Winchester's Thanksgiving

Happy Thanksgiving, Winchester! You've been invited to sit at the Big Table with the grown-ups this year!

About time. I'm tired of that dinky old cardtable we're always stuck at.

Look how pretty it is! The Writer is using her favorite Friendly Village dishes, with the special silverware with inspiration words on the handles, like "Grow," "Dream," "Create"--

Is there a spoon that says "Chow Down?"

--and those are The Writer's husband's mother's goblets from the 1920s and the silver napkin rings belonged to The Writer's husband's grandmother. She decorated with vintage postcards and old photographs. There's a tintype of The Writer's stepfather's father . . .

Who cares about all those dead people? Where's the turkey?

There you go.

That's not the roast turkey I smell! This stuff is cold and slimy.

The big turkey is still in the oven. You're eating deli turkey.

Lunch meat on Thanksgiving Day?

Yeah, but it came from that uber tony grocery store, Wegman's.

Since when do you use words like uber and tony?

The Writer leaves Vanity Fair in the bathroom. Eat your turkey.

Do you mind? Nobody likes to be stared at while they dine.

The Writer's Brand-New Website

Look! I'm the star of The Writer's new website!

You are not the star. You happen to be on the Home page, that's all.

Yeah? Well, I don't see any pictures of you on there. And I wrote the Welcome letter. Nyah!

My, aren't we mature? If you must know, The Writer asked me if I wanted to be on the website with her and I declined because I'm so modest.

Oh, puh-leeze. I'm gonna hurl. The truth is The Writer doesn't want her picture on the site, so took a photo of her hiding behind me--

Not hard to do.

--and the Webmaster guy actually colored her red sweater to make my eyes look greener!

The Writer's eyes look greener, too. The Writer designed the website with her Webmaster at Winding Oak.

Yeah, yeah. And look at the picture of me at the typewriter! The Webmaster guy fixed it so you can read the title page of my novel, The Great Catsby.

As I recall, you wrote exactly three words of that novel: Chapter One, The. Another wannabe writer.

You're just jealous. Don't you like my signature? It's so dashing, like me. Much better than that clumsy fake paw-tograph The Writer uses.

Winchester, can we talk about something besides you?

Sure. Enough about me. What do you think about me?

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."