There is one person I e-mail regularly. In an e-mail yesterday, I tell her I'm begging off this blog for a bit. Too much to do. Besides, I have to stretch the idea bag for something other than complaints about the way I feel of late. Other than the usual Kickapoo Center travelogue, I cannot find any humor around here. I have an idea to write about Saturday night in Kickapoo Center. It goes the way of many insipid thoughts when I can't satirize a mundane lifestyle.

My e-mail buddy is an unusual person. She's studying to be a priest. I may have the title wrong. All I know is that she spends many late nights after work studying for a degree in a course of religious studies. I think of her last night as we watch a an unusually good movie about a female rabbi called The Secrets. Her real name isn't important to this blog. If I make references to her in the future, we'll call her Ella. She'll laugh about that. Her husband Del (also not his real name) is a consultant. He's sight challenged. I'm trying to be politically correct for a chronic eye disorder which left him almost totally blind. He drives stock cars with the aid of a guide, skis in the winter and writes about using a chain saw impaired vision. They've got two really hard working and smart daughters.

My horrorscope on the My Yahoo homepage for today is as follows.


Today's going to be an easy day -- definitely something along the lines of falling off a log. So if you want, feel free to put your overworked brain on auto-pilot -- especially when it comes to the tasks you perform every day. You've impressed everyone you need to impress for now, so don't worry about your reputation. Today is all about the simple route and the ease of knowing exactly how to do everything you need to do. This effortless energy will keep you smiling all day.

I am excited.

Yesterday was a day to remember. It began with me pulling a hairball the size of a tennis ball out of the shower stall. Walking to the white lawn shed on the rear of our property, I'm looking for the lock that normally hangs on a chain for the shed doors. In a Sherlock Holmes series of deductions I realize that the shiny metal plates strewn in front of the door are the remains of the lost lock. I remember hearing a loud clank when I mowed the grass of front of the shed. I'm afraid to see whatdoes to the riding mower blades. In the basement, the whole house water filter I replaced recently is still leaking. In the afternoon, we plan to make a supply run to the big city. I start calling the Pooch at 3 PM and give up after an hour's search. I'm really angry and frustrated. He's an outdoor cat. We can't leave him out overnight, especially after my neighbor asks to borrow our live trap to catch the animal that ripped the heads off two of his chickens. Coyotes, skunks and raccoons are no match for my Pooch.

The darn cat shows up on schedule as Dawn gets home from work. He begs to come in by climbing the deck railing outside the kitchen window. I can't hear his meow through the Thermopane window. I'm still miffed that he ruined a Cinco de Mayo dinner at our favorite Mexican restaurant in Lacrosse. I don't let him in the house. He tries a different tactic. He sits on the sidewalk opposite the north kitchen window, looking up at me washing dishes and forlornly meows. I relent and let him when we sit down to dinner.

Dawn sits at the kitchen table while I outline the New plan for El Gatto. He will stay outside all day. No late morning naps upstairs on his sheepskin Momma. No afternoon naps in his favorite Scandanavian design chair. No 800 trips inside for a quick bite of dry cat food. He gets fed once in the morning and once in the late afternoon. He has all night to munch his Meow Mix. I tell Dawn that if he comes upstairs to wake us at first light, he'll get locked in the back hall and basement. There are many comfortable spots to sleep: on the cushioned cedar chest in the back hall, the laundry table in the basement. He can monitor the mice activities while we sleep.

At first light, he's using the corner of the bed frame as a scratching post. Damn cat. I'm too lazy to get up, besides I can barely walk. I'd just fallen sleep two hours earlier. Two doses of pain medication numb my throbbing foot. There's no reasonable explanation why my left foot should be exhibiting classic gout symptoms. On Monday, I spend the day recovering from an attack of arthritis so severe I can hardly get up from a chair. Hence the reason for my career as a story teller has disappeared. I spend way too much time in self absorption. The My Page horrorscope gives me some hope.