UC Barrister's Ball

On Saturday night, I attended a large, formal event, where I knew no one but my husband. Surprisingly, I had a great time! The pleasant experience was probably due to my copious consumption of alcohol, Mike’s wacky classmates, and my positive attitude. (Amy had such a good time at her husband’s barrister’s ball that I couldn’t be outdone!)

While the drinking was good for socializing, I had far too much. I’m not a party girl anymore and, even when I was, I could never drink a whole bottle of crappy Merlot without getting sick. As you might have guessed, I drank an entire bottle of Merlot, as well as a few “signature” cosmopolitans and one nasty shot. I felt great all night, until we retired to our room. Then I threw up. I was sick until Sunday night. Mike drank a lot too, but didn’t get quite as ill. He did get drunk enough to suggest that we dance (it takes significant amounts of alcohol to get him on the dance floor). However, after stumbling around for one song, we were done.

I was one of the oldest people in the room, but, since everyone is expected to behave in a sophomoric fashion at these events, we all got along well. I finally got to meet the people who live on “Plum Street” and we have plans to enjoy the arts together. The husband, at an ancient twenty-seven years of age, is Mike’s oldest law school friend. Mike's other, younger, friends were gregarious and their dates friendly. The female law students even made a few of us wives/girlfriends feel a part of the crowd by inviting us for a Girls of Section Four shooter.

The evening was amusing. I flirted with my dateless neighbor at the dinner table. We saw a girl walk out of the ballroom with her skirt ripped off and her thong-clad behind exposed. Feeling sober myself, I made fun of Mike's drunk friends. After the ballroom closed, Mike and I roamed the 25th floor of the Hilton calling out the name of the person hosting the after-party. We found him, but he was busy with a personal party. It was time for me to go to my room and vomit anyhow.

It’s Monday, and I have finally recovered. I’m ready for the 2006 Barrister’s Ball. No Merlot, please.

You Put Your Paw Upon My Lips. . .

Cleo is not a cuddly cat. She’d rather attack your leg than sit on your lap. She detests being picked up. She is a constant ball of playful motion. The only time she’ll curl up with me is at night, in my bed.

Cleo is a frequent nighttime visitor. She hops in and out of bed a few times every evening. Before she’ll ascend to the bed, though, she is compelled to claw at the mattress and meow. She always jumps onto the head of the bed, never the middle or the foot. She has missed my face by only inches more than a few times. Her first time up for the evening, she’ll check things out and allow me to give her a few strokes. Then she hops down to engage in mischief elsewhere. She often repeats this ritual a few more times. Finally, she’ll come into the bed to stay.

If I don’t wake up when Cleo arrives, she wakes me up. She presses her cold, wet, slimy nose to my lips. After jolting awake, I’ll pet her until I fall asleep again. If I do not pet her long enough, she whaps me on the nose with a paw.

I’m usually laying in one of two positions: curled on my side (facing the edge of the bed) or flat on my back. When I’m on my side, Cleo will sometimes lay on my body, along my thigh, hip, and waist, matching my contour. Usually, she curls up in the hollow between my torso and the edge of the bed.

When I’m sleeping on my back, she sleeps on my chest. I have to pull the covers all the way to my neck, because she likes to get as close to my chin as possible and will knead her paws before she lies down. I like this position best because I can hear and feel the rumble of her purr. Lately, though, she has started doing something that makes this position less pleasant: she lays one of her front paws on my lips.

I’m a germaphobe. I’ve relaxed significantly since we got Cleo. I will now pet her and then eat food with the same hand. It is probably unsanitary, but it’s too inconvenient to constantly wash my hands, and I can’t resist giving my cats a stroke as they come by. However, there are two parts of the cats’ bodies that I avoid. The first, obviously, is their butts. The second is their paws. I shudder when I think of all the germs they collect padding around the house and digging in their litter boxes. Imagine my horror to wake up in the night to find a bacteria-laden paw ON MY LIPS!

The first night she lay her paw upon my lips, I awoke instantly and removed it. I woke up twice more that night to gently remove a paw. She didn’t repeat this move again until last night. I believe I slept for quite a while before waking up to the unfamiliar pressure and texture of her right foot on my mouth. While I was sleeping, I’m sure her cooties marched directly between my parted lips. I now have cat poop germs inside my mouth! (Mike isn’t going to want to kiss me after he reads this.)

