A Conversation Among Mirrors

Hundreds of years after Snow White's Step-Mother misused the power of Mirrors, the Mirrors decided to take a stand. Rather than give advice, they chose to listen. What they learned about womankind out-shined the perversions and hate-filled life of the old Queen. Their satisfaction rested in the fact that she died wizened and alone.

***

In a dressing room far, far away from the Old Country...

“OMG, these lights are bright. Hey Harry, you awake?”

“Yeah, yeah. Keep your shirt on. And it's Harriet! You know I hate being called Harry.” 

“Well, Harry fits.” 

“How? We're mirrors you moron.”

“Rude! I know we're mirrors. Have you forgotten my name's Suzette?”

“Shush, someone's coming.”

***

The dressing room door creaks. In walks an old woman, her arms full of unbecoming brassieres. Placing her pocketbook on the floor, she hangs each item on a hook and sits. 

“Boy I'm tired,” she declares. 

The old woman peers into Suzette and takes a long, hard look. “When did I grow so old,” she wonders. She stares ahead recalling a young woman with smooth, fair skin, bright eyes, long black hair, shapely legs, and a trim waist that once captivated many an admirer. But the only admirer she ever had eyes for was Johnny, her sweet, sweet man.

They used to hold hands, walking and talking for hours, planning their future. The Second World War was in it's final days; Johnny had reached the age to enlist. He wanted to help fight the evils of this world. Germany, the Pacific...no one knew, but Johnny couldn't leave without a promise from his girl. Getting down on one knee, he proposed under the cherry tree outside Mama's kitchen window. The aroma of freshly baked apple pies floated in the air, her little brother, Mikey, sneaked a peek from beneath the curtain while Mama was doing her best not to eavesdrop. But, we didn't care; we were in love. And I said, “Yes.”

The clock ticked. Soon there was nothing left but hours, then minutes, and finally seconds. The walk to the train station was the hardest. Embracing one last time, tears fell. Resting her head upon Johnny's chest, she breathed deeply, gulping his scent, in hopes it would infuse with her own. “I won't forget this moment. Ever,” she says. “I'll hold on to it until you come back.” They kissed. The conductor called, “All aboard,” and Johnny stepped onto the train, unwilling to let go of her hand. But as the train moved forward, their grip slipped. Waving uncontrollably, each sent silent prayers towards heaven. “I'll wait for you,” she cried, and she did. 

Eighteen months later, Johnny stepped off the train, and into her arms, but he was a changed man. Death and destruction will do that to a person, but her prayers were answered. “Thank you God. Thank you for keeping my Johnny safe,” she thought. “You've come back to me, my darling, and with God's help we'll work through the pain, together,” and they did.

After 58 years of marriage, the old woman was lonely but not alone. Laying her dear, sweet Johnny to rest in the cemetery across the street, she filled her days tending the English garden he started planting on their 12th wedding anniversary, and enjoying their two cats, Big Tom and Aggie. She remembers when Big Tom first came to the house. Johnny had caught him rummaging through the garbage looking for food. Emaciated and near death, Johnny couldn't stand to see another living creature suffer, so he invited him in--no questions asked. That was 15 years ago. It was on one of Big Tom's wanderings that he found Aggie, brought her home, and stopped roaming. “I guess it was love at first sight; kind of like Johnny and me.” 

The rest of her days were filled with reading, sitting next to Johnny's grave watching the sun set, and chatting up a storm. It didn't matter that Johnny never answered. All she wanted was to hold onto that moment and the memories helped: Johnny's dazzling smile, dimples that popped each time he laughed, kisses that made her swoon, hazel eyes that turned green when he made love, long muscular legs, broad chest, tender touch, his loving words. 

“Have I told you today that I love you,” he'd ask. 

“I think so.” 

“Well, I do. You're my anchor, my soul-mate. Don't ever forget that.” 

She wouldn't live forever. Death would come soon enough. But in the meanwhile, her remaining days were spent enjoying her son John, his wife Mary, and her very modern granddaughter, Milly. 

Shaking free from recollections, the old woman peered down at her breasts and laughed. “Why am I working so hard to bind like Brunhilde. It's not like Johnny’s here to enjoy them. I'm 75 years old for God's sake. I don't think anyone cares if I sag.” With the determination of a 20 year old, the old woman pushed herself up off the chair, grabbed her purse, looked up towards heaven and said, “Johnny Boy, your girls going bra-less.”

