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As promised last night, here's the story: 

It was a mid-winter's night when I was about 14 years old. The Pretoria Show (sort of like the US equivalent of a State Fair combined with a trade show) which ran for a couple of weeks every year, was in full swing.

I got to hang out there almost every night during that time, because my mom was working for a sewing machine company and running their stall at the show. The show hours were brutally long – from early morning until about 10 at night – so I had no choice but to tag along, help out and sometimes also to explore the enormous show grounds on my own. There were several massive exhibition halls, tents, fields (where equestrian shows, pop concerts and other outdoorsy type things were held, with pavilions for spectators) and of course, the large amusement park with the roller coasters, merry-go-rounds and all the other rides.

The sprawling show grounds are located in the western part of the city. Right around that same time, girls my age had been disappearing in that very area of town; vanishing without a trace. Sometime after this particular night, the man who had been identified as the kidnapper shot himself and his lover (who happened to be the aunt of one of the kidnapped girls) while being chased by police. None of the kidnapped girls were ever seen again, nor were any remains ever found to give their distraught families closure.

Back to the Pretoria Show: so on that particular night, I must’ve been wandering around again on my own for ages. Eventually, I saw a poster advertising some sort of magic show. Intrigued (and probably somewhat chilled too from being outside), I decided to enter the theatre and see what it was about.

I don’t remember many details surrounding this particular show, but I do remember that I found it dead funny. The magician/hypnotist’s routine included the usual shtick of randomly pulling rabbits from hats, and then eventually, pulling people from the audience and hypnotising them. He made grown men crow like roosters and dignified ladies act like little girls. The audience (myself included) was screaming with laughter.

When the show ended, I followed the rest of the audience out into the now-almost deserted show grounds. I still remember telling the woman next to me that the show must’ve run overtime, because all the other stalls and halls seemed to have already been closed down for the evening. I was a tiny bit alarmed that my parents would possibly be worried, but was soon distracted from that thought when I heard the sound of a helicopter and saw a blindingly bright search light.

I looked up. It was a yellow South African Police helicopter and it was flying low across the grounds, sweeping the search light back and forth. We shielded our faces as the chopper flew over us, kicking up a gust of wind and a swirl of dust.

Moving towards the gates, we rounded a corner and suddenly I saw a few hundred police officers. And police dogs! The dog lover in me squealed with delight: “Oh, look at all those gorgeous Alsations!” I remember telling the lady who was still walking next to me.

I wondered aloud what on earth was going on, what they were all doing there, when suddenly, from a distance, I glimpsed someone vaguely familiar standing in the middle of this massive crowd of cops and canines. When we moved closer, the figures became increasingly clearer and even more familiar. The recognition finally dawned and I told the woman next to me, with some amazement and not a bit of excitement: “That’s my parents! And oh… wait, is my mom CRYING?”

It turns out that all those cops (almost every single one who was employed by the Pretoria City Police Department at that time) and that helicopter? They had been searching for ME! As I had suspected when we left the theatre, the magic show had indeed run overtime… by about an hour! So knowing that I fit the profile of the kidnapped girls, my frantic parents immediately called for help when I didn’t appear at closing time, as I had dutifully done every single night until then.

Even though I had done nothing wrong and it wasn’t actually my fault, I was in so so SO much trouble, it wasn’t even funny. Not with the cops, understand – they were just happy that the case of one “missing girl” had for once just been a misunderstanding, and that it had a happy outcome. I could’ve handled trouble with the cops, I think. No, it was far worse: I was in seriously hot water with my parents.

They were certainly NOT happy. Especially not my dad. He was FURIOUS. In fact, technically, I believe I am probably still grounded. That’s what “you'll NEVER EVER EVERRR leave your room EVER AGAIN, young lady, except for school and church” means, after all, right?

So, that then concludes the true story of how a whole city’s entire police force was once looking for me. 


This post is dedicated to cat person LB and his own two feline guardians, Oubaas and Vlooi.

I adore all animals - some from a respectful distance - but when it comes to dogs and cats, I am firmly and unabashedly in the canine camp.

However, more than a decade ago, there was a moggie that marched its way into my heart with great chivalry. At the time, I was living in the United States and working as a live-in Au Pair for a family with three adorable girls. The parents were unhappily married though, so whenever they were home, the atmosphere in the house became almost unbearably thick with tension. Even when they were not audibly fighting with each other, the very air was coiled tight with the unspoken resentment between them – almost like the heavy humidity that chokes the air before a violent thunderstorm during summer.