Despite this unsanitary situation, I am going to continue to let her sleep on my chest. The moments when she is calm and cuddly are too precious to me. Except for our nighttime cuddles, she is a frisky terror, with paws of fury. I’m willing to endure the paws of filth for our snuggles.

I Heart Hotdogs

This is no veiled sexual innuendo. I love hotdogs. I love wieners. I love frankfurters. I could stuff them in my mouth all day long, if it wasn’t for the calories and nitrates. Yum!

You can cook a hotdog many ways. My mother steamed them. Mike (and his mom) boils them. In a pinch, I’ve microwaved them (not recommended). The best way to cook a hotdog is on roller grill, the sort you see at gas stations and ball parks. Blackening a wiener on a BBQ is a close second.

While in college, I worked at the concession stand of the movie theater at Bellis Fair Mall. Our concession stand was a little spartan. We had no nachos, pizza by the slice, or even coffee. We did have hotdogs, cooked to perfection on a roller grill. Customers rarely ordered a hotdog, so we usually had a few extra at the end of the night. These dogs had been cooking all day, 10 hours or so. I can still hear the sound of the grill, rolling up and down, and see the hotdogs glistening in their own grease. The skin was delightfully tough and rubbery, while the middle was hot and juicy. Because we usually cleaned the roller grill with Sprite, the dogs were enhanced by a sugary, lemon-lime film. Enjoying a purloined wiener in the back room was pure ecstasy. It wasn’t really stealing. The hotdogs had to be disposed of at the end of the night. As lovely as they tasted after cooking one full day, I doubt a second day on the grill would improve them much. Ah…I believe my love affair with hotdogs began there, among the boxes of soda syrup in the back room.

I’ll eat any sort of hotdog, but the standard Ballpark frank is probably the best. I enjoy Oscar Meyer’s Cheesedogs. I eat Healthy Choice franks, or even vegetarian dogs, when I’m feeling health conscious. Mike prefers dogs that I would call sausages, the spicier the better. I suppose I prefer a plain hotdog because it is the perfect vehicle for the toppings.

You will never find ketchup on my hotdog. I’ve detested ketchup from the moment I learned that the ingredients include tomatoes, vinegar, and sugar. How could those things taste good together? At a standard hotdog bar, I top my wiener with mustard and sweet relish. One packet of each, squirted in the two gaps between the bun and the frank. I love the bite of the mustard and the sweetness of the relish contrasted with the meaty goodness of the dog. At home, I get a little more creative with toppings. My absolute favorite hotdog accessory is beet horseradish. It’s kicky and zingy, but a little bit sweet. In fact, I’ve been known to discard the hotdog and eat the horseradish straight out of the jar….but that’s the subject for another post.

I’m often ashamed to buy hotdogs at the grocery store. Like Top Ramen, frankfurters are one of those foods you’re supposed to outgrow. While I sometimes buy a package of wieners at Bigg’s, I prefer my hotdogs from the most filthy of places, the gas station convenience store. The dogs are perfect. They are plain. They are cooked on a roller grill for hours and hours. There are always packages of mustard and relish. The buns are hot and steamy. A gas station hot dog is my little treat for finally filling up the car. In fact, when I imagine myself eating the perfect dog, I can smell the background odor of gasoline fumes. I just can’t replicate the gas station hotdog at home.

It’s unlikely that I’ll be getting a roller grill anytime soon, but with summer coming, I’ll eat my fill of hotdogs. I’ll be eating wieners at the Red’s games and BBQs. Summer is the season of road trips and convenience store snacks. I love summer, and I love hotdogs even more! Anyone need gas?

Kitty Pics

For shameless pictures of my two kitties, click the below image.

Speaking Ill of the Dead

When I was ten or so, I heard this joke: “What’s grosser than gross? Sitting on your grandpa’s lap when he pops a boner.” Although I dutifully laughed with my friends, I had no idea what a boner was. Because my own grandpa was often flatulent, I assumed that “popping a boner” meant “to fart.” I must have repeated that joke dozens of times, never knowing what it meant. I was fairly horrified when I learned what a “boner” really was.

Grandpa Ed was our grandmother’s second husband. I didn’t meet her first husband until I was 16 or 17. I remember Grandpa Ed as always old. He wore thick glasses and his remaining hair stood up in tufts around his ears. He put his teeth in a glass at night and, due to troubles with his hearing aid, always seemed to be yelling at us to either speak up or pipe down. He was a foot doctor of some sort. Before he retired for good, he kept an examination table and strange diagrams of the foot in one room of my grandparent’s house. My sisters and I found him terribly frightening.

