Innocence Lost

The news that 26 people had been killed at Sandy Hook Elementary in Newtown, Connecticut on Dec. 14, 2012 was unbelievable on Friday.  It remained shocking on Saturday, and today it just gets sadder and sadder.

I write this as my own children are taking baths.  Tomorrow is a school day so their lunches are packed and laundry is clean.  I will see them off to school tomorrow with mixed emotions.  I will do my best to make it seem like a typical school day.  I know their teachers will also do their best to make it seem like a typical school day.

It's not a typical school day.

Innocence wasn't just lost in Sandy Hook on Friday. It was lost across this country.

On Friday I was a mother who believed my children were safe in school.
Today I am a mother who hopes my children are safe in school.

Who knew the words "believe" and "hope" could conjure up such different emotions?

This isn't a blog about gun violence or mental illness.  Both issues are complex and complicated. I am neither intelligent enough nor articulate enough to do either topic justice.

This is about recognizing the precious and heroic lives who were lost.
Had I lost a child or a loved one that day, I would want the world to know his or her name.

I would want people to remember my loved one.

Here is a list of the victims’ names and ages in alphabetical order from the Connecticut State Police:

• Charlotte Bacon, 6
• Daniel Barden, 7
• Rachel Davino, 29
• Olivia Engel , 6
• Josephine Gay, 7
• Ana M. Marquez-Greene, 6
• Dylan Hockley, 6
• Dawn Hochsprung, 47
• Madeleine F. Hsu, 6
• Catherine V. Hubbard , 6
• Chase Kowalski, 7
• Jesse Lewis, 6
• James Mattioli
• Grace McDonnell, 7
• Anne Marie Murphy, 52
• Emilie Parker, 6
• Jack Pinto, 6
• Noah Pozner, 6
• Caroline Previdi, 6
• Jessica Rekos, 6
• Avielle Richman, 6
• Lauren Rousseau, 30
• Mary Sherlach, 56
• Victoria Soto, 27
• Benjamin Wheeler, 6
Allison N. Wyatt, 6

May God bless us.

The Day Santa Died

Don't panic.  There will be Christmas this year, but Christmas won't be the same.

My children understand Santa has a HUGE job to do every year.
Managing the elves, keeping the "Naughty & Nice" list up to date, and delivering all those presents is a full-time job.

Add to it the obscene number of public appearances Santa needs to make this time of year, and it's a wonder he can be available to do much else.  This is why there are some who volunteer this time of year to be his assistants.

One year, many years ago, my daughter pointed out the obvious while getting her picture taken at the mall with Santa.

"Mom, that is not the REAL Santa!"

I'm sure my response was along the lines of, "Nope, he's not.  The Real Santa is in Albuquerque  today.  There is no way he can be everywhere.  That's why he has helpers. His helpers are his eyes and ears. They'll get your wish list to the real Santa."

What parent hasn't had a very similar conversation with their child?

The real thrill for my kids wasn't seeing Santa in the mall.  No, the real thrill was when he would arrive at my mom's annual Christmas party.  Halfway through the festivities, Santa always arrived with a few presents and candy canes for all the little ones.

Ohhhh, the squeals of joy!
Ohhhh, the shrieks of horror! (Yeah, some of those little ones are totally chicken shit when it comes to big men in red suits.)

My children would size up Santa and later report they didn't think he was the REAL one.  But..... they were never quite sure, and they always made sure they told Santa exactly which outrageously priced toy they wanted him to deliver on Christmas.

The truth is that Santa wasn't the real Santa, but he was the best!

Of course, he was jolly, and friendly.  Of course, he was dressed in a dazzling red suit.

He also had a heart of gold.  He understood the true meaning of Christmas, and he delighted in the joy of children.  He always had a joke to tell, and he always laughed the hardest after telling it.  His laugh was contagious!  When I close my eyes I can still here it.

Santa won't be joining our family celebration this year.

God bless his soul.

5 Essentials for a Bug Out Bag

That bitch Sandy got me thinking about the time my family was without power for all eternity countless days. (Check out Sociology Experiment Gone Bad if you want to glimpse that madness.)

This then got me thinking about survivalists and other people with whom I have nothing in common.

