NEITHER RAIN, NOR SLEET, NOR GLOOM OF NIGHT...

We all know the United States Postal Service credo: "Neither rain, nor sleet, nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds". It's a good credo, a noble mission. And I think the good folks in uniform live up to it. They deliver in the heat, the ice and driving storms of every kind, and many do it on foot. It's impressive and very respectable. But wanna know what will potentially keep your mail from landing in the box in timely fashion?

Tight pants, big thighs and chafing around the... uh... well, the... inseam.

So a Washington state postal professional by the name of Dean Peterson has been petitioning that he and fellow carriers be allowed to complete their routes sans-pants. Not totally, however. He wants to wear a kilt. And it isn't so he can proudly represent his Scottish heritage, mind you. He's a 6' tall, 250-lb man of Norwegian/Finnish ancestry-- presumably with huge thighs and a sweating crotch. He just happens to have developed a love for kilts, ever since his wife brought him one back as a souvenir from a trip to Scotland. He explains that it's all about comfort in the nether regions. Thank God the wife didn't choose Hawaii as a vacation spot-- otherwise, he might be crusading to make rounds in a grass skirt.

As part of his campaign, Mr. Peterson waged a huge effort by mail (nice touch!), sending out over 1,000 letters to persuade the National Letter Carriers Association that "male unbifurcated garments" are better-suited for the male anatomy. (I feel a little tawdry using the word unbifurcated, by the way... it just sounds dirty, doesn't it? Like Chris Hanson might step out from behind a curtain or the local authorities might confiscate my computer as evidence in my L&L trial!)

Anyway, Mr. Peterson (far right) implored his peers to "open your hearts-- and inseams". The poor guy got shot down... but undaunted, he says he will take it to the next postal convention in Anaheim in 2010. I hope he does! Another supporter of the uniform addition (far left) asserts that kilts look professional and would promote esprit de corps, adding that "whenever you see someone in a kilt, they're always standing tall." I can only assume he means that in the literal sense... there's a big difference in standing tall and standing at attention! Especially in a pleated skirt!

I don't know why this story struck me so funny... But the fellow said he's now wearing his kilts to his son's football games and even while doing yard work. Oh, yeah, that's why it struck me so funny. If I ever saw a dude mowing a yard in a skirt, I'd have to pull my car over for fear of hitting another mailbox. Hmmm... Now, wouldn't that be ironic?

TRENDS IN BLOGGING

To the two or three people who actually read my blog: I apologize.

My good pal, Mikey G, pointed out that my posts of late have been a little inclined in one direction... the feline direction. He was actually grateful for the ShamWow bit and relieved that I'd finally broke up the monotony; he was in the process of staging an intervention, and I can't really say that I blame him.

Mike was also the first to point out the foot-themed trend that had ensnared me on both this blog and another one a few months ago. It's a good friend who cares enough to point out when you're veering from the right. So I thank the faithful who tune in and hold me accountable for decent subject-matter. I'm going to do better from now on... Well, until my kitten does something totally adorable... like nibbling at my freshly pedicured toes...

MY LAST CAT-THEMED POST

I'm swearing them off for a while, I promise. But I thought everyone should know, before I do, that kitty finally has a name.

Smidgey. As in a little smidgen of a cat. She's a small, midget-y spec of feline charm. It seems appropriate; it's the first name that really fits her to a tee. And it passes the "makin' copies" test... You remember the early-90's SNL character where Rob Schneider drove all of his co-workers crazy with his absurd litany of nicknames for anybody unfortunate enough to be using the copy machine? Smidgemeister... Smidgerini... The Smidgester... Smidge-o-rama... You get it. See, I need to be able to spin my pet's names into ridiculous variations, ad nauseum. But more importantly, Smidgey is a unisex name. Because I seem to be noticing that "she" has a couple of puffy little smidgies on her backside, just beneath her tail.

Yep. I think she has balls.

I'm not sure. I gave it a good grope and I still can't tell. And I asked Mark to check it out too, and well, he's just in denial. We both thought she was (and so wanted her to be) a girl. Frankly, I'm just not in to keeping a male cat in the house, because I'm scared to death of "spraying". Yuck. So the good news for Smidgey, if she has little-boy-naughty-bits, is that she will get to keep her claws. She will need them when she becomes an outdoor tom. She probably won't be keeping her naughty-bits... but at least she can let out her sexual frustrations by clawing things to bits.

I read that you can tell boy kittens from girl kittens, because little boys look like a colon ( : ) whereas little girls look like a semi-colon ( ; ). Punctuation for genitalia? Ya'll, that's just straight up confusing... ( ! ) I think the vet will just have to settle this, once and for all. And in the meantime, Smidgey's just free to be Smidgey... furry little backside-smidgies and all.

"THE GERMANS ALWAYS MAKE GOOD STUFF"

That's according to Vince, the quirky ShamWow pitch man. And this is just a wild guess, but I can assume the Germans had nothing to do with making the ShamWow commercial... it's torturous. Not completely unlike the death camps of Nazi Germany.

And yet, somehow, Vince is oddly captivating. Amusing. Almost likable. Vince is the Anti-Billy Mays. Billy may have Zorbeez, but he doesn't have Vince's charm.

