Le Monde de Fromage de Kate

There are oh-so-many generators of hip-hop handles and DJ names and stripper titles and types and levels of intelligence and so forth recently (because of “those kids these days” – what more need I say). I have been amused by a few, but this, hands down, is my absolute favourite of all times (at least today): The Peculiar Aristocracy Title Generator. And since I go interchangeably by two name, I have CHOICES. Here are my Peculiar Aristocratic Titles:

Reverend Countess Kathryn the Lachrymose of Oxbridge by Camford

OR…

Reverend Lady Kate the Discombobulated of Hopton Goosnargh

Naturally, I have to give my highest favour to anything that contains the term “discombobulated.” It’s so ME! And isn’t it ironic that BOTH my titles contain “Reverend” – “Reverend Countess” and “Reverend Lady,” respectively. As some of you know, I am an Ordained Clergy Person of the former Church of Spiritual Humanism. (Of course I paid extra to get the title “Druid” and the parking pass.)

By the way, all Lauds and Honours for introducing this brilliant tool go to Reverend Earl Michael the Clement of Giggleswick on the Naze.

[The furious, cacophonous racket and din of Kate constructing her Brilliant Time Machine.]*

[The whizzing, whirring of the Brilliant Time Machine in use.]

[Kate arrives fortuitously into an earlier portion of the day.]

[The phone rings: Monkey to Maaaaan!!!! Monkey to Man…..] “‘Allo, Msr. Pants,” says Kate. [Now she listens intently, not “riffing” or interrupting with any garrulous non-sequiturs.]

The Departed? I’d love to! I’ll meet you there. Ciao!

*For those “not in the know,” if it’s in these brackets – [ ] – they are stage directions.

There are those who don’t believe that my reasons for not leaving the house much are compelling. Ah, but consider this: Last Wednesday I’d fallen asleep in a chair and missed the dress rehearsal for “The False Prophet.” Yet Sarah still needed me to bring her the video of The Natural History of the Chicken during her lunch break so they could watch it in her religious studies class.

I drove the tape over to her high school and happened to park right behind a police car. While in the process of “tele-locating” Sarah, I noticed that in the cop car, on the divider window between the driver’s seat and the “perp” section of the vehicle (that should answer the question about whether or not I watch too many re-runs of all various editions of Law and Order and CSI) there was a sign – a professionally-lettered sign in large capital letters (big enough for me to read even though I’m extremely overdue to get new glasses). The sign read, “STUPID.”

I REALLY wanted a picture of this. But by the time I had re-set my camera phone with the right flash setting so that I take ANY semblance of a recognizable image at all, the police officer got in his car and drove away. Little did I know, this was not merely an amusing oddity, but a SIGN (metaphorically as well as literally) – something portending events in my immediate future. Alas, I did not recognize this foreshadowing.

So after purchasing Gerbera daisies for the Monkey Cats in four different hues (a mistake, I came to find, because NO ONE WANTS ORANGE) and paying a little extra for them to use lemon leaves instead of odious leather-leaf and making sure there were water tubes and purloining tons of little insert cards that said things completely irrelevant to a vocal performance like “Get Well Soon” and “It’s a BOY” and “Happy Birthday,” I was on my way.

I was driving through the “river-bottoms” (as the locals say) and, admittedly, not really paying attention to my speed, etc. Then, as a wretched nightmare from my past, I saw flashing lights in my rear-view mirror. Yes, I was speeding. And though it has been ages since I got a ticket (I’ve grown a little and chilled out the lead foot – REALLY), I know the drill. I don’t get warnings. I get CITATIONS (with the one notable exception of my twenty-first birthday upon which I deigned to use a pitiful, wheedling voice and say, “But it’s my BIRTHDAY” – I almost was serenaded by police officers, but they were too shy in the end to sing to me). I don’t have the necessary blonde bimbo appearance to avoid tickets, I guess (my apologies to blonde bimbos but your sexy wiles deserve a SMALL mention because I sincerely doubt you’ve gone to traffic school five gazillion times and had your license suspended, etc.).

And I knew it wouldn’t do any good to attempt to explain to the officer that after I’d delivered The Natural History of the Chicken to my niece who’d HAD CANCER and run an errand to purchase gifts for DESERVING YOUNG PEOPLE, that it had been imperative, for reasons that I couldn’t really put into words, that I sing along intensely and vociferously (and repeatedly) with a delightfully angry Avril Lavigne song and that’s why I hadn’t noticed my speed. But, OH JOY, since my record has been clean, I CAN GO TO TRAFFIC SCHOOL AGAIN!!! By now I am practically a traffic school connoisseur. I shall have to post an update as to how the local traffic school stacks up to my previous experiences.

