House Cougar

I often refer to my cat, Francine, as "magical".  In truth, calling her "magical" is a thinly veiled way of saying she's crazy as hell.  As with all living things in this world, God giveth with one hand...and taketh away with another.  My cat is no exception to this rule.  She is blessed with a beautiful and soft calico coat, and has always been robust and healthy.  There's just one problem:  She's bipolar.  One minute, she's curled up on my chest while I'm reading a book, or rubbing against me pleading for attention.  The next, she's eyeing my jugular vein and planning a brutal attack on my neck and face.

I remember meeting Francine for the first time during a no-kill shelter adoption event at PetSmart, in Huntsville, AL.  She was quite lovely,  calmly curled up in her little cage.  When I noticed she was named Francine, I was smitten by the quirkiness of a cat with such an overwrought, human name.  I quickly learned that she was about fourteen months old, and had already been in three homes.  Being a totally naive soul, I disregarded this fact and proceeded to adopt my first cat.  After getting her settled in my home, I was rather dismayed to find she was sick with a cold.  Nevertheless, after a few days of my doting on her, she recovered.  This is when the less docile side of her personality began to emerge.

Over the years, I've developed a rather keen ability to perceive impending shifts in her mood.  When relaxing around my home, I typically have an object at the ready with which to swat her away.  You know something is awry when her tale starts to twitch...or her eyes begin to cloud over.  Sometimes, when I sense her stalking me from behind, I'm able to turn and yell a stern, "No ma'am!".  I've found that direct confrontation is the best policy when it comes to defending myself.  Unfortunately, despite my continued vigilance, there are still times where she is able to launch a successful attack.  After such an attack, she knows it's best to run and hide, as it is hard for me to resist wanting to beat her (at least a little).  

A number of years ago, my work supervisor at the time pulled me aside.  With a look of concern, and a serious tone, she asked me if I was OK.  She had noticed the lacerations on my face, and was obviously concerned for my well-being.  Perhaps she wondered if I was a victim of domestic violence.  If so, she was right.  I had to explain to her that I was attacked by my cat. 

More recently, I went hiking through a rain forest on the Olympic Peninsula of Washington.  At the entrance to the trail, there was a sign providing survival tips in the event one encountered a bear or cougar in the wild.  As I reviewed the sign, I realized that I was already prepared to handle such an attack, merely through years of experience living with Francine.  Tips included the following things I already do in my own home:

1.)  If you are approached by a cougar, do not turn your back and run.  Attempt to make yourself as large and formidable as possible through flailing your limbs and yelling loudly.

2.)  If you are accompanied by a small child, immediately pick up and hold the child, as he or she could be viewed as prey.  (Conversely, one could also offer up an ill-behaved child as a distraction for the beast, and then turn to run for safety.)

As a sidebar, I now plan on providing a similar list to anyone who will be caring for Francine when I'm out of town.  I would certainly hate for one of my friends to be mauled while attempting to fill her convoluted and flowing filtered water bowl.

Thankfully, small children are rarely in my home.  In any case, Francine and I have co-habitated for the better part of nine years.  Since my hiking excursion,  I now fancy myself as living with a house cougar.  All joking aside, she is my buddy.  For better or worse, I made a commitment to provide her with a "forever" home.   That being said, your prayers and well-wishes are always welcome.  For now, she's curled up at my side, purring.  At any moment, however, I could be swatting her across my bedroom with a pillow...yelling, "No ma'am!"

Baby-Daddy Done Greased Up My Seats

One day, while working for an auto insurance company in Atlanta, my eyes were blinded by a flash of brilliant light.  My first instinct was to utter a prayer and crouch under my desk, figuring someone was actually dumb enough to push the big red button at the nuclear missile command.  Thankfully, remembering that I lived in the land of all things "bling", I quickly realized it was merely the sun reflecting off the oversized chrome grille and gigantic spinning rims attached to a cream-colored Chrysler 300.

