On the hunt — October 21, 2020

On the hunt

Last week, a bobcat caused quite a stir when he strolled into a local Dollar General store.

No, that is not the start of a joke. 

Although I don’t know all the details, I do know that a rather distressed-looking bobcat was captured in a local DG. In the photos, which were posted on social media by a sheriff’s department, the bobcat bared his teeth, widened his eyes, and appeared to be snarling. The poor little feller was probably upset because the authorities apprehended him before he could finish his shopping.

Anyway, I am unsure if this is the same bobcat who was recently spotted (and somehow mistaken for a tiger) in Knoxville, Tenn. Regardless, can you imagine being in the DG, rounding the health and beauty aid aisle and encountering a bobcat as he’s deciding among a dozen or so brands of deodorant? 

Granted, it wouldn’t be as scary as running into a tiger, which like I mentioned in the previous post, is not the same as a bobcat. Seriously, other than the fact that they’re both felines, they look nothing alike. That’s like confusing me for Dolly Parton because we’re both human females.

Regardless, if you did encounter the bobcat at the DG, you could be forgiven if you initially assumed him to be an aggressive service animal and/or a personal shopper. 

As much as I heart cats — big and small — I’d say the bobcat’s fellow shoppers learned mighty fast that he wasn’t a big ole housecat. In fact, when the wild cat was spotted, someone contacted the authorities and the bobcat was eventually released on his own recognizance.

Nonetheless, I still have all sorts of questions. For example, how did the bobcat gain entry into the store? I’m a big DG fan, but unfortunately, I have not been to every location. But I do know that the DG located two minutes from my house has push/pull doors. So, did the bobcat stand on his hind legs and pull open the door?

Of course, if the bobcat’s favorite DG has automatic doors, then you can ignore the previous question. As for other questions…Why was the bobcat in the store? Was he lost? Was he stalking prey? Had he heard that DG had stocked shelves with select Christmas merchandise including popcorn tins?

Or had he heard that a certain human female with a cat army also loves the DG? Could he have been looking for me?

This post originally appeared in the Appalachian News-Express.

The gene pool — October 14, 2020

The gene pool

You’ve probably seen the advertisements for those DNA testing kits. Heck, maybe you’ve purchased one to learn more about your ancestry. As for me, I know my rights. So the only way somebody is getting my DNA is with a court order.

Not that I have any crimes — frigid or otherwise — to hide. Moreover, DNA submitted to those ancestry companies has been utilized to solve crimes — frigid or otherwise — so there’s always the chance that your fifth cousin thrice removed’s interest in genealogy will land you in the slammer.

Anyway, I’m fascinated by the aforementioned advertisements. They usually feature someone who shares a tidbit about an inspirational ancestor. In a somber voice, he or she also shares a photo with a child and tells said child that their great-great-great-great-grandmother found the cure for a long-forgotten and eradicated disease in her kitchen laboratory whilst simultaneously rearing 14 children and selling soap door-to-door. Soap that she also made in her kitchen laboratory.

Or maybe he or she somberly tells said child that their great-great-great-great-grandfather left the old country during a blizzard whilst literally battling the Abominable Snowman. Once settling into the new country, he opened a brewery that revolutionized peach-flavored beer before leaving behind that empire to become a concert cellist.

I’ve wondered if anyone’s ancestors ever led simple lives. If anybody’s  genealogy research turns up clerks or painters who went to work, came home, and read by candlelight until bedtime. Just once, I’d like to hear someone say he and/or she found their ancestors and there wasn’t an interesting person in the lot.

I’ve also wondered what role these photos and stories play. Surely these kits don’t provide artistic renderings and narratives based on genetic results. So, if the customers already have them, then these are really two separate issues.

Regardless, I’ve never been that interested in genealogy. My brother has researched our roots, however, and we’re somehow linked to Lady Godiva, the 11th Century noblewoman who allegedly rode naked through the streets to protest oppressive taxation.

As for more recent ancestors, I’d like to know what prompted the ones who settled in the States to leave the old country and, perhaps later, Virginia. It was probably something simple. They had probably run out of space and opportunity and had heard that both awaited them in the west. But maybe it was something more exciting. Maybe they were escaping a crime, frigid or otherwise.

This post originally appeared in the Appalachian News-Express.

A wronged woman — October 7, 2020

A wronged woman

When it comes to the subject of how COVID has changed our lives, except for working remotely, mine hasn’t changed all that much.

