Monday, February 13, 2006, 20:25
Men's Breakfast
We had the "Men's Breakfast" at church on Sunday. We call it the men's breakfast because the men cook it, serve it and clean up afterwards. All the women have to do, for a change, is show up to eat! The men did an excellent job of cooking French toast and sausage. The men estimated that they served around 60 people for breakfast
Somehow, my husband, Randy, ended up being in charge of coordinating the whole thing. He did an excellent job of planning and coordinating, too!
When they were finished, the men were exhausted -- or at least, Randy was. . .
Here are some pictures from the breakfast --
Well, okay, here is ONE picture from the breakfast. I was unable to upload any more of the pictures. When I try to upload them to the photo album on Rural Route 2, I get an error message that says 103:F2. When I try to upload the pictures again, the computer says that the file already exists. When I search through all the photo album pages, I can't find the pictures! I even tried re-naming a couple of files. Same thing. I tried restarting the browser program, too. Same thing.
I've gone as far as I can go. The computer expert (Randy, of course!) is going to have to take over from here.
As for the one picture I was able to upload, it's not even a picture of people. It's a picture of a pan of sausage!
LeAnn R. Ralph
Saturday, February 11, 2006, 20:36
Gotcha!
"Get the door!" Randy exclaimed.
"Hisssssss--grrrrooooowwwl--snarrrrrllllll," said Sophie.
"Get the door?" I said. "Oh, right! Get the door!"
I ran up the steps leading into the house with Randy right on my heels, clutching Sophie between the leather welding gloves he had put on his hands.
"Hisssssss--grrrrooooowwwl--snarrrrrllllll," said Sophie.
When I reached the top of the steps, I threw open the door and jumped out of the way. Randy rushed past me and as he was attempting to put Sophie down on the floor, I slammed the door shut.
"There!" I said.
Randy deposited Sophie on the floor and then turned to look at me.
"Why did you let her go down in the basement again?" he said.
Let?
LET?
"I did not," I said, "LET Sophie go down in the basement. She ran down there this morning when I was coming up. I thought she would come when I rattled the rattly ball. But she didn't."
"And you!" Randy said, shaking his finger at the six-month-old gray kitty cat. "You are never going down there again. Understand?"
"You can say that again," I said. "If she slips past me, I'm going after her with the landing net until I get a hold of her."
Our fishing gear is stowed in a corner of the basement, so it ought to be easy enough to grab the landing net to chase Sophie around the basement until I get it over her.
Sophie, of course, loves to go down into our walk-out basement to explore and to play.
The problem arises when it's time for her to come back upstairs. She goes up on the shelf along the west wall where you can't get a hold of her. And she acts like she does not have the vaguest idea of who I am or who Randy is. She hisses and growls and snarls and strikes with her front claws and bites if your hand comes too close to her. Which is why, when he came home from work Friday night, Randy had to put on coveralls and welding gloves to try to get a hold of Sophie. I had moved the 7-foot stepladder over by the shelves, but my arms were not long enough to reach her.
At first I tried her rattly ball (a ball rapped in jute string that has something rattly inside). But Sophie did not pay any attention to the rattly ball. I tried a couple of other toys, too, all with the same result.
When Sophie decides she does not want to come upstairs, she gets up in the space underneath the floor by the floor joists where it is almost impossible to get a hold of her.
Randy says Sophie can just be a downstairs kitty then if she's going to act that way.
Unfortunately, Sophie is deathly afraid of our Springer Spaniel, Charlie. We put Charlie into his kennel in the basement at night and one time when Sophie was down in the basement and I wasn't at home, Randy let Charlie inside, and then there was NO WAY anyone was going to get a hold of Sophie. When I came home, we actually had to put Charlie outside before we could have even a prayer of catching Sophie. Since she is so afraid of the dog, I am afraid that she would not eat or drink properly and would end up making herself sick if she stayed in the basement all the time.
I don't know why Sophie is afraid of Charlie. She LOVES our Shetland Sheepdog, Pixie. They play together. But Sophie thinks Charlie is the devil himself, or something.
Personally, I don't think any of this bodes well for taking Sophie in for her vaccinations. I know I ought to get her into the vet clinic, and in fact, should have done it already. But I know how she's going to act. She's going to hiss and growl and snarl and bite and claw.
Maybe I ought to take the computer with me to the vet clinic? Sophie is sweet and kind and lovey-dovey when she's sitting on my desk, playing with the computer cursor when I'm trying to write a blog or an article or to work on my next book, "Where the Green Grass Grows."
What am I saying? I am talking about taking a computer with me to the vet clinic to amuse a cat. . .
LeAnn R. Ralph