Later in the afternoon, it was time for the “Solo and Ensemble” competition. I should say right off that I am NOT a great pianist at this point in time. I do have the ability that I consider imperative from a singer’s perspective for any accompanist, which is to damn the torpedoes, JUST KEEP PLAYING. Nevertheless, every so often, when I’m teaching a voice lesson or the like, I start the introduction to something and I just HAVE to stop because the piece of music I’ve just played has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with the notes or the key or the time signature on the page. Then I halt, momentarily baffled, and start again playing something much more akin to the written music.

Now, in my defense, I’d run through “The False Prophet” with the Monkey Cats on what I must describe as several different “honky-tonk” pianos (each incapable of playing several key notes – different ones, depending on the piano). Then I’d run through the accompaniment on my own piano (admittedly not enough). But when we went to perform, after I’d reminded them to all look alive (unlike the bulk of the singers we’d seen who looked more or less like zombie automatons) and to NOT utilize the “Adam and Eve” hand position (just think about it – you’ll get it), I sat down at the grand piano in the High School Choir room.

I’ve never played this piano before (though I don’t suppose that’s really an excuse). So the Monkey Cats are standing poised and ready, I’m poised and ready at the piano, and I proceeded to play an introduction so completely unrelated to the piece that follows that I might as well have favoured everyone with an impromptu rendition of La Marseillaise or Pour Some Sugar. I did have the presence of mind to just keep going, squelching the nigh-unto-overwhelming impulse to make it into a most amusing Victor Borge-esque moment in which I would have stopped, looked quizzically down at the keyboard, had a “light-bulb” moment, opened the piano lid and pulled a rubber chicken out of it. Then, after tossing the chicken into the audience I’d have sat down as though nothing had happened, played the introduction semi-perfectly and everyone would have had a hearty laugh. Ha ha ha.

Luckily, I don’t believe that the skills or lack thereof of the accompanist made any difference in the scoring of their performance. The Monkey Cats did very well with their singing even after hearing the somewhat Avant-garde selection I sprung on them right before they were to open their mouths.

Last year, after singing, I took the Monkey Cats and at least one Monkey Cat Boyfriend to Taco Hell, where we spent $42.11 on food. AMERICAN. I kid you not. ALL of the girls remembered the amount to the penny. They wanted to go again this year (tradition, of course), but we had fewer Monkey Cats in the first place (and we were missing one, actually, so they substituted the “Honorary” Monkey Cat, Josh) and everyone’s boyfriend was either gone or being a “dweeb.” Consequently, we only spent a paltry $26 and forty-something cents.

At Taco Hell, when the subject of my butt somehow came up (it always “ends” up there, no pun intended), and they all reminded me with pride that they’d not poked me in the tookus or jiggled my posterior, Monkey Cat Nessa proceeded to poke my left lunch-lady arm and exclaim loudly something to the effect of, “See, she JIGGLES.” I laid down the law at this point, saying that Hoppy and Bob were OFF-LIMITS, too (thank you, Garrison Keillor).

Then I told M.C. Nessa to “look right at me and pay attention” and went on to regale her – and yes I used these very words – with a “cautionary tale” about making fun of certain behaviors or parts of peoples’ bodies because Karma would come and, pardon my saying so, BITE YOU IN THE ASS. I
used several examples from my own life.

I think, perhaps, the timing might not have been right, as they were well onto their way to being completely punch-drunk. Oh well.

But, HEY MONKEY CATS!!! YES, OVER HERE!!!! I’M HOLDING UP SOMETHING VERY SPARKLY AND SHINY!!! Okay. My young and innocent friends, please consider what I had to say when you are feeling calm (perhaps at the dentist – semi-anesthetized) and if you REMEMBER what I said, know that it is true and beware of the Karma. Thank you.

Just a few other things briefly:

• Josh, the Honorary Monkey Cat, can “read” your nose. I’m not going to attempt to explain this right now. And he has a Cherokee butt (he said so himself – don’t think that I’M being inappropriate).
• The daisy lies to “Doris.” Also, that song could be made ribald, lewd and utterly FILTHY with very little effort.
• A Mr. Pringle wrote “The False Prophet.” I do not know whether or not this is the perfectly-shaped potato chip magnate Pringle or a completely random Pringle who had nothing to do with the idea of smushing up the potatoes and then reforming them into symmetrical potato-smush shapes (genius, really – processing processed food for symmetrical/aesthetic purposes and so they fit such a lovely cylindrical container).

