Anything Goes

Before I moved away from home, I hadn’t written a lot, at least I can’t recall if I did. When I got pregnant with Nate, I tried to write, especially about being pregnant, so I could remember and have something for him.

I’ve written before about what a painful time in my life that was. The pain continued for quite some time after Nate’s birth. To write, I would have had to see it. To write, I would have had to feel it. To write, I would have had to face it. So I didn’t write.

I can’t recall exactly when I stopped. I can’t recall exactly when I started back. I’ll give a good guess and say it was from the end of 1994 to the end of 1997. I probably started with angry letters that I never sent and moved on to poetry. I re-worked some of my older poems but I wasn’t overflowing with ideas. For the next three years I dabbled but didn’t produce anything other than one poem that I would actually let anyone read. I was still stifled.

After I met Holland (the drunk), and became entangled in that fiasco, I finally turned back to writing as a release and wrote a lot of poetry, including “Sanctuary,” which I linked back on the “Viva Viggo” post. This was also the time period I was contemplating a few short stories, novellas, and novels - just contemplating.

After Holland left in 2002, and I found out AZ had his post office box back to himself, I asked him if I could write to him, like I had many eons ago and he said, “Sure.” *Loud, evil, wicked laughter.*

The flood gates opened and the words came out. Many, many words. Each letter was of epic proportions… 15-20-30 pages a piece… sometimes one every other month, one a month, sometimes two or three a month, for about a year and a half. I would mail one and begin another. AZ was my blog… just a private one and one that once the words left, they didn’t get discussed or at least rarely. Looking back, I think that was best. It got me to where I needed to be, and that was dating Lex. Six months later, it got me again to where I needed to be, right here with you.

During the time period between 2002 and when I began blogging, I wrote a great deal creatively as well. I finished several short stories, biographical profiles, essays, two novellas, and a lot of poetry. I submitted stories to writing contests and magazines, and even my novella to a publisher. It was discouraging that I wasn’t published but it was also encouraging because of the personal positive feedback I received from a few magazine editors and the editor of the publishing house.

Just like when the teacher called me to her desk in 1983 and encouraged me to continue writing, it meant as much 20 years later. I didn’t do much creatively, aside from blogging, last year. I was too busy peeling the onion and that takes up a lot of time and energy. But not now. I look at my notes and my research and what I have written so far, and realize… I have two novels, two novellas, two screenplays, and three magazine articles in the works. Its like they’re on a giant CD changer, and every so often that CD changer rotates and whatever comes up is what I work on.

The CD changer has landed on “magazine articles” for right now. I have finished one, another is one or two paragraphs from being completed and the last is written in my head and just needs put on paper. I find I work best when I rotate around like that.

I can’t imagine going for such a long period of time again and not writing anything… nada, nothing. I’ve learned I’m much happier when I write. It doesn’t matter if I ever sell an article or a novel or anything else. I’m still a writer. I’ll always be a writer.

Before I moved away from home, I hadn’t written a lot, at least I can’t recall if I did. When I got pregnant with Nate, I tried to write, especially about being pregnant, so I could remember and have something for him.

I’ve written before about what a painful time in my life that was. The pain continued for quite some time after Nate’s birth. To write, I would have had to see it. To write, I would have had to feel it. To write, I would have had to face it. So I didn’t write.

I can’t recall exactly when I stopped. I can’t recall exactly when I started back. I’ll give a good guess and say it was from the end of 1994 to the end of 1997. I probably started with angry letters that I never sent and moved on to poetry. I re-worked some of my older poems but I wasn’t overflowing with ideas. For the next three years I dabbled but didn’t produce anything other than one poem that I would actually let anyone read. I was still stifled.

After I met Holland (the drunk), and became entangled in that fiasco, I finally turned back to writing as a release and wrote a lot of poetry, including “Sanctuary,” which I linked back on the “Viva Viggo” post. This was also the time period I was contemplating a few short stories, novellas, and novels - just contemplating.