At night, when I wasn’t required to babysit, I jumped into the nanny car and escaped for a few blissful hours. The house was one of about six identical McMansions that were grouped together in a small development in suburban D.C. The family I lived with had no pets – the mother hated animals. Having grown up with dogs around, I severely missed an animal presence in my life. Alas, my only “fix” was the black and white cat I sometimes glimpsed walking around outside the house across the way.

One night, not long after I began working and living there, I returned from one of my nightly excursions. I parked the car in its designated spot next to the house and, when I opened the door, that same black and white cat was right there, at the car door. “Oh, hey!” With some surprise, I greeted it and reached out to touch it, only to have it jump away. “Okay, okay,” I said and let it be. It didn’t run away though. Instead, it patiently waited for me to lock the car doors and when I walked around to the front door, it walked alongside me, every step of the way.

When I got to the front door, I kind of expected it to try and sneak into the house with me, but it didn’t. It merely waited for me to unlock the door, let myself in, and then I watched it through the window as it bounded straight back home.

This became a nightly occurrence, no matter whether it rained, snowed, sleeted, or was too hot to move. Every night, as soon as I parked at home, the cat would be there, poised to fulfill its obligation. On nights when I tallied too long, it jumped onto the hood of the car and impatiently pawed the windshield until I got out, before proceeding to walk me to the front door. It never allowed me to touch it; it never tried getting into the house with me. It simply walked me up to the front door (up some steps), and waited for me to get safely inside, before turning around and walking straight back to its own family’s house across the way.

No one believed me until my mom and my then-boyfriend witnessed it with their own eyes when they dropped me back home. The fact that I came home with others, in different cars, didn’t deter the cat. Nor was it thrown for a loop by the fact that I was sometimes dropped off in different places around the house. As long as I was in the car, my little feline bodyguard was there, waiting to walk me to the door… It was flabbergasting.

This went on for the entire year I stayed there. It became a highlight of my day/night during a time that I was deeply depressed. I never learned the cat’s name, but I believe that it sensed how incredibly unhappy I was, which is why it took it upon itself to become my furry little guardian.

Needless to say, this self-proclaimed dog person was utterly charmed. I’ll never forget what that kitty did for me, way back then. With the simple act of walking me to the front door, it ushered me through a very bleak time in my life. 

(Disclosure: This entry has been in draft form for ages, so this actually happened considerably longer ago than just last Thursday. I'm drowning in work at the moment, so posting this is just a reason to procrastinate. I clearly shouldn't, because it's totally erratic and all over the place, but well... that doesn't usually prohibit me from doing something, does it?)

I've been mistakenly identified.

Or actually, to be more accurate: I was correctly identified blog name-wise, but then it quickly became quite evident that I was not the Red the person thought I was.

Confused? Yes, don't worry. So was I. (Then again, what's new? I'm always confused, because... well... it doesn't take much, does it?)

Okay, this whole mistaken identity business happened via e-mail. And wow, have I ever had a few strange e-mails these last (Update: not so recent anymore) few days! I've been solicited (for writing... but in a WEIRD way) AND I've been mistakenly identified. By someone in Canada.

But the e-mails haven't been all bad: I've also been notified via e-mail that I've won a novel - autographed by the author!!! - in a contest hosted by a local magazine. So now I've some snail mail and more reading to look forward to again. (Update: I've since received it, hurrah! And ha ha, in a strange coincidence, the author in question is Canadian too!)

The case of mistaken identity arrived in my in-box last (update: although not last anymore) Thursday.

The subject was a friendly 'hi' with absolutely no indication of the chilly domestic dispute that I was about to be confronted with in the body of the e-mail. Also, the sender has the same first name as a good, "real life" friend of mine who also lives in Canada. She is a writer too, so she is usually a bit more vigilant about capitalising the first letters in her 'hi's' - even her casual ones - but still, I was not alarmed yet, because my friend has two young daughters, and sometimes kids that you are in charge of (even when they're your own flesh and blood) can make you do strange things, such as letting your finger slip from the Shift key while you're in the process of typing e-mails.

In the body of the e-mail, I was "Hi'd" again. This time with the necessary capitalisation, so I still thought it was from my friend to me.

Then I (but clearly NOT me, it became clear soon enough) was informed that the writer was going away for a long  weekend and would be back on Sunday. Of course, I still didn't realise that it wasn't ME who was supposed to be told all this just yet, so I enthusiastically read on.

