Senility starts at 15

Angel just woke me up.

Her meow sounded strange almost close to a howl. Given that she never meows above a mew, I immediately startled out of bed. I flicked on the light expecting to see her dying or at least partially maim for her manic bouts of grooming --only to discover that my 15-year-old Persian was meowing loudly to capture my attention and approval. She had brought her latest captive and placed it at the foot of my bed.

A book cover.

The cover of a Nora Roberts romance novel, to be precise. One which she had ripped away from its bindings earlier today. Apparently, Ms. Roberts has offended Angel in some heretofore unknown fashion.

As I left the bedroom to write this post, she pursued me -- book cover in her mouth. Yes! She actually picked it up, jumped off the bed, and followed me to the other room! Then she proceeded to start the howling meows all over again. When I looked over at her just now, she dropped her prize, pawed it, then looked at me for approval.

Yes, I'm duly impressed that she has captured a dastardly book cover.

However, I'd probably be more impressed if she'd kidnapped one with a handsome prince in the picture rather than this one with pretty blue flowers.



The hunter and her prey.

A new version of Survivor

Which Survivor of the Impending Nuclear Apocalypse Are You?
A Rum and Monkey joint.

I'm pretty sure that I fell into this category because I chose the "Pillage" option for the last question.

HP: 7

I finished Book 7 of the Harry Potter series just now. Only took 9 straight hours. My eyes are blurry (I really need to see an optometrist!).

Here's my review, then:
-- Characters were killed off.
-- I even cried at one point.
-- Loose ends got wrapped up.
-- I knew I was right.
-- An acceptable ending.

Follow-up edit:
-- I also was right about the identity of RAB.
However, the 2nd half of that equation caught me by surprise.

What? Me, Creative?

During a chat with Rhonda yesterday, I got to thinking about why I stopped writing creatively.

I have ideas constantly running through my head. And I come up with great beginnings all the time -- usually while driving to/from work or on the treadmill.

But I haven't put much effort into writing beyond that initial idea or opening paragraph. I used to feel compelled to write. And to compose anything: bad poetry, those openings that would go nowhere, commentaries. What happened to my impetus to publish? When did I stop wanting to write?

Sure, I had to write in college as a journalism major and be creative as the opinion editor for the college newspaper. And I was part of a critique group in my 20s, so I had deadlines to meet and others to answer to when I didn't do my work. The only book I've written resulted from my critique group's deadlines.

Which leads me to wonder whether I'm so lazy that I can't write unless I'm forced to do so. And if that's true, then one could conclude that I'm not really a writer at all. Not like I was before I turned 30 or so. Somewhere along the way, I became so wrapped up in career and house that I lost my creativity.

So, as a result of my chat with Rhonda, I started a new blog. One that forces me to think differently. It's a bit of stretch: I've absolutely lost my ability to write humorously. But it's gotten the creative juices shifting, if not flowing, again.

Is that Blackberry in your pocket...

Last night, while waiting endlessly -- or so it seemed -- for the fireworks to get underway (for a second time) in Danvers, I downed way too much water and Dr Pepper. Big mistake when we're sitting in the parking lot of a local elementary school. In the dark. Without flashlights.

After an hour's delay in the fireworks, I desperately needed relief. So I stood in line for the port-a-can. Several people ahead of me had those glow-in-the-dark necklaces. One person had a flashlight. These items were shared with those before them. But by the time I had a chance at the door, no one in line had any form of illumination.

Yes, I came prepared for a port-a-can. I am my mother's daughter: I had a packet of baby wipes and another of facial tissue. But at the moment I stepped into the absolute darkness of that port-a-can, I mostly was grateful that I had a Blackberry in my pocket.

Beware! makers of hand-held lanterns. The hand-held mobile phone may take over your industry!