Crossposted to Brilliant@Breakfast.
Category Archives: do-good-ery
Your Kingdom Up For Sale
Tata: Dan, why am I saving pop tops? I feel like a butt.
Dan: For the Ronald McDonald House on Somerset Street.
Tata: This is not one of your terrible pranks?
Dan: Noooo. Turns out recycling is one of their major funding sources.
Tata: That’s ridiculous.
Dan: Yep, but true.
Does your town have a Ronald McDonald House? Why not call them and ask if my brother-in-law is lying?
Can’t Be Silent ‘Cause They Might Be
Beautiful Drusy tests her glamorous felted bed for softness.
Just over a week ago, a friend recommended the handmade pet beds of Boxcar Kids and I ordered two, which I expected some time next week. They arrived today and they are posh and colorful and completely gorgeous. Sweetpea regarded the beds with dainty suspicion, while Topaz watched from a respectful distance. Drusy took a flying leap at the fluffy green one, then rolled through the shimmering pink, yellow and blue bed.
Sweetpea cannot believe her smelly good fortune.
The Boxcar Kids story is harrowing, but the upshot is you can buy beautiful, handmade crafts that will make your life cooler and your pets’ lives happier, while improving the lives of real people. Everyone wins. These festive pet beds will make lovely gifts for your pert animal friends and their delightful humans, too. For what occasion? you ask. Mardi Gras is coming up, but so’s Easter, Passover, Arbor Day, any old full moon, the equinox, Earth Day, birthdays, dinner parties, not to mention parent-teacher conferences and Meatless Mondays.
Save your pennies. You’re going to want six.
Between the Saltwater And the Sea
Minor panic this evening when I awoke from a nap and thought I heard it was Super Bowl Sunday. Of course, that turned out not to be true and what actually woke me up was Pete’s demiglace turning into a deep, rich brown gravy in the far-off kitchen and that really was important.
This morning, I got up much later than usual, though I have no idea why. Saturday Night Live was a rerun and I have no particular interest in Emma Stone or Coldplay; as we went to sleep, we were still giggling about lines from an early evening episode of Fawlty Towers, so you’d think all that aerobic exercise would’ve caused me to sleep lightly. No. I got up at just about 9. Here, we see the sad evidence of pussycats looking for me, waiting for me, not seeing me and running off to find food somewhere else. Nothing makes you feel like reheated crap like getting out of your cozy bed an hour and a half late and discovering you’ve disappointed cat people who aren’t even your pets. I was surprised to see these paw prints on this ledge. The cats that used to wait here moved away with their dumb people-people last summer. You can see these prints drip with dismay, but I may be overestimating and the snow may be thawing. Tomorrow, we expect the temperature to rise above 50.
About a week ago, I decided to stuff a cork in my wine drinking for a while. It wasn’t a big deal and it’s nothing permanent, but it makes a big difference in my budget. I had fifty bucks I wouldn’t have had otherwise, so I dropped them into this person’s Paypal account, because my good fortune can mitigate someone else’s misfortune. Tomorrow, I go back to work, which means I’ll be outside with food for the outdoor cats as the sun comes up. Perhaps they will forgive me, but we cannot say. Trust has to be earned, every day, every day.
She Wrote Me A Letter
The committee would like to express its thanks to Georg for two boxes of delicious yarns and grrrrrrrrr hissssss meooooooow!
Outrun My Bullet
Yesterday, I wrote a blog post while people were talking to me. I may or may not have written in complete sentences, but I can’t say because people are currently talking to me and some of them are cats. You may have differences of opinion with cats but on matters of grammar and punctuation, cats will not engage in disputes. They are right and you are made of meat.
This morning, I cross-posted yesterday’s sputtering hodge-podge to Brilliant@breakfast when I noticed the other writers have real lives and I don’t. Anyhoo, thing is I was at work at the time and if you can believe it people were talking to me about work and personal disasters and glaring at me because my bicycle was parked in the reading room and did anyone know where Tabby’s student worker went? Naturally, my syntax did not improve as I tacked on an ending that did not in any way show up the earlier writing. I am having this problem often these days: people are talking to me. What the hell am I doing wrong?
