They are marketing “plant-based” rice. (Look under the “Miracle Rice logo for the tag line).
I can understand a substitute product being created for people on keto, but I saw it and it caught me so off-guard that I had an almost fall-down laughing moment in Publix tonight, which actually I needed, so I thought I’d share.
It has inspired me to go and have a “plant-based” glass of wine.
It is entirely ethical for the feline to use his pervasive powers of mind control over any of nature’s less highly-developed creatures, such as dogs or humans.
(I’ve been out showing property since early this morning, so please indulge me with a repost – it was just highly appropriate to the conditions I found when I came home)
The first rule of Feline Fight Club…
“The first rule about fight club is you don’t talk about fight club.”
It is well known that cats are the world’s most energy-efficient creatures.
Being fully solar-powered, cats possess highly developed light-fueled batteries that with a minimum of 12-14 hours of daily charging, can power an adult cat in total darkness at speeds (dependent on terminal velocity and wind shear) upwards of Warp 6. (kindly refer to Cat Rules 101: 3 a.m. Zoomies)
Felines are so advanced in their absorption of energy that during a full daylight charge, they often remain motionless for hours at a time (see origins of word, “catatonic”) and may emit only an occasional “meep” or “mrap” which is an indication that batteries are approaching maximum fill and may need to be “topped off” with a final dose of a piscine-based protein fuel source for optimum speed and maneuverability.
Back in the Mythical Golden Days of 2019, when the Earth was green and there were unicorns, there was a marvelous meme on Twitter about what people called their pets – not their “official” names, but their nicknames-how they actually referred to them commonly.
I think it started with @metroadlib who posted this about her pup:
I found this hysterically funny and realized it hit pretty close-to-home. My kitties have proper names, of course, and since I haven’t produced human offspring, I felt it my duty to carry on family names with the children that I do have – albeit vertically challenged, hairy, and four-pawed.
Keegan is Keegan James Ferguson. His fosterer named him Keegan, because it was Gaelic for “Ball of Fire.” He’s a large, flamboyantly orange, stripey guy and a ballbuster, so it was perfect for him, as well as the fact that I’m of Scottish descent and it was actually beyond perfect that my kid be given a Scottish name.
The “James” is for my dad; it’s his first name. As I couldn’t give my father a human grandchild, I gave him a namesake that I still loved as much as if I’d birthed him. I’m not positive my father fully gets the honor.
When Brodie came along, it actually took me a bit to find his name. He was so tiny when I got him, only 5-weeks old and barely the size of my hand. I struggled looking for other Scottish monikers that would suit until I ran across the ideal name for this delightful, spunky little soul who darted about on wobbly kitten paws like a drunken sailor, furiously and devotedly (and somewhat unwelcomely) attached his new “big brother,” Keegan.
The name Brodie is from the Scots Gaelic too, and it means “little brother.”
How perfect for him and his inquisitive, intrusive zeal for all of life (and particular fascination with Keegan). He is, in fact, Brodie Green Ferguson. “Green” is a middle name passed down among the men of my father’s family for over 200 years. Again, not entirely sure my father grasps my efforts to maintain the historic significance of the name.
Nicknames for my cats developed over the years, as they will, but it took me running across the Twitter meme to realize all the truly crazy things I call them. And I should add that unlike @metroadlib, I call them by their “proper names” probably much less than 7% of the time.
Dear Lord. Some of the things that come out of my mouth tossed in their directions, I have no idea of the origin, but they fit them perfectly and hey, they sometimes answer.
Keegan: Keegs, Mister, Sir Keegs-a-lot, Orange Guy, Keegles, Keeg-o-matic, Bruiser, Buster, BigandTallSizes, Dude, Dude-eronomy, Kittyface, Tawny Kit-taen, Oldest Child, My Heart, KittenySpears, KiddleKat, Couch Tiger, KeeganJamesIveToldYouTwiceDammit.
Brodie: Brodester, Brode-a-licious, Brode-a-luff-a-gus, Detective Inspector, D.I. Ferguson, Brodie-butt, Sweet Pea, Fluffernutter, The World’s Tiniest and Fluffiest Mountain Lion, Scooter, Scoot, Love Bug, Schmoop, Brodiestopthatrightnowyouheardmemister, Precious Heart.
Of course, this list continues to grow. And please, don’t let me forget, there are names for the two together, as well, like “Frick and Frack” and “Skittles and Bits.”
So tell me! What do you call your babies?
It’s easy to set back the clock. It’s impossible to set back the cat.
She passed away on Thursday, but I found out this afternoon through a Facebook post. I still can’t quite believe it – we had just emailed each other a week or so ago.
It breaks my heart that I never felt her leave.
She was wry and clever and pragmatic and sarcastic. She was brave and tough and resourceful. She cared fiercely about so many things and for so many people. She was a warrior who’d battled and bettered stomach cancer for years through Chinese herbs and acupuncture. Pancreatic cancer stole her: a recent diagnosis so quickly, heart-breakingly fast, it ripped her from here before she could best it too.
It must have caught her in some chance moment when she was weary of fighting.
She loved music and art and books and reading. She could brew beer. She made gorgeous jewelry – incredibly detailed, exquisite pieces of precious metal wire and gemstones. I’m so fortunate to have so many of them; gifts over years of our friendship. She inspired me to make jewelry myself, giving me one of my few and most-valued creative outlets.