After Holland left in 2002, and I found out AZ had his post office box back to himself, I asked him if I could write to him, like I had many eons ago and he said, “Sure.” *Loud, evil, wicked laughter.*

The flood gates opened and the words came out. Many, many words. Each letter was of epic proportions… 15-20-30 pages a piece… sometimes one every other month, one a month, sometimes two or three a month, for about a year and a half. I would mail one and begin another. AZ was my blog… just a private one and one that once the words left, they didn’t get discussed or at least rarely. Looking back, I think that was best. It got me to where I needed to be, and that was dating Lex. Six months later, it got me again to where I needed to be, right here with you.

During the time period between 2002 and when I began blogging, I wrote a great deal creatively as well. I finished several short stories, biographical profiles, essays, two novellas, and a lot of poetry. I submitted stories to writing contests and magazines, and even my novella to a publisher. It was discouraging that I wasn’t published but it was also encouraging because of the personal positive feedback I received from a few magazine editors and the editor of the publishing house.

Just like when the teacher called me to her desk in 1983 and encouraged me to continue writing, it meant as much 20 years later. I didn’t do much creatively, aside from blogging, last year. I was too busy peeling the onion and that takes up a lot of time and energy. But not now. I look at my notes and my research and what I have written so far, and realize… I have two novels, two novellas, two screenplays, and three magazine articles in the works. Its like they’re on a giant CD changer, and every so often that CD changer rotates and whatever comes up is what I work on.

The CD changer has landed on “magazine articles” for right now. I have finished one, another is one or two paragraphs from being completed and the last is written in my head and just needs put on paper. I find I work best when I rotate around like that.

I can’t imagine going for such a long period of time again and not writing anything… nada, nothing. I’ve learned I’m much happier when I write. It doesn’t matter if I ever sell an article or a novel or anything else. I’m still a writer. I’ll always be a writer.

I haven’t always been a writer. For the first 11 years of my life, I didn’t write much more than what I was supposed to. I don’t remember writing creatively or anything special about my writing during that time. I suppose I can credit the British for sparking my writing career. The first poem I ever wrote was about the Falkland Islands’ War. So, I can narrow my first creative writing effort to sometime in the Spring of 1982.

I also wrote a poem called “Night Light.” It would be the first of many of my poems dealing with darkness, the night, and security issues. I stuck to poems and school assigned writing until 7th grade. Our assignment in 7th grade English was to do a creative writing assignment, a couple of pages perhaps, including all the parts of a story or some junk like that. I asked the teacher (a prolonged substitute) if I could expand and she told me of course. (Yeah, I was a teacher’s dream.)

I wrote a short story in the fantasy genre named after an obscure Duran Duran song called, “Secret Oktober.” I even illustrated the covers with the symbols from “Seven and the Ragged Tiger.” (That would be the album from whence “The Reflex” and “Union of the Snake” came.) Perhaps the events from 7th grade are so clear because of my obsession with Duran Duran and the fact the teacher called me to her desk and praised me on my story and told me how impressed she was.

I was no longer limited to poetry, having proven myself in the short story realm. The summer between my 7th and 8th grade years I spent an inordinate amount of time at my grandparent’s house, writing. And writing and writing and writing. What was I so busy writing? What is known today, which I did not know then, as fan fiction. At the prompting of my two best buds at the time, equal Duran Duran nuts, I began a saga as only a 13 year old can. I probably wrote, all told, over 200 pages (longhand on college ruled notebook paper) on that story.

As our fickle teenage taste swung from Simon to Nick to John to Andy to Roger and back again, and as we squabbled over who WE were going to date, heh, so did the storyline change. I also met Beanie that year, who had just entered 7th grade, and she fit in just perfect. I’m not sure if I included her in the story or not but I think when I started hair band fan fiction she may have been a character. I know I did a bit of hair band fan fiction but not as much as I did the Duranie fiction.

