“I suddenly became the new owner of two huge machines that looked like space capsules, complete with 747 consoles. A lot had changed at Whirlpool in twenty-five years.”

If prior to purchasing my new washing machine I had read the operating instructions, I would have gone back to beating my clothes on the rocks at a nearby stream.
Our small old Whirlpool washer-dryer combo finally died after twenty-five years of faithful service, first to the original owner of the condo, and then many years later to me. However, in the past three years, only spit and chewing gum along with the expertise of our brilliant mechanic, Eric, had held it together. Sadly, Eric abandoned us for veterinary school. Imagine that. Working on decrepit laundry machines, or helping small furry animals? No amount of bribes could keep him from leaving us.
Finally, when the oil slick under the washer became too vast to ignore, I dropped by our local appliance store just in time to learn that if I purchased a new Whirlpool set RIGHT NOW, I would qualify for $300 worth of rebates. Well, that seemed like a no-brainer, so I whipped out my credit card and suddenly became the new owner of two huge machines that looked like space capsules, complete with 747 consoles. A lot had changed at Whirlpool in twenty-five years.
Uncharacteristically, I decided that before I approached these scary-looking behemoths I had better read the instruction manual so I wouldn’t accidentally launch my laundry to the moon.
Whoa, Nellie. Before I press one damn button, I realize that I ought to finish up my living trust.
On the first page in the manual, under the title of “Washer Safety,” there are two boxes of text. One headline says “DANGER,” the other, “WARNING” (in case you weren’t paying attention the first time). The DANGER box says: “You can be killed or seriously injured if you don’t immediately follow instructions.” The WARNING box says: “You can be killed or seriously injured if you don’t follow instructions.”
Whirlpool must have had their butts handed to them in court for leaving off the word “immediately” in earlier versions of their instructions. Some idiot had probably ignored the warning that says, “Do not put gasoline-soaked rags in the dryer—THIS MIGHT KILL YOU!—so they got themselves all lawyered up. Perhaps I should retain an attorney to interpret the instructions for me. There probably already exists an ABA specialty known as “Laundry for Idiots.”
Anyway, I pretty much ignored all that and proceeded to “Safety Instructions,” where I discovered in another WARNING box the statement: “Do not use an extension cord. Failure to follow these instructions can result in death, fire, or electrical shock.” Ooops. Our old machine was a stackable unit with one 220 outlet. Now, we have two separate units. The washer requires a 110 outlet, which we do not have in our laundry area. No problem, the installer says, just drill a hole in the wall between the laundry room and the kitchen and run an extension cord. Oh, really?
I read on. Another WARNING box: “No washer can completely remove oil. Do not dry anything that has EVER had any type of oil on it (including cooking oils.) Doing so can result in death, explosion, or fire.” I realize that this is a good excuse NOT to cook, but I must say that by now, I’m getting cheesed off. Electrocution! Death! Destruction! Can famine, locusts, and the Plague be far behind?
Better I should haul my clothes back to the creek.
* * *
Rosie Sorenson is an award-wining writer whose work has appeared in the Los Angeles Times, the San Francisco Chronicle, the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review, and other publications. Her new photo essay book, They Had Me at Meow: Tails of Love from the Homeless Cats of Buster Hollow, is about her thirteen years of loving and being loved by a colony of smart, funny feral cats. To learn more and to purchase the book, please visit her website: www.theyhadmeatmeow.com.

Well, the truth is finally out. My life is of no interest to Oprah. I know this because I periodically check her website to see what types of guests and topics she’s looking for just in case I might be eligible to make an appearance. So far, not so good. Makes me feel like a pork chop at a vegan convention.
Here’s Oprah’s recent wish list for which I do not qualify:
1) “Do You Need to Lose 100 Pounds or More?” Nope. If I lost that much weight I’d pretty much disappear. I have my older brother, Robert, to thank for my staying slim all these years. When I was sixteen I begged him to snag me a date with one of his friends. He declined. When I asked him what I needed to do to get a guy to like me, he said this: “Well, Rosie, whatever you do, don’t get fat. Guys hate fat chicks!” That was it. Short and sweet, a message burned into my brain for all time. He now swears that he never said that, but I know what I heard, and it has scared me into slimness all these years.
2) “Do You Have an Embarrassing Medical Problem?” Oh, God. I hope not, and if I did, I sure as heck wouldn’t go on national TV to talk about it.
3) “Are You a Karaoke Queen?” I wouldn’t be caught dead in a Karaoke bar.
4) “Need Help Throwing a Dinner Party or Birthday Bash?” I’ve given exactly one birthday party in the past ten years—and that was hosted at a friend’s house. When Steve moved in ten years ago and needed an office, I relinquished my dining room.
5) “Calling all Overweight Moms!” As I said, I’m not overweight and I’ve never been a Mom—except to 35 homeless cats that I feed every day. Do you suppose I could interest Oprah in that?
6) “Does Your Mom Need a Makeover?” Probably not; she’s been dead for many years.
7) “Have You Ever Had Sex with a Family Member?” Not that I can remember.
7) “Are You the World’s Biggest Garage Sale Queen?” I would be if I had a garage to keep all my stuff in.
“Trying to Find Your Personal Style?” Found it already: t-shirts and sweat pants. Anybody got a problem with that?
9) “Aha Moment After the Whitney Interview?” Yeah, just say “no” to loser boyfriends and bad drugs. Ah, Whitney, Whitney, what were you thinking?
10) “Dating Disaster.” Now we’re talking my kind of show except that an hour is not nearly long enough, and I don’t think I’d like to have to admit my part in those disasters.
11) “Want to Know About Your DNA?” Not even. Everyone’s got a crazy Uncle Clyde, but the world doesn’t need to know that I might have been the recipient of some of his DNA.
12) “Do You Want to Break Up with Your Doctor?” I already did that two years ago after he had ignored my complaints of insomnia for five years; then I found out I had sleep apnea. Bye, bye.
13) “Have You Always Wanted a Breast Reduction?” Are you kidding?
14) “NY Area Only: Are you worried about your fingernails?” I don’t have that kind of time.
15) “Want to Know if Your Home Is Aging You?” No, because then I’d have to shoot it.
16) “Have a Unique Dance Routine to Teach Dr. Oz?” I can do a mean funky chicken, but I’m not sure that would play well on TV.
After reading Oprah’s wish list for prospective guests, I felt bad that I didn’t fit in. Apparently, I’ve missed out on many cultural boats. I’ve never been fat, never been married to a drug addict, never slept with a family member, not much of an exhibitionist.
I know this sounds pathetic, but the worst that can probably be said of me is that I have a mad crush on Mickey Rourke. So, when Oprah does a show on “Women Who Love Mickey Too Much,” I’m there.