According to my research, a "Bug Out Bag" is a backpack filled with items you will need when you come face to face with Armageddon.  Survivalist seemingly love their BOBs (Bug Out Bags).Bug-Out Bag (Google Affiliate Ad)

As I understand it, rational people put things like bottled water, canned meat, weapons and a variety of seeds (since, of course, planting a garden following Armageddon is necessary.  Duh!).

I would argue that truly rational people don't even pack a "Bug Out Bag," but what do I know?

All of this to say, either way you look at it, I am not a rational person.

I now want to make a "Bug Out Bag," but mine will not contain water and canned meat.

After giving this a considerable amount of thought, and by that I mean a solid five minutes, I've come up with the 5 essential items to place in my "Bug Out Bag."

1.  Multiple bottles of wine
There's water in wine and it's also sort of like fruit.  I'm not packing a corkscrew so the wine will be in screw top bottles. Notice I am also not packing any cups. Cups would take up much needed space.

2.  Razors
Yes, a zombie might eat my face during a zombie apocalypse, but I refuse to die with hairy armpits.  Simply Venus Disposable Razor - 16 ct. - Shaving & Hair Removal (Google Affiliate Ad)

3.  Cheez Whiz 
I hate to admit it during non-Armageddon times, but when face to face with the end of times, I will totally own up to the fact that I'm a huge fan of processed cheese.  All cheese is good, of course, but it's hard to beat the goodness of a rich, thick processed cheese product... especially while drinking cheep wine right from the bottle.  Cheez Whiz (White) T-Shirt (Google Affiliate Ad)

4.  Aspirin
Wine can give me a headache. I can only assume that wine plus trying to survive the end of times will also give me a headache.

5.  Multiple bottles of wine
Seriously, can you ever have enough wine during an apocalypse?

For scarier other ideas about what to pack, google "Bug Out Bag" bag.

Don't say I didn't warn you!

Who's Your MAMA A**?

Who's Your Mama Ass?

There is a code. A secret code. Women don't talk about it much. I'm about to break from tradition and put it all out on the table, so to speak.  Mom, please stop reading.

After attending "Not Your Mother's Tuperware Party," I acquired some...um...marital aids.  You know what I'm talking about, right?

Here's the thing about marital aids:  you must keep them somewhere.

That may sound obvious to non-neurotic people who don't stress over every detail of their life.  But where do us neurotic people keep them?

A logical spot is somewhere in the marital chamber bedroom.  But where?

The key is to find a spot no child will ever be interested in opening like your underwear drawer.  Or a place no housekeeper would accidentally stumble upon like the back of your closet.  Or maybe you're more decadent about your marital aids and you keep your swing and whips in a separate red room that is locked to keep intruders out and sex slaves in.  Hey, I don't know.  Maybe you are kinky in a Fifty Shades sort of way.

The point is, if you own marital aids then they are in your house.

That's all fine and good right up to the point when you die.
When you die someone will need to pack up all the things in your house.  I am sure this will involve judgement even in a marital aid-free home.

When I die people will know what an absolute slob I am.  When they move my couch, they will discover I never cleaned behind it nor did I ever clean up the mass of crumbs, pencils, hair balls, and other items that no doubt live in the couch cushions.  Nah, I'm not cleaning there.

Although I'll be dead, I'm still confident I won't like the idea of people talking about what a slob I am. Having said that, I'll be dead so there isn't much I can do about it, right?

Wrong!

The crap under my couch is small potatoes compared to the marital aids issue.  It's one thing to remember me in death as a slob who cared little for house cleaning.  It's quite another for people to learn I was a kinky horn dog who owned an odd assortment of creams and lotions that heat up and taste like hot fudge sundaes.  I would, quite literally, roll over in my grave.  (In fairness to me, there is tremendous pressure to buy these "goodies" at parties designed to wake up the teenager in you.  Peer pressure isn't just a teen issue. AND who can resist an edible cream that has zero calories and tastes like a hot fudge sundae?  But I digress...)

The point is every woman who owns any marital aid lotion, contraption, gizmo, equipment, device, gadget, or tool needs a MAMA ASS.

What's a Mama Ass?  Well, it's code for:  "Mourn After Marital Aids Are Secretly Secured."

Mama Ass friends know they have a HUGE responsibility.
When my Mama Ass learns I have died in a freak accident, that is hopefully totally unrelated to marital aids, she will make a beeline to my house.  She has a key to my home, she knows where to go, and she knows what to do.  She doesn't have time to mourn my untimely death.  She needs to dispose of all evidence of my sexuality. Get. It. Out. Of. There. Pronto!