As I’ve grown older, I’ve come to understand the joys of a well-functioning digestive system. With age, a good bowel movement becomes elusive and gas is a part of life. I now understand what mystified me as a child: why my Grandfather smelled so bad.

Farts are universally funny. As children, we were awed and fascinated by the toots Grandpa passed. We waited at least an hour to visit the bathroom after him. The best part of Grandpa’s stinks was the game we invented to play with them: Smell Grandpa’s Chair.

Imagine, four giggly sisters forever daring each other to smell Grandpa’s chair. He spent most of his day in an upholstered recliner, watching endless reruns of Perry Mason, only getting up to go to the bathroom or eat. The four of us would stalk him, waiting for an opportunity to sniff the chair. I vividly remember pressing my nose to the still warm impression his behind had left on the seat. I will spare you a description of the odor. Smelling Grandpa’s dining room chair was a lesser dare because it was wooden. After Grandpa had left the seat, the wood rapidly cooled, but a slight scent remained. His was a powerful stink.

When my Grandfather died, I did not miss him. I attended his memorial service and I cried, but I was only crying because my Grandmother seemed so sad. After the service, we returned to my Grandma’s house and I saw the couch where Grandpa had spent his last days. I wasn’t even tempted to sniff it. I suppose I finally outgrew that game.

As an adult, I am a little saddened that I only knew a caricature of my Grandpa. To me, he was a grumpy, smelly old man with no personality. However, I think he’d laugh if he ever knew how much entertainment we found in his recently vacated seats. Farts are funny whether your 5 or 85. What’s grosser than gross? Smelling your Grandpa’s chair – I dare you.

Meet Mimi

Well, we did it; we got a second cat. We brought Mimi home last Wednesday evening. As the two cats learn to get along, I am struck at how different, and how similar, they are.
Mimi loves to eat. Cleo couldn’t care less about food. Mimi is a lap kitty. Cleo detests laps, but will sleep on my chest at night. Cleo is aggressively playful with her toys, but Mimi is gentle. Cleo is fascinated with “outside.” Mimi doesn’t seem to notice a world beyond our walls.
Both kitties like to follow me around. They will often tolerate each other if they can be in the room with me. They both favor the same toy – a catnip stuffed mouse. Thank goodness I have two. Although I bought Mimi her own litter box, she prefers Cleo’s. The family that craps together…
They aren’t “best buddies,” yet, but both cats seem to be very interested in each other. They have frequent staring contests. When they get close, Mimi is easygoing, but Cleo growls, hisses, and postures. I’ve tried the recommended “tricks” to get Cleo to accept Mimi. I tried feeding them treats (Fancy Feast) together, but, while Mimi came running to wolf down her portion, Cleo wouldn’t come near it, even when she was alone. I tried brushing Mimi and then Cleo with the same brush, but Cleo hates the brush. The only positive, “together” experience I’ve been able to do is to pet and praise Cleo while Mimi is in the room.
They are both sweet kitties. If only they could be friends! I’ve read that introducing a new cat to your resident cat takes patience, perseverance, and, sometimes, six to eight months. I guess it is a little early to be expecting them to sleep together, wash each other, and toss the mouse back and forth. In the meantime, I am enjoying getting to know Mimi and appreciating Cleo’s quirks.

Truly Contagious

My sister Tabitha had a Jem doll. The doll was easy to pick on. She just didn’t quite integrate with Barbie’s world. Jem’s legs were freakishly large and her chest flat. Then again, who wouldn’t look oddly proportioned next to Barbie? Because Tabitha adored that doll, I had to make fun of it. I could drive her nuts by singing Jem’s theme song with altered lyrics: “Germ, is truly contagious, truly, truly, truly contagious!”

I finally made it back to work yesterday, but was sent home because, like Jem, I was truly contagious. Whenever I return to work after being sick, the second question my boss asks me, after the obligatory “How do you feel?”, is “Are you contagious?” As much as I wish I could see germs, I can’t, so I have no idea if they are launching themselves from me to others. Am I surrounded by a fuzzy virus cloud? Am I infecting everyone within a city block? Or has my body vanquished those little devils? In my ignorance, I’ve always repeated the same line: “You’re only contagious for the few days before you become symptomatic.” It made sense; the most successful virus would be the one that could jump from host to host before the first could know he was infected and isolated himself. However, my recent battle with the flu was so horrific that I would not wish it upon anyone, even my coworkers, so after giving my boss my usual flip answer by phone, I turned to the CDC for information on THE FLU.

