All through the house

"She waited to pounce with shining eyes and switching tail. She waited with shining eyes for something to fall, to tinkle, to crash, to break..." ~from A Pussycat's Christmas, by Margaret Wise Brown

If you started with this blog at the beginning, you will recall that Megzilla is my mother's cat and the inspiration for this blog. Why? Because she's a thinker, and I'm pretty sure she surfs the net at night to come up with ways to move hefty household objects to new and perplexing locations during the night.

Since Meg is the muse behind the blog, I thought I should regale you with a few of Meg's favorite reads for the holiday season. As may be apparent, I consider these Meg's favorites not because I have the least idea what goes on behind Meggy's gimlet gaze; indeed, I wish I knew. I imagine these are her favorites because they remind me of her, and also, frankly, because they are quite wonderful, both in concept and story and in the realization of vivid language through thoughtful illustration. Whether you have children at home or are simply young-at-heart, I urge you to take a look at these holiday classics, both penned by widely beloved authors. I am sure Megzilla loves them. After all, she is smart.

A Pussycat's Christmas, by Margaret Wise Brown. Illustrated by Anne Mortimer. Melodic language brings the sights, sounds, and smells of the season to life, as one black-and-white cat (a Megzilla look-alike) watches her family prepare for Christmas. Cat-lovers will enjoy Pussycat's encounter with tissue, tinsel, Christmas stockings and snow; readers everywhere will love the magical prose and jewel-like illustations that capture the juxtaposed excitement and stillness of Christmas. Brown is the author of Goodnight Moon and countless other children's classics.

The Christmas Day Kitten, by James Herriot. Illustrated by Ruth Brown. Anyone who has ever taken in and loved a stray, will be warmed by Herriot's story of stray tabby Debbie, who one Christmas morning brings her kitten to the "only place of comfort and warmth she had ever known" in plumpish Mrs. Pickering's farmhouse. Sadly, Debbie is dying, but the kitten grows to be a most remarkable and well-loved cat--a true Christmas miracle. Ruth Brown's illustrations perfectly capture the warmth and love of a Yorkshire country Christmas.

Have a safe, happy, and joyful holiday, and don't forget to let me know your favorite seasonal reads. See you after Christmas.

Illustration (above) from A Pussycat's Christmas

All Over the World

A hush has settled on this house by four in the morning. 8-ball sleeps at my feet, paws folded, making an occasional delicate grunt of happiness if I reach down to pet him. Magic spills a glossy diagonal across my side of the bed. I know if I touch him he will awake, purring, to nuzzle me, walk on my hair, drool lovingly on my pillow, and intermittently poke my face with a velvet-padded paw. (Magic is 100% a Mama’s boy and also just a teensy bit thick, as they say.) Across the hall, a single orange paw and rumpled tail show where Amber has bedded down for the night in the cat condo.

My husband breaths quietly beside me, and the only other sound is the quiet suserration of an ocean sounds CD by my husband’s pillow. Outside, a glimpse of Christmas Town beckons from across the cul-de-sac, where our neighbors, both Wal-Mart employees, have installed every purchasable holiday fantasia in an ongoing spirit of keeping American consumerism and the feng shui of Snoopy’s doghouse alive. And yet, at this hour and across this distance, the 8-foot blow-up snowmen and tinsel-bedecked caravan of shimmering packages look both fantastical and somehow even lovely amid their twinkle of festive lights.

In spite of the unlikeliness of the hour, my brain has decided I’m done sleeping for the night. Might as well get up and read in the pre-dawn stillness. Today, I am finishing About a Boy, in order to fulfill a request for holiday theme reviews and secure my rights, per Hannah's DVD blog, to the Good Ol' Virginia Killer Egg Nog recipe. Thanks to Hannah’s eloquence, I am sure THE recipe will change my life, or at least significantly alter a worthwhile percentage of holiday evenings, so here goes.