***
Rosie Sorenson is an award-wining writer whose work has appeared in the Los Angeles Times, the San Francisco Chronicle, the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review, and other publications. Her new photo essay book, They Had Me at Meow: Tails of Love from the Homeless Cats of Buster Hollow, is about her thirteen years of loving and being loved by a colony of smart, funny feral cats. To learn more and to purchase the book, please visit her website: www.theyhadmeatmeow.com.

Finally, my addiction to the “National Enquirer” has paid off! Because of my avid readership, I won a trivia contest during a seminar on Social Media by answering the following question: “What movie studio did Barry Diller head up in the 80’s?” “Paramount,” I said, my hand held high. “Correct,” hollered the seminar leader and handed me a small paper box, inside of which was something that looked like a weird little toy, or perhaps a large eraser. Turns out, it was a Poken.

What is a Poken, you ask? A “Poken” is a funny-looking 2GB memory gadget with a built-in radio frequency identity device (RFID). When two Pokens are pressed together they light up, indicating that an exchange of information has taken place. The “information” that is transferred has already been set up by the Poken owner on the

Poken website. The Poken is equipped with a USB connector so that when you return home from a party, you can just download all your Poken friends to your computer.

Poken was invented by a Swiss business school grad who was tired of having to keep track of all the business cards he would acquire at various meetings, so he developed a device “where we could customize our identity, choose our networks, and decide what and how much we wanted to share…” At that point in the text, my silly old-fashioned, un-cool self kicked in. Can’t you just share your information in person? Why do you need these funny-looking intermediaries? Leave it to a young male engineer to take the “personal” out of personal interactions.

From the Poken website, I read, “…we want you to spark conversations, and keep them going, in all kinds of ways and in your own personal style. we want you to express yourselves and who you are. we all accessorize our clothes, cars, phones, and even our pets; why not our information?” (please note: most of the text on the website is written in this hip lowercase kind of way.)

Accessorize my information? Customize my identity? Am I the only one who thinks this is funny and/or slightly mad? And, what if you lose your Poken, especially after you’ve acquired customized information from numbers of people? I don’t know about you, but I don’t need one more little physical object to keep track of. And what if Poken is stolen? In a culture where information is king, you just know that roving bands of Poken thieves will soon emerge to lie in wait and pinch your Poken. Then, you’ve compromised not only your precious information, but that of others as well.

Don’t you just want to grab these young engineers by the lapels and shout, “Consequences, my son, these things have consequences!” Anyone with an RFID scanner within twenty feet of you has access to ALL of the info on your Poken. We’re getting into Big Brother thriller territory here, I’m afraid.

To me, the sad part about all of this new “social media” technology is that we have at once too much information at our fingertips and not enough in our hearts. Oh, sure, you might learn the bits and bytes of a potential friend or mate from his Poken, but you’ll never access the heart and soul of him unless the two of you spend considerable in-the-flesh time. How else will you know how his skin feels next to yours, or what kind of aftershave he uses, or how his crooked smile charms you to your core? What used to be the rich fun of walking, talking, and laughing in person has been transmogrified into the faux-intimacy of tweeting, poking, facebooking.

I have to tell you that if I meet you at a party and you ask me if I want to Poken, don’t be surprised if I give you a hug instead.

* * *

Rosie Sorenson is an award-wining writer whose work has appeared in the Los Angeles Times, the San Francisco Chronicle, the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review, and other publications. Her new photo essay book, They Had Me at Meow: Tails of Love from the Homeless Cats of Buster Hollow, is about her thirteen years of loving and being loved by a colony of smart, funny feral cats. To learn more and to purchase the book, please visit her website: www.theyhadmeatmeow.com.

Maybe I’m just being paranoid, but I plan never to purchase a vehicle from General Motors with OnStar.

Touted as a system to protect drivers by means of its many security features, OnStar seems more like A Big Snoop, than A Big Helper.

Oh, sure, the company will tell you that they can’t/don’t listen in on conversations taking place in the car, that the driver has to press a red or blue button in order to communicate with the OnStar representative, but, in the same breath, they acknowledge that if OnStar is faced with a subpoena, well, then, my friend, you can pretty much kiss all your privacy rights good-bye.

OnStar can order your car to stop running. The Visalia, California police were alerted to this handy feature when a car thief made the mistake of hijacking a Chevrolet Tahoe. The police were worried that they would be drawn into the sort of car chase that inevitably ends up on “Cops,” but thanks to OnStar, an electronic command was sent to disable the gas pedal, and the thief was caught, literally out of gas.

What could be so wrong with that? Well, for one thing, just think what might happen if your disgruntled ex-spouse worked for OnStar and had the means to track your every movement and to listen in on your every private conversation. If that doesn’t chill your biscuits, then you should have someone check your pulse for flat-lining.

What if a burglar-turned-computer-hacker disabled your car on a lonely road, robbed you, or worse yet, murdered you? No one would be the wiser.

Now that I think of it, OnStar is the perfect tool for a lazy hit-man. No more having to tail you in rush-hour traffic while praying that you stop soon on some deserted street. He can just sit back, relax, monitor your movements on the GPS, and then when he has you where he wants you, push the disabling button on your car. I’ll bet Lee Child is working right now to incorporate this ploy into his next best-selling Jack Reacher thriller.

Although I don’t approve of this intrusive technology, I figure that as long as it exists, I might as well get my very own OnStar device, one that would let the air out of the gasbags of whichever political party I find offensive. Just let me point the device at the TV, press the button and whoosh! Down they go!

While we’re at it, how about adapting it into a device I could have used yesterday to disable the car of a nasty woman driver who flipped me the bird right after I honked at her for wandering into my lane? I could have turned off her engine, sped around her car, and flipped her right back before she knew what was going down.

I could also have stopped a rambunctious teenager (aka, soon-to-be-organ-donor) on a motorcycle who insisted upon weaving in and out of traffic on I-80. Let that be a lesson to you, son.