I was told that I was not expected to look after the cats - which at this point made me raise my eyebrows just a bit, because, for obvious reasons, my real-life friend, who happens to HAVE cats, won't ever ask me to cat sit due to the whole 'being on opposite side of the world from her and her cats' technicality. (And not necessarily because I'm a Dog Person who won't even BEGIN to know how to skin a cat, and apparently there are many ways to do that. Proverbially, of course. I know that you're not REALLY supposed to do that when you cat sit. Or at any other time. Anyway, it's not even an issue, because I can't even peel potatoes either.)

Also though, aren't cat owners always bragging that cats are so high and mighty and superior that they can practically take care of themselves? Which HA! She then smugly proceeded to allude to, because she said that she'll leave them enough food and water. (Water? I thought cats drink milk. Or has the unfriendly Canadian climate made the cats over there lactose intolerant?) However, despite her smugness, it became apparent during the very next sentence that not even felines can be trusted to entirely fend for themselves, because then she said she hopes that I - but not quite me, as I'd figured out by this time -  would please send her a text message if something serious were to befall the kitties.

Cat care/self-sufficiency out of the way, she then addressed another issue - in a completely non-catty way. She said that she didn't know how I (but not me) felt about everything (perhaps she should've narrowed that down, I thought, because 'everything' is well... a bit broad, isn't it? Surely no one knows how anyone else feels about EVERYTHING?), but that she thought it was awful how we were both being with each other.

"You never call. You never write..."  Okay, okay. She didn't really write that.

But she did call me an adult. (Awww. And also, the definitive clue that she was clearly NOT talking to/about me, then.) She then said some other things that made me suspect that the real Not Me is a dude.

Then she said we (meaning her and Not Me) only need to be cordial until she moved out. As proof of this impending move, she said that she would be packing in the next few weeks and be out by the 1st (of September), the date Not Me apparently requested. GASP! Not Me is throwing her out?!? In autumn? In Canada? That's just cruel. Even more cruel than Canadian cats not being allowed to have milk. (See? Even as a Dog Person I'm disturbed by this.) 

Oh, how do I know she is from Canada, you ask? Because she said 'eh at the end of every sentence and 'aboot' instead of 'about' a lot. Okay, not really. Because she was e-mailing from her work account, which had her employer's name and address listed. In Canada.

I e-mailed her back immediately. Explained that I am not Not Me. And told her that she needed to actually call Not Me to tell him about the cats. Since, you know, she clearly has the wrong e-mail address for him (due to all that not talking that they've been doing) and that he clearly needs to know that they could possibly have a catastrophe on their hands if, for example, he also decided to go on a long weekend? Possibly with the other woman. Who he's probably going to allow to move in with him as soon as this one is out of there.

I never heard back from her. (Even though I said nothing about the imaginary other woman I had conjured up. I also did not use the word catastrophe, honestly. Even though I was a bit tempted to.) Then again, perhaps she thought I WAS Not Me merely pretending not to be Not Me? And thought that Not Me was playing immature games with her? Which hopefully made her more furious and less sad about being thrown out by Not Me? In the Canadian autumn? 

Anyway, I wonder if she did end up moving out on time? And whether the cats survived their long weekend home alone with (or without?) a callous and careless, and possibly cheating, Not Me?

And if so, who will now get catstody??

I hate it when a case of mistaken identity leaves so many unanswered questions...  


(I should actually create a category called Extreme Puppy Love for this one. But before you roll your eyes and hiss at me, cat lovers; please retract those claws, because for once this is not about MY adoration for dogs. In fact, I have nothing on the person I’m about to tell you about.)

A distant relative of mine is a rocket scientist. Apart from the obvious brilliance his occupation requires, he also has a kind and gentle soul and a fondness for dogs.

His love for creatures of the canine persuasion is indiscriminate. He is not bogged down by technicalities such as pedigree or size. I found this out for myself a few years ago when he gave me a lift back from the town of By George! to Stellenbosch. His two dogs accompanied us on the trip, because the three of them had been on holiday together.