As I’ve I mentioned before in this-here space, I have taken part in the Walmart grocery pickup a couple times. I am not going to get into it at this particular time because I don’t have to tell you everything about my life, but I did not use that service last week when I needed sundries and supplies.

Instead, I chose to go to the store. It’s worth noting that this was only the fourth or so time that I have been inside the store since March.

Anyway, on maybe my second visit to the store during the pandemic, I briefly stepped away from the checkout line to retrieve another item. And when I returned, I saw that another shopper had cut in front of me in line.

As I stood there, seething, I considered my options. Option one was to confront her. I said to myself, “Self, do you want to get into a fistfight?” Self answered, “Sure. Why not? What else do you have to do today? Go home and dust?”

But then I said to myself, “Self, what if she has the COVID?”

So, I decided not to get into a fistfight that day. But I’m not the type of person who can just stand behind someone who has stolen her place in line.

I’m also not the type of person who can just saunter into another line.

So, I decided to use self checkout.

If you are a family member or a close friend of mine and are reading this, I want to give you a few moments to compose yourself. Other dear readers and I will discuss another topic. For example, this summer, I, well, not my physical self, extended the fence in my backyard. For the first time since I’ve lived here, I can see the leaves that have fallen from the hill and onto that part of the yard. It is lovely.

Okay, I think we’ve given my family and close friends enough time. They probably have some questions because no doubt they remember all those times I vowed that I would NOT use the self checkouts. Well, that was in a world before the coronavirus. That was before I deliberated over every public breath I took.

That’s not enough for you? You want me to say the words? Here goes. I was wrong. 

It gets better for you because I’ve actually used self checkout twice.

Of course, the first time I had to ask a Walmart associate for help no fewer than five times. The second time, I asked for help with some lettuce I had gotten for my mom. The associate attempted to show me how to enter produce, but I did not pay a bit of attention. Thus, the next time I buy produce, I reckon an associate will have to enter the price for me.

What’s that? Yes, I plan to use the service again because it is awesome.

This post originally appeared in the Appalachian News-Express.

If it makes you happy — September 30, 2020

If it makes you happy

When you reach an advanced age, younglings expect you to have all the answers. I can’t speak for everyone of my generation, but as for me, I can’t even keep track of the questions.

Regardless, sometimes I can offer words of wisdom…

As I’ve mentioned before in this-here column, my sister’s male cat’s name is Gypsy Rosalee. The name was chosen when he was believed to be a she and my sister saw no reason to change said name when she was discovered to be a he. (By the way, if Gypsy’s mother is reading this, she should consider putting Gypsy on a diet or enrolling him in an exercise program. He has packed on the pounds and is close to resembling the fictional obese house cat I referenced in last week’s space.)

Anyway, Gypsy has more toys that I had as a child, and our great niece and great nephew enjoy playing with said toys. Two of the toys resemble a fishing pole. I guess they were designed so that you could cast the poles and the cat would jump to reach the balls at the end of the lines.

Our great nephew likes to wrap the lines around various and sundry items in the house and bang the balls onto the floor and our heads. At least he did until we caught his head turned and tossed the fishing poles into the trash. Of course, this was only after we cut one of the lines off a lamp.

The fishing poles have nothing to do with the story, except to help me illustrate the point that Gypsy has many toys. His feline cousin, Fluff, my brother’s cat, also has toys. Indeed, Fluff has a toy mouse that moves when its tail is pulled.

The mouse is so popular with the children that it caused a minor controversy between them last week. Furthermore, our great niece has included one on her Christmas list. When we adults pointed out that she doesn’t have a cat, she explained that the toy mouse was for her.

At this point, you might be saying to yourself, “Self, isn’t it a wee bit early to be crafting a Christmas list?”

Is it?

If I want to craft my 2021 list on Dec. 26, 2020, what harm will it do?

And therein lie my words of wisdom. If you want to give your male cat a traditionally female name (or vice versa), or request a cat toy for yourself, or eat brownie batter for supper, you should do what makes you happy.

Well, do what you want as long as you’re not hurting others. I wouldn’t advise braining folks with kitty fishing poles.

This post originally appeared in the Appalachian News-Express.

Mistaken identity — September 23, 2020

Mistaken identity

A couple weeks ago, I saw on the news and in the social media that at least one resident in Knoxville, Tenn., had reported seeing a tiger on the loose. This being 2020, I didn’t find the news surprising. 

