Trapped

I live in a townhouse with 2 large dogs and 2 geriatric cats. One of the cats is so reclusive that she spends most of her life in under the sink in my powder room. I've humored her. She has a litter box in her little cabinet and a bed. Which means there really isn't room for food and water if we're going to be sanitary about the operation. So the food and water are crammed into a little corner next to the toilet. Fine. Except one of the dogs likes to pilfer the cat food. It's not good for the dog--or the cat, who really doesn't have the oomph to complain. So I invented a little pet management device.

The idea was to allow the door to the bathroom to open only wide enough for a cat. The offending dog is easily intimidated, so I felt certain she wouldn't try to squeeze her awkward 55-lb. body through the narrow opening. The trouble is that my invention is constructed of elastic headbands. Elastic. 
So tonight I went off to my jazzercise class, and when I came back, I found  the bathroom door closed and the cat food-scarfing dog trapped inside.
Poor thing.

Trapped.
I understand that feeling. If I could chew through something to finish up this divorce, I would.

Paranoia Will Destroy Ya

Or maybe preserve you.
I like my blog. It's helped me hack a path through my grief. I didn't expect Mr. Ex to read it. So when he accused me of disparagement, I was a bit taken aback. I made the blog private, but I still worried he'd get some IT guy at his Big Fat Law Firm to hack into it and make it disappear.

So I did a Blog2Print book.  http://blog2print.sharedbook.com/blogworld/printmyblog/index.html Now I have a hard copy. It's pretty cool. It's even formatted to include an introduction.
Maybe I'll change my name again. Hire body guards. Move to another state.

If a Body Meet a Body.....

Here's what Holden Caufield has to say about lawyers:
Lawyers are all right , I guess--but it doesn't appeal to me. I mean they're all right if they go around saving innocent guys' lives all the time, and like that, but you don't DO that kind of stuff if you're a lawyer. All you do is make a lot of dough and play golf and play bridge and buy cars and drink Martinis and look like a hot-shot. And besides. Even if you DID go around saving guys' lives and all, how would you know if you did it because you really WANTED to save guys' lives, or because what you REALLY wanted to do was be a terrific lawyer, with everybody slapping you on the back and congratulating you in court when the goddam trial was over, the reporter and everybody, the way it is in the dirty movies? How would you know you weren't being a phony? The trouble is you WOULDN'T.

Ontological Boy

I visited my grandchildren this past weekend, and the youngest, a boy of four, seems to be a budding philosopher. "Hello Jake Skywalker," I said as we sat at the kitchen table with a box full of Star Wars toys. I had Obi-Wan  Kenobi in my hand, and I wiggled the plastic figure  around and made him talk with a deep voice. My grandson laughed and told me his full name. "Not Skywalker," he said. And then he went on. "Luke Skywalker is fake. I'm real. Obi-Wan Kenobi is fake. You're real."
Later on in life he may find out that some "real" people are actually fake. But for now nobody's pulling the wool over this boy's eyes.

Photo Credit: Wikipedia