The other night, while “channel-surfing” (which I don’t often do, as I grew up with Charles and his attention-deficit version of channel-surfing which is enough to make one dizzy and nauseated – it’s almost psychedelic), I happened across a repeat of a Conan O’Brien show featuring Kate Beckinsale (ÜBER-WENCH), and she was completely charming (curse her). Conan said that he’d heard that she’s a performer who hates to watch her own movies. She validated this as truth in a self-deprecating manner with just the right soupçon of charisma and allure incarnate. I hate her. In a nice way.

She said that she was well-aware that she had “huge teeth.” Hmmm. Pearly white, PERFECT teeth (and she’s BRITISH). She then recounted an anecdote (CHARMING, of course) in which her husband had recently coerced her into watching something she’d been in. She maintained that she was horrified:

I looked like a giant, militant, lesbian squirrel.

Now this is FUNNY, too. I detest her. And I don’t know that it’s in a nice way…

Then she said:

My head is gigantic; it’s like Easter Island

Ha! Now this one I can trump. I’ll show HER a ginormous head. Easter Island? Phhhht. I have a noggin like the Great Pyramid of Giza. Take THAT, other Kate.

Ah, how I’ve missed most of you, too.

Hmmm. Let me clarify: I’d have missed you all, but I’ve managed to see a few of you and therefore cannot “miss” what I’ve seen or have been seeing.

Just a few important things:

• Dearest Amy, who I’ve never met, DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT YOU GOTTEN YOURSELF INTO?
• I prefer “Accompaniroooo.” I feel that it’s the appropriately deferential title.
• Let me just say it ONE LAST TIME: My posterior is OFF LIMITS. That is rehearsal rule numero uno.

Thank you, that is all

All My Love,
Crazy Heathen Aunt Cake Kate

Yesterday I received this email from one of the original Monkey Cats:

Subject: solo and ensemble and ze new monkey cats

Hello crazy heathen aunt cake, sorry, Kate. If you have not been informed by your forget ful neice [sic], saria we need you to accompany us, maybe. Respond as quickly as possible or call Nessa at: [number omitted OF COURSE]

I called Sarah, and, yes, indeedy, she’d neglected to mention it, “because all of our lives are different and crazy” and that they needed someone to play for them on “the thirty-somethingth.” Or was it “the thirtieth or thirty-somethingth” – and they were rehearsing “for the last time (?) tomorrow.” She also said that it was an “easy song so they just needed someone to play” (as opposed to coaching). We’ll see. I’ve witnessed their rehearsal techniques.

I asked who was singing, and it seems that with this slightly different array of Monkey Cats I shall even meet a NEW one. I also inquired as to WHAT they were singing. Evidently, this “easy” piece is entitled “False Prophet”. “False Prophet?” Oh yes, “False Prophet.”

“Who wrote it?” I asked. Sarah did not know. She did, however, explain that “False Prophet” is “about a daisy who tells a lie.” Yes, daisy. As in the flower.

Terry, can I PLEASE say that I’m waiting with “bated breath?” It’s a song about A FLOWER THAT TELLS A LIE!

I will say this: NO ONE – let me repeat – NO ONE is going to poke at my substantial tookus this time. My butt is OFF LIMITS. That will be rehearsal rule numero uno.

And THIEF!!!

Yes, here I am following that time-old adage: Post something nice and then post something NOT NICE. I think Mark Twain said it. I’m related to him, you know.

It’s just that here I am, already dealing with the traumatic idea that our seemingly nice USPS delivery man, who rings the doorbell to hand us packages or catalogs when there’s a surfeit of mail for our box, took an Very Important International Package (‘kay – overstating A LITTLE, perhaps, but it’s important to ME) right out of my hands and evidently threw it, smiling all the while, into the great and dark unending ABYSS. And now…

AND NOW (visually we just needed a break there) I find according to that new-fangled, scientific “tracking information” that my much-anticipated package containing a USB hub/card reader combo device was signed for on January 25, 2007 at 8:57 a.m. BY A STRANGER. No, not someone at this house. No, not someone WITH MY NAME (as indicated on the package). Okay, FedEx, with your electronic signature thingies and sharp uniforms and all that jazz, WHERE IS MY PACKAGE??? WHO IS “KGLENN”???

