Reminiscin' an' snifflin'

Cleaned my office today, and as I ran the dust rag over the photo of my li'l kitty, a lump formed in my throat. Though she's been gone nearly six years, I still miss her. Lots.

She wasn't an easy feline to love. At least, not for most folks. For a reason only Mouser knows, she 'took' to me, right from the get-go. The "keep away or else!" behavior displayed toward others? She was quite the opposite with me.

And so, nostalgia prompted me to pen a poem. (Bear with me; rhyming ain't my thing!):

No Cats in Hell
Once I had a little cat
and Mouser was her name.
Every day, in every way,
that cat, she was the same.
She'd carry on and fuss and spit
and whine and mew and fume,
making life a living heck...
...or so one would assume.

But she was like a pinch of salt
when life-like stew--was bland.
That's why God sent her to me
with her recipe so grand.
A taste is all I needed,
and that is what He planned.

Then one day He said to her
"Now you've salted Loree's stew;
it's time I take you home again,
'cuz I've got plans for you.
So tiptoe up into her lap
and lick her on the cheeks,
like the Eskimo way of saying 'bye'
when they are feeling weak.

And one more thing," God intoned,
"be sure you let her know
how much you enjoyed the Fancy Feast
and other gifts bestowed
by the gal who was your dearest pal
and loved you oh so well.
Let her know you'll be in heaven,
cuz there are no cats in hell."

Is it venting, or is it writing? (Or is it both?)

It's been a while since my last blog entry, so let me start by saying HOW THE HECK ARE Y'ALL!

Me? Oh, I'm fine'n'dandy. Right as rain. Sound as the dol...no, I'm in way better shape than that. Life here in my neck of the woods is just plain goooooooooood.

But that doesn't mean I can't find something to complain about. (I'm a woman after all; b-i-you-know-what-ing comes naturally to us.)

Today's gripe?

Maybe I'm 'dating' myself, but I've lived and breathed long enough to remember when the FCC had some control over stuff that ended up inside every boob tube. Some brilliant-oso decided it was in our best interests to keep advertisers from hawking all tobacco products via television airwaves. Ditto booze. And an unwieldy list of other stuff that, because we can't dot an "i" or cross a "t" without the government's help, they got rid of. For our own good. And nobody knows better than Big Brother what's for our own good.

Unfortunately, Big Brother sees no harm in TV ads for tampons. Hmpf! I once read about a young lass who put one of those babies where the sun didn't shine; she needed ER assistance to remove it. Think of the consequences if it hadn't been removed quickly.

Remember the story about the silly woman who thought Lemon Pledge was an iced tea flavoring? She got oh-so-sick, I tell you, but did that prompt Big Brother to enforce a "No Scented Cleaning Products" ban?

People hear promises to cure baldness. Improperly used, well...all I can say is...this could become one warm and fuzzy nation, yet nobody has seen fit to cut those commercials.

But I digress. The real source of my distress isn't what is being advertised. It's the volume of those commercials that annoys me. Honest...I've done numerous tests, right here in my cozy family room. On my TV set, programs air at Volume Level Eight, whereas the average volume of commercials is (get this!) THIRTY. So my question to Big Brother is...isn't noise pollution a hazard? Isn't it dangerous for us all? (The only reason I can think of to explain why the FCC has completely relaxed its legally-enforceable rules and regulations throughout the country is...they've bought Miracle Ear stock. Lots and lots of Miracle Ear stock.

You may be asking when I intend to address the opening question of this blog: Is it venting, writing, or both?

It's both. Because I can't possibly be the only American who resents having manufacturers and service industries blasting company-related information at decibel levels that literally vibrate my window panes. Surely there are citizens who fear that one day, blood will ooze from their ears during one of those omygawd-that-is-WAY-too-loud advertisements.

Maybe instead of wasting our time on 'let's not buy gas on Tuesday; that'll show those greedy oil producing honchos a thing or two about price-gouging!' boycotts (which do no good whatever, anyway, since people instinctively buy gas the day before or after), we should write the people who pay to make these screaming-yelling-bellowfest commercials. Let's inform them that, until they lower the volume, we ain't buying their tampons, deodorants, cleaning products, cars, or Miracle Ears, period!

See, the way I look at it, when our written words have an impact, when they improve the world, even in some small way, we've used our talents wisely.

Well, that's it for this installment of The Lough Down, ladies and gents. Now I'm off to begin my List of Offensive Commercials. Tomorrow, I'll send letters of complaint to every company on it.

And if you do the same, maybe we can help the poor 'nobody respects us' FCC take back control of their own rules and regulations!

(Hey...if Lady Bird Johnson could start a campaign to get rid of hideous highway signs, why can't we clean up the airwaves by eliminating those deafening commercials!)

'Til next time, dearies, take care!

Loree