After I'm dead, she pledges not to breathe a word to anyone about the loot she has unearthed.  She can also consider it the oddest inheritance ever!

If she has time to sweep the floors, clean the windows, fold the laundry, and dust behind the couch, that would be great, too.  Are you reading this, Mama Ass?  If so, the Windex is under the kitchen sink.

Who's your MAMA ASS?

Tennis vs. Me

My tennis crush started last year when I picked up a tennis racket for the first time.  It was a surprise love affair because I have a long history of being really bad at sports.

In 6th grade I was a 5'10" flat chested, braces-wearing, permed hair tween who was as awkward as I looked.  Occasionally I was picked first in gym class by an idiot-child who erroneously believed my obscene height would equate to physical prowess. This was simply not true.

In gym class, I would frequently duck during basketball scrimmages.  Once while playing volleyball I was hit right in the face with the ball because I wasn't coordinated enough to lift my hands and shield myself.  In truth, the only physical activity I could do with any amount of competence was run.  Add a ball, and it just got complicated.

Fast forward three decades, and not much has changed (although I'm happy to report my braces are off and I did finally manage to grow some breasts!).

Now I have two children, and every Saturday I sit and watch them take tennis lessons.  Their coach finally convinced me to try tennis.  My kids made it look so easy; I thought I may have a chance.

I completely fell in love.  I wasn't good, but I thought I could get better.
I really worked at getting better.
My goal was to get good enough to wear a tennis skirt without feeling like a fraud.
Finally, I got to that point.  That's when my tennis crush blossomed into love. I was adequate at a sport that allowed me to shop for and wear cute clothes. Awesomeness.

I suppose I should have known Tennis would eventually break my face heart.

It happened on a beautiful fall evening during a weekly tennis clinic.
The clinic instructor groups players based on skill levels.  I was accustomed to playing on the court of shame..the losers' court...the court for newbies and klutzes.  That's my court.
But I'd been practicing...

Finally my moment to shine came. The tennis coach placed me on the advanced court. I was going to play doubles with three tremendously skilled women. I had arrived!  Like a young person moving from the kid table at Thanksgiving dinner to the grown up table, I had advanced.

I stood tall as I approached the court in my snazzy tennis skirt and hip shoes.
I was ready. I would impress them.

After a brief warmup, the game started. My partner and I scored first. I was feeling strong and confident.  The other team served to me. I swung, hit the ball over the net, followed through on my swing, and promptly hit myself in the head with my racket.

"Ouch," I thought.

I continued playing. I wasn't about to let that little misstep slow me down or cause me to lose focus.  Then I started sweating.  Strange because it was a cool evening, but I was under a lot of self-induced pressure to beat the crap out of my opponents play well.

I hit the ball again, and again I wiped more sweat from my face. I was really starting to sweat. I nonchalantly wiped more sweat off my face.

As I hit the ball a third time, I looked down at the ground in time to see a large drop of blood splash to the court. That's when I realized I wasn't sweating.  I was bleeding from my head.

The game stopped as the other three women looked on in horror. Not only had I hit myself in the face with my racket, causing a bloody gash under my eyebrow, but I had then repeatedly smeared blood all over my face.  I was either a tennis bad ass or a complete fool.  Can we go with tennis bad ass?

After being tended to by fellow tennis players who included a nurse, an eye doctor and ironically enough a psychologist, I was sent home to heal.

As I sat at home with a bag of frozen peas on my face, my daughter looked empathetically at me and said, "It's ok, mom.  I think you are still pretty good."  My son just wanted to hear more about the blood.

I suppose I'll never qualify for the US Open, but had anyone taped my obvious display of tennis inadequacy, I'm quite sure you'd be seeing me on the next episode of "The World's Funniest Home Videos."

Tennis, anyone?

Most Ridiculous Commercial... Or Is It?

Most Ridiculous Commercial... Or Is It?

Do you remember commercials? I forgot what they were until I started watching the 2012 Olympics religiously every night as if it were my job and the fate of all Olympic gold medals rested squarely on my shoulders.

Do you remember commercials? I forgot what they were until I started watching the 2012 Olympics religiously every night as if it were my job and the fate of all Olympic gold medals rested squarely on my shoulders.