Indeed, if a tiger strolled up my driveway and onto my porch, I would merely shrug. If said tiger then unlocked the front door with its teeth, bounded into the house, made itself a grilled cheese sandwich — even though I do not keep loaves of bread or sliced cheese on hand — and then joined the cat army and me in the living room, I would accept it as part of my herd and give it an appropriate moniker.

Anyway, a few days after the report, the Tennessee Wildlife Resources Agency announced that the tiger sighting had been a case of mistaken identity.

Huh. Let’s imagine a conversation held the morning of the report in a Knoxville area household.

“Honey, do you remember that tiger we saw the other day?”

“No.”

“Sure, you do.”

“Don’t tell me what I remember.”

Barely audible sigh. “We had been to the dollar store. They had pop on sale and we found those eggs you like.”

“Oh, yeah. Those are some good eggs. What about that tiger?”

“Well, you know how we thought it was Tony? From the commercials? It wasn’t him. It was Tigger. That feller who hangs around with Winnie the Pooh.”

“Is that so? I could have sworn it was Tony. How about scrambled eggs for breakfast?”

In spite of the potential implications of this fictional conversation, that’s not what the authorities meant by mistaken identity. As it turns out, the resident(s) did not spot a tiger. The big cat spied is believed to have been a bobcat.

I’m no big cat expert — I’m more of a small cat kind of gal — but my research reveals that a tiger is the size of an SUV whilst a bobcat is the size of a bicycle. What’s more, a tiger is usually orange and black striped whilst a bobcat is reddish-brown and spotted. 

Furthermore, tigers aren’t native to eastern Tennessee so I’m not sure why someone would see a 13 to 30 pound cat and immediately think, “OMG! Tiger!” I could, on the other hand, understand someone mistaking the bobcat for an obese house cat. 

Then again, there are those among us who mistook the Coon Creek crane for a pelican, so who am I to judge.

This post originally appeared in the Appalachian News-Express.

No follow through — September 16, 2020

No follow through

As I might have mentioned before in this-here column, occasionally I wake in the morning to find that I’ve forwarded recipes to myself. (Due to my amnesia, I can never remember what I’ve mentioned to you, dear readers. So, I apologize if the existence of these recipes is news to you.)

Accordingly, I’m also not sure if I’ve shared the fact that I rarely follow through and make said recipes.

Upon reflection, I’ve come to realize that this pattern of seeking and finding an “interesting” recipe only to allow it to languish in purgatory began in my childhood. Indeed, when I was a wee lass growing up on the Goff Estate, I amused myself by looking through my mom’s cookbooks.

Better Homes and Gardens’ red plaid cookbook was my favorite and I especially enjoyed recipes that were accompanied by photographs. As I flipped through the pages, I planned the meals I would make in my future kitchen, which would be furnished by merchandise purchased from the Sears catalog.

Most of these planned meals fell victim to my amnesia, but I do remember that I couldn’t wait until I was old enough to make eggs Benedict.

In retrospect, I don’t know what I could have been thinking because eggs have never been a staple of my diet. What’s more, eggs Benedict looks the messy result of a mob of egg-wielding trick or treaters’ attack on an Egg McMuffin.

Maybe the dish caught my eye because, at the time, the Atlanta Braves had a player named Bruce Benedict, and the announcers called him eggs Benedict. All I know is that I’ve reached an advanced age and have no desire to eat or prepare eggs Benedict. 

I still desire to bake and, sometimes, cook new foods, so I spend oodles of minutes perusing new recipes. To my defense, on occasion I do prepare newfound recipes. Last year for the holidays I made cranberry-Brie appetizers that were so well-received that I made a second batch. This spring, I made a blueberry-lemon cake that was wildly successful.

Most of the time, though, I give the recipe a second or third look and come to my senses. For example, I’ve been on the search for a pumpkiny baked good. After finding several, I acknowledged that none of my loved ones or I like pumpinky foods.

Regardless, I’m not sure why I continue to look for recipes I’ll never make. But I am sure I’ll continue to do so.

This post originally appeared in the Appalachian News-Express.

Take a crack at it — September 9, 2020

Take a crack at it

One or more of my siblings and I share an unusual trait: We cannot properly open bags of food.