Point and disable. I’m beginning to like this more and more. I could point it at the IRS building. Don’t even think about auditing one “R. Sorenson.” I could point it at my mortgage banker. Give me a 2% mortgage or I’ll vaporize you. I could point it at the neighbor whose dog terrorizes me every day. Sorry about your master, Fido.

Perhaps it is, after all, time to wish upon Onstar.

* * *

Rosie Sorenson is an award-wining writer whose work has appeared in the Los Angeles Times, the San Francisco Chronicle, the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review, and other publications. Her new photo essay book, They Had Me at Meow: Tails of Love from the Homeless Cats of Buster Hollow, is about her thirteen years of loving and being loved by a colony of smart, funny feral cats. To learn more and to purchase the book, please visit her website: www.theyhadmeatmeow.com.

I’m glad I work at home so I can be with my cat. There’s nothing like making a cat happy to give you that extra buzz.

Sugar, my rescued Siamese, loves to lounge on my lap, especially when I’m sitting at the computer. She watches the screen intently except for those times when she’s fidgeting and/or sleeping.

What’s that, you say? “How can I get any work done with her in my lap?” Well, often I don’t, but, you see, that’s the magical power of cats. We’ll do things for them we might not do for our spouses. When cats purr, we listen. They’ve had 9,000 years to perfect the fine art of getting humans to do their bidding, and they’re not about to let up now.

Karen McComb, animal-communication researcher at the University of Sussex in the U.K., has recently confirmed what we might only have told our closest friends: we’re completely at the mercy of our 8-pound fur balls.

According to an article in the July 31, 2009 issue of The Week, Ms. McComb discovered that “when cats were hungry, they altered their purring so that it was eerily similar to the cry of an infant.” When McComb played back these cat cries to human listeners, “people found them almost impossible to ignore.” Indeed. Who among us can ignore our kitties when they approach us with that masterful, manipulative sound?

Cats are not the only ones in the animal kingdom with a gift for problem-solving.

While cats seem to enjoy getting others to take care of them, crows have demonstrated a more self-reliant streak. According to another article in The Week (August 28, 2009), British researchers found that when crows were presented with a small pile of stones sitting alongside an upright tube containing a small amount of water on top of which floated a wax worm, the crows started dropping stones into the tube until the water level rose high enough for them to dip in their beaks and snag the worm. They didn’t come mewling or sniveling to the nearest person to take care of the problem for them. Go, crows!

Dogs, too, have been known to display remarkable independence, at least in Moscow. According to the August 28 issue of The Week, biologist Andrew Poyarkov has been studying a group of stray dogs and discovered that they have taught themselves to use the Moscow subway. He says, “The dogs ride commuter trains every morning into central Moscow, where food is easier to find, then ride back in the evening to the outskirts of the city where they sleep. They seem to have learned how long they need to stay on the train to leave at the right station.” Clever little barkers.

Since they’re all so smart in their own ways, it occurs to me to ask, “How can we harness those skills for our own purposes? To which of our many problems should we dispatch these clever creatures to find a solution?”

I know—how about health care? I mean, if a dog can figure out how to ride a subway, and a crow can solve the worm-retrieval problem, and cats can get pretty much anything they want, maybe they can figure out how we can all have health care?

We could round up a pack of dogs, a murder of crows, a clowder of cats and seat them around a big conference table, upon which we’ve laid out a spread of kibble, worms, and Fancy Feast. We would tell them that they can have their snacks only after they’ve solved this annoying problem. I can see it all now.

“Meow, meow meow,” say the cats in their highest-frequency voice.

“Arf, Arf,” reply the dogs.

“Caw, Caw, Caw, Caw, Caw, Caw,” cackle the crows.

They then turn their heads toward the humans who have been taking careful notes. The humans smile and nod. The creatures devour their snacks, and, presto!

Medicare for all!

* * *

Rosie Sorenson is an award-wining writer whose work has appeared in the Los Angeles Times, the San Francisco Chronicle, the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review, and other publications. Her new photo essay book, They Had Me at Meow: Tails of Love from the Homeless Cats of Buster Hollow, is about her thirteen years of loving and being loved by a colony of smart, funny feral cats. To learn more and to purchase the book, please visit her website: www.theyhadmeatmeow.com.

I’m a big fan of scientific knowledge, but there is one thing I would rather not know—namely that on the nineteen square feet of skin that covers my body, there are roughly 100 billion bacteria living, partying, and reproducing, all without my permission.

According to an article in the May 29th edition of the Los Angeles Times, researchers at the National Institutes of Health (NIH), who have been studying the genes of bacteria, “found that more than half [of the bacteria] belonged to one of three big groups that made them a cousin either of a bacterium that causes acne, diphtheria, or Staphylococcus aureus, the culprit behind many dangerous antibiotic-resistant infections.” Eww! Furthermore, some bacteria prefer living on the forearm, others in the armpit, the nose, etc. They apparently staked out their territories long ago. One can only imagine a scenario in which, like the Crips and the Bloods, they engaged in turf wars.

“I want the armpit,” says Diphtheria.

“No,” says, Staph, “I was here first, it’s all mine.”

“Well, why do you always get the good parts?”

However this conflict went down, the fact is that for too long they have been occupying my precious epidermis without my permission. You talk about taxation without representation; this is inhabitation without authorization. This is prime real estate here, and I think it’s high time they pay up.

“So, Staph, I hear you wanna build a shack on my forearm. That will cost you $5,000. And, you, Dip-Boy, the nose goes for fifteen grand. If you don’t like it, you can go live in the bellybutton like the other low-rent bacteria, but don’t come crying to me that you have no view, OK? You get what you pay for, you know what I mean?”

You may consider these prices to be too high, but think about it. These gangs are not going to just stay put, are they? No, they’re gonna mess around and try to roust out their neighbors until they win the patch of integument they want. There’s just no living in harmony for these guys.

We’re going to need that money for a United Nations of Bacteria (UNB) to step in and settle these epidermal disputes, and when that fails, and an all-out war has ensued, we’ll have to set up a Truth and Reconciliation Commission to calm things down and start over. We’ll need an Immigration program, too, and identity cards to make sure that foreign bacteria don’t try to muscle in. You know how those Prevotellas and those Rhodoccocci are when they get worked up.