***

“Wow, Harry. Did you see her face? Such spunk and determination.”

“Actually, all I saw was the back of her head and the gray hairs that screamed dye me.”

“Ugh. You're hopeless!”

“No I'm not. But really, if the chair was placed on the adjacent wall, we could both see.”

*** 

The same creaking sound accompanied the next visitor. This time the woman was in her mid-fifties. Nicely shaped--not too tall, and not too short. Average build with pretty cinnamon hair--a boy cut with long bangs, big brown eyes, and a swan neck. This woman had a couple of peasant shirts with long skirts. Bright splashes of color: purples, blues, pinks, another with browns, russets, and yellows. There was no hesitation to undressing. She kicked off her clogs and yanked her jeans down one hip at a time. 

“Boy, look at those thighs. Not what they once were, but then again, you aren’t 25 are you kiddo. At least the dimples have lessened. I guess we can thank that new diet.” For the first time in a long time, she liked what she saw.

Pulling up the stripped skirt, she stops and shakes her head. “Designers just don't get it. The strips need to go vertical or at least diagonal. These hips just can't stand it.”

Stepping out of the skirt, she tosses it aside. The next one is a pretty paisley design made up of small earth tone swirls. Crossing her arms, she grabs the bottom of her tee and pulls it up and over her head, replacing it with a crème colored lace poets shirt. Her eyes are drawn to the scar that falls at her décolletage. 

“Raz is right. Scars are like tattoos; they just tell a different story.” 

She was lucky; her story had a miraculous ending. Stage 3 cancer when it was first discovered, but closer to 4 by the time doctors diagnosed her with B-cell Lymphoma, three months later. With a fist size mass attached to her heart and lung and with an oxygen level of 30% the prognosis wasn't good. But, God wasn't finished with her. He had other plans. Six months of chemotherapy, two months of radiation, and she was cancer free. Three years later, the doctors removed the port. The problem was they weren't concerned about how large a scar was left. 

Cocking her head, she stares at her reflection and outlines the exposed scare with her middle finger, flipping it off. It's been over five years now, and the skin is all but healed except for the varying shades of pink. It's the skin beneath that will never heal, a hollow space where muscle was cut away to house the port. “It's okay,” she thinks, her chin rising in defiance. “It's my war wound, and reminder that I'm still part of this world.” 

Pulling the shirt over her head, she takes a good long look and turns around in a circle catching a glimpse in both mirrors. “Ooh, I like this one. Now, I just need a nice pair of sandals.” She quickly undresses, and puts her jeans and tee back on, leaving the unwanted items behind as she walks out the door.

***

“Hey Harry” calls Suzette. “You awake over there?”

“For the umpteenth time, it's Harriet.” If she possessed a head, it would have been shaking. “Why bother,” she mumbles. “Of course I'm awake. How can I be asleep when you're bellowing?”

“Oh stop. Don't you agree, she's a breath of fresh air?”

“Yes, I do, and it was very nice of her to turn a 360. I got to see her from every angle. You know what Suzette? I really enjoy being a reflection.”

“Me too. I wonder who'’ll come in next? I hope it's a mama with a little baby or two. They're so cute. We can spoil them with funny faces and send them home with no regrets.”

“Wonderful idea,” says Harry as the familiar creaking sound echoes again.

Go Get Your God On

"Go get your god on,"said Maggie a little terse.

"Wow, that's rude," returning fire. "The problem with you is that you're not getting your way."  

"I'm just saying you've been in a bad mood all week.  Nasty too."

I do a quick flashback...traffic circle debacle with a blue haired woman too short to see over the steering wheel, another problem with the brand new freezer, OCD mumblings, but that's typical, and the really, really big one that made my hackles rise up like angel wings--mine were more of the demonic nature--the appointment with HR at the local college to finalize a substitute Library Assistant application.

Head of HR (Bad Wig because her wig was askew) is late by 10 minutes.  When she arrives after having attended a retirement party (information I learned by listening to the wagging tongues of office staff), Bad Wig tries to take care of another, but her secretary who has the foyer door open announces her 3:00--Me--is here.

"What time is it," she whispers.  My voice springs to action. "It's 3:10."