Yeah, commercials are those televised advertisements most people use as the time to tinkle and refill beverages or we fast-forward through them (thank you to the person who invented TIVO and the DVR).

It's been awhile since I've seen an actual commercial, but I'm sad to report they stink just as much as they have in the past. In fact, they are arguably worse now than previously. Apparently commercial writers are on to the fact that no one pays attention to them anymore so they have really lowered the bar on what passes for a quality commercial.

After watching an obscene amount of television over the last several weeks, I believe I have the authority to crown the worst commercial on television.

The winner is....(drum roll)...(suspenseful pause)...

The Air Optix contact lens commercial!

A man who is old enough to know better starts the commercial off looking absolutely grief stricken. Perhaps he has received a devastating diagnosis or maybe his wife and kids have been in a horrific accident or possibly he has made horrible investments and he is about to loose everything.

Nope.  This moron just fell asleep with his contact lenses in his eyes.
He stutters the following statement, "I never meant to sleep in my contacts."

The optometrist kindly tells him "Don't worry."
As luck would have it, this idiot fell asleep in contact lenses designed to be slept in.  Somehow he's managed to forget this tidbit since the last time he's been to the eye doctor.

I have absolutely no empathy for this twit.  Maybe I'm annoyed because the last time I fell asleep with contacts in my eyes I woke up and momentarily thought I had been miraculously cured of my nearsightedness.  At no point did I consider racing to the optometrist to confess my stupidity while looking like I might die as a result of my action.

I hate to sound sexist, (actually this is a bold-faced lie.  I really don't mind sounding a little sexist) but I don't think it's an accident that the commercial features a nearsighted worried man and a female optometrist.  There isn't a woman on the planet who would show this much concern over her own eyes.  She would be too busy changing diapers, cleaning up cat vomit, and wallowing in guilt to even consider rushing her eyes to the optometrist office after sleeping in her lenses.  Hell, she'd just be thrilled she managed to sleep!

The point is, this commercial stinks.  It's horrible.

On top of it all, the pathetic, worrisome man looked familiar to me.  Who is he?

Then while watching it for the 40th time it came to me.  The man looks like Paul Ryan minus the piercing, ice blue, frightening as hell eyes.  If Paul Ryan had brown eyes, he would be doing lousy contact lens commercials.

Then it hit me.  Is it possible this commercial was paid for by democrats to elect President Obama?  You only need to watch the commercial once to know, that worrisome guy is an idiot!

It could very well be the best subliminal message ever relayed via commercial!

Achieving World Peace

Every once in a great while I have an epiphany. Something that was once confusing and complicated is revealed to me clearly and simply.

Not to brag, but the other day I had an epiphany. A pretty significant one.

Yeah, I realized how to achieve world peace.

I'm sure this is valuable information, and I'm probably stupid and naive for sharing it so broadly. I should probably call Homeland Security, the CIA, or whoever is responsible for finding the way to create world peace. I mean, really, I probably will get the Nobel Peace prize for this one. It is that significant. Consider yourself lucky to hear it from me first.

Ok. Here goes...

The key to world peace is to equip everyone with a high quality air conditioner.

There is conflict in the Middle East because they are HOT.
Hot, hot, hot.

Heat makes people rabid in their irritability. I know this first hand because my loving family of four recently spent 9 days without electricity. We were loving to one another one minute, and in the next minute, it was scary ugly. We were unarmed so no one actually died. I can only imagine the destruction that armed hot people can create.

While we are equipping everyone with air conditioners, I think we should also give every family and organized terrorist organization a dishwasher. When you are hot it is one thing, but when you are hot and surrounded by dirty dishes, it's enough to make you want to go fight with the first person you see. In my case that's my husband, but it could just as easily be Afghanistan.

Do you see the brilliance behind my plan?
Cool the world off. Coolness = peace.

In fact, I'm fairly certain PEACE is an acronym for:

P. Provide
E. Everyone with
A. Air
C. Conditioning;
E. Eliminate war

Wonder where I should keep my Nobel Peace Prize?

Perhaps next to my Pulitzer.

Surviving Heat Wave without Electricity

After surviving 9 days without electricity, I consider myself an expert on a few matters. I feel obligated to share them. Should you find yourself in hell without electricity for an extended period of time, you might just be grateful for these pearls of wisdom.

