, and only go to town when they call a taxi. Which is not exactly a yellow cab out here in Backroads, but more of a Dodge Caravan with a magnetic sign on the door. Snuggles might even be chowing down on Fancy Feast every evening, with a white tablecloth and candlelight.
I'm counting on that picture to strike fear into your mouse-clicking fingertips. Sit a spell. Take your Crocs off.
My goal is to lure you into my bloggy sanctum, and never let you leave. That job falls to Snuggles, the very special kitty. I want her to assist me in becoming the roach motel of blogdom. The Hotel California of your reading list. You check in, but you can't check out. You can check in any time you like, but you can never leave. That's kind of hard for me to accomplish on my own right now, what with two single posts showing. But before I crossed over, I had 499 posts, people! Four hundred ninety-nine posts! Since February, 2011. Somebody really needs to find a better use for her idle time, huh?
Alas, poor Snuggles. She is with me in spirit only. Oh, don't y'all worry your pretty little heads none about scrappy prickly Snuggles. She isn't dead. She forsook me for the neighbors. Not the neighbors with the dog that killed our chicken. The ones next door to them. She used to wander over there, and they fed her, and they let her in their house. They're kind of like the roach motel and Hotel California of neighbors. Because even though Snuggles was not allowed inside our house, I never knew her to be a wizard with doorknobs. So maybe she is plotting an escape, but has not yet had an opportunity to return. It's not like she wears pants to conceal bags of dirt from her tunnel that she can dump and scuff into the soil of her prison yard. And even if she could craft a papier mache head to fool the guards, there's no current for her to ride back home on a raincoat raft. Something tells me that she's not asking for a Raquel Welch poster and a rock hammer, either.
I miss my kindred catty spirit. But I don't worry about her. I know she's livin' it up with two recluses who don't drive, and only go to town when they call a taxi. Which is not exactly a yellow cab out here in Backroads, but more of a Dodge Caravan with a magnetic sign on the door. Snuggles might even be chowing down on Fancy Feast every evening, with a white tablecloth and candlelight.
I'm counting on that picture to strike fear into your mouse-clicking fingertips. Sit a spell. Take your Crocs off.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Under Construction: The New CatHouse
Hallooooo! I'm switching over to a cleaner slate. All the old stuff is still here. All 500 posts worth! But now it's under a new address: unbaggingthecatsone.blogspot.com
Clever, huh? I'm so creative with names and such. So if you have a hankerin' to delve into the past, read some comment responses, chart the progress of my madness from this blog's inception...that's where to go. It will take me a few days to get my blogroll updated. So bear with me. I'd have put up some cones and bright orange signs warning of the rough patch, but folks here in Backroads have a habit of absconding with such loot.
The only issue in my relocation seems to be that my followers have disappeared! I've given you the slip. Slogged through the creek to throw off the scent. Darted around a corner and waited for you to run by. Cut the lights and coasted behind a copse of lilacs. Brushed out my tracks with a weeping willow branch. So if it's not too much trouble, and you actually pop in here to visit on occasion, could you please re-follow? "Don't cost nothin'," says Bluto Blutarsky.
Nothing else is changing. It will be business as usual. Val whining about the multitude of ways in which the world conspires against her. And every now and then, perhaps, a success story about a Val story. Keep your fingers crossed on that one.
Ahh. Smell that? No! It's not the road skunk/dead mouse odor from yesterday's mistreatment of Val at the hands of the postmistress. It's that new-blog smell! Or maybe that's just the formaldehyde outgassing after I unrolled this new blog. Watch your step. I still have those cardboard runners down for the high-traffic areas.
This move has been surprisingly simple. All my utilities transferred over. Now I just need to hang the artwork and unload the moving van full of sidebar. I might just throw myself a blogwarming party when I get everything squared away.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to lock up. I'm dashing off to lay in a supply of Doan's Pills. You know. Just in case I throw out my back with the heavy lifting.
Clever, huh? I'm so creative with names and such. So if you have a hankerin' to delve into the past, read some comment responses, chart the progress of my madness from this blog's inception...that's where to go. It will take me a few days to get my blogroll updated. So bear with me. I'd have put up some cones and bright orange signs warning of the rough patch, but folks here in Backroads have a habit of absconding with such loot.
The only issue in my relocation seems to be that my followers have disappeared! I've given you the slip. Slogged through the creek to throw off the scent. Darted around a corner and waited for you to run by. Cut the lights and coasted behind a copse of lilacs. Brushed out my tracks with a weeping willow branch. So if it's not too much trouble, and you actually pop in here to visit on occasion, could you please re-follow? "Don't cost nothin'," says Bluto Blutarsky.
Nothing else is changing. It will be business as usual. Val whining about the multitude of ways in which the world conspires against her. And every now and then, perhaps, a success story about a Val story. Keep your fingers crossed on that one.
Ahh. Smell that? No! It's not the road skunk/dead mouse odor from yesterday's mistreatment of Val at the hands of the postmistress. It's that new-blog smell! Or maybe that's just the formaldehyde outgassing after I unrolled this new blog. Watch your step. I still have those cardboard runners down for the high-traffic areas.
This move has been surprisingly simple. All my utilities transferred over. Now I just need to hang the artwork and unload the moving van full of sidebar. I might just throw myself a blogwarming party when I get everything squared away.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to lock up. I'm dashing off to lay in a supply of Doan's Pills. You know. Just in case I throw out my back with the heavy lifting.
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