In December of 1984, an event occurred which would further spur my writings and that was the death of my band director, Louie. We left from school on Friday, and he stood at the band room door and in his booming voice said, “I’ll see you next week.” He didn’t. He died either that night or the following night of a massive heart attack. Our small community was devastated. He had been the band director when my mom was in the band in 1964. He’s buried within in a mile of my current home.

I had never faced death before. I doubt many of us had at that time. The memories have faded a bit over time, but there are many things that still stand out. Crying on the lapels of my other band director and our choir director. Huddling with other members of the band, the announcement that school was canceled the day of the funeral, how the well meaning funeral director tried to pull me closer to the casket and ended up freaking me out.

As I entered 9th grade, my reputation preceded me which allowed me a coveted spot in a creative writing class, usually reserved for Seniors. (That’s a trial by fire I STILL have difficulty writing about.) I don’t recall what our first assignment was but I do recall what I wrote about and it was Louie’s death and the affect of his death on those around me, especially Mark, the associate band director, and someone that I was particularly close to (to the extent we didn’t pull a Mary Kay and we actually waited until I was OUT of high school to…. ummm… you get the picture.)

Even as I wrote it, I didn’t realize the impact of my words. I didn’t realize the emotion my words would provoke until I read it aloud to my class. I did what I’m doing now, and that is choking up. I didn’t realize that all of the things I felt and saw happening around me, others had too, and when I wrote it down, I captured it, as a time capsule that we would, collectively, always understand.

Writing stopped being just a creative outlet. It became an emotional release. My writing began to take on other facets as my world continued to evolve. I carried over my creativity to the yearbook and became copy editor before I was ever in high school. That was between the 8th and 9th grades. (That’s how I got into the creative writing class - the teacher was the yearbook staff advisor.) My Sophomore year I was copy/assistant editor and at the end of my Sophomore year was named editor.

My Junior year also propelled my writing. In addition to still writing most of the copy for the yearbook and learning a lot about layouts and editing, I still spent a lot of time writing poetry and journal entries to help me deal with my growing restlessness. I used to pick a song or lyric for everyday of the week. Another coup was our year end World History project. I love history but it can be bland. How about I spice it up a bit?

Instead of writing another boring dissertation about the French Revolution, I made up my own characters and inserted them into the events, just like a historical fiction novel (except no sex). I had to fight my history teacher for it back. I’m not sure who won. I know at some point I had seen parts of it floating around but I’m not sure what ever happened to it. Again, a confirmation I needed to keep writing.

I was further buoyed by my success at the yearbook conference, in which I beat out 200 other students to win an all expense paid trip to a seminar at the Journalism School at Columbia University in New York City. I did what I had been doing for three years, writing copy.

At the end of my junior year, I defected to Germany and barely had time to finish the yearbook for the previous year before I left. Did I mention my yearbook advisor/creative writing teacher was also my German teacher? Did I mention she’s the one responsible for putting that crazy idea in my head? I still love her.

I bought two diaries when I arrived in Germany and spent a great deal of time writing letters and in my journal. I mean monster letters, twenty to thirty pages handwritten. My fan fiction continued in a way except I did a Purple Rain type thing where I wrote the storyline around the music and then turned the whole thing into a huge music video production. Hey, I loved that shit. How else could I be Tom Keifer’s sister and kiss Sebastian Bach??? Shut up.

College is a writing blur. I know I wrote a lot of angsty (I made that word up) poetry and a lot of letters to AZ and Jeff and I wrote in my diary. I hated my college writing classes and that must be how I ended up in Criminal Justice instead of Journalism. Feh. Bah. *Scowl*

I moved away from home and got pregnant with Nate. I stopped writing, not even a grocery list… for a very long time.

As this is already pretty long… I’ll continue it tomorrow.