Your power will only go off for an extended period of time if it's going to be over 100 degrees or below 15 degrees. This is just a simple fact. My experience with hell power outage was during a heat wave so I'll focus on that. Given my luck, I'll blog about power outage during a deep freeze in mid January.

Although the electricity is the first to go, it will be followed shortly thereafter by your sense of humor. Do not waste your time trying to regain your sense of humor. It will return exactly 24 hours after the electricity. Your patience may never return as it has literally melted into oblivion.

You will have frequent thoughts about digging shallow graves in your backyard. Resist the urge to do so. It's just sweaty work for you, and your house is messy enough without you bringing in dirt and mud.

Once upon a time you loved your partner and your children. It's ok to look up the phone numbers of divorce attorneys, but refrain from calling. Trust me, "Power Outage" and "Heat" cannot be listed as reasons for divorce.

Give up all attempts to keep your house clean. The rest of your family will only sabotage your efforts and make you want to dig in the back yard. Instead, find the coolest place in your house and sit. Don't move for risk of sweating.

Do not, under any circumstances, sit on any leather or faux leather furniture during the inevitable heat wave. You will stick to it and the puddle of sweat may cause stains.

Speaking of puddles, when you wake up in a pool of your own sweat, do not panic. You are not dying. You are just really hot. Rehydrate by drinking lots of alcohol fluids.

When there appears to be more bugs inside your house than outside of it, try not to be alarmed. Tell yourself this is just like camping. When your Self reminds you how much you hate camping, take a moment to randomly scream "Camping sucks!" at the first person who wanders by you.

Buy a generator. Being able to open the refrigerator and feel the cold air is worth the cost. Don't keep the generator in your garage or near an open window. The fumes are toxic. Then again...

When the power eventually comes back on, walk around your house turning on every light and electronic device you have. Bask in the glow of electricity and gain greater appreciation for the concept of "survival of the fittest."

Know, with absolute certainty, that had you been born prior to the invention of electricity and indoor plumbing, you wouldn't have survived past adolescence.

The Essentials

Dear Family and Friends,

Last week Mother Nature went ape shit threw a temper tantrum of epic proportion.

She threw trees, branches, patio furniture, and then cried like she has never cried before. Making matters worse, like any toddler would, she decided to throw this fit just as our babysitter arrived. Hubby and I had been planning date night.

As my family stood in our dining room with our babysitter, we watched Mother Nature knock down a 30 foot tall tree and fling it towards our house. At that moment our power went off, and I ordered all of us to the basement.

An hour later, Mother Nature was in time out and the babysitter was sent home. The rest of us sat in the dark looking at one another. We became remarkably loving towards one another and patient. Near death experiences can do that to a family.

The next day we did what everyone else in our county decided to do. We went to the grocery store to buy "essentials." Power was out and we were being told it could be 5-7 days before it would be restored. This news is code for "go shopping."

Here's the great thing about "essentials": it's all in the eye of the beholder.
Since there were a mere 7200 people crammed into our local grocery store, I had plenty of time to look in other people's carts to see what they felt they needed in the coming days.

My favorite cart was pushed by a young man who clearly lived simply. His cart had 2 wine boxes and chips. Another woman had a cart loaded with grilling supplies, dog food and corn. I saw several carts full of practical things like water, bread, and peanut butter.

I was fascinated by all the varieties of cart content until I took a moment to look into my own cart. It was unquestionably the most bizarre. I had (and I really don't know why I'm compelled to share this) 2 cases of bottled water, 1 box of brown rice, 2 cans of black beans, 24 rolls of toilet paper, 2 rolls of paper towels, and toilet bowl cleaner.

Apparently, I was worried about dehydration and exploding bowels.

We all have our hang-ups, I suppose.

I hope the rest of you are fairing well.

Waiting for the Electricity Fairy to visit us as we enjoy our beans and rice comforted by the knowledge that we will have clean butts and toilets,

Jen
Days 1 & 2 of no electricity

The Sound of Music

"Are my ears bleeding?"

My husband assures me they are not. I don't necessarily believe him. I touch my ears gingerly and wonder if encouraging music lessons was the wisest decision I've made as a mother.

In 4th grade my daughter was obligated to learn the recorder as part of her music class curriculum. That's when I first started to appreciate elementary school music teachers. One 9 year old practicing the recorder must pale in comparison to a room full of 9 year olds all blowing to their hearts' content on something that appears to be a cross between a kazoo and a clarinet.