I answer without even thinking while thumbing through Modern Woman magazine.  Yes, for those who know me, this is an unusual response. I might think it, but I'm way too polite to say it out loud. I was given the title "Just too nice" at my last job. 

For some reason, I just couldn't control  myself.  I guess it's because I was having second thoughts. Did I want to waste my time with an on-call, substitute position that paid $10 an hour with a constraint of no more than 25 hours a month, about $190 once taxes are taken out.   And on top of that, I was expected to submit official transcripts from all college and post graduate schools attended including schools I transferred credits from.  That's crazy.  Besides, it's a small fortune;  I moved around a lot.  The job isn't even a real job listing, it's paid from a slush fund.

Having worked in various positions since 1978,  being on time is a sign of professionalism.  If I'm to be on time, so should Bad Wig.  I expected at least an apology and maybe an explanation, but nothing followed.  If one had been given, I'm sure things would have turned out differently.

Bad Wig invited me into her office, but the handle wouldn't turn. The door was locked; her keys were comfortably resting on the desk laughing.  After borrowing the secretary's keys, we entered her office and sat down.  Prior to arriving, I filled out the appropriate application, submitted it on-line and brought two forms of ID as requested by Bad Wig during our previous phone conversation.   The process began but was a sure fire failure. 

"What position are you applying for," she asked.

"I'm applying for a substitute position at the library"

"What's the title? Every job has a title."

"I don't know. I'm just doing what I was told.  It's a substitute position paid out of a slush fund."

"Well how did you hear about it?"

"I was asked by the Administrative Assistant to apply."

"Well we've got to know what the title is, so we can move on,  I'll have to call her."

"Do what ever you have to do. I don't have any idea because it's not listed on the job page.  Remember you had to send me a special application because there was no listing."

Bad Wig called the Administrative Assistant getting the information.

"So you are applying for the Li-bary Assistant."

Cring.  Li-bary.  Really. Head of HR and she can't pronounce "library" correctly. My brain screamed.  Seventeen years of teaching English and correcting other peoples' children's' pronunciation inflamed the situation.  This was no angelic reaction; it was more of the demonic kind".  Strike one.

"Yes, that is correct. Li-brer-e Assistant." I replied stressing the phonetic spelling.  By stressing the double "r" in library, Bad Wig"s feathers appeared ruffled.  I almost told her not to worry about the application and that I had changed my mind, but for some crazy reason, I was enjoying making her squirm. For once, I was in a position where I didn't need a job, where I didn't have to cow-tow to another human being who thought they had power over me or considered themselves smarter, because I had the power.  This was fun, so I continued.

Bad Wig pulled out a stack of forms plus a sexual harassment booklet.

"Do I have to take a sexual harassment class," I asked.  "And what's all this paperwork?

"Every one has to take a sexual harassment class eventually on-line," says Bad Wig.  "But you're only going to have to read this booklet and answer the questions.  Then of course there's the paperwork--information sheet, tax forms, etc."

I picked up the stack of papers and started perusing them.

"Is there a problem," Bad Wig asked.

"No.  But I don't ever sign anything until I know exactly what it is that I'm signing."

"Well everyone who works here has to fill these out," she said haughtily.  "This one has your name and social security information which I scan and put into your file.  The rest will also be scanned."

"What do you do with the forms that have my social security number after you scan them into my file," I ask.  Not an obtuse question.  Quite the contrary, I consider this an important question, one you can't be too careful about these days since there is so much identity theft.

Bad Wig's body language grew more tense.  Her feathers were ruffled.  Again. After pursing an answer to my question for the third time, she said--her voice an octave higher than before--"They get locked up with the other 460 some odd files."

Strike two.

"I understand you will do a criminal background check, but what about a drug check.  Do I need to get one of those too?"

"You won't be handling any bodily fluids," Bad Wig says. "That's done in another department on campus."

Of course she was talking about the nursing school, but I'm dumbfounded at the level of stupidity.  Absolutely, positively floored.  "I realize that,' I reply, "but will you be doing a drug screening?"

"Why, do I have too," asked Bad Wig, thinking I walked into a trap.

Peering down my nose and wearing that 'you've got to be kidding me' look, I grinned and said, "Apparently not."

