My oldest friend in the world had her first baby, and yesterday he got part of his penis chopped off. When I told my mother that I wouldn't circumsize my son, she told me that she'd have it done behind my back. Now I know that wouldn't happen, but still why are we so hung up on the idea that cutting off a boy or man's foreskin makes him somewhat cleaner? If he washes with soap and water he should be clean. This is a picture of me, her and Baby G. after the life changing experience. Oh, and he is one of the cutest, if not the cutest, newborn baby I've ever seen.
I want to say I have all this free time on my hands, because I want to write a book, and have had some ideas about what it is I want to write about for a while, but instead I have other projects to work on, and therefore the book proposal keeps getting pushed back, and what that really means is that I don't have all this free time on my hands - at least that's the conclusion I deduce from the above rambling....
And I haven't been on this computer for the past few days, which in and of itself seems incredulous, but I committed myself to my last cat sitting job ever (unless of course you're one of my friends and I already know your cats). This was for two cat brothers, George and Grover, and while the names sound cute, Grover was not. The most feral cat I've ever met, Grover tried to attack me - and I'm talking full claws and fangs - not once, but twice, in my two night stay at the apartment. And there was constant hissing, that every so often turned itself into snorting, something I had never heard a cat do. The first time it happened, I thought that the little beast had eaten a pig. Anyway, the second attack was so scary that my heart was racing and I was shaking, and in running away from this little, black ball of evil, I banged the part of my arm in between my fingers and my elbow (is that the forearm?) into the metal post of the family's canopy bed, causing a very deep, very black and blue mark. The next day when I opened the door to enter the apartment and that same vicious little venom monster was standing on the counter, hissing in my face and his black fur was all on end. Now, I could understand if I had done something to hurt him, but I was there to feed him, not fight him, and he didn't care. I dreaded going into the apartment for two days, and even had dreams about the cat. But I had so much fear of this fur ball, and that made me sad because over the past few years I have grown to truly love cats, and even, at one time, until my good friend L. kidnapped him indefintely while I was experiencing my year of living freedom, owned one myself.
But that wouldn't be what the book was about. I'm not going to write a book about cats. It's really not my expertise.
Of course, what makes one an expert on anything? Is it study, or experience or simply because they claim to be?