Upon reading these words, our mom is probably shaking her head as she recalls the countless potato chips and cookies that we flung onto cabinets, tables, and the floor due to this deficiency. And that’s not even taking into account all the potato chips and cookies that went stale because the improperly-opened bags could not be properly closed.

Mom is probably also thinking that I could mention that one or more of her children also don’t know how to properly open envelopes, but that’s another matter for another day.

Anyway, I was reminded of our inability to properly open bags again this week when I improperly opened a bag of oyster crackers. Thanks to my ninja-adjacent reflexes, I was able to keep the crackers from being flung onto the cabinet, table, and floor.

The bag was split only a quarter of the way open, but my attempts to stabilize the situation resulted in the split reaching halfway down the bag.

To my defense, the generic brand of crackers had been packaged in a flimsy bag.

I can see my mom shaking her head as she thinks to herself, “Sure, blame the bag,” and adding that if I wasn’t so cheap and had sprung for the brand name then maybe I would have been opening a higher quality of bag.

Regardless, I had to take action to save the crackers from going stale in a flimsy, half-torn bag.

So, I tried to wrap a twist tie around the top of the bag. But seeing how the top was split open, that didn’t work. I then retrieved a chip clip, aka a clothespin, but there wasn’t much to close.

I considered storing the crackers in Ziploc plastic bags. Not that I spring for the brand name, but you get the drift. But I didn’t want to waste bags, and this was definitely a multi-bag job.

Next, I looked in the pantry cabinets. In the bottom drawer, I found a container that had once held lemonade mix. And not just any mix. It had held Country Time mix, so you know the container is top quality.

Most of the crackers fit into the container and I was able to salvage enough of the flimsy bag to hold the remaining crackers. And I must say that, with its easy to open lid, a former lemonade mix container makes a perfect current cracker container. And it can be properly opened by one or more of my siblings and me.

This post originally appeared in the Appalachian News-Express.

No more words — September 2, 2020

No more words

As I’ve mentioned before in this-here column, I keep track of the books I read through Goodreads. Although I don’t take part in the discussions offered by the website, I do read reviews and peruse book-related questions.

In fact, just the other day, my eyes settled on the following question posed by a fellow reader: Is it ok not to like a book?

Well, yeah.

That’s like asking if it’s ok not to like a certain food, person, or blog. I could never imagine asking permission to dislike, well, anything.

Anyway, the question also addressed an issue that haunts book readers – to finish or not to finish a book that you’re just not into.

With one notable exception – a trashy memoir of a Z-list actress that was even too tawdry for me – in my youth I finished every book, story, or reading assignment I started. It mattered naught that my mind occasionally wandered and that I didn’t always retain the material. I read every word.

But in my junior or senior year of college, a literature professor assigned an Ernest Hemingway story that was basically a fishing manual. That was the first of many times to come when I wondered if anyone could actually die from boredom.

The professor frequently quizzed us on assignments, so I pulled out the abacus and determined that I could fail a potential quiz and still maintain my grade. Thus, I did not read the story. (By the way, it wasn’t The Old Man and the Sea. I don’t remember the title, but, for reals, it was basically a fishing manual.)

Thankfully, we were not quizzed on the boring story. Nor did the professor engage us in a class discussion. What’s more, this did not set a precedent for me. I still read every word and finished every book, story, or reading assignment I started.

As I’ve gotten older, however, I’ve developed a self-diagnosed attention disorder and I’ve become even more impatient. I’m also not into self-torture, so I will not finish a book that I’m not into. Indeed, the book that led me to the Goodreads question about whether it’s ok not to like a book…well, I didn’t finish it. In spite of the good reviews and laurels heaped upon the book, I could not spend one more word with the characters.

It would be wrong to say I didn’t care what happened. Hence, my visit to Goodreads. It’s just that I preferred spending a few minutes rather than a few hours learning the characters’ fates.

And that’s ok. Because everyone has different likes and dislikes and maybe the next book will be so good that I’ll wish it contained more words.

This post originally appeared in the Appalachian News-Express.

Tip the scales — August 26, 2020

Tip the scales

After the death of my sweet, beautiful and dern-near perfect cat, Alice, I started subjecting the rest of the cat army to weekly weigh-ins. You see, Alice had been losing weight, but since it was gradual and since I saw her every day, I wasn’t aware of the weight loss.