I haven’t always been a writer. For the first 11 years of my life, I didn’t write much more than what I was supposed to. I don’t remember writing creatively or anything special about my writing during that time. I suppose I can credit the British for sparking my writing career. The first poem I ever wrote was about the Falkland Islands’ War. So, I can narrow my first creative writing effort to sometime in the Spring of 1982.

I also wrote a poem called “Night Light.” It would be the first of many of my poems dealing with darkness, the night, and security issues. I stuck to poems and school assigned writing until 7th grade. Our assignment in 7th grade English was to do a creative writing assignment, a couple of pages perhaps, including all the parts of a story or some junk like that. I asked the teacher (a prolonged substitute) if I could expand and she told me of course. (Yeah, I was a teacher’s dream.)

I wrote a short story in the fantasy genre named after an obscure Duran Duran song called, “Secret Oktober.” I even illustrated the covers with the symbols from “Seven and the Ragged Tiger.” (That would be the album from whence “The Reflex” and “Union of the Snake” came.) Perhaps the events from 7th grade are so clear because of my obsession with Duran Duran and the fact the teacher called me to her desk and praised me on my story and told me how impressed she was.

I was no longer limited to poetry, having proven myself in the short story realm. The summer between my 7th and 8th grade years I spent an inordinate amount of time at my grandparent’s house, writing. And writing and writing and writing. What was I so busy writing? What is known today, which I did not know then, as fan fiction. At the prompting of my two best buds at the time, equal Duran Duran nuts, I began a saga as only a 13 year old can. I probably wrote, all told, over 200 pages (longhand on college ruled notebook paper) on that story.

As our fickle teenage taste swung from Simon to Nick to John to Andy to Roger and back again, and as we squabbled over who WE were going to date, heh, so did the storyline change. I also met Beanie that year, who had just entered 7th grade, and she fit in just perfect. I’m not sure if I included her in the story or not but I think when I started hair band fan fiction she may have been a character. I know I did a bit of hair band fan fiction but not as much as I did the Duranie fiction.

In December of 1984, an event occurred which would further spur my writings and that was the death of my band director, Louie. We left from school on Friday, and he stood at the band room door and in his booming voice said, “I’ll see you next week.” He didn’t. He died either that night or the following night of a massive heart attack. Our small community was devastated. He had been the band director when my mom was in the band in 1964. He’s buried within in a mile of my current home.

I had never faced death before. I doubt many of us had at that time. The memories have faded a bit over time, but there are many things that still stand out. Crying on the lapels of my other band director and our choir director. Huddling with other members of the band, the announcement that school was canceled the day of the funeral, how the well meaning funeral director tried to pull me closer to the casket and ended up freaking me out.

As I entered 9th grade, my reputation preceded me which allowed me a coveted spot in a creative writing class, usually reserved for Seniors. (That’s a trial by fire I STILL have difficulty writing about.) I don’t recall what our first assignment was but I do recall what I wrote about and it was Louie’s death and the affect of his death on those around me, especially Mark, the associate band director, and someone that I was particularly close to (to the extent we didn’t pull a Mary Kay and we actually waited until I was OUT of high school to…. ummm… you get the picture.)

Even as I wrote it, I didn’t realize the impact of my words. I didn’t realize the emotion my words would provoke until I read it aloud to my class. I did what I’m doing now, and that is choking up. I didn’t realize that all of the things I felt and saw happening around me, others had too, and when I wrote it down, I captured it, as a time capsule that we would, collectively, always understand.

Writing stopped being just a creative outlet. It became an emotional release. My writing began to take on other facets as my world continued to evolve. I carried over my creativity to the yearbook and became copy editor before I was ever in high school. That was between the 8th and 9th grades. (That’s how I got into the creative writing class - the teacher was the yearbook staff advisor.) My Sophomore year I was copy/assistant editor and at the end of my Sophomore year was named editor.