She lived largely and intensely and vibrantly and sometimes quietly and softly and sadly. She told amazing tales of her days in the music industry. She was a buddy of U2’s Bono and for a while, I think, worked for Billy Bob Thornton and Bridget Fonda. Her sister knew the Doors and she recounted meeting Jim Morrison with her as a little girl. There was a story with Dennis Hopper and that one time with Arnold Schwarzenegger and the pasta. Her celebrities tales were always funny and appropriate and natural, without the slightest hint of pretension. To her, they were just minor characters in her richly-lived narrative.
She was a wonderful cat momma. She loved her fur babies, Hadrian, Skorri and Skúfr, with all of her heart. Skúfr, the youngest of her cats, was frequently ill as a kitten and she often struggled to pay his vet bills, sacrificing necessities to bring him home from yet another emergency visit. I never heard her once complain; she was always deeply grateful to have pulled him through, to have him with her a little longer.
She had a sorrow that you could sometimes see shadowing her, a loneliness she carried loosely on her shoulders, like an unwanted but needed shawl.
Wherever she wandered – San Diego, Seattle, Los Angeles, Austin, Arizona – she grew a family of friends about her, like a garden of flowers, Artists, writers, musicians, animal lovers; ordinary people, extraordinary humans like her.
She was one of my family of friends.
She and I first met on an author’s listserv back in the late nineties, and somehow fell into a deep and lasting camaraderie with each other and three others from the group – all brilliant, sharp, and hysterically funny women, scattered across the US.
I cherish those memories, that time and them to this day.
I cherish you and I miss you, Synde Korman, today and always. I will remember you and our friendship and your stories and laughter and kindness for all of my life. I would send you energy biscuits, as I always did when you were feeling low, but you won’t need them anymore.
Speed you on your Path, my friend. Be filled with love and light and free of pain.
Bydd i ti ddychwelyd.
A repost: for your reading pleasure and my tenuous grasp on sanity. From wayyyy back in 2015, I bring you an ode to my furry darlings. Thanks for your patience (and continued support!)
International Cat Day – August 13, 2015
Several weeks ago, the world as we know it celebrated International Cat Day, a global celebration of our feline buddies.
While I was able to restrain myself from planning a parade or costumed ball, I thought I’d at least write a special post.
I currently don’t have much of a life outside of work, but I do have an overly-large collection of semi-“squee !!!” inducing photos of my hairy kids clogging the memory on my phone and some random thoughts on the cat psyche.
Voila. I’d rock out a tidy post and clear some photos from my phone cache at the same time.
(Do note that there’s a “Psych!” in the term “cat psyche” and it most likely won’t be coming from my mouth.)
And then…Saturday got away from me, as things tend to be doing a lot of lately, and the magical opportunity to laud my kitties passed.
::sigh::
Until I was forcefully reminded this evening by a 15-lb orange and white furby repeatedly head-butting his full body weight into my ankles…
::Ahem:: Pay attention to me. Now.
that OHMIGOD, every day is International Cat Day in our house.
So in honor of the four-legged children of my heart, I would like to share some…hmmm…let’s call them “introspections,” that have recently come to me (with conveniently corroborating photos.)
This is the face of a cat. This is not the face of an innocent cat. There is no such thing.
Ditto
I have learned that breakfast is not just the most important meal, but it is the most important thing. Ever. In the whole, wide world. Breakfast in itself is so powerful a thing that it erases the memory of every other good thing that has ever happened in the history of time including dinner the night before (and all the breakfasts and dinners in the past) AND IS THE ONLY THING STANDING BETWEEN CIVILIZATION AND THE FORCES OF EVIL, GOD HELP US, WOMAN, OPEN THE DAMN CAN!!!
I have learned that the act of eating breakfast is so exhaustive, it throws one immediately into a twenty-hour slumber.
I own a 1300-square foot, two-story loft. I can’t move an inch without tripping over a cat.
However, when the vacuum cleaner makes an appearance, I couldn’t round up a cat with a hooker and a stack of hundred dollar bills.
I want to know: is it really necessary to run ahead of me to the bathroom, especially in the middle of the night, bellowing the kitty version of “All’s Clear!”?
Make way, make way!
I’ve learned that not only do they watch TV when they think I’m not around…
Surfing, really?
But they watch really weird stuff. With great absorption.
I draw the line at buying him a surfboard. Or little surf shorts. Or flip flops.
And they sit way too damn close to the TV.
You’ll put your eyes out.
If there’s an empty box, bag or handbag…
There’s a cat to fill it.
But they are always the best present.
As I’m sitting here writing, I have two warm, snugly little sweethearts curled up against me, grumbling slightly when I inconvenience them by shifting under their persistent burrowing, but fairly intent on deafening me with purrs.
And love.
So here’s to International Cat Day. Today and every day.
And to Keegan and Brodie, furkids extraordinaire, for being made of awesome.
Today at the awards ceremony and team meeting at my Real Estate Company, I was recognized as one of the Top 10 Agents (#9 as a matter of fact) in the office by number of homes sold during the 3rd Quarter of 2019.
I knew I was busy, but wow! Wasn’t expecting this!
I love what I do helping people find their perfect home and this was just the “icing on the cake.” I’m so grateful for my fun, wonderful clients who trust me to help them achieve their dream.
Yay! {happy dance}
Drunk on Life 