Factoid 1: “Adults may be contagious from one day prior to becoming sick and for three to seven days after they first develop symptoms.” So – I was half right. A person is contagious before exhibiting symptoms (go germs!), but continues to transmit the virus for long after first becoming sick. Oops.

Factoid 2: “The main way that influenza viruses are spread is from person to person in respiratory droplets of coughs and sneezes. (This is called "droplet spread.") This can happen when droplets from a cough or sneeze of an infected person are propelled (generally up to 3 feet) through the air and deposited on the mouth or nose of people nearby. Though much less frequent, the viruses also can be spread when a person touches respiratory droplets on another person or an object and then touches their own mouth or nose (or someone else’s mouth or nose) before washing their hands.” First of all – GROSS, DROPLETS! Second, I probably received my dose of droplets on the city bus. DOUBLE GROSS! Third, my obsessive-compulsive hand washing at work probably did little to protect me. I have chapped my skin with antibacterial soap and hot water to no avail. Finally, I was spewing, no PROPELLING, viruses around office.

Factoid 3: “Although the term "stomach flu" is sometimes used to describe vomiting, nausea, or diarrhea, these illnesses are caused by certain other viruses, bacteria, or possibly parasites, and are rarely related to influenza.” At last! My intestinal distresslessness is vindicated! (According to the CDC, children often have gastrointestinal symptoms with the flu, but these symptoms are uncommon in adults.) I am such a grown-up invalid.

After confirming that I had indeed just suffered a bout of the flu, and that, at day seven, I was likely still contagious, I went home. Alas, it is now day eight. My contagious period should be over and, other than a gooey cough, I have no reason not to be at work. “Germ is my name, no one else is the same, Germ is my name!”

Cat on a Leash

Although many people consider a cat on a leash to be an abomination (my husband included), I have been leash training Cleo. It hasn’t been an easy task, but she finally got the hang of it last night.

After going back and forth with Mike over whether we should or should not leash train the cat, I bought a harness and a leash a week ago, Saturday. It is a figure 8 harness; it loops around her neck, crosses her back, and then loops around her ribs, just behind her front legs.

As soon as I got home from the store, I put the harness on Cleo. Aside from trying to bite the webbing, she was quite compliant. I then snapped on the leash and attempted to get her a walk. She turned into “cat-ball” – a ball of fur with no legs and her tail tucked up underneath. Our practice “walk” consisted of me dragging the fur ball across the dining room floor. While this could be a new way to polish the floor, I would be mortified if the neighbors saw me torturing the cat like this. I picked her up, carried her outside, and set her on the deck, thinking that the excitement of being outdoors would turn her from cat-ball to cat. No luck. I ended up carrying her and giving her a guided tour of the yard, while she trembled in my arms. I felt awful.

The next day, I turned to my favorite source of information, the internet, for advice on how to leash train a cat. The most sensible advice was a stepped program. First, put the leash and harness in an area the cat frequents, so that she gets used to them. Second, put the harness on her for 20-minute sessions, several times a day, indoors, until she becomes accustomed to wearing it. Next, attach the leash to the harness during those sessions. Then, practice walking around the house. Finally, walk outside. We never got past step two.

Cleo hated the harness. She remained compliant, letting me put the harness on and purring all the while, but she turned into cat-ball. She was frightened and mewed piteously. She rolled her cat-ball until she was against a piece of furniture or my legs. As we progressed, she would contort into odd positions, attempting to get out of the harness. I started out petting and talking to her during our “training,” but later gave her some time alone. When I left her, she would drag herself by her front legs to a piece of furniture and haul herself up. She refused to walk. Once, she did an odd back flip off the couch and wacked her head on the coffee table. I felt so bad for her.

I attempted to associate the harness with something positive. One day, we conducted training in front of the open door to the backyard. For a few moments, she forgot about the harness and sniffed interestedly at the night air, but, eventually, she drug herself into the dining room and hid on a chair under the table. I tried giving her cat treats during training time, but she ignored them. However, she did gobble the up after I took the harness off. I was hoping that she was beginning to associate the harness with treats and love.

