Mole-Kitty

You've probably heard me talk about my cat, Doolittle. He's the second cat I've ever owned... er, i mean, cohabitated with, because no one really owns a cat, do they? Dogs have owners; cats have support staff.

My first cat, Luci, was a beautiful tortie I adopted through PetSmart. She was only about six months old, playful and energetic and a total shock to me, a lifelong dog person.

She had to go everywhere -- climb everywhere -- and stick her nose in everything. I finally understood why they say, "Curiosity killed the cat." She made me laugh as much as she exasperated me. If I painted, Luci would chase the brush. If I got on the computer, Luci would try to catch the cursor. If I wore earrings that dangled, she seemed sure that they were play toys for her amusement. (Having a cat's claw stuck in your earrings is NOT fun. I don't recommend it.)

I named her Luci because I liked the idea of coming home each day and calling, "Lu-ci! I'm home!" in my best Ricky Ricardo voice. (And more often than not: "Luci, you got some 'splaing to do!"... and yes, the disparity in the spelling was deliberate.)

Luci simply could not be kept in the house -- every time I opened the door, I felt like a bush league hockey goalie competing with Wayne Grestsky.

Once a cat gets out, well, you can pretty much give up on ever catching them. I mean, dogs will lead you on a chase, but you can outsmart them eventually. Cats can climb trees and leap tall fences with a single bound. They are... Super Kitty!

I chased Luci around the neighborhood time and time again. Finally one day, winded and out of patience, I just said "Fine, stay out if you want!"

For several months, Luci would go out -- never intentionally, as I really did not want her outdoors -- and come back after an hour or so.

Then one day, she didn't. I was devastated, searched for her everywhere, by car and on foot. Posted signs. Went to the pounds and shelters. Knocked on my neighbors doors.

I hope that because she was such a friendly cat, someone took her in and simply kept her. But that's the story of my first cat.

I wasn't sure I was ready for another, but a friend of mine, whose home has become a sort of feline Mecca for strays, asked me to take Doolittle in. He'd been hanging out in her back yard for months, and she was afraid that the coming winter would be the end of him.

So, I took Doolittle home with me. He was already a big, fat cat, and living with me has not changed that. I have no idea how old he is, but he's definitely a ways from kittenhood. He earned his name honestly, by doing very little. He's not quite as entertaining as Luci was, but he will let me paint in peace.

When I first got him, Doolittle had a serious problem with bare ankles. He couldn't resist pouncing on them. Legs with socks and pants and shoes didn't interest him. Only bare flesh sang to him with a siren's song. Doolittle wrapped both front legs around the aforementioned ankle and sank little cat fangs into the lower calf. Even at five in the morning, making a groggy trip to the bathroom, I would find myself dragging a fifteen pound cat across the floor. He was like a Ninja kitty, streaking out of the shadows and latching onto my ankle.

He's gotten a lot better about this. I think that a few months of my screams and curses finally got it through his pea-sized brain that I didn't enjoy the game as much as he did. He will still pounce once in a while, but more gently. He hardly ever draws blood anymore.

Doolittle will occasionally get past me out into the big, bad world. But he always goes to the same bushes by the front door, and sits there meowing miserably as if already regretting his dash for freedom. Of course, he will retreat further into the bushes when I try to retrieve him, eventually leading me through the neighbor's rose bushes. But I always manage to drag him out, usually with a final howl of outrage at being pried out of a rose bush. I don't know why he's whining; I'm the one bleeding.

But today we played one of Doo's favorite games. Mole-kitty. Whenever I change the bed sheets, Doo gets on the bed and stubbornly refuses to move. So I just throw the sheets over him and go about making up the bed.

He will sit there for several moments, just this large lump under the sheets. Then he moves from one side to the other; from the top to the bottom. Finally, after about five minutes, he will poke his head out and jump to freedom.

So, for your consideration... photos of Doolittle playing Mole-Kitty.