Professional rebound-guy and incurable fantasist Will Freeman has made a career of avoiding committed relationships. (“We always thought you had hidden depths,” his friends say. “No,” says Will. “I really am this shallow.”) To facilitate his quest to meet attractive but lonely ladies, Will invents a two-year-old son and joins a group called SPAT (Single Parents Alone Together). “Children democratize beautiful single women,” Will theorizes, thereby making them more likely to date do-nothings like himself. But instead of the blissful series of brief but uplifting encounters he imagines springing from his new parental persona—curiously, Will sees his half-truths and fantasies as a harmless way to meet and provide interim solace to jaded women on their way to their next real relationship—Will finds himself making an unlikely friend of 12-year-old uber-geek Marcus. As the consequences of Will’s fictionalized fatherhood begins to catch up with him (note, concepts like cause-and-effect and speculation beyond tomorrow’s lunch do not appear among Will’s strengths), Will finds he has as much to learn from Marcus about family, honesty, and caring as Marcus has to learn from him about being cool.

Iffy and potentially clichéd as the above scenario may sound, About a Boy has a certain charm. Yes, Will embodies an extreme version of the oft-cited male capacity for avoiding any discussion around or expression of ucky relationship stuff. Still, as in his earlier novel High Fidelity, author Nick Hornby has a knack for capturing the quirks and foibles of modern mid-‘90s relationships, both those that are a product of, in ‘90s lingo, the Mars/Venus rift, and those arising from a second generation of “hippie” idealists at odds with a self-avowed Me generation, and making them feel deeply personal. (The scenes, for example, where Will begins to feel at home at Marcus’ family’s geeky Christmas gathering are priceless.*) In spite of—perhaps because of— flaws, his characters are understandable, even unlikable: even when they mess up royally, we can’t help but root for them.

On the other side of the afore-mentioned Mars/Venus rift, Helen Fielding’s novel Bridget Jones’s Diary spans a single year, from Christmas to Christmas, in the life of 30-something “singleton” Bridget Jones on her permanent quest to both form a functional f***wittage-free relationship and lose 20 pounds. As good a revisionist version of Jane Austen as I’ve seen, Bridget Jones is uninhibited, laugh-out-loud funny, and a rockin’ good retelling of Pride and Prejudice with modern twists throughout. The generation of women who love the BBC Pride and Prejudice with Colin Firth will find much to relate to in this feel-good holiday read, including (you guessed it) a hero named Darcy, a silly, flighty mum in the spirit of Mrs. Bennett and Lydia rolled into one, plenty of social satire, and a healthy post-modern touch of self-reflexive humor, since Bridget herself is a fan of the BBC’s Firth-fest. “It struck me as being pretty ridiculous to be called Mr. Darcy and to stand on your own looking snooty at a party,” Jones muses on meeting her Mr. Darcy. “It’s like being called Heathcliff and insisting on spending the entire evening in the garden shouting ‘Cathy’ and banging your head on a tree.”

One word of advice on Bridget Jones, though. Don’t read this book if you are on a serious diet. Not only will Bridget’s occasional (justified, of course) 4,000 calorie binge days make you feel okay about breaking your diet, you will find yourself possessed of an undeniable soul-searching emptiness that can only be filled by chocolate croissants.

So, Hannah, what do you say? Enough to make you hand over the recipe? It’s nearly the New Year, and there’s partying to be had! Just don't forget you are always invited.

**Watching the film version of About a Boy, my husband—NOT, I should point out, a geek—was particularly struck by the holiday party scenes with Marcus' geek family. "I can relate," he remarked drily... but also fondly. We geeks are a pleasant lot, after all.

8-Ball's Cabin Fever

What’s on your pet's reading list this Christmas? Let me know your feline and canine fictional favorites.

Just as I was beginning to really groove on the idea of having a moat around the ol’ castle, the waters receded and we are once again able to venture out into the yard—that is, if we don’t mind sinking an inch or six. With this newfound freedom after five long days of being first snow- and then monsoon-bound, 8-ball—whom you may remember from my previous post as our resident Boston Terrier-in-cat’s-clothing—immediately ventured forth in spite of a lifelong fear of alligators, bog critters, unfamiliar noises, and people he doesn’t know, only to return posthaste to leave muddy cat-prints all over the hall, dining room, bedroom, kitchen, and foyer. Ah, the joys of pet "ownership."

