Cat Skinner Club

The Groundhog, His Shadow, and A Hole

Rainy Night

I am sister to the rain;
Fey and sudden and unholy,
Petulant at the windowpane,
Quickly lost, remembered slowly.

Dorothy Parker

A Message to All Members of Team J & C


I love e.e. cummings. I have since I was 18. This poem, which I could never fully grasp, has been winding it’s way through my heart all day. My heart is the foot I lead with, by the way. Some people are great with their heads, their minds… I am all sensory. Seeing you, hearing you, touching you, smelling you. This is how things in the world are made real to me. I need this to be real, whatever it is to be.


since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a far better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don’t cry
–the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids’ flutter which says

we are for each other: then
laugh leaning back in my arms
for life’s not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis

e.e. cummings

Inspiring Minds Want to Know

Sometimes, when I assist my amazing designer friend Ming Wong, part of my job is to shop for costumes. Right now we’re working on West Side Story for the Randolph Young Company, which is a group of incredibly talented teenagers. I LOVE West Side Story. I can’t explain it, but I’ve loved it since the first time I saw the film. I think it’s the music, or maybe the dancing gang wars. At any rate, despite the fact that this show will eat up my entire February social life, I’m looking so forward to it.

So tonight, as I’m in the Village of Value, listening to tunes on my iphone and trying to guess what a Puerto Rican teenager might have worn in 1950 something, I keep getting distracted by various emails that keep coming in. One of them gets my nose outta joint. My Leonine instinct is to execute a five digit paw swipe, claws extended but instead I continue with the task at hand. By the time I finish, it’s ten to nine, I’m starving because I haven’t yet been home from work, I’m realizing NONE of my laundry is getting done, the store manager is being super bitchy to me, and I’m now cranky.

At least the check out line is reasonable.

Ahead of me is a young-ish family. Mom, dad, boy and girl both under 11. I like to watch the kinds of things that people buy to see what sort of a story they tell you about those people. They have a couple of clothing items, and an electric fan. The dad, who is very tall and rugged, and kind of handsome in an old-before-his-time blue collar way has two other items that he pays for himself. One is a stack of pro-athletics motivational videos, and the other is a huge, never-taken-out-of-the-plastic paint by numbers canvas of a mountain vista beside a lake. I see this and tears spring to my eyes.

Such a quiet, fragile statement. In my mind he dreams of peaceful moments in a cozy corner of their little home, where he can crack open his paint by numbers and just be still, and calm. Or maybe he dreams of being an artist, and believes that paint by numbers kits are the easiest way to accomplish this, short of watching that crazy PBS guy that looks like the love child of Art Garfunkle and Beaker. Then I think that maybe he’s purchasing this as a special family treat that will live on the infrequently used formal dining table, and when the kids have had supper, finished their homework, and are in their jammies ready for bed, the whole family will turn off the tv, listen to old records from the seventies, and spend some quiet time sharing an activity.

That’s what I would do.

I have a lump in my throat. I decide that the store manager is over-worked and under-appreciated. I feel affection for the leather-faced, bleach blonde cashier who is always so sweet and friendly, who really appreciates beautiful things, and who was probably some kind of foxy in her heyday. I think of how small we all are, and how much we all feel, and hope for, and dream of.

I walk out into the dark, seedy stretch of Landsdowne and Bloor, I turn up Joni Mitchell and I feel lonely. Again.

Home at last, I sink into the comfort of my giant sofa, left over pad thai and giant glass of sparkling water at hand. Arthur curls up beside me and snores loudly. I peel off my socks with my monkey toes, and undo the top button of my jeans.

I’ve been collecting love songs all day. It’s a little project I made up for work, to add some fun to our website. This has put me in some kind of mood. Melancholic…a little…
My far-away friend who drives trains has sent me all of the lyrics to the Supertramp song Downstream. Everyone else has posted their songs fairly publicly, but he’s sent me an email. I wonder if it’s directly intended for me, and it makes me smile.

I think about my favourite love songs. They are all sad, and complicated. There are so many. Let me ponder these and I’ll post a list, with as many links as I can find.

Maybe I’ll take a bath, and marinate in warm water and baby oil. Smelling like a baby makes everything better.

Catalysts, Catechists, & the Chasm Before Us

cat·a·lyst (ktl-st)n.play_w2(“C0153900”)

1. Chemistry A substance, usually used in small amounts relative to the reactants, that modifies and increases the rate of a reaction without being consumed in the process.

2. One that precipitates a process or event, especially without being involved in or changed by the consequences:

This word is frequently used in association with me by members of the opposite sex. I believe it has been repeatedly used incorrectly.