I remember the one dog in particular. His name was Jakkals (which is Afrikaans for ‘fox’), but Jakkals the dog did not resemble the sly and pointy-nosed species he was named after. Not even remotely. Maybe his name was ironic, or perhaps he had looked much different when he was a puppy. Doubtful, though. Like me, I suspect that Jakkals was also the runt of the litter, because the mature Jakkals that I got to meet had a perfectly rotund body that was precariously balancing on four disproportionately skinny legs. (Kind of like me! Except for the four  skinny legs part... I don't even have ONE skinny leg!)

Upon first glance, his lineage became perfectly clear: Jakkals was a purebred pavement special. It didn’t matter though, because one look into that odd-looking little mutt’s sweet brown eyes and my heart was stolen.

Throughout the four hour drive (which actually took longer due to bad weather), I reached back frequently and petted him and the other dog. When they finally dropped me off at my sister’s that night, I said my goodbyes, thanked him for the lift and went on my way.

A few weeks ago I ran into that very same relative at the grocery store. We had not seen each other in more than a year. “How are you? And how are the doggies?”

His expression immediately changed. “Haven’t you heard? They’ve both died.”

I felt so horrible for him. Those dogs were like children to him! I reached out and squeezed his arm. “I’m SO sorry to hear that!”

“Yes, thanks,” he said. “They were both old, but still… I miss them terribly. Especially Jakkals.”

Suddenly he smiled a bit. “But you know, after Jakkals died, I had to go overseas for a satellite launch.”

Aww, I thought to myself. So the poor, grieving man immediately and bravely plunged back into his work. “Good for you!” I said.

“Yes, I had saved some of his fur and took it along. And while putting the finishing touches on the satellite before the launch, I attached it to the satellite.”

"Wait... you attached the FUR?" I wasn't sure that I had heard him correctly.

He nodded, squinted up at the Stellenbosch sky and solemnly said: “So now, twice every day, a little piece of Jakkals orbits by here, looking down on us!”

I was immediately so overcome… with the giggles. In my mind's eye, I saw the satellite, completely covered in dog fur. Luckily I managed to scrounge together enough decency and self-control to at least hold my laughter until I was in my car.

 Bow-WOW! Jakkals had gone from being an underdog in life, to being a posthumous astrodog! I always knew that the pup had it in (or shall we rather say on?) him to end up among the stars…

And I don’t think too many other dog owners will ever be able to match – let alone top – such a send-off for their dogs!


I was outside, standing on a chair and fiddling with my satellite radio's antenna, when my new neighbour rounded the corner.

"Biscuit! Biiiscuuuuiiiit!" He called. When he saw me he stopped. "Hey there! Have you seen Biscuit?"

Since this was shortly after the Great Arachnid Slaying of 2009, I was still a tad jumpy. I warily looked at him. "What exactly IS this Biscuit you are looking for?" I stood on my toes, already imagining and dreading his answer. A venomous snake? A non-poisonous snake? (I don't care. My terror doesn't know the difference.) A rat? A mouse? Or by any hopeful yet unlikely chance... a Biscuit as in Sea Biscuit? (Not that I'm all that comfortable around horses either, mind. There was that frightening experience with that volatile little Shetland pony when I was about ten years old which had left me traumatised for life. No, I'm not going to talk about it. Let's just say that, just because it is small, it doesn't possess any less horse power than regular-sized horses! Nasty little bugger...)

I knew it wasn't a dog, because NO dog gets past me without being petted and belly rubbed to within an inch of its life. And at the time, he had already lived here long enough that I would have noticed/heard a dog or a cat.

He ignored me.

"BIIIIIISCUUUUU... Oh, THERE you are!" I whirled around to look in the same direction of the garden that he was walking towards, just in time to see a huge light brown blur out of the corner of my eye. I froze. "Oh, hell..." I thought. "It's one of those mutant-sized cane rats... the same ones they put on leashes and use in Angola to sniff out landmines!"

Imagine my absolute relief when the blur morphed into a harmless, hopping bunny! A BUNNY!

"Oh, CUTE man!" I said (perhaps a tad too loudly and enthusiastically) and jumped off the chair.

He scooped up the utterly charming Biscuit and brought him over to me. "Yes, he can even do tricks. Here, let me show you." He put Biscuit down at my feet and snapped his fingers, while I looked on with great skepticism. "Circle, Biscuit! Circle!"

Apart from twitching one of his long ears and his trembling whiskers, Biscuit remained utterly motionless. "Oh, Biscuit! Come ON!" For a dude with big ears, Biscuit sure did not listen! My neighbour looked at me. "I PROMISE you he can do tricks. But..." his face fell. "Usually he only listens to my ex-girlfriend."