Okay, the device is for my Parent’s computer. But I’M the one who will hook it up. I am the B. Consulting Services, Inc., Independent Contractor (as indicated ON THE BOX) who will deal with this business matter.

NOW I’m an angry consumer. Watch out, PACKAGE BOYS!!! My wrath is… angry…

Please take a look at this inspiring video featuring Lance Armstrong. Consider joining the “army” that will make cancer a national priority.

You could also:

• Send an eCard to a friends and family with a link to the Lance’s video.
• Be part of LIVESTRONG® Day, May 16, 2007. Here’s more information:
  

  LIVESTRONG Day is our annual grassroots advocacy effort to unify people affected by cancer. In its fourth year, the goal of LIVESTRONG Day is to raise awareness about cancer survivorship issues on a national level and in local communities across the country. LIVESTRONG Day is about doing something to make a difference in the fight against cancer.

  

  You can apply to represent your state on Capitol Hill on LIVESTRONG® Day, apply to organize a LIVESTRONG® event in your own community, or just get additional information about LIVESTRONG® Day 2007.

• Earlier this month, Lance Armstrong was featured in a one-hour special presentation, Saving Your Life. If you missed the broadcast (as did I), you can listen to an audio podcast on the Saving Your Life website.

  You can also watch survivor videos, locate a cancer screening center near you, share your story of survivorship and more.

• Read Lance’s CNN op-ed piece, Lance Armstrong: Patience running thin with D.C..
• Join the LIVESTRONG® team and receive the LIVESTRONG® and Advocacy newsletters
• Support the Lance Armstrong Foundation by wearing and buying yellow. Even your DOG can wear yellow now!
• Take a look at this heartbreakingly beautiful photo essay, The Bride Was Beautiful, that captures a bittersweet moment in the fight against cancer in series of striking images by 2006 NPPA award-winner, Romain Blanquart (thanks for posting the link, Terry).

BeBe now has a large bald spot on the nape of her neck. Wait – cats don’t have neck napes, technically, right? Wait – SCRUFF! She has a large bald spot on her scruff (correct me if I’m wrong, my vet people). And it’s my fault. Well, it’s ALL my fault, but I believe this is especially my fault.

I realize that’s the area I was holding down desperately, particularly during the SECOND bath, so that she would not catapult (no pun intended, but HA HA HA HA) into the air and securely attach herself to the ceiling. Or my face. Consequently, that spot was probably still oily. I gather she’s taken care of that very thoroughly – SINCE YESTERDAY.

It will grow back; I know this from experience. I obtained this knowledge because of an incident having to do with one of Janet and Erik’s cats and a shedding implement and a water pistol. It was very surprising, but Shirleen, as usual, as Doctor Doolittle incarnate, was able to explain it to me.

Looking on the bright side, the skin on BeBe’s bald patch doesn’t have even a hint of dandruff.

Shirleen, of course, former Dog and Animal Groomer Extraordinaire (still pretty extraordinaire at it, when her fused back and her busy schedule allow her to occasionally coif the wee doggies), knew just what to do with the Greasy Kitten Children. I asked her yesterday, in a falteringly hopeful voice, “Won’t the oil just eventually soak in?” She rolled her eyes (subtly – YES MY MOTHER TAUGHT US TO ROLL OUR EYES AND SHE CAN ONLY TRY AND DENY IT) and in a patient voice explained that they’d have to be bathed again because the oil would just stick in the undercoats. I don’t think it had even absorbed that far.

Shirleen also suggested a particular method to use. So the Kitten Children are now luxuriously clean by everyone’s standards (if you’ve ever bathed a cat you’ll know that they lick themselves NON-STOP for two or three days afterwards). I only have a few panicked feline Velcro claw marks. And they EVEN have forgiven me (or they’re lulling me into a sense of complacency to plot my untimely demise).

Here is my only complaint: Shirleen HELPED you bathe Truman, Jennette. She conveniently “ran an errand” yesterday as I was bathing the cats. And no one else was qualified (or could be bothered) to answer my cries for help when BeBe was ATTACHED FIRMLY TO MY SHOULDER AND WAS WORKING HER WAY DOWN MY BACK. Wait – Sarah came and asked if she could help, but by then I had BeBe pinned down in the Kitchen Sink WITH MY ENTIRE BODY so I couldn’t really think of something for her to do. Shirleen DID turn Lark (my Parents’ wee geriatric dog) into a clean and lovely semblance of a poodle which is only a little odd because she is a Maltese.