She lost her cool and preceded with a lecture.  Blah,blah, blah.  "Everyone who works at the college must act professionally" ( Do you really want to go there--late for an appointment, no apology, a wig askew, plus chipped, peeling, or non-existent toe nail polish.  Yes, I notice almost everything.) "and treat each other nice.  You will be working as a li-bary assistant..." (There was that word again. I smiled more broadly)..."and you will be dealing with the public and handling delicate situations."  (You mean I'll be checking books in and out, shelving, and teaching students how to use the card catalog. Right. Very delicate stuff).

Strike three.  You're out!

I left her office, if you can believe it, laughing and amazed by stupid people.  The experience was exasperating yet I had fun yanking her chain.  I wasn't rude or obnoxious.   For once, I was in control of the situation, and it produced a sense of joy.  Yes, I will grant there are some of you who read this and think I'm a tad perverse but non-the-less, it was a joy-filled moment.   Empowered, I allowed myself to be me: strong, smart, sarcastic, and even a little outlandish.  I don't act this way often, so it's safe to say I'll remember this act of rebellion as a momentous occasion when I grabbed hold of joy with abandonment.

This takes me back to the beginning ..."Go get your god on."  Today's Sunday, so I did; I went to church and asked god to forgive me for giving Bad Wig such a hard time, but at the same moment, I thanked him for showing me that joy comes in mysterious ways. 

The new year cusp...

It's been three months since I said I'd be back writing and laughing.  But sadly, I was unable to keep my word.  As I grow older, I realize that the push and pull of everyday life takes it's toll and hinders.  An excuse to some, but a disappointing realism.

A husband's work abroad; a daughter's awakening to marriage and motherhood; a son-in-law to fatherhood and duty station change, and sons--one still in school dreaming of finishing and the other daring to succeed with honors in a flagging economy. Add to the mix parents who drive me crazy and a mother-in-law who decides to move back --if you can believe it--to snow bunny hell Pennsylvania from warm, sunny North Carolina.  Pulling up the rear is my own demon, the dreaded six month cancer reassessments.

Now in my third year since being diagnosed, treated, and told I'm cured, there is only but a shadow of peace.  Anxiety rears it's ugly head like hurricane force winds threatening the Cape Hatteras coast.   I don't think it's possible to ever be truly free.  The urge to look over my shoulder is too great, and then there is that dreaded conversation ...

"Hey, that lymph node feels funny." 

"No it doesn't.  It's fine."

"But, I'm not sleeping well, and my energy level sucks."

"That's because you're lazy.  Yoga's not enough. You got to get back on that bike dumb ass."

"Do you think the cancer's back?"

"No, you ninny. You're just paranoid." 

But what is true even with the anxiety and the dreaded conversation playing over-and-over again in my head, is that I wouldn't change a thing, not even the cancer because it's what made me who I am today. Being told you might die gives you the opportunity to breath deep the life you have left. I find myself searching out people who make me laugh--my spouse, my children, my friends--the special ones near and far, and even strangers.  Conversations and repartee; quirky smiles and silent signals; humor gives us the voice needed to fight what life throws at us and so, I will continue living, loving, and laughing while making the best damn lemonade from life's all to frequent lemons.

Life takes its toll every once in a while

Been gone the entire month of August dealing with life.  You know that thing we do everyday--morning, noon, and night--that causes so much stress; so much negativity, that your best cure is to slam the door, pull down the shades, and crawl under the covers sleeping the blues away. Well, since that was unrealistic, I just did what I always do.  I dealt with it and tightened my belt.  But, I'm back and as my good friend Natasha says, "I'm ready to play."  September blogging, here I com.

Breakfast at Annie's Part 3

 When Bertie and Sophie walked through the front door, Annie was having a heart-to-heart conversation with her register. 

“Damn machine, Charlie promised me you’d be easy to work. Should have known better; an old woman like myself investing in a new cash register, what a foolish idea!”

“Having problems Annie,” asked Bertie. 

“Yeah, you could say that.  I can’t get this thing to work. There are too many buttons.  I’ve had it.” 

Frustrated, Annie stood back from the register and grabbed the kitchen towel from the counter.  Imagining it was the computer she was strangling, Annie twisted and pulled the towel until her hands were sweaty.  Tossing the towel back on the counter she said, “I’m calling Charlie and have him pick this monstrosity up before I drop kick it across the street.  I want my old machine back.”

“Want us to help,” said Sophie. 