My Junior year also propelled my writing. In addition to still writing most of the copy for the yearbook and learning a lot about layouts and editing, I still spent a lot of time writing poetry and journal entries to help me deal with my growing restlessness. I used to pick a song or lyric for everyday of the week. Another coup was our year end World History project. I love history but it can be bland. How about I spice it up a bit?

Instead of writing another boring dissertation about the French Revolution, I made up my own characters and inserted them into the events, just like a historical fiction novel (except no sex). I had to fight my history teacher for it back. I’m not sure who won. I know at some point I had seen parts of it floating around but I’m not sure what ever happened to it. Again, a confirmation I needed to keep writing.

I was further buoyed by my success at the yearbook conference, in which I beat out 200 other students to win an all expense paid trip to a seminar at the Journalism School at Columbia University in New York City. I did what I had been doing for three years, writing copy.

At the end of my junior year, I defected to Germany and barely had time to finish the yearbook for the previous year before I left. Did I mention my yearbook advisor/creative writing teacher was also my German teacher? Did I mention she’s the one responsible for putting that crazy idea in my head? I still love her.

I bought two diaries when I arrived in Germany and spent a great deal of time writing letters and in my journal. I mean monster letters, twenty to thirty pages handwritten. My fan fiction continued in a way except I did a Purple Rain type thing where I wrote the storyline around the music and then turned the whole thing into a huge music video production. Hey, I loved that shit. How else could I be Tom Keifer’s sister and kiss Sebastian Bach??? Shut up.

College is a writing blur. I know I wrote a lot of angsty (I made that word up) poetry and a lot of letters to AZ and Jeff and I wrote in my diary. I hated my college writing classes and that must be how I ended up in Criminal Justice instead of Journalism. Feh. Bah. *Scowl*

I moved away from home and got pregnant with Nate. I stopped writing, not even a grocery list… for a very long time.

As this is already pretty long… I’ll continue it tomorrow.

Stepping into the night sauna makes me think of melting wax or chewing gum. If you pressed your finger into your skin and lifted it, I can imagine the skin stretching like gum. It makes me think of ice cubes and cold water running down the hollow of my throat, sweat rolling down the center of my spine.

Skinny dipping, nudity slicing through water like penguins, breaking the surface, wishing for just a breeze of the arctic. Drifting on a float like a mermaid, hair streaming in the water, unafraid, unabashed of nipples puckering under sensual thoughts.

Bullfrogs languidly croaking for mates, lazy crickets, blues on the radio, heavy on the saxophone. Hand fans, ceiling fans, electric fans, whirling, whirling, whirling, moving hot air from place to place to place. Cats, laying in the garden on the Mother’s cool earth, their ears flicking, otherwise showing no signs of life. One glowing cicada emerges from its chitin, and attempts to dry its wings so it can sing its love song.

Restless, tossing, sex, steam rising, slipping, sliding, feverish, intense, heat crazed, breathing - heavy like the air - hotter, fingernails sliding on slick, slick, slick skin, skin slick with sweat. Carnal fucking, animals in heat, for we are animals, harsh, sexual words. Moans, gasps, hands and mouth and teeth urging faster and harder, so urgent, out of control, bodies arching, pulses racing and whirling, whirling like the fans, drying the slick sweat, from place to place to place.

A cat flicks its ear forward, sensing before seeing, a train in the distance, raising through the night, the earth trembling and creaking, the whistle drowning out the whirling and the croaking and the lazy crickets. The cat watches the train disappear and closes its eyes in the sultry night.

Stepping into the night sauna makes me think of melting wax or chewing gum. If you pressed your finger into your skin and lifted it, I can imagine the skin stretching like gum. It makes me think of ice cubes and cold water running down the hollow of my throat, sweat rolling down the center of my spine.

Skinny dipping, nudity slicing through water like penguins, breaking the surface, wishing for just a breeze of the arctic. Drifting on a float like a mermaid, hair streaming in the water, unafraid, unabashed of nipples puckering under sensual thoughts.

