About Me

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Bookkeeper, tax preparer, cat lady, blogger, organizer, mystery writer.

Welcome!

I've finally decided that I am a writer - all the other things I do just pay the bills. Someone eloquent once said that if you do what you love, the money will follow. Well, let's just see about that.

RIP Aggie

RIP Aggie
Aggie was my fifteen-year-old cairn terrier - or maybe I should say I was her 55-year-old person! She was my faithful companion, spoiled rotten and I am still trying to figure out what to do without her.

Peter the Cat...

Peter the Cat...
This is Peter the gingersnap tabby! He's seven years old and has just been promoted to Peter the Very, Very Good. He is working his way up to Peter the Great...

Bee - the Cat Who Came From Somewhere Else...

Bee - the Cat Who Came From Somewhere Else...
Bee is Peter's buddy. He's eight years old and has made himself right at home. I guess cats really do come in pairs or sets of three!

And Jasper makes three!

And Jasper makes three!
Jasper is our new guy - the Cat From Another Place. He's four years old and we think he likes it here - so far, so good!

Buzz about...

Wednesday, January 12, 2011

Remember the crazy Russian...

tennis pro named Milos that couldn't actually play tennis from Seinfeld?  Well, he and his wife and their multitude of racket-making, racket-bearing children have moved into the building.  They drove up one dark night in a rickety racket-making blue van and made their presence known.  With a racket.  Sorry - I can't help myself.  And people wonder why it's hard to learn English - you make a racket with your racket - or without one.  Anyhow, just when I thought the noise had subsided - or I had at least gotten used to it - the problems with the van began.  With even more racket - early in the morning as the brood filed like ducklings behind their father both bearing and making - you guessed it - a racket on their way to early morning tennis practice at IMG Academies.  I mean, that's where they must be going.  Why else would tennis-playing Russians move to Bradenton, Florida?  Milos, despite the horrific racket emanating from the van's engine, would not be convinced that it was not at some point going to start and convey the racketeers to their morning lessons.  This went on for at least twenty minutes - and then the arguing began.  In Russian - Mrs. Milos was not pleased, or so I assumed.  After some deliberation, a taxi was summoned and off they went.  Upon their return in the late afternoon, Milos decided to take another run at the malfunctioning van - to no avail.  Well, other than the screeching of the ignition as he cranked it over and over again.  And again.  This apparently Eastern European method of car repair - or perhaps engine diagnosis - continued well into the evening.  This morning, after just a few attempts at starting the dead van, Milos finally - thank You, Lord - called for a tow truck and dispatched the vehicle to a mechanic.  Or a junkyard.  I'm not sure which.  Milos, clad in his navy blue I'm-a-tennis-dad sweatsuit/uniform, his trusty tennis racket on his shoulder trudged off behind the tow truck.  I'm like James Stewart in Rear Window - watching and reporting on the lives of my neighbors.
If there's a murder, you'll be the first to know.

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