Doolittle's Letter to Santa

Deer SanTA Claws-

hoW is you? i haz ben verry good cat this YEAr if u donnot count lazt thanksgibben. i is up to sleepin 12 hourz a day and haz gott rid of laST MINiblinds in houze so i kin see reaL good out of windoze. i even hep MOMa when dat bad box go WONK WONK WONK evry moRNing by sittin on her hed but she do not seem greatful.

FOR kittmas me wood like a squirral. me know which one i want, two. dat mean one in backyARD who teeze me. he bad, bad squirral.

me wood also like pidgen. a fat slow one. do not mater which one. robin wood be ok if u cannot catch pidgen. me try and try but canot catch one EITHer. wood hep if mOma not make me sneaK out when she NOT lookin. can yu bring me housekey?

me wood also like ME own juizy steake sinze momma do not Like me lick herz. do not kno why she so stingy me do not wanT TO Eat it jus to lick IT.

for MOMA i wood like dead Mouses. she say NO but me knows she wood like tHEM. noTthing say i luv U like dead mouses. m e do luv momma even if she no like M E sleepin on her hed.

i wood leve dead mousez for yous but moma she say cookie beTter.

luv dookitty

pS kin U bring momma new sofa befor she see watt me did 2 back?

Confessions of a Craft Junkie

I should have known, early in childhood, that I would develop an addiction to making stuff. I had a ton of Barbies, but I wasn’t at all interested in dressing her, or taking her around town in her spiffy orange jeep, or even posing her in compromising positions with Ken. No, not me. I spent all my time building and decorating her dream house.

Having only the limited resources of a child, I found my materials around the house. And nothing was safe. Not my mother’s jewelry box (brooches made excellent wall decorations), not her closet (scarves became curtains), and not the kitchen table mats (excellent for carpets). When Mom couldn’t locate her pincushion, she knew she’d find it being used as an ottoman for that little blonde bimbo.

Soon came all those elementary school projects: handprints in plaster and lopsided ashtrays. In Vacation Bible School, they showed me how to cover cigar boxes in macaroni, and spray-paint them a gaudy gold. I made bookmarks and Christmas ornaments out of felt, egg cartons, pipe cleaners and way too much Elmer’s glue. While the other kids were busy spreading layers of glue over their hands just for the sheer joy of peeling it off, I labored over macaroni designs and glitter placement with all the concentration of Michelangelo painting the Sistine Chapel.

I didn’t really blossom into full-fledged crafting until I moved into my first apartment. Having little disposable income, I had to get creative. I’ve talked to other crafters and found that for many of us, poverty is truly the mother of invention. I’d see something fabulous in a store (that I could not afford) and think, “I could make that.” Or some approximation of it. God knows, some of my first attempts were indistinguishable from, say, the work of blind, motor-deficient fourth graders.

But whether it was a dorm room or a cardboard box, I had to decorate it. Had to. Just as surely as I had to breathe. And I would use anything and everything. I became a compulsive pack rat of discarded ribbons, buttons, pretty paper and miscellaneous “stuff” from garage sales and thrift stores. There was no furniture so scarred and battered that it couldn’t be painted, decoupaged or covered in fabric.

Eventually I discovered the craft and hobby stores springing up all over the place: Michael’s, Joann’s and Hobby Lobby. I’d wander the aisles, my eyes glazing over in a blissful daze of creative mania. Not just for the things I already dreamed of making, but for whole new crafts that I never even knew existed. Clay sculpture, glass painting, wire wrapping. Even the rolls of multicolored yarn, in so many colors and textures, could mesmerize me, and I didn’t even know how to knit.

I learned to cross-stitch, and for several years, the biggest goal of my life was to own every color of DMC floss known to man.

I bought my first glue gun. It was wondrous in its possibilities, but I couldn’t understand how Martha Stewart managed to use one without yelping, “Oh, shit!” as the hot glue melted all her fingers together into mutant flippers, or the cat chose just the wrong moment to stick out an inquisitive paw. But even the searing pain of red-hot glue could not stop me. Let me just say, I no longer have fingerprints. And my cat is now afraid of the glue gun.