I couldn't help myself. I burst out laughing. "Ooooh, ouch! Shame! That's gotta hurt!"

He also laughed, but not QUITE as heartily as me. "Yeah. He really really loves her. And he's possessive! When she's holding him and anyone dares to come near her, he actually tries to nip them!"

I knelt down and petted Biscuit. "Oh, you good boy, you!" I said and wished I had a large carrot to give him for displaying such loyalty and devotion towards the ex-girlfriend.

A few weeks later, I saw a gorgeous girl with long, blonde hair outside. She was sitting in our shared courtyard, a content Biscuit cradled in her arms. Seriously, that bunny was SWOONING. "You must be the ex-girlfriend!" I said, and promptly told her the story. Turns out that they now have joint custody, because Biscuit was pining for her too much. (I strongly suspect that he was not the only one, though! And what better ploy to keep on seeing her than to get the bunny involved... sneaky guy!)

Oh, and Biscuit can indeed do tricks. She showed me!  And boy, did that bunny ever show off...

It's been about an hour since I've read this, and I'm still sobbing.

"I believe I know exactly when Harry became an old dog. He was about 9 years old. It happened at 10:15 on the evening of June 21, 2001, the day my family moved from the suburbs to the city. The move took longer than we'd anticipated. Inexcusably, Harry had been left alone in the vacated house -- eerie, echoing, empty of furniture and of all belongings except Harry and his bed-- for eight hours. When I arrived to pick him up, he was beyond frantic.

He met me at the door and embraced me around the waist in a way that is not immediately reconcilable with the musculature and skeleton of a dog's front legs. I could not extricate myself from his grasp. We walked out of that house like a slow-dancing couple, and Harry did not let go until I opened the car door.

He wasn't barking at me in reprimand, as he once might have done. He hadn't fouled the house in spite. That night, Harry was simply scared and vulnerable, impossibly sweet and needy and grateful."

Read the rest of Gene Weingarten's breathtakingly eloquent article about his late faithful canine companion Harry here. The story also celebrates the plentiful virtues of old dogs in general. (The Washington Post requires registration. It's free though, and totally worth it.)

Everyone in my life knows that I am utterly besotted with dogs. The larger they are, the better. (I've lost my heart to many Great Danes and Irish Wolfhounds...) I've a particularly soft spot reserved for Labs, though.

But they don't need a pedigree to win my heart. I grew up with mutts (100% pure dogs!), and hopefully I will be lucky enough to one day share my space and life with many, many more dogs.

After all, it's no challenge to love them. There is nothing noble about loving a creature that loves you completely, without condition or judgement. Even though we often don't deserve that love and loyalty.

But there is plenty of nobility about them.

If only the human race could possess an OUNCE of the ability to love like that. Unabashedly. Unconditionally. Without fear of being rejected. Despite being rejected many times over by the object of one's affection.

With all of their enormous, pure hearts.

If only...  


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Redsaid's resident web goddess Dee is experiencing some major heartbreak and loss today.

Her fabulous feline companion of the past 14 months died this morning when he was struck by a car in the street outside her apartment.

Now, it's no secret that I am far more partial to dogs than to cats, but I have to tell you, through Dee's hilarious descriptions, photographs and even a video of Chino, even I fell for him. He was one of the few cats who managed to utterly charm me and burrow his way deep into the almost-exclusively-reserved-for-pets-of-the-canine-pursuasion club located in my heart.

I know his human mama Dee adored him, despite the fact that he gave her many sleepless nights. Do yourselves a favour and go and read that post. I nearly raptured an internal organ when I read it out loud to Roommate Kate. Since I read it to her in the middle of the night, causing both of us to howl and laugh like a pair of hyenas, Chino even managed to keep some Stellenbosch residents awake! That's no mean feat for a cat who resided on the other side of the world in Australia and who never in his short life set a paw on South African soil. If that doesn't make a feline famous, I don't know what would! A leading part in a major motion picture? Well, his mom DID film him (as can be seen in that particular post), so...

I know we can never really say that we know exactly what someone else is experiencing, but since I have very recently also lost a dog (something that was so painful to deal with, I couldn't even write about it until about two weeks ago when I e-mailed another friend about it), I can sincerely say that I know her grief is very real and that she needn't feel embarrassed about being heartbroken. How could anyone NOT be after sharing space with such a delightful and spunky creature?

