Winchester's 1920s Hallowe'en

It's that time of year again. And this year The Writer is planning an old-fashioned 1920's Hallowe'en. You know Hallowe'en was originally for grown-ups. They threw big parties and dressed up in costumes. Kids didn't get in the picture until the 1940s. Anyway, you're going to wear an authentic 1920s costume! And you'll sit by the door when The Writer hands out candy to the trick or treaters.

Does this mean I'm get to be a gangster? Oh, boy! Call me Al Cat-one. Or Pretty Boy Kitty. Or Clawed from Bonnie and Clawed--

Stuff your Tommy gun back in your violin case. You're not going to be a gangster.

Who else was famous in the 1920s? I know! I'll be Jay Catsby in "The Great Catsby." I already have the spats--all I need are tennis whites.

You're not going to be the Great Catsby. In the 1920s people didn't dress up like people of their time. They dressed up like milkmaids and Cleopatra.

But I'm not a girl.

The Writer's husband has said you're not much of a boy, either. The guys in those days dressed up like . . . clowns.

Clowns? You mean with red noses and great big shoes?

Yes! Like Harlequin and Puccini's Pagliacci--like the costumes from this old pattern book.

Oh, no! I'm not putting on that hideous wig! Get those jingle bells away from me! I'm going over the wall! I will not be a party to The Writer's stupid Hallowe'en party!

Come back! You don't have your red nose on yet!

Ellsworth's Day at KidLitCon 2009

Get up!

Nooo, let me sleep. I got in very late last night. After the conference, there was a cocktail party and then dinner . . . I think I had one too many Pink Elephants.

I know for a fact you were home by six o'clock. You mumbled something about being the very first one to blog about the conference, then fell in bed.

It was a long day, anyway. Going to conferences is hard work!

Aw, I bet you're worn out from giving all those pawtographs.

Some people were glad to see me! Miss Rumphius was there, and Jama from Jama Rattigan's Alphabet Soup and Mary Lee from A Year of Reading and Pam from MotherReader . . .

Did anyone ask about me? Huh, did they? I'm the more famous one in this blog.

But our blog is named after me. Yeah, a few people wanted to know about you. The Writer put up your picture on the table with her books. See? Oh! And I met Cornelius from Jama Rattigan's blog. We hung out together. He just came back from Hawaii and was sort of jet-lagged but we still--

Okay! Okay! Sheesh. It's all about you, isn't it?

Yeah, for once! Tee-hee.

Winchester Messes With The Writer's Computer

Let's see . . . what shall I wear to the Kidlitosphere Conference next Saturday? A lot of the attendees are wondering what to wear. So is The Writer.

What do you care? You've had on the same outfit for 47 years.

They say if you keep something in your closet long enough, it comes back in style.

Those clothes will come back in style when they bring back bustles and spats.

Speaking of spats, are you still mad at The Writer because she's taking me to the conference and not you?

Me? Not a bit? Hmmm. I wonder if I switch the wires on the motherboard what would happen? Look at that! I'm downloading a new system on The Writer's computer.

You're what???

Windows is so over. I'm putting Snow Leopard operating system on her computer.

Snow Leopard is for MACs! The Writer has a PC.

Oops! Heh-heh-heh.

I don't like this no-picture business.

Neither does The Writer. She has been working on the problem for two weeks. She's cleared her cache, dumped her cookies, and prayed to the blogging god, but nothing has worked. We'll just have to soldier on without photos.

But photographs of me are the whole point of the blog!!! Without pictures of my cuteness, the blog is just a bunch of words.

Think of this as a caveman's blog, before he learned how to draw on the walls. Now . . . The Writer is leaving today for a whole week at Bell House to work on her novel. She delivered her nonfiction book Monday.

Oh, yeah, that book about constipation.

Her book is about the Constitution, not constipation.

Whatever. Hey, I noticed a widget on the blog. Something about KidLitCon '09?

Yes! The Kidlitosphere Conference for this year is Crystal City, only an hour away from The Writer. She's going and--guess what? So am I! I'm making a surprise guest appearance.

You're going and not me? But I'm the one everybody wants to meet! I'm the star!

I behave better than you do.

I don't care! This tears it! I'm going to--to--

What? Run away? You've only done that about a gazillion times.

I'll think of something! I'm not taking this insult lying down!

Winchester Discovers a New Side

Creeeaak . . .

What's that sound?

That, dear Ellsworth, is the sound of this blog being turned on again. It's been a while, like, since June.

What are you doing?

Making a get-well card for Short Stuff. She's a pretty sick cat.

You're making a get-well card for Xenia? That's very nice, but I know you, Wincester. What's in it for you?

Nothing! Can't a cat make a get-well card now and then? Maybe when Short Stuff gets better, we'll be friends.

She has hated every breath you've drawn since you came here six years ago. And you rile her whenever you get a chance.

That's all in the past. Will you hand me the magenta crayon? And you don't know everything about me, Miss Ellie. I have another side.

You don't have any sides--you're completely round! Wait, it's the special cat food The Writer feeds Xenia now, isn't it? She is only fed real minced turkey or chicken--

--and those little tubs of Fancy Feast that cost over a dollar each! They smell so good when The Writer zips off the foil. Puuure white meat in a light savory gravy, yum! The Writer scoops it on a little blue plate and takes it to Short Stuff. And I run after The Writer and rub against her legs but she just ignores me.

And you think if you make a get-well card, Shortst--, I mean, Xenia will share some of her food? How low can you stoop?

You know what the saddest words in the world are?

Cheap kibble?

"Not yours."

The Writer Leaves . . . Again

The Writer has been gone a whole week to teach at Hollins University and she'll be there another five weeks. It's such a long time. I miss her. Don't you?

Miss who? It's wonderful without The Writer. I can to do what I please, like sleep all day without her bugging me.

Don't give me that. You love it when The Writer brushes you--she says it's like currying a horse because you're so big, but you purr and "make biscuits" in the air. And you'll miss nosing into her sitting room every evening for "cookie."

She doesn't always give me a piece of cookie. Sometimes it's cake or a donut or pie. I don't like chocolate very much but I eat it to be polite. Okay, I kind of do miss Evening Cookie and the brushing. But that's all.

And you like to hop in bed first thing in the morning so you can wipe your big nose all over The Writer's face.

Well . . . yeah.

And who else throws Mousie or a balled up piece of paper for you to catch?

Actually, that's a lot of work. I only do it so The Writer gets some exercise. Otherwise, she'd be a big ol' blob.

You do miss her, admit it.

Maybe a little tiny bit.

Winchester Settles Out of Court

Well, here we are in the hallowed halls of the District Court where I'm suing The Writer for throwing me in the clink.

Looks a lot like our hallway. Are you nervous?

I have my power green tie and my glasses that make me look like Catticus Finch and my briefcase. Why should I be nervous?

Power ties are red and not a St. Patrick's Day gag tie. And your briefcase is really a vintage Elizabeth Arden make-up case.

Never mind the details. Where is The Writer? And what's this paper the bailiff handed me?

It's a summons. The Writer is going to change your name if you don't drop your case against her.

Change my name? To what?

The innkeeper at the Hope and Glory Inn where The Writer, her huband, and I vacationed, is Dudley. The Writer thinks Dudley suits you better than Winchester. You act like a Dudley.

This is monstrous! I am not a Dudley!

I think she's right. Dudley does suit you.

I'm leaving this kangaroo court right now! I should have known the wheels of justice wouldn't turn in my favor!

See you later . . . Dudley.