Yesterday, one of my co-workers casually remarked that Borders was going out of business so I could pick up a pile of books for my adorable grandchildren. This reminded me that the unnamed university’s anti-hunger project will call for presents for children and Toys For Tots will be asking in just a few months for unwrapped gifts, but these requests will come at a time when money will be tight. I don’t have children in school, but back-to-school sales will start in a matter of minutes. It dawned on me that if the anti-hunger project asked people to plan ahead and buy one sale item now for the project’s future maybe it would be easier to collect stuff later. So I called up the anti-hunger project’s new leader and expressed the unusual opinion that I had a wild idea. Get this: she called me back and talked for about half an hour straight. I’m not sure she took more than two or three breaths.
Maybe it was stupid of me, but I volunteered to put up posters and keep track of the unnamed university’s main library’s food collection bin. Today, I discovered the reason food hasn’t been collected from the bin all summer is that the two people who used to drag the bin down the street both retired. With a sinking feeling about the dozens of other donation boxes all over campus, I reported this to the project leader. You will not be surprised to hear that she did not answer me. I was, as you might suspect, surprised by the quiet.
You Married A Music
Pete’s ranting and Sweetpea’s bathing her right shoulder. Pete’s brother’s gone – as they say – round the twist, leading to a blizzard of phone calls and dumb assertions. So long as all parties are at least 300 miles from one another, bruised feelings are the worst of it. They get off easy. Three of my sisters, my aunt, mother and I live within 20 miles of one another. Every week no one throws a phone through a picture window is a victory.
On Friday, I bought a case of blueberries and over the weekend jarred blueberry pie filling. Since I had jars, pots, sugar, spices and lemon juice, it was breathtakingly easy to clean and simmer blueberries, heat the jars, fill them and process. The hardest job was cleaning up blue drippings and splatters everywhere. Next thing I knew, seven quart jars lined up on my bamboo cutting board and I stared at them, asking, “What the hell just happened?” I am aware that none of this flushness with successosity will matter in the least if the lids pop off and the blueberries turn a furry boys-bathroom-blue. That could happen, probably right about the time I decide I know what I’m doing, with predictably disastrous results. Won’t that be fun?
This morning, flood waters are rising in Minot, North Dakota, where Miss Sasha’s husband Mr. Sasha is stationed. Emotions are running high. On Facebook, Miss Sasha reported, “Our newscasters are crying.” Pictures are both grim and perplexing. See?
Thousands flee flood in Minot, N.D.
Hoo boy. Or look here. There’s a picture for you. Miss Sasha, whose been preparing food for the people filling sand bags, recommends donations to the Mid-Dakota Chapter of the American Red Cross. You can contact them here. It’s very difficult to be helpful at a distance. If you’re of a mind to help critters, here’s the animal shelter.
Belong To Me And Ease My Mind
What's in your Gustav Klimt yarn bag? Mine is nearly empty.
Get There From Here
Well, I suppose it was bound to happen: a mental health website found Poor Impulse Control and linked to that last post. Fine, fine. I could use the traffic. I guess. Hard to tell what good that sort of scrutiny might do a glossy glamorpuss like me, now that I’m completely secure. Which I am. Obviously. Here’s how I have come to this conclusion: a bazillion years ago or last December, the unnamed university posted a position at my current level that would head up the unnamed university’s anti-hunger campaign. I lack ambition – one of my most endearing qualities, perhaps even exceeding my humility and moral sloth – so when I applied for the position I didn’t entertain any thought of actually having the job. No, I wanted to talk with someone over at the campaign about how spazzy and off-putting that campaign is. Small wonder, then, that rather than call and demand from me pearls of sweet-smelling wisdom, someone sent a brief email dripping with disdain and if possible electronic goo. I laughed. The campaign’s spring food drive is chugging along without any publicity or donations in my building. I feel like I should do something to save this situation from its inevitable failure, though I’m not sure the campaign designers would listen. After all, in email form, I apparently reek.
So yeah: what’s a fucking do-gooder to do when do-gooders are fucking up? That’s philosophy, yo.
That Looked Like Big Green Eyes
Beautiful Sweetpea reclines glamorously in a box full of cat blankies ready to mail to Georg.
Drusy is NOT amused.
Poor Impulse Control 