“Would you? That would be great. I’ve been keeping written accounts since last night and don’t see the point of continuing when my old machine is in the back closet.  Let me show you where it is.  You know, I should never have allowed Charlie to poke his nose in my business.  I’m too old for this nonsense.”

“You’re not old Annie, just wise beyond your years,” said Sophie with a twinkle in her eye.  “I hate computers too.  Ask Bertie. If our computer at the bookstore goes nuts, I can’t do a thing with it.”

“She’s right Annie.  Sophie’s hopeless when it comes to computers.  She’s 30 years old and only knows how to turn it on. But that’s not surprising; she can’t work her T.V. remote either.”

“Shut up Bertie.”

With a quick twist of her torso, Sophie turned and flipped Bertie off.

“I saw that,” said Annie smiling.

Annie watched as the two girls worked to rid her of the new register.   Close since high school, Sophie and Bertie were more like sisters than best friends.  Without each other Bertie wouldn’t have made it through her mother’s passing, and now with Sophie in remission for cancer, the two were perfectly matched. 

Annie looked at the girls and said, “You two never plan on growing up, do you?”

“Nope,” said Bertie

“Never,” chimed Sophie.

“Hey Annie,” said Bertie as nonchalant as possible, “that guy who came in here earlier, what’s his story?” 

“Why, what’s it to you,” said Annie. 

Bertie and Sophie surprised by Annie’s response stuttered, “We were just wondering that's all.”

They turned around and focused on setting up Annie’s cash register when she said, “Just kidding girls.  A good looking man like that rolls into town, I’d ask too.  Well, I don’t know much but he’s renting my spare apartment upstairs.  He doesn’t talk about himself, and I do know he owns a dog.  Other than that, I think he mentioned opening some sort of security business.  I’m figuring he has a military background because he acts like my Arthur did--God rest his soul--when he came home from the Korean War and was stationed at Ft. Bragg.”

“Oh, well that’s something to go on. Do you mind if I ask one more question,” said Bertie.

“No, of course not my dear, just spit it out.”

“His name, what is it?”

Annie let the question hang in the air for a few seconds before responding and then said, “His name is Jack Ferguson.”

Breakfast at Annie's Part 2

“What the hell?  It’s too early to be making so much noise,” said Bertie.   You know I need quiet in the morning.”

“Just ignore it.  It’s probably just some obnoxious kid blasting through town.”

 

Bertie turned her head to see what the commotion was when Sophie heard her say, “Woe, who is that?”

Sophie saw a tall, well-built man in sexy, black leather sitting astride a Honda motorcycle.  “I don’t know, never seen him before, said Sophie.

“Well that body speaks for itself.  I wonder what’s hiding under that helmet,” said Bertie. 

“You’re such a dog Bertie.  Stop that before you embarrass yourself,” said Sophie.

“Oh please, don’t tell me you’re not a little bit curious.”

“No, I’m not,” Sophie said gruffly.

“Well girl you’ve just proven what I’ve thought all along.”

“And what is that, pray tell?”

“That you are numb from the neck down,” countered Bertie.

Sophie went back to her coffee choosing not to engage in their friendly repartee while Bertie changed the angle of her chair to get a better look at the stranger’s unveiling.  If anything, Bertie appreciated a good-looking man.

Sensing he was being watched, he stepped off his bike and put the kick stand in place.  Reaching for his chin strap, he unhooked his helmet and grabbed a pair of sunglasses from his breast pocket.  Nodding at Sophie and Bertie, he walked into Annie’s Coffee Shop.

“Hello Gorgeous,” said Bertie.

Trying very hard to ignore Bertie, Sophie reverted to their previous conversation.  “So, other than the Mc Murphy book club is there anything else going on this week that we need to discuss?”

“Nothing special, but did you see that chin? Kirk Douglas’s, dimple and all.  And, those broad shoulders.  I wonder what color his eyes are,” said Bertie.

“Can you not let it go?  He’s just somebody passing through town.”

“Well, maybe not, but I’m sure Annie will find out.  You know how she gets people to talk about themselves.  Amazing.  The quietest suddenly spill their guts over a cup of Annie’s coffee and home-made pastry. 

Fifteen minutes later, Gorgeous steps out of Annie’s twirling a key.    Sunglasses resting low on the bridge of his nose, he smiles at Bertie but locks eyes with Sophie as if daring her to speak.  Wearing a mischievous grin, he raises one eyebrow and slowly pushes his sunglasses in place.  Walking towards his motorcycle, he gracefully sits astride, replaces his helmet, starts the engine, and rolls around the corner.

