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Cool Cat?

Trust me. Once you get a cat, your cool status is over. You’re automatically labeled a “cat person”, which I personally don’t think is fair. At all. I mean, just because my kid wants a cat – and I indulge her – how does this make me a cat lover?

Just to be fair, what if I let you read the adoption form – the one that asks the question what we’ll do if the cat tears up the furniture and my husband M responded “hide from my wife” – would that influence your opinion? And what if you were privy to the many discussions – including my dislike for cats, cat posters, cat witticisms, etc. – that were part of the adoption interview process? What would you think now?

The only thing I promised was that we’d give the damn cat a good home. (I won’t turn any living being out onto the street, even if it’s just a cat.) But I never committed to belonging to a (the?) cat society.

Now, fast forward to PEOPLE. PEOPLE, the slobs of our society who judge us daily, will categorize you as a cat lover in an instant. (Particularly “Cat People” – they want you to join so badly it just kills them.) As an example, my mother – my own sweet (heh!) mother – has recently betrayed me by gifting me with cat crap. Actually, I should clarify. Mom gave the gifts to G, as she is Cat’s rightful mistress. And, despite G being a mere 5 years of age, she is now the proud owner of 1) 2 cat coffee mugs, 2) a cat plant hanger, and 3) cat book labels – (“Ex Libris”!).

So work with me, people. I’m taking a stand to say that cat owners and cool people can exist harmoniously – or bi-polarly – or whatever. What I mean is that we, as individuals, can live in both worlds. One minute I’m entranced by the cat attacking the Oriental rug, and the next I’m grooving to Ricky Martin and watching re-runs of the “Golden Girls”. So who says I can’t be both frisky AND super-cool? Give me some credit, folks. It’s called “dimensional.” DUH.

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In the true spirit of Christmas, I saw a major wrong be righted this year. Oh, how it makes my blessed heart sing! What, ye ask? ~You see, it all started last year~ [enter hazy dream sequence]…

“Oh, a letter from my mother-in-law! It could only be the renewal of my Us Weekly that she gives me every year!” I squeal delightedly. (By the way, my skin looks very good here.)

[face overcome with horror, sits down to process information] “Oh God, dear sweet Jesus, it cannot be so!” (Skin less so, but do you see my fabulous hair?)

Then, to poor husband M, “What’s up with your mama???!!! How selfish can she be – adopting unfortunate families instead of providing us with the Hollywood chronicles I so crave and need? WHO DOES SHE THINK SHE IS??????? How unfortunate are these families? I mean, are they having to read “HELLO!” or “InTouch” or what? Good Lord, even if they’re necessitated to read the “Star”, how bad can it be? At least they get a third of their stories right!”

[Growing older, wrinkly and less shallow by the day] “M, there isn’t much time left. I hardly know what’s going on out there. It’s as if oxygen has been denied my lungs. [gasp] I don’t even know who Snooki is. [wheeze] I have no idea who won ‘Dancing with the Stars’. [now with tears in pleading eyes] Don’t you understand the urgency? Good God, man, I may be reduced to reading physics books soon!”

Fast forward to Christmas 2010, when my stocking (the nasty polar bear one, same as his) is stuffed with “Shania Twain, ENGAGED!!!!” Not only does my heart soar, it’s as if my soul has flown out of my humanly chest and in to heaven!

It just illustrates what I always say, “Goodness triumphs over evil.” If only more people had my Christian spirit… (But you know how shallow people are these days.)

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The Age Phase

When did I realize I was becoming an old person? It’s hard to say for sure.

I developed a penchant for sensible footwear several years ago when young people wore Tevas and Merrells. I only recently discovered those are the shoes of old people, when my mother-in-law was wearing a pair of clogs similar to my own and I complimented her on how hip she looked. It was then that I was struck by the realization that she wasn’t as “hip” as I was completely “unhip”.

Since then, I’ve noticed other odd things, like my personal struggle to stay awake until the sun goes down. And never mind watching prime-time TV; I don’t know why they have to broadcast the good shows in the middle of the night, anyway. And if not for my afternoon naps, I fear I’d go to sleep before Little G gets home from school. Is this normal for someone who has yet to hit the big 4-0??

Compounding these fears is the fact that I bought a large part of my Christmas gifts from the drug store. With dancing/singing penguins and cold-medicine and work gloves and Chia Pets all under one roof, I really don’t see the need to go to the crowded mall, do you? The only crowded place I can stand nowadays is the Olive Garden, where you can take home leftovers and feed yourself for days. I even ask for extras of those delicious little mints they give you…oh wait, this is making me sound old again, right?

With the recent cold snap, I have to double-up on socks and undies and layer a good three quarters of the clothes and coats in my closet just to go to the grocery store. Inevitably, I see a young person there in a t-shirt, mini-skirt and Uggs. It’s like the only cold thing on these girls is their feet.