I watched as a woman of rather large stature exited the vehicle and approached the lobby.  She was wearing massive silver hoop earrings, every bit as bright as the chrome that adorned her vehicle.  As she practically strutted up to my desk, I composed myself for what would most likely be a lively conversation.  Seeing no need to respond to my greeting, she immediately proceeded to tell me in a very boisterous voice: "My baby-daddy done greased up my seats!"  Trying to process her unique conundrum, I calmly asked her exactly what she meant. Earrings bobbing with her head motions, she went on to repeat her initial statement in a more exasperated tone.

At this point, I realized it would be best to go out with her to the vehicle and discover what havoc her baby-daddy had wrought.  After all, Ricki Lake taught me long ago to never underestimate the destructive capabilities of a rogue baby-daddy. The woman proceeded to show me several stains and indentations in her white leather seats, as well as her equally white floorboard carpeting.  Never mind that it just so happened the indentations in the leather were remarkably similar to those left by a child safety seat.  Furthermore, while I don't have children of my own, I'm certainly aware that little ones often like to "decorate" surfaces with food and drink originally intended for consumption.  Closer inspection of a few of the stains revealed them to be remarkably similar to ones left by juice allowed to soak into supple, porous leather.  Discovering randomly scattered Cheerios on the floor helped me reach my final conclusion regarding the interior of her vehicle.

Needless to say, despite the delicate wording of my explanation of why her situation did not warrant a claim against her insurance policy, she was not happy with me.  In lieu of finding myself in a potentially volatile situation with a rather aggressive person who clearly had an upper-hand on me physically, I thought it best to seek the assistance of a supervisor.  In the end, it appears we were able to resolve her "claim" by simply performing some basic detail work as a courtesy.  Unfortunately, I do not think the young woman was in the proper frame of mind to learn a potentially important lesson on that day:  White interiors are best left to limousines and vehicles owned by car-collectors and gaudy musicians.

Pompadoo: A Classic Kathyism

There is a family of innocently altered words, word-fragments, phrases, and sounds known as Kathyisms.  Kathyisms are expressions native to the tongue and mind of my mother, Kathy Kitson.

Now that I'm broaching the topic of Kathyisms, I must first give you a tidbit of tangential background information on my mother.  You see, while my mother may possess an advanced degree in English, she has never lost the playful innocence and naivety that pervades her bountiful speech.  Needless to say, I'm a lot like my mother.  My family's embrace of Kathyisms through the years has been the source of much laughter, linguistic growth, and downright frivolity.

At this point you're likely asking: "What the heck is pompadoo?"  I wouldn't fault you for envisioning it as a sequel to the ever-quirky "Xanadu", perhaps.  Arguably, pompadoo refers to something every bit as colorful and magical as Xanadu.  Pompadoo is the word my mother uses to refer to potpourri.  An example of its usage would be the following series of sentences, spoken by mom to my late grandmother: 

"Rea (my aunt, as well as my mom's sister) and I were at the mall in Tuscaloosa.  We bought this pompadoo at Kirklands.  It smells so nice."

"Importer's Warehouse has so many types of pompadoo!  Plus, they have really nice baskets you can put it in.  Would you like me to get you some?"

Even to this day, pompadoo is a staple in my childhood home.  When I return for a visit, a pompadoo plethora is sure to grip my senses from the moment I walk in the door.  Dried flower petals, pieces of clove, sticks of cinnamon, and potent scented oils all blend into a veritable pompadoo...uh, potpourri...of smells that let me know I'm home.

Sea Creature

While cleaning this evening, I was moving around some nick-nacks on a long countertop.  One of these items happened to be the preserved husk of a sea urchin.  Given its robust size, perfect form, and regal coloration, this particular creature almost certainly enjoyed a peaceful life until it was plucked from the ocean floor, allowed to die a horrid death via dehydration, and hollowed out to make a void in which humans could place potpourri.  This timeless treasure of the seas now lives on in my 70's-fabulous garage-apartment bathroom in Portland.

I'm not really one to make use of potpourri in the home.  Nevertheless, being a person for whom memories are easily evoked by smell, this particular items always reminds me of my Grandma Gowin.  Even though the urchin now sits empty, the pleasant scent of its previous contents still wafts into the open air from time to time, reminding me of Grandma's old house. For that alone, it will always have a place in my home, along with a precious few other items that I inherited after she passed away.