And what exactly do we get in exchange for all this frenzied activity? We. Don’t. Know. That’s what the NIH is trying to find out, but until they do, the UNB must establish some sort of Geneva Conventions because I wouldn’t put it past the Zimmermanellas to invade the groin under the pretext of looking for “weapons of rash dessication.” They are THAT kind of nasty. Remember the athlete’s foot you had so bad in third grade that you couldn’t walk? Well, how would you like that all over your you-know-what? I didn’t think so.

All of this makes my head spin, leaving me to wonder, “Why can’t we all just get along?”

* * *

Rosie Sorenson is an award-wining writer whose work has appeared in the Los Angeles Times, the San Francisco Chronicle, the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review, and other publications. Her new photo essay book, They Had Me at Meow: Tails of Love from the Homeless Cats of Buster Hollow, is about her thirteen years of loving and being loved by a colony of smart, funny feral cats. To learn more and to purchase the book, please visit her website: www.theyhadmeatmeow.com.

I don’t know why people are so worried about the economy these days. Why, after scoffing at my New Age friends for saying things like “Trust in the Universe, it will provide” and for their insistence that I read the bestseller The Secret and watch the accompanying video, I now have more money than I know what to do with. I scoff no longer.

Just last month, I returned from South Africa with my 40% share of $6,750,000 (plus 3% for expenses) for assisting Dr. Themba Ndlovu with a pesky banking problem at The Amalgamated Banks of South Africa (ABSA).

On my way home, I stopped over in Ghana to meet with the nineteen-year-old, orphaned Kelvin Clark to help him retrieve two silver boxes which were left to him by his father, the late Captain Gordon Clark, who was sadly killed in the war with Liberia. Sigh.

What’s a good Samaritan to do? All Kelvin needed was for me to pay for the demurrages incurred for the storage of these silver boxes. I, of course, did so, and was paid handsomely from the contents of the boxes: “250 kgs. of Raw Gold, 50 Carats of purple rough-cut diamond gemstones of Diamond Creek, Lofa County Origin, and $10.5 million U.S. Dollars.” I passed on the gold and diamonds, but graciously accepted my 43% share of the cash.

After viewing The Secret a second time, I was soon informed by David Smith, Esquire, and Associates of London, that I was named as beneficiary in the will of the late Jurgen Krugger. Poor Jurgen. We had lost contact over the years, and I had no idea he planned to leave me anything, certainly not $30,100,000.

You see what positive thinking and creative visualizations can accomplish?

Next, I received an urgent email from Mr. Ban Ki-Moon, U.N. Secretary General, informing me that the United Nations had decided to compensate all those unfortunate people who have been scammed by the no-good-niks of the world and that my share would be $2,500,000. I thanked him very kindly and told him I would be delighted to take possession of the ATM card he offered.

You’re probably thinking, “Well, what makes HER so special? Why haven’t I been so blessed?” All I can say is that you’re probably not doing your homework—you’re not yet a believer.

You see, according to Miss Stella Hernanos, whose late father, Johnson Hernanos, was tragically killed when his Air France flight crashed into the Brazilian sea last month, she was directed by Almighty God to present me with an opportunity to be of service to her in retrieving her father’s money. It had been unfortunately held up for want of a foreign partner—$15,700,000 to be exact. Since I was raised by my parents to believe in the Golden Rule, I, of course, sprang into action for this unfortunate young woman and was handsomely rewarded. Really, it was the least I could do.

I have to say that the only time I felt the Universe might have been playing a little trick on me was when Adekunle Elvis, “a computer scientist working with central bank of Nigeria,” came to my door and told me that he had “come across (my) file which was marked X and (my) released disk painted RED and realized that I had paid all fees and yet the fund had still not been released to me,” I grew a bit skeptical. However, when he assured me that all I had to do was obtain the “Anti-drug/terrorist clearance certificate which will be tendered to any of your nominated bank and the Internal Revenue Service (IRS) for clearance of the transferred amount in your account,” I replied, “No problem!” Just for answering my door, I pocketed a tidy $15.5 million! I’ll never doubt the Universe again.

By now, you are probably muttering to yourself, “Well, that’s fine for her, she’s got all this money, but what about me? Who is going to help me?” Well, lucky for you, my parents, the late Mr. and Mrs. Thompson, taught me to share. All you have to do is provide me with your name, address, phone number, bank routing number, social security number, and maiden name (if female), and I’ll get right back to you.

Blessings to you and yours.

* * *

Rosie Sorenson is an award-wining writer whose work has appeared in the Los Angeles Times, the San Francisco Chronicle, the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review, and other publications. Her new photo essay book, They Had Me at Meow: Tails of Love from the Homeless Cats of Buster Hollow, is about her thirteen years of loving and being loved by a colony of smart, funny feral cats. To learn more and to purchase the book, please visit her website: www.theyhadmeatmeow.com.

I’m terrorized by my closet. Like a stranger walking into a rough neighborhood for the first time, careful not to make eye contact with anyone, I have to sneak up on it.

Why? Well, on the Myers-Briggs Personality Inventory, my score on the “Sensation” dimension slumps right into the cellar, down there with the musty old fruit jars, the cobwebs and piles of coal. People who rate a high score on the “S” function are well grounded in the physical world, and enjoy occupations such as massage therapy, cattle rustling, and organizing closets.

I have little going for me in this arena. The physical world annoys me, always has, always will. I know that I won’t fret about being dead because I’ll never again have to floss my teeth. I don’t mind doing it once or twice, but pesky physical chores like this never stay done. You have to floss over and over, you have to wash dishes again and again. It’s exhausting.

My mind always seems to hover about twenty feet from my body. When I accidentally bang into a chair or a doorjamb, I’m always surprised and, quite frankly, insulted. “What are you doing in my way?” I ask of these objects, though in silence. You never know who might be listening.

The person who owned the condo before me installed a closet organizer and added four mirrored sliding glass doors. I’m sure her possessions lived in a happy, organized array. Not so, mine. In fact, I cannot approach the closet without seeing myself defeated in one or all of the mirrored panels spanning the width of the bedroom.

Peeking inside the double-decker enclosure reminds me more of looking into a filing cabinet filled with memories, dreams, and failures than of searching for clothing in a closet.