Bullfrogs languidly croaking for mates, lazy crickets, blues on the radio, heavy on the saxophone. Hand fans, ceiling fans, electric fans, whirling, whirling, whirling, moving hot air from place to place to place. Cats, laying in the garden on the Mother’s cool earth, their ears flicking, otherwise showing no signs of life. One glowing cicada emerges from its chitin, and attempts to dry its wings so it can sing its love song.

Restless, tossing, sex, steam rising, slipping, sliding, feverish, intense, heat crazed, breathing - heavy like the air - hotter, fingernails sliding on slick, slick, slick skin, skin slick with sweat. Carnal fucking, animals in heat, for we are animals, harsh, sexual words. Moans, gasps, hands and mouth and teeth urging faster and harder, so urgent, out of control, bodies arching, pulses racing and whirling, whirling like the fans, drying the slick sweat, from place to place to place.

A cat flicks its ear forward, sensing before seeing, a train in the distance, raising through the night, the earth trembling and creaking, the whistle drowning out the whirling and the croaking and the lazy crickets. The cat watches the train disappear and closes its eyes in the sultry night.

Storm

We had a pretty bad storm last night. Actually, it was those 60 mph winds that took out four limbs from the nabe’s tree. Damn tree is rotten and always loses a bunch of limbs when the wind blows.

Lola

I went by Lola’s (new) (old) owner’s house to at least leave them a note. Place is empty and there’s a “For Sale” sign in the yard. Neighbor told me they have been gone about two weeks. That’s what I get for giving my cat to a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend. Schtupid peeps.

Nate

I got very cranky with Nate this morning. He pissed me off. I had taken my keys apart yesterday. I can separate my car keys from my house keys and I thought I had put them back together and hung them on the peg. Well, it was just the house keys on the peg but we found the car key but Nate didn’t put the house keys back on the peg and then of course we couldn’t find them. He said, “Well, if you hadn’t taken them apart then this wouldn’t have happened.”

You know who he sounded like? His father. That blaming, accusatory, this-is-all-your-fault attitude. And, me being in a PMS, cranky mood, told him so. Yeah, I told him he sounded like his dad. I shouldn’t have. I know this. It flew all over me like a hot wet blanket, especially since neither of us was “innocent” in the matter. I’ll be damned though if I hear that shit out of my son and I told him that too.

Its time for a long talk with that young ‘en.

T-Bird

Called me this morning, pissed off as well. Her ex had left the keys in the ignition all night with the ignition turned on… so naturally her battery was drained. I hope he hid all sharp objects before she went back in the house. I had to pay the water bill this morning or I would have given her a ride to work. I think we live further apart than we work, and we only live 2 miles apart. I’m not sure if she got a jump for the car or if she’s in jail.

Blog Weather

I went to the bank a little bit ago and realized how empty the city seemed. There weren’t many people out, hardly any cars, no people on the park benches, or talking on the corner. It seems the heat has driven everyone indoors and those left outside are too weary from it to do much else other than just exist. Even the Blogosphere is slugging along, sedated in the summer doldrums. This didn’t happen last year… because the majority of us had just started blogging in April/May/June and were still getting to know each other. It was all fresh and new. Now, we’re just like an old pair of sweat pants, stained, with a hole in the knee and the half broken elastic in the waistband. Not fit to wear around company but perfect for the company of friends.

Sweat pants are welcome here.

Storm

We had a pretty bad storm last night. Actually, it was those 60 mph winds that took out four limbs from the nabe’s tree. Damn tree is rotten and always loses a bunch of limbs when the wind blows.

Lola

I went by Lola’s (new) (old) owner’s house to at least leave them a note. Place is empty and there’s a “For Sale” sign in the yard. Neighbor told me they have been gone about two weeks. That’s what I get for giving my cat to a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend. Schtupid peeps.