Oh, and speaking of aging, M (who finally fixed my bathroom lighting) removed a bulb a couple of weeks ago. Apparently he saw dimming the lights as a legitimate way to ease my inner conflict about whether or not to inject poison to my face. (I have always planned on growing old gracefully; I’m just not ready to do it yet.) Amazingly, he was right. When not under a spotlight, I look much younger. Although I should give much credit to my facialist, whom I have on speed dial (if there were such a thing anymore).

I hope this old person phase passes quickly. I am not prepared to spend the remainder of my life sitting in rockers outside Cracker Barrell and tucking sugar packs in my pocket book to add in my Sanka.

Update: I broke down and went to the mall today. Ladies, are we not wearing Christmas sweaters anymore, or are y’all just behind the times???

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I don’t know why I got my hopes up. I should have known it takes longer than 9 years to select some simple stockings for the mantle. (And we know M likes to take his time with his to-do list.)

From the first Christmas we were together, I have wanted stockings. Because M fancies himself to live in Maine or somewhere where reindeer sweaters are acceptable menswear, he insisted that he select our stockings himself. I don’t know if he is super-picky (yes) or if it is really that difficult to find 1980′s ski chalet fashions, but we have never gotten around to buying the stupid stockings.

Actually, to be fair, I should note that my mother made us some very nice stockings one year. The problem was she used her own socks as the pattern, and you can’t really stuff more than a candy cane and a couple of quarters into a size 5, which is not nearly enough for me. So back to the ski chalet stockings.

M’s mom gave us a stocking for little G this year (she’d accidentally ordered 2 from Land’s End). So this was the spark that lit the fire under M’s ass to finally buy some damn stockings for ourselves. He went online, ordered them, and they arrived within days. (Thank you, Land’s End.) The problem came when we unwrapped them. Mine said, “Momma”. Um, who is “Momma”? Is that like “Big Momma’s House”? I have always been “mama”, as was my mama and my grandmama (not to mention Thelma Harper).

So anyway, he had to return Momma’s stocking to Land’s End, whose customer service people were probably confused from the get-go thinking they were attracting a hipper, more urban demographic these days. Bless their hearts.

My new “Mama” stocking should be here soon, and maybe we’ll cross “stockings” off the to-do list for good. Then it will be a toss-up as to what M will tackle next – either shoring up the retaining wall like the inspector told us to do when we bought our home in 2002, or moving out of my dining room as I beg him to do each day? Or, naturally, there is always the third and most probable option – pause and reflect on the glory of the stockings. It’s a Christmas miracle!

UPDATE: the new stocking was ordered (by you-know-who) with the wrong pattern – the same as Daddy’s polar bear. So now he has to return it AGAIN. (!!!) The only stockings still available are the teddy bear for the over 70 crowd, and the very dark Santa/reindeer scene. How is it possible I will go stocking-less for another year?

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Stop pestering me about why I haven’t posted recently. I’ve had a terrible cold – the kind where you ache even when you’re lying perfectly still in a comfortable bed – and I wasn’t sure if I’d pull through it or not. Since it seemed like rather a waste to post messages for you to read only after I was already dead and gone, I decided not to risk it. But the good news is it appears I am going to live after all. My skin, which previously could only be described as cadaverous, has now shifted to being merely wan. And my voice, lost for two full days (you’ve never seen M so content), is almost back completely. It’s still kind of a deep, throaty voice that I’d love to have as my normal speaking voice instead of the chirpy one I usually have. (Note to self: research how to permanently damage vocal chords in order to sound Debra Winger-ish every day.)

You know how I don’t like to go on and on about myself (haha, snort), so I should mention that M and little G were also sick, although not nearly as pathetic or whiney as I. G, being 4, didn’t let it slow her down one bit. M chose to handle his cold differently, and his condition improved pretty quickly. See, being a man, M refuses to go to the doctor. So what he did was diagnose himself with a sinus infection. Knowing the doctor would prescribe amoxicillin (as they do for everything ranging from a broken arm to pneumonia), he took it upon himself to obtain the drug ghetto-style. He learned that amoxicillin is also used in fish tanks, so he simply went to the pet store and bought some. The medicine bottle literally has a picture of a fish on the front of it. Each capsule contains 500mg, so he fixed himself right up. (Please don’t interpret this as medical advice; I feel sure he will sprout fins any day now.)

With our keen ability to diagnose ourselves with any condition we read about on the internet or watch on TV, I don’t know why we shouldn’t be issued our own prescription pads. It seems like this would save a lot of time and not cost our insurance company nearly as much – although we would probably have to get it under M’s name, since some people probably would assume giving a prescription pad to an admitted alcoholic might lead to trouble. I know. People can be so judgmental.

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