Whatever process or events I may precipitate, I am never, ever left unscathed.

In fact, I wish I were a catalyst sometimes. I could waft through someone’s world like the scent of a fresh baked pie cooling on a window sill. The process or event would transpire, and I’d be the perfect temperature for enjoying with some hand-made vanilla bean ice cream come dinner time.

Catalyst, no. Harbinger…hmmm? I liked the Wiki definition, but these terms all seem so very grand. Here’s how I can best explain:

I’m a very loving, very giving person.
When I fall in love, or feel affectionate and romantically interested in a person, no matter what their insides might be composed of, it is because they have inspired me in some way. When people inspire me, I make it abundantly clear to them that they have so affected me. Sometimes this is as simple as being open to people and giving them permission to share whatever they feel they need to, which can yield amazing moments. I become incredibly supportive of their work and their passions. I like these particular qualities, and I hope to never lose them.

The dark side of this, something that is difficult to face, is the fact that I have looked lovingly at other artists, artists who I felt to be brilliant, because I did not feel myself to be significant enough as an artist. The idea here is that I bolster their dreams and aspirations, often neglecting my own, because I am more confident in their ability to succeed. I’m glad I’ve realized this. This theory can permeate many levels too – perhaps I’m too emotionally supportive to others, when I should be paying greater attention to my own emotional needs, physical needs, intellectual needs…

Next time, we will meet in the middle. I will still be incredibly loving and supportive, and the partner in my life will meet me half way.

Enter Catechism…

I grew up Catholic. The very basic explanation of Chatechism is the tutorial of young children in the ways of Christ, i.e. learning how to become good Christians. Apply this to my adult life, and it looks more like “This is how to love in the world; nurture, support, trust, honour, love, seek adventure hand in hand, be gracious, seek beauty” which I try each day to demonstrate. I try to give the love I expect in return.

And the Chasm.

There are few people who can comfortably receive love. Very few indeed. The result is not pretty. It’s very imbalanced. There are also many people (and here is where I am guilty) who continue to try to give love to people who aren’t well-enough adjusted to receive it and then give it back. It should be like a fairly slick game of ping pong. Sometimes you’ll whack it too hard and it will bounce right out of the game. Sometimes you’ll just miss it because you got distracted, or confused, or you weren’t “on it”. Mostly, it should be like Bruce Lee.

Don’t be afraid of my nun chucks. I’ve decided not to even bring them out unless I feel like you are able to give good game. Because it’s not a game, is it? It should be as fun, and as rewarding, and as challenging, and humbling, and exciting, and demanding of serious skills. But it’s definitely not a game.

I’m imposing a time out until I can guarantee that the team will at least make it to the playoffs this season. That’s better than the league going on strike, isn’t it?

Stay tuned for updates. There may be a draft coming up…

Guacamole can make you crazy if not properly refrigerated.

Who can name the Saint pictured above?

Brown Rice Takes The Longest, But It’s the Best For You.


As I’m waiting for the timer to ding, I’m perched on the edge of my seat, Toulouse snoring loudly and tucked in beside the laptop.

Perched on the edge of my seat. Are you listening?

I ran this by my brother, because he knows things about your chromosome. He says you are probably running game, which I already knew, but that it sounds like it comes from a genuine place of hurt.

Who among us has NOT been hurt? Who isn’t terrified to meet a new gaze directly? To peel off the layers and show someone your muffin top, or pot belly, or jiggly thighs for the first time? And I mean this metaphorically of course. Anything else is far too presumptuous right now.

This entry is directly for you, and I wonder if you are still reading this?

I have told you I am a cynic. You cannot imagine what I have survived in these last seven years of my life. I’ve purposely left out the facts in these many pages, because there is so much more to me than what is written here. I am wide-eyed now, and I can tell you this; I am not afraid, nor am I stupid. We need to get on with this. This is meant to be positive, and exciting, and simple, but I am loosing patience. I think you know that now.

Come out of your hiding place. Or don’t. I know you have gleaned enough from our epic missives to know that I have nothing but goodness to offer you. Perhaps that is what makes you hesitate so…

Is it that you want to be in a better place? A different place? I could draft my own list of things, and events, and accomplishments I’d like under my belt before this. Before you. For example, I’d love to have a driver’s license. I’d feel like a more realized adult. An independent woman…I could drive to a little cottage by the lake then, and make my hair smell like campfire, and maybe eat s’mores off your chest.

Our exchange has been extraordinary. I know lots of people, but none like you. It’s time to know you now. For real.

CAP?