The money I once tried to save by making pretty things now went to feed my addiction at the various craft stores. Even walking through their doors, I felt my wallet opening like a thirsty flower to spring rain, even if it meant forgoing food, rent and cable television. At one point, a friend threatened to post my photo on signs at every register, saying: DO NOT SELL TO THIS WOMAN: SHE IS SICK AND CANNOT HELP HERSELF.

My current boyfriend has suggested that I should only be allowed into Hobby Lobby if he accompanies me with a cattle prod.

When I discovered beading, I was like a pot smoker graduating to heroin. Oh, the variety of bright, shiny objects in so many colors, textures, sizes and shapes! Semi-precious stones, glass, plastic — it didn’t matter. I had to have them all, and now discovered entirely new specialty stores to plunder.

Soon I was buying sterling silver by the gram, beads on long strings in bulk. Bead shows at the fairground beckoned to me with a siren’s song. Even on vacation, in every destination from Memphis to New Orleans to Pigeon Forge, I would check the phone book to seek out new suppliers to feed the ravenous beading monkey on my back. I showered friends and family with beaded jewelry until they were afraid to open even one more gift.

I wasn’t even safe in my own home, as I discovered mail order catalogs and the Internet. When I spent $200 on a state-of-the art wood burning kit on EBay, I began to suspect I had a problem. When I donated two bulging bags of perfectly good clothes to Goodwill just so I could devote an entire closet and dresser to my craft supplies, I knew I had hit rock bottom. I had a sudden vision of myself standing on a street corner, with a sign that said: “Will Work for Beads.”

Then, I found my salvation. I discovered others who did not judge me, for they suffered from the same addiction. They understood. They did not turn away or yawn when I rambled excitedly about my new paper cutter.

I have one friend who crafts in her car during her lunch hour, and frequently puts her three children into an assembly line of prep-work similar to third-world sweatshops. Another roams estate sales and thrift stores, obsessively searching for interesting junk to fashion into funky art and jewelry. We confessed our sins, the depth and width of our addiction, like alcoholics at an AA meeting. “Hello, my name is Belinda, and I’m a craft junkie.”

We shared our secrets: new ideas, new materials, the best places to find supplies, the newest adhesives, and how to hide Joann’s receipts from husbands. We found Cafe Press, Lovli and Etsy as an outlet to turn our addiction into hard, cold cash – or at least enough to fund our next expedition to Michael’s. And when those websites were not enough, whole groups of us began banding together in armies like the Craft Mafia, CRAFT, Artsy Mamas, and the Etsy Street Team, just to name a few. When we could not find enough existing venues for selling our wares in the established fairs and shows, we took to the streets of Nashville, creating our own events.

I have now come to terms with my addiction. I no longer hide in shame, but I embrace it, cherish it, and nurture it. I am not alone, and with my new friends, I have the strength to get out and testify to the masses who have not yet embraced their inner crafter. I openly scorn the mass-production of third world countries, the ugly and the just plain boring. I spread the gospel of the handcrafted and the one-of-a-kind like a born-again prophet.

I am a craft junkie, and damned proud of it.

How to Tell If You Are a Craft Junkie:
1. Family members will no longer go into Hobby Lobby with you.
2. You have sacrificed sleep to make "just one more ______."
3. You have considered trading your least favorite child (or spouse) for a gift card to Michael’s.
4. You have ever lied about how much you spent at a craft store.
5. You have bought a craft material or tool even when you had no idea how to use it.
6. There is at least one closet/bookshelf/cardboard box in your house crammed with craft supplies. And there are things in there you don’t even remember buying.
7. You have ever refused to throw “trash” away, because you are sure you can someday use it.
8. You are physically incapable of throwing away a scrap of fancy ribbon.
9. You have ever called in sick to work or made excuses to get out of a family obligation in order to stay home and make something.
10. The mention of a cold-temp, cordless glue gun makes your heart race faster than Antonio Bandera’s butt.