Happy Birthday to My Kitties!

Tomorrow is the seventh anniversary of The House Where The Black Cat Lives. Five of the House's seven feline residents, including the titular black cat, were born on July 24, 2002.

I'll never forget that surreal visit to the veterinarian's office. Celie, the hideously ugly little stray I had been feeding had managed, outward appearances notwithstanding,to get herself knocked up. The doddering old vet hooked up his 16mm projector so I could watch a flickering red-hued vintage film about feline reproduction. I had a flash of deja vu back to the 6th grade.

I went home and started boiling water.

When Celie, barely more than a kitten herself, went into labor, she freaked out. It fell to me, the attending midwife, to nurture the five little drowned rat looking creatures she spat out over the course of that long night. I cut their umbilical cords, cleared the mucus from their nasal passages and kept them warm until Celie calmed down enough to nurse. Thank God for that cheesy film!

By the time dawn broke both cat mamas were exhausted. At least she got to stay home. I had to go to work.

Almost as soon as the kittens were weaned, Celie returned to her gypsy ways and eventually ran off for good. The first night of her absence, the kittens crawled from their nest into my bed. They've been there ever since.

The past seven years have been a rollercoaster -- and the cats have been right there with me through all of it.

During my mother's long final hospital illness, a grueling time when she often didn't recognize me, my comfort was coming home to my purring cats and their unconditional love.

When she died, they filled the void of what suddenly seemed like way too much free time --and made me feel a little less like a middle-aged orphan.

On July 24, 2005, my kitties' third birthday, a tiny, and utterly adorable grey tabby kitten with big ears and lots of extra toes crawled onto my deck. Ernie became the sixth feline resident of The House Where The Black Cat Lives. Now it's his birthday, too.

One month later, Hurricane Katrina destroyed the first House Where The Black Cat Lived. The need to find a temporary shelter for the cats, and a more permanent residence for all of us, helped keep me focused. And probably sane, too.

When we moved to the current House Where the Black Cat Lives, my cats turned the vast empty rooms into a home.

Two years later, Roxie, another stray came to stay. For Ernie, it was love at first sight. They remain inseparable.

While our permanent residents seem to have topped off, over the years The House Where The Black Cat Lives has served as temporary refuge and half-way house for a string of foster kittens.

There have been many broken lamps and pieces of bric a brac. Some shredded upholstery. A few cat fights. Four vet emergency room visits. And too many urinary tract infections (theirs) to count.

But it's a good life.

And so tomorrow, we will celebrate.

For one night, we will set aside the urinary tract health diet in favor of stuff with names like Tuna Florentine Souffle and Tuscan Chicken with Field Greens.

We'll open presents (and I guarantee you they will be far more interested in playing with the ribbon and tissue paper than with what's inside).

We'll inhale cat nip.

And we'll all drift off to sleep purring together as we have for the past seven years.

A house with cats is a happy house.

What I Did on My Summer Vacation (or my Life as a Beach Babe)

I am not a summer vacation person. Maybe that’s because I possess the uber-fair skin that requires liberal application of SPF 50 just to take out the garbage. Or because I grew up in a beach town. Sun, sand and Wal-Mart sized souvenir shops hold little fascination for me. You are far more likely to see me strolling along the Seine in Paris in October than along one of Florida 's Gulf beaches in July.

However, it had been a grueling few weeks at work. And I haven’t lived on a coastline in three years.

So when my recurring gentleman caller (RGC) suggested a weekend getaway, the thought of sugar white sands, turquoise water and romantic sunset dinners al fresco sounded good (as did sleeping late and hotel-provided housekeeping).

And because I’m all about the food, my taste-buds, deprived of good seafood for the past three years, salivated at the mere suggestion of real shrimp po-boys, creamy crab bisque, succulent bay scallops and stuffed flounder. The deal was sealed.

The hotel suite, overlooking the Gulf, was spacious and beautiful with a wrap-around balcony. After a romantic stroll along the beach, we toasted our getaway with chilled Chardonnay on the balcony.

I called all my girl friends to ensure they were suitably envious.

The waves were as blue and beautiful as the brochure promised – you don’t see surf like that on the Mississippi Coast. The beaches were pristine – maybe too pristine. It was a little like a Disney beach. I felt sorry for the kids combing for shells. There weren’t any.

So here’s what I did on my summer vacation:

I rode the waves, something I hadn’t done since I was in high school.

I caught up on my sleep.

I slathered on sunscreen and sat in the sun while critters crawled all over and around me. Not bugs. Zinc-nosed kids with sand pails. We were at one of those “family friendly” resorts where the families are not comprised of cats. I am so not a kid person.

I read Vogue on the beach. The fall fashion forecast is for pannier skirts, peplum suits and draped tuxedos. Several pina coladas on the balcony helped that news go down much better.

I went shopping during a summer afternoon thunderstorm.

I ate greasy pizza at a charmless dive sandwiched between an arcade and a go-cart track …

and soggy tacos under a poolside pavilion during a rainstorm ...

and salsa and chips. For breakfast. Lunch. And dinner.

Turns out the RGC is not the foodie I am. In fact he has to be forced to eat more than one meal a day. I felt like I was on a “cruise to lose” – without the ship.

Our "romantic" dinner al fresco turned out to be a 9 pm run to KFC's drive-thru, washed down with vintage champagne on the balcony while we watched “Batman” projected on the hotel next to ours, compliments of our family friendly resort.

