Archive for December, 2011

Fang School For Vampires

Thursday, December 15th, 2011

“How,” my twelve year old daughter asks me, “Do you make out with a vampire without cutting your tongue on his fangs?”

“First of all,” I reply, “You should never make out with anyone until you’re thirty two. Second of all, steer clear of vampires until they’ve gone to fang school. All vampires should go to fang school to learn to kiss properly.”

“Hmmm.” She says, clearly amused, both by the concept of fang school and the dictate to wait until she’s thirty two.

I continue. “Besides, vampires are cold. Let’s just say that when you’re thirty two, you meet a nice vampire and decide to kiss him. His lips are going to be cold. Like a corpse. Worse, his toes are going to be cold. If you marry this nice vampire when you’re thirty five and decide to sleep with him, when you’re forty one, he isn’t going to be able to warm your feet on a cold winter’s night. I ask you, why bother sleeping with him if he can’t warm your feet?”

“It could be good on a hot day,” she answers. She’s twelve. She always has an answer. Then she asks, “How do you have so much experience with vampires, Mom?” She’s twelve. She always has a question.

“Mother knows all, dearest.  Mother knows all.”

“Sure, Mom.”

Red Lipstick and Other Atrocities

Sunday, December 11th, 2011

Lately I’ve taken to wearing bright red lipstick. I don’t know why this is true, but I’ve spent more time searching for the perfect bright berry colored lipstick in the last two months, than I’ve spent thinking about lip color in the last twenty years.  This phenomenon has me puzzled. I’m not your bright lipstick wearing kind of gal. At least I wasn’t.

I also have a sudden hankering for stupidly high heeled shoes. The sillier the better. I want high strappy sandals and tall, spikey half boots. I’m not your silly-high-heels kind of gal. At least I wasn’t.

What is it about life now that urges me to choose a brighter color? Why is sensible giving way to sensual? Why am I taking such delight in foolish frippery? Something has changed, and it’s not just my marital status. I’m smiling more. I’m laughing more. I’m writing more blogs. And I’m wearing brighter lipstick and higher heels. I’m like a teenager at the makeup counter, not because I’m hoping to lure a man, but because some time in the last few years, hidden under the veil of a sad marriage, I turned into a woman who likes it bright. Now, as I strip away the layers of old baggage, left over hurts and healing wounds, I’m slowly finding what I want and who I’ve become. I’m finding that I like shoes. And bright berry.

Big and Mean and Fluffy

Thursday, December 8th, 2011

My cat Oliver is a mean, horrid animal and I’m worried about him. Oliver is a big gray, yellow eyed beast who rose up from the bowls of hell to torture and maim me, my children, the neighbors and all the neighbor’s cats. For some reason we, and I’m including most of the neighbors here, but none of their cats, all adore Oliver. He is the absolute king of his territory and don’t try to argue with him. One doesn’t argue with Oliver. It just isn’t a good idea.
Lately Oliver has gotten…well affectionate. He’s taken to following me around and insisting on sitting on my lap, which is torture because this is Oliver we’re talking about. When Oliver chooses to sit on a lap the lap sits still or suffers the consequences. Oliver has always followed me around, but I would never before mistake this for affection. He loves to follow me into the garden and take swipes at me with his sharp claws. He rolls on his back begging for a scratch, but I’m too smart for him. If I lean over to scratch him, he’ll bite me. Not just a little kitten love bite. No, a big mean bowls of hell-this-cat-secretly-hates-you bite. But I’m like the rest of the humans in my neighborhood. I love this cat. It’s not reasonable, but then when is love reasonable?
Still, I think Oliver’s sudden increase in real affection could be a neurological disorder. Suddenly the terror of the streets, insists on coming inside and laying on whatever couch or chair I’ve chosen and watching me with those beady yellow eyes. Should I take him to the vet? A neurologist? A zoo? Or, gasp, (covers mouth with hand) could he be another victim of the divorce? He hated my husband more than he hated the rest of us, but deep inside, is he damaged? Do I need to take him to a cat psychologist? Do I need to make an appointment with a human psychologist to evaluate how the harm I’ve caused the little angel has damaged my psyche? Do I need a new cat?

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