We encouraged our daughter to practice... outside.
Yes, we led her to believe that the sound of the recorder was best enjoyed by birds, squirrels and other small forest creatures. Unlike beloved Disney movies, we never saw a small circle of forest animals dancing around her as she played, but we encouraged her to remain hopeful to that possibility. In turn, she became a pretty good recorder player.

Her devotion to the recorder led to her desire to participate in the 5th grade band. She chose to play the trumpet. That's about the time I started praying for a mild case of otosclerosis. My respect for elementary school music teachers grew exponentially and I became convinced that they were either saints or deaf.

We live next to a dairy farm and one afternoon I came rushing into our living room ready to rescue the calf that was being slaughtered. Certainly cruelty to animals is no laughing matter, and to think my precious children were cruel enough to lure a baby cow into our home only to torture it was beyond shocking!

What surprised me upon entering the room was that it was empty except for my daughter and her new shiny trumpet. I looked for the helpless creature, but clearly no calf had ever entered my home. That's when I realized a trumpet can make a sound that mimics that of a dying calf.

My daughter beamed, and I was filled with momentary pride at her musical devotion.

She said, "Hey, mom, watch this!"

With that she opened the spit valve on the trumpet and let the spit coat her thigh before rubbing it in with the palm of her hand. Without missing a beat, she resumed playing.

The bile rose in my throat, and I wondered what a decent mother would do in that moment. I remained greatly relieved my child wasn't abusing any farm animals so I just sat to enjoy the performance.

(Addendum: All of her practicing is truly paying off. Now she can actually produce sounds that mimic music! To compensate, my son has started taking guitar lessons!)

Germ Magnets

There isn't enough hand sanitizer in the world to keep me from getting sick every year around this time. I faithfully subject myself to an annual flu shot in hopes of warding off the inevitable.

I blame my children. My inevitable winter illness rests on their shoulders.

Every single day my children come home from school coated in snot. I'm not even sure the snot is entirely their own. I know my house is slathered in invisible, evil germs all trying to make contact with my fragile immune system.

Their own immune systems are enviable. They coat themselves in germs and neglect any form of personal hygiene. They have a total aversion to proper hand hygiene and on at least one occasion they tried to convince me they were allergic to soap (and cleaning their rooms, but that's another story!)

They literally sit around the house sucking on their own fingers, toes, and hair. Then they delight in touching everything that belongs to me. They touch my face, hair, food, doorknobs, computer, pillows.
They DISGUST me, but I love them so much!

We have a box of kleenex in nearly every room of our house, but do they use them?
Nooooo! Why use a perfectly clean tissue when your dirty shirt sleeve is so convenient?
Or perhaps you can reach for your mother's sleeve? She just loves that!

Is it wrong to greet them each day after school in a hazmat suit?
Is it wrong to want to douce them with antiseptic before hugging them?
Is it wrong to send them away to boarding school until flu season passes?

My children have the grave misfortune of perfect health. Those kids are desperate to be sick! A slight fever leads to ginger ale, an abundance of attention, and a fair dose of sympathy. They crave a virus! If their germs don't kill me, the irony certainly will!

Life is full of injustices. The fact that my children literally cocoon themselves in crud and remain perfectly healthy during the height of flu season while I drown in my own mucus is just one.

Gesundheit!

(A note from the Author: She is just superstitious enough to believe that she is cursing her children with a string of illnesses this winter. Please take a moment to knock on wood. Your spouse's head will work fine.)

The Cat Is Planning My Demise

His name is Bob and, at first glance, he seems innocent enough.

However, I have reason to believe he wants me dead, and I'm now convinced he has the skills necessary to accomplish this feat.

He was a stray cat who I rescued from a gas station parking lot over 15 years ago. He was malnourished and covered in fleas. Now he is fat and resentful.

He led a good life as head of our household until a few things didn't go his way.
We adopted two children and then we moved to a bigger house. After all of that trauma, we had the audacity to take in another stray cat.

Now he spends his days plotting various ways to kill me.

I know he is capable of murder. He's killed before. He's a serial cardinal killer. I'm sure his 'Most Wanted' poster is hanging in bird police stations across the neighborhood. He thinks nothing of killing an occasional baby rabbit or mole. He's absolutely ruthless.

He meows incessantly. No doubt following me around cursing cat obscenities that sound like simple "meows" to the human ear. He's tried tripping me on countless occasions, but he's not yet had much luck bringing me down. So now he's getting clever.

