Just when I figured Tuna had run out of shenanigans, he began pulling the bedroom curtains down. Now, he does it daily. They’re on a spring rod (to avoid nails in the wall), but no matter how snug the rod feels, it’s no match for 15-pounds of flying cat with a specific goal in mind. What galls me is that he poses on the bed once he does the deed, as if to say: I’d prefer it if I could just fly to the window without having to remove those curtains. Solution? I’m now keeping the stepladder in the bedroom.
It’s no secret that I have no patience for other seniors who drive and move like molasses, so I surprised myself when I picked Still Mine from a new film list on Netflix and watched a couple of 80-somethings contend with dementia and bureaucrats. Turns out the movie is amazing—a tribute to resilience that inspired me. This true story, about a guy trying to build a new house on his own property so his memory-impaired wife encounters fewer physical obstacles, is a more complex tale than the film’s description suggests, which is why it gets five stars from me.
The guy who flew a drone to the White House lawn says he was drunk while visiting a nearby friend and took the guy’s model aircraft out for a spin at 3 a.m. I’m no conspiracy theorist, but what a perfect cover for a sleeper cell member testing out a way to penetrate the president’s home. Can’t fence jump any more now that assorted crazies did so recently and managed to get inside, so the drone seems a great alternative. Here’s my thought: Secret Service orders a pizza that’s droned in and boom, ISIS strikes. Or maybe just John McCain.
Why do I put an exclamation mark after this header? Because this is big news. The antique upright I’ve been using to de-cat my floors for years has been in operation way too long. It’s ready for retirement. I’m trading in the clunky red Hoover for a sleek, highly-rated Eureka canister model that’s bright yellow, so I’ve already dubbed it the bumblebee. I have some serious work to do as soon as it arrives on my doorstep because I’m not confident the Hoover performed terribly well on my floors of late. Another item crossed off my must-replace list! Feels good.
I just wrote a 12,000-word guide on backpacking Australia. The tome included everything from what to pack to lists of sites to avoid—like the annual cockroach races held at a Brisbane hotel. I don’t know about you, but the words cockroach and hotel don’t sit well with me when used in the same sentence. That said, if such a competition intrigues you, contact me and I’ll give you the exact address so you can join the fun. Oh, and while you can bring your own roach, they sell them on site, too. Now isn’t that incentive enough to visit?
She’s baaaack…and appearing at Iowa meetings hosting Republican candidates seeking the presidency in 2016. She still looks cute and her signature ramblings haven’t improved, so they continue to make for great entertainment. Even the conservative media and those in attendance dubbed her long and winding speech unintelligible. Yet she flirts with the idea of running for president—at least when the press is around. Donald Trump is also making “I’m running” noises, so it looks like the clown bus is again on the road dispensing candidates. I can’t wait to see if Herman Caine and Michele Bachmann are among them.
When Pope Francis celebrated the Vatican’s annual tribute to peace over the weekend, the holy city’s public relations office decided not to take any chances: Instead of releasing the traditional two white doves symbolizing peace, the Pontiff sent balloons aloft. This isn’t a tribute to the party goods industry. Last year animal rights groups protested after doves released from the papal window were attacked by marauding birds—first a seagull; then a crow. Nobody knows if the doves survived. Sadly, this substitution is typical for today’s world leaders. We simply replace the symbol and get on with business as usual.
It’s been a “double good news” week: I don’t need dental surgery immediately and my cat seems to be healthy, so it’s anyone’s guess why Dreamsicle has been boycotting his food dish and litter box. I think a visit to the vet scared him straight, because after being probed, punctured and poked yesterday, even his blood tests were negative. He’s getting old—as a rescue cat, his true age is a mystery—but I have a theory: He’s sick of watching Tuna hog the spotlight and decided to do something about it. Nicely done, Dreamy. You got my undivided attention.
I avoid all-things Oprah, but can’t stop thinking of her these days ‘cause I’m being stalked by the letter “O.” I turn on the TV and either Marie Osmond or Sharon Osborne blab about diet programs. Overstock.com invades my e-mails. And while I won’t see Selma, I did catch a great Netflix movie starring the actor who plays Martin Luther King: David Oyelowo. This gritty British film about an M5 agent out in the cold gets me the “O” without the “prah,” so I was able to have my O and eat it too, without having to look at You-know-who.
I headed for a new dentist with a problem after paying off my dental credit card. Again. When I pay off this card, the plastic usually sends this note to my mouth: “Dear teeth: Time to act up.” And, of course, one did. The bad news: There’s a problem. The good news: It’s not bad enough to require immediate treatment, so I can experience a zero balance for a while. Or not. Dreamy is sick and may need a vet visit. Turns out the veterinarian I picked takes the same credit card as do my dentists. Of course they do.