So, the morning after she died, I weighed my remaining two cats. Even though the process is painless, every week one of them acts as if she’s undergoing surgery without the benefit of anesthesia – and I have the scratches to prove this. Nonetheless, I reward them with treats following my weekly ordeal.

Some weeks I don’t want to know my true weight, so on those days I make sure I’m fully dressed and shod before stepping onto the scales. After checking my weight, I weigh myself holding one cat, then step down, catch the other cat, and once again step onto the scales.

For the past couple weeks, however, I have doubted the results of the weigh-in. Indeed, either I have the capacity to gain and/or lose multiple ounces in a few minutes or my bathroom scales were faulty. In case you’re wondering, I know my weight dramatically fluctuates because I weigh myself a couple times before I weigh the cats and a couple times afterward. I acknowledge there is no good reason for doing so.

Due to my well-established cheapness, I didn’t want to replace the scales. But this week, when the scales showed that I weighed the same amount no matter which cat I held, I knew something was amiss because one cat is heavier than the other. Trust me on that.

Anyway, my pantry was in need of several staples, so I added bathroom scales to the list, grabbed a mask, and headed to the Supercenter.

In spite of my advanced age, I had never bought scales. I received semi-pricey scales one year for my birthday and they performed admirably until a corroded battery leaked acid onto the sensors. The other scales were hand-me-downs and, as I reviewed my history with scales, I decided that maybe that’s why none of them performed admirably.

So, in the market for scales, I found myself in the Supercenter’s bathroom aisle. I didn’t know what I was doing. Buying scales is not as difficult as purchasing light bulbs or toothpaste, but it has its share of stress. Every product looked the same — like a square iPad. I couldn’t tell the difference between the digital offerings. I considered the lone analog scales – the type with the needle that settles on a number – but my vision is so poor that, even with glasses, I‘d have to crouch to read the numbers.

In the end, I selected mid-range scales that also promise to analyze my body composition.

I’m already questioning this decision and wondering how many human treats I’ll need after next week’s ordeal.

This post originally appeared in the Appalachian News-Express.

Say cheese — August 12, 2020

Say cheese

I enjoyed another action-packed week. Indeed, I ate Cheetos and weedeated. (Or is it weedate?)

Regardless, prior to last week, I had not eaten a Cheeto since I was 16 years old. As I am a tad older than 16, let’s just say that was a few years ago.

Although I’m not blessed with an award-worthy memory, I can recall snippets of that day. Specifically, I can recall stopping by my homeroom at lunch and sharing a bag of Cheetos with friends.

And I definitely remember waking up the next morning with a debilitating headache and making Cheetos-flavored sick in the bathroom.

The funny thing about making sick, well, at least for me, is that I tend to avoid food after it has taken a round trip through my upper digestive system. Those of you who are a certain age will probably remember those TV dinners that were packaged in aluminum containers and featured cubed carrots, among other “food.” I quit eating those when I was 8 years old. It is no coincidence that I consumed my last old-school TV dinner the same night I experience my first migraine.

So, why did I tempt fate and eat Cheetos?

As I’ve mentioned before, I splurge on lunch size packs of chips. Since it’s dern-near impossible to find the large bag of plain Lay’s that includes the aforementioned lunch size packs, I’ve turned to the variety packs for my chip fix. (What do you expect me to do? Waste the accompanying bags of Cheetos?)

Still, it was with much trepidation that I sampled a Cheeto for the first time in a few years. I shan’t have worried. It was delicious. So much so that I ate several Cheetos.

It the Cheetos hadn’t supplied me with enough excitement, I decided to weedeat. I had dern-near finished when the weedeater ran out of string. If this had happened early in the chore, I would have put away the weedeater and returned to the yard at a later time. (What’s that? You’re wondering why I didn’t simply change the string? Oh, it’s cute that you think I possess the skills to change weedeater string, but I depend on the kindness of others when the apparatus requires new string.)

Anyway, as it were, all that remained to be weedeated – or is it weedate? — was one smallish-sized patch. I immediately decided to retrieve my garden shears and finish the job. But then I remembered that I lent the shears to my sister. I was, however, in possession of my hedge trimmers.

So, I retrieved the power tool, plugged it into the outlet, crouched in the yard, and cut that grass. It got the job done, too. I would have celebrated by cracking open a bag of Cheetos. But those bags of deliciously-messy chips were long gone.

This post originally appeared in the Appalachian News-Express.