The morning started as any other morning. I awoke with a full bladder. I got out of bed and, without turning on a single light, I walked towards the bathroom. As I stepped into the bathroom, my morning took a turn for the worse.

In the darkness of the bathroom, my bare feet stepped in something wet and thick. I slipped across the bathroom floor and an "Ohhhhhhhhh nooooooooo!" escaped from my lips.

This woke my husband who came running. He flipped on the bathroom light, and we discovered I was standing in cat vomit. Lots of cat vomit.

The cat vomit (if you'll allow me to continue) was pink and chunky. It most closely resembled those summertime salads that are made with gelatin and marshmallows. Only the cat doesn't eat gelatin or marshmallows so I remain perplexed as to how he managed to produce such a consistency. I stood staring at it waiting to awake from this hideous dream.

The sensation of cat vomit between my toes brought me back to reality. I gingerly made my way to the shower leaving cat vomit footprints along the way.

I sanitized my feet as my husband cleaned up the crime scene.

Once you've stepped in an obscene amount of cat vomit, you look at life differently. Well, you certainly look at your cat differently.

Now when the children approach him with doll clothes, I am quick to rescue him. When they suggest creating a maze for him made out of cardboard boxes and duct tape, I redirect their creative impulses. He need only make eye contact with me for me to jump to his defense.

He may be a small fur ball, but his stomach can hold a shockingly large volume of pink chunks.

Should I slip, fall, bump my head or otherwise die of "suspicious" injuries, please let this serve as a notice to law enforcement that the cat is capable of anything.

Skinny Jeans

Skinny jeans were specifically designed for skinny people. Skinny, young people. Advertisers may try to convince you otherwise, but any attempt to lure us 39-ish year old gals into skinny jeans is ridiculous.

I know this because I recently tried on a pair of skinny jeans.

Well, I never actually got them on. I managed to get them past my ankles and to my knees. That's when I realized there was no hope of getting myself all the way into the absurdly skinny jeans. Even if I had, I assume the jaws of life would have been needed to get me out of them. As a general rule, I try not to get myself into precarious situations while in dressing rooms. The jeans could have easily cut off circulation to half of my body, and the only thing I fear more than death is the fear of dying naked or even half naked.

(Interestingly, there is no name for that fear. Thanatophobia is the fear of death and Nudophobia is the fear of nakedness. I'm really not afraid of nakedness. I just want to have clothes on when I die. Seems like there should be a name for that fear. The fact that there isn't, makes me fear I am the only person who has a fear of dying naked. Good grief! Now I've added to my list of fears. Fear that I'm the only one who fears dying naked. Let's just call it Todiebucknakedchickphobia so I can move on.)

Sorry, I'm easily side-tracked. Back to ridiculously skinny jeans made for the ridiculously skinny...

I can count on one hand all of the 39-ish year old skinny women I know who wear skinny jeans. I hate each and every one of them.

Actually, I know only one. She is a miserable person. I'm sure if she would just eat a cheeseburger, she would cheer up. As it is, she is content to waltz around miserable in her skinny jeans.

I was once friends with a skinny person. She could recite from memory how many calories were in every food imaginable. She absolutely loved talking about caloric intake and exercise. We had absolutely nothing in common.

You need only know me for 20 seconds to realize my great affection for food. I would love to limit the amount of food I put in my mouth, but that would require something called "will power." I am not a superhero who has such powers.

Food brings me happiness and I just love happiness. I especially love happiness when it is deep fried and dipped in butter.

Life is frighteningly short. I would rather fill my proverbial plate with happiness than worry about squeezing my generously sized bottom into a pair of jeans designed for a prepubescent 11 year old.

I hope marketers are listening because I would like parachute pants to come back in style. They are forgiving, and by "forgiving" I mean you could stick an entire roast in there and it would go unnoticed (imagine the usefulness of that!). They are stain resistant and they come in a variety of colors. On top of that, I am fairly certain they could also be worn as pajama pants which would remove one more step from my already busy morning schedule.

The most shocking thing is that I never actually owned a pair of parachute pants when they were in style for that one month back in 1985. Now I'm suddenly toying with the idea of seeing if any are for sale on eBay!

Skinny jeans, you just met your match.... Imagine a world filled with happy women wearing a rainbow of parachute pants!