Last night, I set her at the back door again, with the harness and leash on. She assumed the usual cat-ball position. Then, she drug herself over the threshold and onto the wet deck. Finally, she WALKED with ALL FOUR LEGS to sniff the recycling container and jump off the deck. When she tried to crawl under the deck, training was over.

Hopefully, tonight, she will cooperate again and we’ll be able to take a more extended tour of the backyard. I’m so proud of Cleo. She walked with the harness and leash on! No more cat-ball!

Deathly Ill

I think I almost died yesterday. After spending Wednesday sick at home and then Thursday back at work, I was struck down for good on Friday morning. I've spent the last 24 hours asking Mike to "kill me."

The first thing people assume when you tell them that you're too sick to go to work is that you're either puking or pooping your guts out. I feel like a big faker when I reveal that I have absolutely no intestinal distress. Although moving vehicles and elevators often make me queasy, I just don't get the barfing flu. And, just for the record, I've had problems with the other sort of involuntary evacuation only once in my adult life. I suppose I am a biological oddity. It certainly makes for a tidy bout of the flu.

I spent yesterday too weak to move. Only with great effort did I get up to eat or go to the bathroom. This morning wasn't much better, until I took my generic Day-Quil pill. Thanks to pseudo-ephedrine, I felt well enough to pick up the house, do some sewing, and fold laundry. I'm on the mend, but, oh, was that flu AWFUL. For anyone who hasn't had it yet, beware.

My Big Fat Lip

I have herpes. Not genital herpes, not space herpes, but the cold-sore on the mouth sort of herpes. I have a big fat swollen lip. I look bad and feel worse. And to make it all worthwhile, I have to endure other people’s comments on my condition.

The first sort of comment is a misguided attempt to be informative. Know-it-all says, “What’s wrong with your lip?” I say, “Cold sore.” KIA says, “Did you know that you have HERPES!” I say, “Yes I did, and thanks for announcing my plague to the world and making me extremely uncomfortable.”

The second type of comment is the immature variety. When informed that my swollen lip is the result of a cold sore, the Immature Person’s face takes on a knowing look and he slyly asks, “Who have YOU been kissing?”

So, if you are reading this. . . YES, I know cold sores are caused by the herpes virus. It is incurable and I am forever cursed. Drugs only lessen the outbreak and the only sure prevention is to avoid stress, sickness, and sun. NO, I did not get it from kissing anyone! My outbreaks began when I was in grade school. At that point, the only kissing I had done was one boy in kindergarten and I don’t think he gave it to me. And finally, YES, I know this whole post is quite indelicate.

Now leave me alone before I drink out of your coffee cup when you aren’t looking.

Old Candy

Confession time: I’m STILL eating Halloween candy. In October, having newly moved into our house, I was psyched about Halloween. I pictured a constant stream of goblins and ghouls coming to my door. Everyone knows that running out of candy is a major Halloween faux pas, and leaves you open to being “tricked.” In preparation of the big event, I bought bags of M&Ms, Baby Ruths, Butterfingers, Crunch Bars, Junior Mints, and Whoppers. I was prepared with at least five pounds of candy.

On Halloween, I had three groups of kids. They arrived in cars. What has happened to Halloween!? I thought there would be hordes of children wandering the streets. After the pathetic turnout, I was left with most of the candy.

Mike and I ate candy for a month. He quickly demolished the Butterfingers and Baby Ruths while I gorged on Junior Mints and Whoppers. In the end, we were left with M&Ms (mini) and Crunch Bars. Neither of us is fond of Crunch Bars and mini M&Ms are just annoying. After staring at the sad candy pile for another month, I took it to work. I intended to set it out in a bowl on my desk - better that my coworkers eat it than me.

Two months later, the candy bag has not left my desk drawer, but much of the candy has. I have wee M&Ms or chalky Crunch Bars daily. It’s crappy chocolate, but I get my fix. Sometimes, I offer candy to my boss, but most days, I furtively eat it alone. On Friday, I was overjoyed to find a desiccated Baby Ruth bar among the other candy.

I guess it could be worse. I could be eating 2003 Halloween candy.

I will be wearing giant underpants under this slinky gown. 