No scallops. No flounder. But the company – and the champagne --were excellent . And I came home three pounds lighter – when’s the last time THAT happened on a vacation?

Best of all, I am home – a place full of cats and NO KIDS!

And I have the rest of the week off.

If I still have a craving for seafood (and I do), I can drive 80 miles to Biloxi and eat all I want while dabbling my toes in the surf-less brown waters of my home state. It may not be as pretty, but it does offer interesting beachcombing, especially since Katrina.

Sounds like the perfect summer vacation.

In Style with Monsieur Henri

I am always astonished when I get compliments related to my appearance these days. I used to work in a women's boutique. Occasionally I still browse through a copy of Vogue. However, recently I've pretty much adopted the late Gilda Radner's fashion credo: I base my wardrobe around what doesn't itch.

When your daily toilette takes place before the crack of dawn, you're lucky to make it out the door wearing shoes that match each other let alone the rest of your ensemble.

That I ever leave the house looking at all presentable is due to the eternal vigilance of Monsieur Henri (aka Henry Aloysius Willis), the resident stylist at The House Where the Black Cat Lives.

Henry, I've decided, is French. Well, actually, he decided. I just acknowledge it. Not only is he absurdly handsome (well, all my cats are), he has that je ne sais quoi quality that comes from being comfortable in his own , um, fur.

If Henry actually wore a shirt, he would be way too sexy for it.

Now, Henry, like many good-looking guys, can be a bit shallow. If he were human, he'd be one of those rock stars who dates only supermodels. When I hang around the house in ratty bedclothes, dirty hair, glasses and no make-up, Henry doesn't want to know me. Dress me up and make me up, however, and he's all snuggles, purrs and tender nibbles on the elbow.

He is such a guy.

I'm not sure when Henry's obsession with his looks switched over to mine. It may have been right after Hurricane Katrina when my personal style -- and hygiene -- went out with the power and water. Henry stayed meticulously groomed throughout the whole ordeal.

His styling instincts kicked into high gear when I started getting up at 4:00 am. No doubt alarmed by some of my fashion choices that first week, he staged an intervention that has yet to end.

When I get out of the shower, Henry's waiting on the bath mat. As I flip through my closet, Henry rides shotgun on my vanity, giving each possibility an up and down scrutiny. If I am tempted to skip the makeup, Henry knocks over my cosmetic case, forcing me to reconsider as I pick up dozens of make-up brushes and mascara wands.

"You're looking a little washed out," his twitching whiskers suggest. "Would it kill you to put on some lipstick and blush?"

Henry is there through every flick of the hairbrush, every stroke of the blush brush and every slick of lip gloss.

What can I say? I am Henry's creation.

A Surreal Week In Heaven

Wow, it's been a crazy week. I am glad to be having a four-day weekend.

I bet St. Peter wouldn't mind having a long weekend, too, after fending off paparazzi at the Pearly Gates all week. (Random musing: Do they even let paparazzi into heaven? )

Can you imagine a random group like Ed McMahon, Michael Jackson, Farrah Fawcett, Billy Mays and Karl Malden just showing up at your gate one day? These are not people I can imagine sitting around a dinner table for an hour or two let alone hanging out together for all eternity. If Heaven is anything like the way it was portrayed in "Defending Your Life," then there must have been some surreal conversations during "check in."

"Sir, you'll have to speak up a little. I can barely hear you. And, please don't grab your crotch. It's really not appropriate here."

"Yes, ma'am, I understand you're already an angel, but we really need to fill out the paperwork and make it official."

"No, sir, this isn't a sweepstakes entry form. You're in Heaven. You're already a winner."

"Sir, I'm sure that's a very nice Shamwow, but we're not allowed to accept gifts here. No, I can't accept the Oxi-Clean either. And please lower your voice. People are trying to get their eternal rest."

I must confess right now, I feel a smidgen of guilt about Billy. I think I may have killed him. Just the day before he "passed," I turned off the TV mid-pitch during one of his ads. I may even have said, "God, I wish we could just get this annoying guy and his big mouth off the planet."

I didn't mean it, Billy. I'm sure you were a really nice guy and truly believed in all those products you hawked. I feel so bad now that I never bought any of them. If I go out and buy some Mighty Putty, are we good?

Ed, I feel bad about you, too. All those years you believed in me and sent me those Publisher's Clearinghouse sweepstakes entries. I just threw them in the trash. Maybe you were right and I was already a winner. If that's the case, the joke's on me and we'll laugh about it later.

Karl, I'm glad you had such long, rich life. You were a great actor and richly deserved that Oscar for "A Streetcar Named Desire." But you know why I really loved you? Your nose was shaped exactly like my daddy's -- except much larger. I could never look at you without thinking of him. Look him up now you're up there. He's a great guy, and he loved watching you on "The Streets of San Francisco."

Michael, I was never really a fan of yours, and I cannot even begin to understand the way you conducted your life, but I always admired your talent. In my life, there have always been people who have called me on my bad decisions. I wish someone could have done the same for you.

Farrah, I always believed you were more than "the hair" -- although I did try to wear your hairstyle for a while in the 1970s. Since I'm in confessional mode, I must admit that on my initial salon visit, I carried a photo of Jaclyn Smith's Wella Balsam ad in with me. I guess the stylist was so accustomed to accommodating requests for a "Farrah" that my 'do turned out looking more like yours. I apologize that I didn't wear it better. Genetically, it just wasn't in the cards for me. But then, there could really only be one Farrah.

Thanks for the memories, guys. Rest in peace.