An update in pictures

I’ve not made time to write for myself lately and that’s a shame because I love to write. But here are a few happenings.

The garden plot is full of tomatoes and it’s great.

Just waiting for them to ripen.

My cats are still jerks.

Summer is in full swing as evidenced by these blackberries.

Summer is also the best time to live in Charleston.

One reason for that is we have a lot of fireworks, like these from the Fourth of July.

I’m working on a lot of freelance stuff from home to make some extra cash.

OK the cats can be cute sometimes when they’re not being jerks.

I’m dreaming of building my own tiny house and living somewhere where the cats can run free outside. (Photo credit Tammy – Weekend with Dee.)

Also currently: reading “Eat, pray, love,” and saving money for my own journey someday soon. Send me travel ideas if you want.

Things he says to my cat

Note: I was digging through my drafts this week and came across this beauty that I wrote last fall and didn’t publish. The guy it was written about is no longer a boyfriend (and his sinuses are rejoicing), but he’s still a good friend. (And I told him I was posting this).


What do you get when pair a self-proclaimed cat lady with a funny guy who claimed he’d never date a girl who owns cats? As it turns out, some pretty hilarious conversations between the boy and the cat. I have one orange cat named Frank (@hello_imfrank on Instagram) who can’t stand to be out of my presence, one gray one named Mouse who’s happy hiding from everyone and one boyfriend who’s allergic to them both.

Don’t let him fool you, he actually likes Mouse. More than once, I’ve heard him call her “Pretty girl.” He feels less than love for Frank, though, and it’s made for some pretty funny interactions. Here are some of my favorites recently:

“Are cats just scared all the time? What’s the deal with cats?”


Him: “Why’s he vibrating?”

Me: “He’s purring.”

Him: “Oh, I though he was getting a text.”


Me: (Picks up Frank as guy opens the front door): “You want a cat?”

Him: “I don’t even want you to have a cat. Write that f***ing down.”

Me: “OK, I will.”


“F*** you, Frank.”


“If it were up to me you’d be in a glue factory… Actually I don’t think they make cats into glue… Oh, by all means get on my lap.”


“You’re meowing at the one person who hates you the most, how stupid is that?”


(Whispering) “I don’t like you.”


“Hey Frank, I’ll give you a peanut if you tell me you’re allergic.”


“I wish you were nicer… and a dog.”

That time I was mistaken for homeless

The other morning a man thought I was homeless. Well, he didn’t come out and say it like that, but that’s what he meant. I was going out to get in my car when I saw him walking up the middle of the street. Melting snow, ice and slush have made our sidewalks impassable lately, so I didn’t really think anything of it when I saw him in the street, which is mostly clear.

I was wearing a puffy blue coat over a t-shirt and jeggings and I carried an orange bag with a peace symbol embroidered on the side. It was warmer that day than it has been for a while so I was letting my hair dry on its own, but it hadn’t really gotten there.

He saw me and nodded in my direction. “What do they have good to eat?” he said.

I just looked at him, perplexed.  “At St. Johns,” he continued, referencing a church just up the street known for its soup kitchen and ministry to the city’s homeless. “Didn’t you go eat?”

“Ah, no,” I said.

“Oh, OK,” he said as I opened the door to my car and got in. He gave me a sheepish grin.

I probably wasn’t dressed my best, but I thought it was at least a step above homeless.

I guess I don’t mind being mistaken for homeless. I’m sure there are hipsters who are similarly misidentified, or who would like to be. It didn’t offend me; it made me laugh, actually.

It’s a little strange to me though, because there are different assumptions you could make about me by looking at my clothing. Every time I wear black and look down at all the cat hair I couldn’t get off my clothing, again, I know people must think I’m a crazy cat lady. I imagine that they imagine me at home by myself with my two cats, just knitting them cat sweaters and baking them tuna treats.

I try to get it all the cat hair off, I really do. The last thing I do before I leave home is to run a lint brush over my clothes. But with two cats, black clothing might as well be a fur magnet. I usually think I have all of it off, until I step out of my apartment and into the daylight and it’s just everywhere.

I’m not homeless but the crazy cat lady assumption wouldn’t be too far off.

It’s like…

Cat hair is like injustice. The more you look for it in order to rid the world (your apartment) of it, the more you find it everywhere you look.