The teal suede outfit that almost fit when I bought it on sale at I Magnin in 1988 still wants to come out and play. Not likely. I’ve worn it only once, and that was on the occasion of a boring personal ad date. Next to it hangs the black rayon tango skirt with a handkerchief hem of heavy fringe I bought at the same time. I only tangoed once, and again, it was on a date, a very bad one, but not with the same boring guy for whom I wore the teal suede.

The white plastic “Georgiou” garment bag holds a two-piece evening suit with a double-breasted jacket and a long skirt with slit. I thought it would make me a credible-looking partner for a wealthy man who wined and dined me at the St. Francis yacht club, but the color black sucks the life out of my already-sallow complexion and, after a brief engagement entitled, “What was I thinking?” I put it away. Some day, it will make a Goodwill shopper very happy.

My favorite dress hides inside a white Macy’s plastic bag. If I could squeeze into a size 6 again, I would wear it on Halloween with my Tina Turner wig. Brightly colored sequins in a flame pattern reach up toward the bodice and down the sleeves of the black dress. Short, short, short, a true tart dress if there ever was one.

I also own two cowboy shirts which I wear every seven or eight years. One is ivory satin with black trim and the kind of pearl snap buttons that mesmerized me as a child. The other one is red with a V-shaped row of white fringe on the back and white fringe running down the sleeves, a serious nuisance at dinner.

I have a fantasy that one day I’ll get drunk and toss away everything I’ve not worn in the past six months. Isn’t that what all the good housekeeping magazines recommend? The six month rule? Heck, I could use the two-year rule, but after that ninety percent of the closet would still stand gaping.

Maybe one day I’ll take a lesson from my boyfriend, whose half of the closet is neatly arranged by category: pants, shirts, jackets, all in good repair, clean and ready to go.
Nah.

* * *

Rosie Sorenson is an award-wining writer whose work has appeared in the Los Angeles Times, the San Francisco Chronicle, the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review, and other publications. Her new photo essay book, They Had Me at Meow: Tails of Love from the Homeless Cats of Buster Hollow, is about her thirteen years of loving and being loved by a colony of smart, funny feral cats. To learn more and to purchase the book, please visit her website: www.theyhadmeatmeow.com.

Last week, I succumbed and signed up for Twitter. I had sworn that I was going to be the last person on the planet to join this crazy 140-character-driven-communications Whatever, but I like trying new things.

I have to admit, though, that I’m having trouble with the question, “What are you doing?” That’s the opening teaser presented by Twitter, which must be answered in no more than 140 characters (not words).

Is this a trick existential question on the order of “Who am I?” which requires a deeply thought-out philosophical answer and which, if I’m not careful, I could get wrong? Or, does anyone really care what I’m actually “doing right now”?

In any case, my impulse is to write “none of your business,” but that would probably not garner much of a “following.” I’ve come to learn that attracting a following is the entire point. Just like back in high school (as everything so often is), I get to compare my following to that of others, and so far, my following is pitiful. It may stay that way, too, if I don’t jazz up my tweets. Thus far, I have written:

Tweet One: I’m eating some dark chocolate and drinking some green tea and missing my beloved cat who died on Feb. 9.

Tweet Two: Just had dinner and wonder what the heck am I doing on Twiter and who cares anyway?

Tweet Three: Well, that was a big duh, spelling Twitter as Twiter, sorry about that…

I’m from a generation that values privacy; so, this new world of divulging every little thing about one’s mundane life is rather unsettling.

After I plunged in with my pathetic tweets, things got creepy. I received an unexpected email telling me in the subject line that Mario Colarumbo was following me. Oh, great! Now I’ve attracted a stalker!

I don’t know what I expected (well, nothing frankly,) but who is this Mario person, and why is he following me?

Then, it happened again and again, more followers. I eventually calmed down, checked them out, and since they seemed like reasonable and interesting non-stalkers, I began to follow them, too.

Well, now I’m hooked, and I can’t wait to be followed. When I check on my email and there are no “following-you-on-Twitter” messages, my spirits sink. Must get better material!

At some point during my initiation into all things Twitter, I began to wonder what would Noah have tweeted if he’d had Twitter back in the day. My apologies to Mr. Noah, but I imagine his tweets would have gone something like this:

THE YEAR: 2349 BCE. NOAH’S TWITTER NAME: Cannotswim

FOLLOWING: One. FOLLOWERS: 732

Tweet One: Kinda worried about this Ark thing…You think he’d be concerned that I don’t know from cubits…

Tweet Two: Ezekiel is cheesed off. He got red in the face when he heard. He yelled, “Dad always loved you best.” I didn’t ask for this, you know…

Tweet Three: I wanted to nix the snakes, but He wouldn’t let me. Just once, I wish he’d let me manage my own Ark.

DAY ELEVEN OF THE FLOOD. FOLLOWING: One. FOLLOWERS: 349

Tweet Four: Getting pretty gosh darned noisy in here-can’t sleep…and the smell! Whew…

Tweet Five: Shem and Ham are OK with the “no procreation” edict, but Japheth has issues…Hope his mother can knock some sense into him.

DAY TWENTY-NINE OF THE FLOOD. FOLLOWING: One. FOLLOWERS: 227

Tweet Six: Don’t know how much more of this pouring rain I can take. Haven’t heard from Ezekiel in awhile, probably won’t speak to me again.

Tweet Seven: Sprang a leak. Fortunately, had plenty of elephant dung to patch the hole.

DAY THIRTY-SEVEN OF THE FLOOD. FOLLOWING: One. FOLLOWERS: 0

Tweet Eight: He said it’ll soon be over. Can’t happen too soon if you ask me. Japheth still unhappy. Mother no help.

Tweet Nine: I guess everyone’s pretty mad at me-no tweets in days. Can’t wait to get a cuppa and talk to someone face to face. Never again do I want to hear the question, “What are you doing?”

* * *

Rosie Sorenson is an award-wining writer whose work has appeared in the Los Angeles Times, the San Francisco Chronicle, the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review, and other publications. Her new photo essay book, They Had Me at Meow: Tails of Love from the Homeless Cats of Buster Hollow, is about her thirteen years of loving and being loved by a colony of smart, funny feral cats. To learn more and to purchase the book, please visit her website: www.theyhadmeatmeow.com.