8-ball’s speedy retreat to the comforts of hearth and home belies a tortuous five days of feline cabin fever, spent first gazing in rapt fascination at snowflakes the size of golf balls, later shifting his stare accusingly from the sheeting rain to the ineffectual human denizens of the household who proved inexplicably errant in halting the deluge, and finally scampering hurriedly to the nearest lap at the first sound of knees creaking into a seated posture. During this time, 8-ball ventured out only once, and then only to determine once and for all that snow is (a) wet, (b) cold, and (c) kinda scary.

The bulk of his weather-bound captivity (when not staring pointedly at the catnip box, jumping on the kitchen counter for attention, or biting his brother Magic's neck—also for attention—and hanging on like a very determined rat terrier with a really juicy rat*) was spent rolling playfully, all four legs akimbo, on whatever either my husband or I happened to be reading/doing at the time. (It should be noted that in spite of a considerable amount of time spent strolling across computer keyboards, 8-ball has proven completely incapable of randomly producing Hamlet.) With so much time spent around books, newspapers, and computers, though, it’s only natural that 8-ball picked up a few favorites:

Three Stories to Read to Your Cat and Three Stories to Read to Your Dog. The beauty of these wonderful little volumes by Sara Swan Miller is their inherent cattiness and dogginess. If cats and dogs could write stories, this is what they’d write. (8-ball’s rating: 5 stars for subject matter that appeals to cats.)

Walter, the Farting Dog. OK, it’s not exactly Finnegan’s Wake, but James Joyce might well approve of William Kotzwinkle’s tale of a gas-plagued pooch (not to mention its numerous scatological sequels) with surreal illustrations by Audrey Coleman, focusing largely on the gust of wind from Walter’s backside. Rest assured anyone under the age of five will be laughing out loud. (8-ball’s rating: 5 stars for accurate depiction of people’s extreme over-reaction to dropping a harmless biscuit or two. Constance's rating: Er...)

Magic Thinks Big, by Elisha Cooper. A testament to the power of imagination, solid and contemplative tabby Magic debates whether to go outside or stay indoors in this charmingly illustrated tale of the meditative power of cats. (8-ball’s rating: 4 stars for providing a potentially viable wishlist of “42 Things [8-ball] Might Want to Do This Year.” Minus 1 star for naming the cat Magic, instead of 8-ball. See earlier comments on Magic.)

Desser, the Best Ever Cat, by Maggie Smith. OK, maybe it’s not 8-ball’s favorite, but it is mine. An invitingly-illustrated tribute to the lifelong friendships between people and pets, Smith’s tale recounts the joy of growing up with a beloved pet. On a more solemn note, it also provides a thoughtful handling of the grief that accompanies that pet’s loss in old age. A thoughtful and reassuring story for children (or adults) coping with grief, Desser serves as a wonderful reminder of the unconditional love and companionship pets bring us throughout our lives. (8-ball’s rating: 5 stars because Desser looks like 8-ball and is the center of attention, which is as it should be. Constance’s rating: Desser, the Best EVER Cat Book.) .

The essense of cat nature: Illustration page from Desser, the Best Ever Cat

*Magic, being larger, solider, and more lethargic, generally ignores such vampire-inspired tactics, preferring instead to wait with Gandhi-like patientce for someone to come pry 8-ball off. Many are the mornings I emerge from the shower to find 8-Ball and Magic locked in tableaux.

Welcome to the Bog

Yes, that's right, I said bog, not—as one might have expected given my usual inclination towards puerile punning at any price—blog.

As torrential rainfall has sent library staff and patrons home early and turned my usually pleasant backyard into a fascinatingly squelchy bogland from which I expect at any moment to see water moccasins and alligators rise, I simply haven't the heart to write about any subject more watery than a large blended and therefore water-(in the form of ice, that is)-filled margarita. Wish I had one, but I don't.