I hate that she is going through it and I really wish that she could have had some more time with 'the best roommate she's ever had'.

Here's to Chino and all the other wonderful fur-balls, large and small, who make our human lives brighter and more complete.

It's been a big week for dogs.

First*, there was the unleashing of Snuppy, the world's first cloned puppy.

Then* Jake, a 4-year old Golden Retriever from San Diego, dog-paddled his way into the record books as the first dog to ever take part (and successfully complete!) in the annual Alcatraz Invitational, during which mostly human swimmers brave the trecherous 1.2 mile crossing from the infamous and now historic island prison of Alcatraz to the San Fransisco shore.

Jake made good time in just under 42 minutes. In fact, by placing 72nd out of 500, he beat out most of the humans.

*Actually, Jake set his record last weekend, before Snuppy was introduced to the world, but I only realized this after I'd already written this whole story (all four paragraphs of it!). And since I'm the world's Laziest Blogger...

I know, I know, I KNOW that I haven't continued the travelogue yet (but come on, have you come to expect anything less from me than this stellar standard of procrastination I've been maintaining since starting this blog?!).

You may have noticed that posting has been a tad lighter than usual (Really? you ask, looking so utterly perplexed that I simply have to believe that you haven't noticed anything different than usual).

This is because the computer has been unplugged so that its private quarters can be painted. Yes, in this house the computer is one of two appliances with its own private quarters. The other is the coffee maker. Its room is one which most other people refer to as "the kitchen." Here, it is simply known as The Coffee Maker's Private Quarters.

So where was I? (I must be the only person in the Universe who loses track of her train of thought while writing.)

Oh, yeah... blogging light due to the paint. (Head also a bit light due to the paint, but that's another story, and a not altogether unpleasant one at that.)

The painter must've known what kind of emotional upheaval the lack of a computer (and therefore, internet connection) would cause the likes of me, a self-diagnosed (even though it isn't even in the Time/Life A-Z Medical Encyclopedia!) CD (Computer Dependent), because he brought me something to try and compensate for the bleak, empty computerless hours that I had to face this past week.

Here's what he brought me.

I interrupt your regular holiday programming to bring you the following:

By now you've all probably heard about this silly woman in Texas who shelled out $50,000 to have her dearly departed cat cloned.

Yes, indeed: when Nick Senior's nine lives expired after 17 years, his heart-broken human mama simply couldn't let go. So instead of donating the $50,000 to an animal shelter in Nick's name, or adopting another cat in need of a good home, she approached the Genetics Savings and Clone company (please have a moment of silence for that brilliant play on words) with some of Nick's DNA to manufacture another cat in Nick's image.

copy cat.jpg I may be cute, but I sure did cost an arm and a leg.

Just in time for Christmas, St. Nick delivered the very expensive kitten to the woman two weeks ago. She was ecstatic, saying the cat is identical to Nick in looks and personality.

In a blinding display of originality, she decided to name the kitten... what else? Nick Jr.

Personally, I would've called him... what else? Copy Cat.

is a South African girl living in South Africa. That doesn't sound very original, we know, but you might find it remotely interesting when you learn that she has only recently returned to South Africa for the first time after a nine year, one month and two week (non-stop!) stint in the United States where she accidentally became an outlawed alien (also known, especially in immigration circles, as an 'illegal immigrant.' We prefer the term 'outlawed alien' ourselves). During her reversed exile from her homeland, she kept herself occupied by winning this website (but only after shamelessly bribing the judges) and thus being unleashed on the web where she slowly, leisurely became the World's Laziest Blogger; by being a nanny and by attending sci-fi conventions in search of other aliens. In the US, she also made her sailing debut, her international acting debut, tried and failed to learn the piano, and never learned to cook. She is hopelessly addicted to coffee, dogs (especially Labrador Retrievers), how-to books (with a particular fondness for her copy of the Time/Life A - Z Medical Encyclopedia), and she tends to grossly overuse parentheses (we're not kidding) during her attempts at writing, which you may - if you really have masochistic tendencies - subject yourself to by reading the words to the right of this column. If you REALLY and truly STILL want to know more, you can read her C.V. here.
Or you can stalk her send her some love via e-mail at: redsaid[AT]gmail[DOT]com

The Wish List (Because yes, she really does need more how-to books. Honestly!)


  • Redsaid Author Profile Page: Terra: YES! Wait... you didn't think that I would be this possessed to post for NO REASON, did ya???... [go]
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