Ever since the Boys of Enron slipped their greedy hands into our pockets and stole our lunch money, I’ve been on a mad mission to conserve energy. 

My favorite energy-saving trick is to dry my clothes outdoors on a dryer rack which I purchased from Target and set up on my deck. I’ve never once found bird poop on my clothes. I hadn’t even thought of that possibility until my sweetheart, Steve, moved in with me six years ago.
When I first saw him put his freshly washed clothes into the dryer on a sunny day, I tapped him on the shoulder and said, sweetly, “Oh, honey, I’ve found a great way to dry clothes and cheat PG&E at the same time!” I pulled out the dryer rack and demonstrated.
“Nope,” he said. “Not gonna do it.”
“But-but, why not,” I asked, mystified.
“Bird poop. I don’t want bird poop on my clothes.”
“But, I’ve never-”
He waved me away and started the dryer.
“OK,” I said. “Give up a month’s pay to PG&E, see if I care!” He ignored my remark and walked away. I cringed at the sound of the dryer’s every energy-sucking tumble. Maybe I should have reconsidered the whole moving-in thing, but love does stagger on and, besides, there’s always make-up sex.
Around the same time I learned about what I (lovingly) call his “bird-poop phobia,” I was made aware of some of my own shortcomings. Who knew (or cared) that I seldom dry my hands thoroughly after washing?
I went to hug him one day and he backed up, saying, “Ewww, your hands are wet.”
“What?” I said, feeling ever-so-sensitive at this hint of rejection.
“Your hands-they’re wet.”
I looked down at them. “So?”
“I love you, but I don’t like wet stuff, especially your wet hands all over me.”
“But,” I said, rising to my defense, “that’s what air is for.” I quickly wiped my hands up and down my legs. “That and sweatpants.” I held them up for inspection. “See? All dry!”
I hadn’t lived with anyone for nineteen years before Steve moved in, and I was unused to negotiating day-to-day domestic differences with anyone but my cat. I decided to consider this as a training opportunity in case the U.N. ever asked me to help with that pesky squabble among warlords in Somalia.
In addition to the hand-wiping thing, I had to promise Steve that I would no longer turn off the circuit breaker for our dishwasher right after it finished, or rather seemed to finish, its cycle. With my old Whirlpool, it was easy to tell when the cycle was over-all its lights went out. But, with our new Maytag, even when the cycle appears to be completed, some of its panel lights stay on for awhile-forever, in my opinion.
Since I hated wasting electricity, my habit had become to turn off the circuit breakers when I finished using my appliances-a money-saving tip I got from The San Francisco Chronicle. But one day Steve informed me that by turning off the circuit breaker too early I screwed up the entire wash/dry cycle and would I please just let it turn itself off when it darn well wanted to. Oh, all right, I thought, if it makes him happy, why not?
It’s taken us awhile, but we’ve finally settled into a domestic routine that works about 80% of the time. I no longer borrow his tooth-whitening strips without asking; he, in turn, now tells me when he’s eaten the last of the oatmeal; and, despite his dislike of anything wet or “gommy” he voluntarily cleans the carpet after our kitty, Turtleman, has vomited. Also, I keep my wet mitts off his copy machine and buy most of his shirts; he, in turn, unloads the dishwasher without being asked.
My biggest struggle has been to learn when to keep my mouth shut. Instead of blurting out, “My God, you ate the whole jar of cashew butter? What are you, nuts?” I now clamp my lips together and walk away.
And, I suspect that on more than one occasion, Steve has refrained from saying, “Was that bird poop I saw on your shirt out there on the deck?”
There’s more than one way to conserve energy.
***
Rosie Sorenson’s work has appeared in the San Francisco Chronicle, the Contra Costa Times, and the Berkeley Daily Planet. Her essays have also been broadcast on KQED-FM as part of its Perspectives series. Her essay “Safe Haven” was named Listener Favorite for 2006. She won Honorable Mention in the Erma Bombeck International Writing Contest. Her work also appears in the upcoming 25th Anniversary edition of Mobius, the Poetry Journal. Readers can read more of her work at www.damngoodwriters.com/.