My First Girdle

Last night, I bought my first girdle. In fact, I think that’s what it was called: “My First Girdle.” Actually, it had a more clandestine name like “Waist Nipper” or “Middle Whittler” or something. I discovered that girdles are not just for old ladies.

I was looking for an undergarment to wear under a silky, slinky formal gown I am wearing to Mike’s Barristers’ Ball. It’s a recycled gown; I wore it to one of his USMC Birthday Balls. It’s gorgeous, but the silky fabric shows every bump. Last time I wore it, I couldn’t find a pair of underwear that didn’t show through, so I went commando. I felt a little exposed. Additionally, with no underwear or pantyhose to "pack me in," I had to spend the entire evening sucking in my stomach so that I wouldn't have an unsightly bulge. I was in serious gastrointestinal pain by the end of the night. Now that I live in the land of shopping malls, I journeyed forth to find appropriate underwear. Ideally, I was looking for a full body, strapless, shaping slip. Smooth, seamless, support.

I tried Dillard’s first. Although they had some fabulous shoes on sale, the formal undergarment section didn’t have anything that would work. Next, I went to JC Penney, where I found the slip and a girdle and GIANT underpants (i.e. bike short underwear). The only problem was that most of the garments were in sizes L, XL, 1X, 2X, 3X, and so on. Mediums were rare and Smalls almost nonexistent. After digging through the racks, I managed to find some appropriately sized underwear and took my booty to the dressing room.

The slip, while good in theory, was a disaster. It didn’t create a desirable shape. Instead, it smooshed my boobs, inhibited my walk, and did not flatten my stomach. Next, I tried on the girdle. I was a little afraid of something that fastens with 1,000 hooks, but it went on surprisingly fast. I looked incredible! I had a waist! No wonder these things were once so popular. It was sexy too, in a bondage sort of way. After admiring myself for a full five minutes, I took it off and tried on the first pair of giant underpants. They extended from just beneath my bra to mid-thigh. While the shaping was good, the quilted “control panels” were sure to show through the dress. The second pair of bike shorts had less obvious quilting, but weren’t quite as giant (in this case, "giant" is good). I debated between the sexy girdle and the giant underpants. Unsure as to which would be the least noticeable under the dress, I bought them both, with the intent of returning the loser.

Once home, I snapped the fabulous girdle on again and slipped into my dress. Unfortunately, the girdle boning was obvious through the gown. It was cool in a Seven-of-Nine sort of way, but I am not attending a Borg Ball. The bike shorts, while not attractive, were perfect under the dress.

I’ll be returning “My First Girdle” and wearing giant underpants to the ball. I am going to need some really sexy shoes to make me feel good about what I’m wearing under my gown.

I Would Like to Eat my Cat

Once upon a time, I went to my sister Sabrina’s house and saw a framed picture of her cat on the refrigerator. I thought this was endlessly funny and teased her mercilessly. Who takes a picture of their cat? And then, who would actually put it on the fridge? It’s just a cat, not a friend or a baby!

Now I must eat my words. Although I don’t have a picture of Cat on the fridge, I’ve taken at least 10 photos. I’ve posted one on my other blog (sort of an online version of the refrigerator photo gallery). I torture my coworkers almost daily with “cute cat stories.” I think about her constantly. I want to buy her everything in the kitty toy section at the store. I AM IN LOVE WITH MY CAT!

I never thought this would happen to me. I’ve always been an anti-cat person. We had a cat growing up, but she was not cuddly or very cute. In fact, I lived in terror of the nights my mother would bring her in and set her on my bed. If I moved any part of my body beneath the blankets, the cat would attack it with claws and teeth. Later, we got a dog and she stole my heart. I kicked the cat to the curb and decided that I must be a dog person.

When we moved into our house, I wanted a cuddly pet – the fish just wasn’t doing it for me. I considered a dog or a bunny or a kitten, but, in the end, an adult cat sounded like the least work and potential destruction. Mike and I got Cleo (a.k.a Cat) from one of his professors. I didn’t love her at first; I felt rather detached. In fact, when we thought she had run away, after having her for only a few days, I was sad only because I felt irresponsible. Now, she is a part of the family.

If you read Suburban Bliss, you know that Melissa often speaks of swallowing her children whole. I’d like to swallow my cat.

Why I am glad I'm no longer in the military: #1

I am allowed to chew while I walk. Oh, what utter, piggy joy it is to walk down the hallway at work with my mouth crammed full of Sour Patch Kids!