Nate

I got very cranky with Nate this morning. He pissed me off. I had taken my keys apart yesterday. I can separate my car keys from my house keys and I thought I had put them back together and hung them on the peg. Well, it was just the house keys on the peg but we found the car key but Nate didn’t put the house keys back on the peg and then of course we couldn’t find them. He said, “Well, if you hadn’t taken them apart then this wouldn’t have happened.”

You know who he sounded like? His father. That blaming, accusatory, this-is-all-your-fault attitude. And, me being in a PMS, cranky mood, told him so. Yeah, I told him he sounded like his dad. I shouldn’t have. I know this. It flew all over me like a hot wet blanket, especially since neither of us was “innocent” in the matter. I’ll be damned though if I hear that shit out of my son and I told him that too.

Its time for a long talk with that young ‘en.

T-Bird

Called me this morning, pissed off as well. Her ex had left the keys in the ignition all night with the ignition turned on… so naturally her battery was drained. I hope he hid all sharp objects before she went back in the house. I had to pay the water bill this morning or I would have given her a ride to work. I think we live further apart than we work, and we only live 2 miles apart. I’m not sure if she got a jump for the car or if she’s in jail.

Blog Weather

I went to the bank a little bit ago and realized how empty the city seemed. There weren’t many people out, hardly any cars, no people on the park benches, or talking on the corner. It seems the heat has driven everyone indoors and those left outside are too weary from it to do much else other than just exist. Even the Blogosphere is slugging along, sedated in the summer doldrums. This didn’t happen last year… because the majority of us had just started blogging in April/May/June and were still getting to know each other. It was all fresh and new. Now, we’re just like an old pair of sweat pants, stained, with a hole in the knee and the half broken elastic in the waistband. Not fit to wear around company but perfect for the company of friends.

Sweat pants are welcome here.

But you can’t take the home out of the cat. This is Lola, who I gave up for adoption on the Saturday before Father’s Day (5 weeks ago). Yesterday, Hagar’s wife told me she had seen a black cat on my porch and wondered if I had kept any of my black cats. I told her no.

However, last night as I was letting my other cats in to eat I saw this black cat on the porch and recognized her immediately. I picked her up to look at her belly just to make sure, since Lola has a white pelvis and a few white hairs on her neck. Yep, it was Lola.

She looked at me guiltily like, “Yep, its me, Lola.” I took her in the house and put her down at the food bowl. The other cats came over and smelled her and then licked her so, that was that. Now she’s laying alseep on the Christmas tree box. I figure if she made it a little over two miles, crossed the railroad tracks, and evaded the humane officer she can stay. She’s in good shape, her fur looks good, I found one flea, and she’s not knocked up, at least that I can tell right now.

Oh well, what’s a witch without a black cat? She’ll have to earn her keep though. When I have my big ass pumpkin party, Ms. Lola will have to pose in Halloween pictures. So there. The big puss.

But you can’t take the home out of the cat. This is Lola, who I gave up for adoption on the Saturday before Father’s Day (5 weeks ago). Yesterday, Hagar’s wife told me she had seen a black cat on my porch and wondered if I had kept any of my black cats. I told her no.

However, last night as I was letting my other cats in to eat I saw this black cat on the porch and recognized her immediately. I picked her up to look at her belly just to make sure, since Lola has a white pelvis and a few white hairs on her neck. Yep, it was Lola.

She looked at me guiltily like, “Yep, its me, Lola.” I took her in the house and put her down at the food bowl. The other cats came over and smelled her and then licked her so, that was that. Now she’s laying alseep on the Christmas tree box. I figure if she made it a little over two miles, crossed the railroad tracks, and evaded the humane officer she can stay. She’s in good shape, her fur looks good, I found one flea, and she’s not knocked up, at least that I can tell right now.

Oh well, what’s a witch without a black cat? She’ll have to earn her keep though. When I have my big ass pumpkin party, Ms. Lola will have to pose in Halloween pictures. So there. The big puss.