Taking care of twenty-three homeless cats is like being The Enabler in twenty-three marriages. When friends suggest a Twelve-Step Program, you say, “No, really, everything’s fine . . . .”
I wasn’t always like this. I used to be a serial monogamist, but now, I’ve lost all control, and it’s not my fault; do you hear me? Not-my-fault. Nick Manelli, a.k.a., “Uncle Nicky,” got me hooked thirteen years ago, and he did it in plain sight.
I was out for an innocent stroll around the lake near my home when I saw him drive up in his tricked-out red convertible. He was carrying two heavy bags. I watched the first cat trot up to greet him; then another, and another and another and another. You get the picture. Since I had seen only one cat on my previous walks, I stopped to ask him what was going on.
He reached down to give each of his cats a little scratch behind the ears, a little food, and said, “I’ve been doing this for seventeen years now,” and, just like that, I was a goner. I already had a Siamese cat named Muffin at home and plenty of cat food, so I rationalized: I’ll just feed the cats who come up on this side of the hill-what could it hurt? And now I’m in so deep I couldn’t get out even if I wanted to.
At last count it’s twenty-three that I’m feeding, fixing, and, like any good spouse, counseling. I like to think that I’m putting my psychotherapy training to good use. If anyone were to set up a hidden camera to follow me on my rounds-well, let me put it this way, I’d hate for that video to end up on YouTube.
There I’d be on the small screen yelling at a chubby black cat, “Dammit, Blackberry, come back here and eat. Leave Sweetie Pie alone!” And then I’d say to Sweetie Pie, a small, highly sensitive gray tiger, “Don’t let him push you around so much,” but she’s one-third the size of Blackberry, and she hates him. Last year, an emergency trip to the vet to clean up a bite wound in her side cost me $80. I suspect that the evildoer was Blackberry, but I can’t prove it. He’s as sweet as pie to the human who feeds and pets and talks to him.
On down the hill near Buster Hollow, I’d be caught on camera telling Girly-Girl, a sassy Tiger of a cat, how beautiful she is, and how smart, and “what a good mouser!” (I always try to rescue the mouse, but I know it’s important to her to be acknowledged for her mighty huntress skills.) She’s also a self-designated leader, walking several feet ahead of me down the path, frequently looking over her shoulder to make sure I’m still following along.
One day, just to mess with her, I started weaving from one side of the path to the other. She kept up with me for a few feet, zig-zagging back and forth. Then suddenly she stopped, turned around, and smacked me on the ankle with her paw as if to say, “You think this is funny!? I’m your Guide Cat-come on, Girl, get with the program!”
Next, I’d be seen petting Buster, a chubby Cheshire with four white paws and a white bib. He mysteriously appeared at the lake one day, and I spent the next three years wooing him. He would always stay about twenty feet away and watch as I knelt down, fed, and petted the others-Green Eyes, Blackie-One, Sonny Gray (Sweetie Pie’s son), and Prancer. Each time I saw him, I would call out his name, but he’d keep his distance.
Then, one afternoon, while I was kneeling on the road, feeding Green Eyes on my right, I noticed an unfamiliar cat pressing against my left thigh. It took me a few moments to realize it was Buster. I very slowly placed my left hand on his back, kept it still for while, then moved it up to his scruff. He froze. There I was, participating once again in the nine-thousand-year-old bond between cat and human.
During all the time I’ve spent with them, I’ve marveled at what big suckers they are for human touch, even the older ones. If ever I can lay my hands on a cat just once, he’s mine forever. Call me the “Cat Whisperer” or call me nuts, I don’t care-I am beyond the reach of any recovery program.
I’ve tried to trap Priscilla, a beautiful Siamese-Tabby, to get her fixed, but she has outsmarted me every time. She’s another “highly sensitive” cat, who likes very slow, gentle caresses on her cheeks-not for her the rowdy petting that the guys enjoy. She appeared at the lake two years ago and a year later suddenly came over to greet me by licking my hand.
Six months back, Priscilla gave birth to a kitten whose face is reminiscent of a baby bear. That makes number twenty-four. I’ve tried to resist, really I have, but yesterday I was certain that I heard the opening strains of Wagner’s “Here Comes the Bride,” and another sound-was that the familiar “pop” of a Fancy Feast can being opened?
“With this ring…” Oh, no! Would someone please stop me before I marry again?
* * *
Rosie Sorenson is an award-wining writer whose work has appeared in the Los Angeles Times, the San Francisco Chronicle, the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review, and other publications. Her new photo essay book, They Had Me at Meow: Tails of Love from the Homeless Cats of Buster Hollow, is about her thirteen years of loving and being loved by a colony of smart, funny feral cats. To learn more and to purchase the book, please visit her website: www.theyhadmeatmeow.com.

I’m the only one I know who’s had fun during a colonoscopy.

The sole reason I signed up for it was because my brother had recently had a cancerous polyp removed from his colon, and he urged me to get checked out, too. Fine. I’ll go. Just don’t bug me anymore, OK? Big brothers can be such a pain.
I’d heard all the terrible stories and looked forward to the procedure about as much as one would look forward to a beheading. I hadn’t planned ahead of time on yukking it up with the Kaiser staff, but once I got there, I was the belle of the ball, or should I say the Countess of Camp Colon.

 
Just two days prior to the procedure, I’d received a shipment of copies of my first book: They Had Me at Meow: Tails of Love from the Homeless Cats of Buster Hollow. It’s about my thirteen years of caring for a colony of smart, funny feral cats. I brought along a copy and some business cards but left them with my partner, Steve, in the waiting room while I was whisked off to begin the epic journey of Rosie’s innards.

 
A case could be made that I was overtaken by a bout of “whistling past the graveyard,” because as soon as the nurse with the clipboard began asking me the standard medical questions, I started babbling away about the cats of Buster Hollow, about my book and the fact that I planned to use it to raise money for organizations that care for homeless cats, blah, blah, blah.

 
“And,” the nurse said as she proceeded through her list, “have you ever had diabetes, cancer, or…”

 
“No, but I sure have a great book about cats, you wanna see it? Don’t go away, I’ll be right back.” Steve was shocked to see me prance back into the waiting room, wearing the hospital gown over my clothes, and paw through my canvas bag to find the book. “See ya,” I said breezily as I looked over my shoulder and raced back to the procedure suite clutching my book.

 
“Well, that’s lovely,” the nurse said as I proudly held up the book. “Now, then, we need to finish the paperwork.”

 
“Ok, shoot,” I said, still holding up my book so the other nurses could see it and cluck approvingly.

 
“Do you have a family history of…”

 
“Oh, wait! I forgot to get my business cards,” I said and rushed back to Steve and my canvas bag.

 
“Here,” I said and handed one to her as well as to several other nurses admiring the book.

 
“Why, thank you,” I said as one by one they told me how lovely it was.

 
“OK, time to start the IV,” my nurse said. “Do you have any problems with this?”

 
“Uh, no,” I said, and turned my head. “Just make sure you get it right the first time, ha, ha.”

 
“I’ll be very careful,” she said, and after only two tries, the IV was installed and waiting for the good drugs!

 
“I forgot to mention that I’m very sensitive to medication-a little goes a LONG way with me, you know? If 50 mg. would be the normal dose, it would only take 10 mg. to make my head spin off its axis.”

 
“Sure, just tell that to the nurse who gives you the sedation.”

 
“Ok, but…”

 
“They’re ready for you now, Ms. Sorenson,” the assistant said as she came to fetch me.

 
“Oh, well, all right-let the games begin!” I said and picked up book, my business cards, and purse and followed her into the procedure room. She asked me to undress from the waist down and just leave my things on the chair behind the curtain.

 
After I’d exposed my bottom and pulled the gown around it, I sauntered over to the table and hopped on. The assistant took my blood pressure and placed the oxygen-thingie into my nose, while the nurse-with-the-good-drugs consulted with the doctor about the dosage. She then injected the Fentanyl and Versed into the IV line.

 
I don’t think I was ever totally out of it because I remember seeing something pink and mobile on the movie screen in front of me. I also have a faint memory of unclutching my hand to reveal a white business card and handing it to the doctor right before she inserted the probe.
“D’youlikecatsthishwebshitesheckitoooooooooooowt?” I heard someone say.

 
* * *

 
Rosie Sorenson is an award-wining writer whose work has appeared in the Los Angeles Times, the San Francisco Chronicle, the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review, and other publications. Her new photo essay book, They Had Me at Meow: Tails of Love from the Homeless Cats of Buster Hollow, is about her thirteen years of loving and being loved by a colony of smart, funny feral cats. To learn more and to purchase the book, please visit her website: www.theyhadmeatmeow.com.