Hence, the lack of promised desert island books, and instead a brief exploration and exceptionally-limited bit of commentary on YouTube (which I must say rather let me down on good bog videos). In short, I am not a big fan of this particular time-sucking vaccuum, but more power to its users and viewers if they are indeed bringing about social and political change with a medium that barrages its fan base with dozens (hundreds?) of untalented, uninteresting, and frequently irrelevant video entries for every search. Yeesh, my attention span is too short for this! Maybe I am a product of the MTV generation, but I can't sit through even one minute of most of these five to eight minute pieces. I have better things to do.

That said, I fully acknowledge that YouTube has created some media stars, sometimes even because said individuals are talented or actually have something important to share with the world. Happily, many, many clips are short, to-the-point, and even dare-I-say funny, and therefore of some value that apparently-humorless individuals like myself don't truly understand or appreciate (seemingly at least, given my impassioned anti-tube rant of mere moments ago).

However, to prove my point on the laugh quotient and show that I do indeed have a sense of humor, I invite you to enjoy a brief YouTube video that embodies my husband's usual morning wake-up call using the all-natural feline alarm clock. I am happy to report this is not my regular wake-up experience, as I rise before the drama begins, and besides our cats know such guerrilla tactics don't work on someone who sleeps with a special pillow for putting over her head at moments like these.



More of a dog person? The following video has made me rethink my belief that my husband and I should get a Boston Terrier as an attractively well-matched companion for our cat 8-ball:



On a related side note, I am more than half convinced that 8-ball is a rather poorly disguised Boston Terrier. (For more pictures of 8-ball at work and play, check out my side bar.)

As final proof that I put some time into this assignment, I offer the following tidbits on Kitsap Regional Library's infamous salmon video by commending the creative use of Jaws music in the soundtrack and Rory's very fine preference of Classic over other forms of Coke.

The return of Megzilla

It's been a busy week, getting ready for Thanksgiving, and a long time since we've heard from Megzilla. Given that, I thought I'd share something that always makes me thankful: Megzilla and her adorable litter mates, Sigma, Rho, and Psi (the three "siameses"), and angelic tabby Delta Pi. You just don't get cuter than that. Enjoy the slideshow.

Please check out my updated November 9 blog entry, as well. There, you will find another slide show (a lot less cute, let me tell you now) and a picture of my husband with a goat. That's right. A goat. Come on, you know you'll have to look now.

Comfort Books

I'm a big believer in pet therapy, comfort food, and of course comfort books. But before we go there, take a moment to slide your eyes to the right and feast them on the love-bunny known as Rho. Rho is Megzilla's brother, and a little less precociously brainy than his sister. He is, however, quite a sweetheart, loves to give hugs and kisses. So take a deep breath, gaze long into those melting blue eyes, and feel yourself to be deeply loved. Aahhhh, feels good, doesn't it?

Now that the pet-lovers have all forsaken their computers to go hug their own feline and canine family members, let's get back to the subject of comfort books. You know the ones I mean: the ones that you always come back to, the books that never fail to give solace on the coldest, wettest, worst-ever days, the days when you lock your keys in the car, argue with your spouse, slip in a mud puddle, and have to eat leftover tuna cassarole for lunch when you absolutely loathe tuna cassarole. On days like that, my husband likes to immerse himself in the world of Anne Bishop's Black Jewels Trilogy. I haven't read it yet, but if you have you might want to log in here and let me know what kind of oddball I'm married to, since the reviews all use words like dark, disburbing, and violent, strangely counterpointed with other words like romantic, witty, teasing, and--strangest of all if you knew my husband--matriarchal. Having said that, I'm thinking my husband may be a little like Meggy and there's some freakin' serious stuff going on behind that innocent blue-eyed gaze.

Back to comfort books. One of my favorite comfort reads is Little Women, a choice which no doubt many of you will understand instantly and wholeheartedly. I honestly have never met the person who grew up American, female, and reading who did not love this book. It's a classic for a reason.

Another favorite comfort book is the aforementioned The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. What can I say? It's not enough to know that Vogon poetry is the third worst in the galaxy, Douglas Adams does not scruple to tell you what out there may be worse. If you read this and don't laugh, I am very, very sorry.