“What was that all about, Sophie? I get a smile, and you get a standoff.  Okay, spit it out.  Do you know that a guy?”

With her hands shaking, Sophie places her coffee cup on the table and begins to breathe again.  “I don’t believe it!  It can’t be. Oh, crap, that’s the guy I told you about last week when I went running. You remember the one with the big ass dog who scared the bejeebers out of me and then when his owner arrived, I couldn’t talk because I was too busy drooling over him like a school girl. ”

Unable to contain herself, Bertie started clapping her hands and laughing so loud that other people started starring.  "You've got to be kidding me.  That was him?  I don't know about  you, but I'm going inside to see what Annie learned and to find out this guy's name.  Come on Sophie, aren't you the tiniest bit interested?"

"Of course; I'd be lying if I said no.  Okay, let's go see what Annie has to say."

A Place to Call Home

Mama Cat wandered to and fro through back yards and broken fences until the time came to give birth.  Having watched the human female for weeks, she knew it was safe to stay and raise her children until the human female considered them a nuisance, and Mama Cat would have to move again.  It was inevitable; all cats knew humans didn’t like them, but for the time being, her and her unborn kits were safe.

Shunned at first by the older Wanderers, Mama Cat soon proved she had the right to remain just as much as they.  The older Wanderers were naturally distrustful.  With hunched backs, they'd hiss and bat sometimes making contact, but she was used to being struck.  Territorial and reluctant, the older Wanderers tried to get Mama Cat to leave, but she refused.  Her only concern was the kittens she carried within.  Standing her ground, they soon realized she was no threat.  The older Wanderers’ defenses melted daily for they understood the feelings of isolation and fear; she was alone and heavy with children.  Childhood memories flitted to the surface in their minds eye soft like a fair weathered breeze.  Never quite able to hold onto them nor reconcile who they were about, the Wanderers pressed closer to Mama Cat while indistinct glimpses of another female from long, long ago whispered soft purrings of love and life lessons in their ears.  The crotchety group of old Wanderers turned into an extended family butting heads, cleaning, purring and warming Mama Cat on cold nights. 

Watching the human female became an obsession with Mama Cat.  She was an odd sort of human and very different.  Every morning she carried fresh food and water out to the shelter.  At night, she’d lay three or four plates of soft food for those who wanted it and checked to make sure the shelter was clean, and sweet smelling. It was no wonder word spread of the human female’s kindness.  Most cats came out of curiosity and rumbling stomachs; they ate and moved on, but others chose to stay, calling it home. 

When the human female came to where the cats rested, she’d talk softly never looking directly in the cat’s eye.  Not the least bit challenging, she appeared to be part cat.  Mama Cat pondered how this was even possible, but came up with no answer.  She’d purr, try to head butt the old Wanderers and bat at sticks in hopes that one of them would take interest and join in. Once on all fours, the human female even stretched out a hand in hopes of touching the oldest of the group.  The long haired gray got up slowly.  He was at least 14 winters and the alpha of the group.  He stretched his hind quarters and approached her extended hand sniffing and licking it.  The decision was made; the human female was accepted into the group.  One by one the other old Wanderers followed suit rubbing against her legs, purring, and some even head butting.   

Mama Cat was not as trusting, but the closer to the birthing she got, the more restless she became.  Mama Cat saw how content the old Wanderers were when the human female played and rubbed them.  She wanted that experience too.  So, one morning at feeding time, Mama Cat decided it was time.  She refused to be a scaredy cat any more.  If all the old Wanderers trusted her, she should too.  As the human female poured fresh water and laid out new food, Mama Cat began winding herself in and between the ankles purring as she went.  Surprised, the human female stopped what she was doing and sat down.  Reaching out one hand, she touched Mama Cat’s head and tickled behind her ears.  Speaking softly to sooth, Mama Cat tilted her head in response and purred.  Somewhere in Mama Cat’s heart, past hurts melted, and she knew she and her kits belonged.

By the next full moon, three beautiful kits--two black, one gray--were born under the Gardenia bush outside the human female's door.  Due to the fact the three were boys and would grow up to be little terrorists, Mama Cat decided to name them Alvin, Simon, and Theodore.