I have finally found the answer to life’s most persistent questions. Here’s how it happened.
Last week I was listening to the radio, half-listening, really, until I heard a commercial from Orchard Supply Hardware announcing an awesome sale on blue tarps. “If you’re looking for a solution to that pile of junk in your garage,” said the announcer in his deep baritone, “look no further than a blue tarp—now on sale at OSH. If you’re needing to cover up that unsightly unfinished patio project, why, a blue tarp is your best friend. Come on down today!”
So that’s the answer. Blue tarps! Who knew? Just think of all the problems we could solve with a blue tarp! Take Sarah Palin, for instance. One minute, she’s the darling of the right-wing Republicans, and the next, she’s their worst nightmare who has no intention of quietly going away. What’s a frustrated Republican operative to do? Why, dash over to OSH, buy some blue tarps, and voila—problem solved! As they say, “Under tarp, out of mind.”
“What’s underneath that blue cover?” you ask. Why, nothing—just move along. But, you swear you hear groaning? Better adjust your meds, my friend.
If it could work for her, just think what it could do for, say, Iraq. Might cost a few million dollars to stitch a gazillion tarps together, but, hey, it sure as heck wouldn’t cost more than the $12 billion per month we’re already spending. And, it would do wonders for our sewing industry, provided we didn’t outsource it to Halliburton. When asked about that unending sea of blue in the Middle East, we could just say that it’s our new surge protector.
Now then, on to Iran. Don’t you think Ahmadinejad would look swell in blue? Maybe a tarp with a scalloped hemline just to remind others of how special he really is. And let’s not forget North Korea—why not just slap a blue tarp over that Kim Jun Il fellow—presto, change-o, no problem-o!
What about those smart folks on Wall Street who have brought us a new tune—“Give-Us-That-Old-Time Depression?” Blue tarps for all, but not before we take back the trillion dollars they finageled out of Congress.
Okay, so now that we’ve solved some of our pesky political problems, let’s look at a few additional uses for those wonderful blue tarps—how about Paris Hilton? Or maternity-looking tops for non-pregnant women? Baggy, butt-crack-revealing pants for teens? Bottled water, Hummers, health insurance companies? Simon Cowell, Reality Television, and Martha Stewart?
I mention Martha Stewart because I believe she has flown under the radar of domestic terrorism for too long and I’d like to see her punished—oh, nothing harsh, really, just dip her in flour and roast her slowly in a 325-degree oven until she forgets everything she knows about using Chanel pantyhose to tie up rose bushes. (Just as I write this, of course, my partner Steve hollers out to me that I’m burning the pasta, yet again! Thus, my fear and loathing of Martha—she’s everything I am not and don’t want to be, but think I should be and I hate that.)
I am not now, nor have I ever been a domestic goddess. Those cooking classes I took as a teenager in 4-H didn’t stick. And sewing? Egads! The one blue and white checkered chemise I made (with LOTS of help from my mother) not only failed to win a prize at the Henry County Fair, it didn’t even fit. My housekeeping skills can best be described as “casual.” Ditto for filing systems. System? You mean people have “systems”? I kinda sorta know where some things are, like my computer and printer, but the rest gets kind of hazy. Even when I spend hours tidying up my office it still looks like a monkey went mad in there. I don’t know why I even bother.
Come to think of it, why not just toss a blue tarp over my entire house? Under tarp, out of mind.
* * *
Rosie Sorenson is an award-wining writer whose work has appeared in the Los Angeles Times, the San Francisco Chronicle, the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review, and other publications. Her new photo essay book, They Had Me at Meow: Tails of Love from the Homeless Cats of Buster Hollow, is about her thirteen years of loving and being loved by a colony of smart, funny feral cats. To learn more and to purchase the book, please visit her website: www.theyhadmeatmeow.com.

It’s gotten so bad lately, what with the conflagration in our economy, the mess in Iraq, and the startling arrival of that moose-eating, beauty-pageant-smiling humanoid, that I’ve taken to making animal noises. Cow noises, in particular. You know-for those occasions when words don’t care enough to send the very best?

I discovered quite by accident one day that if I kept my lips together, thrust my tongue against my hard palate, and squeezed the air out of my diaphragm while at the same time vibrating my vocal cords, I sounded just like a cow in distress and, let’s face it, isn’t that what we all feel right now? A lot of DISTRESS!!! Read the rest of this article »

I SO want to be Michael Phelps. Oh, not because he’s a demon swimmer, but because he gets to eat 12,000 calories a day! Has to! Every day! That’s close to what I eat in a week!

Can you imagine the guilt-free, unrestrained pig-outs? The unlimited Kentucky Fried Chicken, the chocolate cake, the blueberry muffins, the mint-chip gelato, the mashed potatoes, the chocolate . . . omigod!! Of course, you’d have to work out like a maniac so you wouldn’t gain 300 pounds, but still, just the idea of unabashed food debauchery is very appealing. Read the rest of this article »

So, there I was, driving down interstate 80 on my way to the El Cerrito Farmer’s Market, when I realized I had forgotten to bring along my canvas shopping bag. Damn! I felt certain I was going to end up in Recyling Hell because now I’d have to use at least three plastic bags to pack up all the carrots and other veggies I planned to buy. I could stick them down my pants, I supposed, but that might attract some unwanted attention. No, I’d just have to return home with the poisonous bags and drive them over to the landfill myself, praying for forgiveness all the way. Read the rest of this article »

Ok, I admit it-I caused the recession. You know how economists are always advising consumers to spend, spend, spend their way out of recessionary slumps? Well, that’s a problem for me because I don’t care that much for possessions. I drive a 1993 Nissan Altima with a patch of bondo on the passenger door, wear sweatpants I bought at Target in 1999, and top them off with t-shirts I purchased last year at Walgreens-five for $10.00.I can’t relate to the “Sex-in-the-City” addiction to Manolo stilettos, Vuitton purses, and Prada dresses, and, as you might imagine, I was underwhelmed by the recent movie. The pursuit of trendiness has always struck me as odd since you can never possibly be “in” for more than twenty minutes, even if you could snap up every hot, to-die-for item at Bloomingdales. Read the rest of this article »