I can practically quote the whole ad, and I bet you can, too. They run this spot in the ground, but I always look up and watch, transfixed, to see if any of the words have been re-edited. Plus, Vince is just so creepy and weird, I can't help but gawk. There's just so much going on in this rinky-dink little ad... it's kind of a "perfect storm" of advertising gone awry. I have many questions, and not one centers around whether the ShamWow really works...

• Why does Vince need the headset? Is it just for show, to subliminally communicate that this is a cutting-edge product, in spite of the cheap-o set and shoddy production-job? Or because mopping up liquids is just too action-packed for a regular clip-on mic? Or is it that the phone lines are blowing up and he's pulling double-duty, taking all those ShamWow orders?

• Is that fast-talking, snake oil-pitching, annoying Jersey accent legit? Or is Vince just playing the role of the streetwise huckster? Honestly, I can't tell if this is a character or the real Vince.

• "You followin' me, camera guy?" Ok, now, you're just harassing the help, Vince... What? You really think you're wiping up that spilled cola so fast that the camera couldn't possibly keep up?? Maybe you need a Sham-Cam mounted on your head, along with that headset.

• Olympic divers use ShamWow... Hmmm, do Olympic divers get wetter than other divers? We'd better get a boatload of ShamWows over to Beijing, stat.

• Did Vince forget to comb his hair before the shoot? Did he mess it up, putting on the headset? Is he frazzled in excitement over this product? Could that be a deliberately-coiffed faux-hawk? Nah... Vince probably just ran a quick ShamWow over his head when he got out of the shower, and it dried that way.

• Does the ShamWow work on cat-puke? My white carpet's starting to look a little rough now, with three pets in the house... and at $19.95, eight ShamWows (if I order within 20 minutes, or four if I wait 21 minutes) are a lot cheaper than calling 1-800-Steemer.

• Made in Germany. Really? Is that a selling point?? It's a cleaning rag-- not a Mercedes-Benz or a cuckoo clock.

• Vince has a googly-eye and therefore comes across like a shifty, shady street-grifter who, despite all attempts to go straight, still can't meet your gaze as he pulls back his trench coat to expose his specially-priced ShamWow stash... Shhh. So is the eye-squint because he feels guilty for shamelessly hawking the ScamWow? Or could it be that the ShamWow corporate benefits plan just doesn't cover vision care?

• Vince, do you really think people spend twenty bucks a month on paper towels? Uh, maybe if your last name is Duggar or Gosselin! We normal folk spend $3.88 for a two-pack of select-a-size Bounty.

• "Beware of ShamWow imitators"... what are they going to do to me? Drive me into a blogging frenzy?

Ya'll, Vince also has a MySpace profile, so he can evangelize about the wondrous powers of his little chamois and meet others who "buy, use and love" their ShamWows. I don't even want to contemplate the messes that result from loving your ShamWow. And not to leave any social-networking stone unturned, you can also find Vince on Facebook, YouTube and Flickr. I kid you not. He actually has 40 MySpace friends, and since I'm so intrigued, let's just make it 41... I sent him a Friend Request. I sure hope he accepts quickly... I mean, to use his line, "we can't do this all day".

I hope that one day Vince and the fringey-looking Progressive Insurance girl, Flo ("Wow... I say it louder!") hook up and have a litter of alien babies that carry on the family tradition and produce bizarre commercials for the next hundred years! Yesss!

Alrighty... climbing down from the soapbox now and taking care not to hurt myself on the way down. But if I do, just mop up the greasy spot with a ShamWow. Vince says it holds "twenty times its weight in liquid", so grab a handful and remember-- you won't even have to press. Just roll me up and wring me out into a Pyrex dish. I guarantee you'll be saying "Wow".

As a side note, in our next installment, we'll talk about Lee and Anne-Marie, the e-Harmony couple who are able to "balance each other out". Mark's nifty decoder ring interprets that to mean that the back of Lee's hand is matched to Anne-Marie's nose "along 29 dimensions of compatibility". Yes, Lee has a little anger-management problem... Why else would he need to be meeting his girlfriends online? Please ponder and be ready to discuss...

REDNECK CAT TAXI

"I know it looks like a Foxworthy joke... but this thing gets great mileage. I'm thinking of getting one of those 'My Other Car's a Bud' bumper stickers. What do you think? Yeah, you're probably right... too showy."

STUPID PET TRICKS

"This is my favorite new trick. I've spent hours perfecting it, and now I'm really good. Notice how I always "stick" the dismount and land firmly on my feet. It's quite a display of form, combined with artistic expression and technical prowess. The knocks to the head? Nah, they don't phase me... I don't mind suffering for my art. And, I don't mean to brag, but I actually have a pretty impressive repertoire of tricks for a cat my age.

See that tassel? It was once considered decor; now it's part of my extensive "personal cat toy" collection. Some might call me a spoiled brat-cat, but I deserve my shiny new life. If all those strays back at One Corporate Square could see me now. Poor schmucks.

I've started plotting my next conquest. Today, the tassel... tomorrow, the sofa. I believe in aiming high... and, uh, I kinda have this 'thing' for quality leather... " - Anonymous Feline

PS: Would someone help me out with a name? Please?? I'm having a bit of an identity crisis and am no longer content to refer to myself as "Anonymous Feline", already. I need a name befitting a star of my stature.

HURRICANE NO-NAME

The latest addition (still nameless) is thriving in her new surroundings... I wish I could say the same for the surroundings. Sheesh.

She's cut a swath of destruction through my entire house... there's not a leather chair or sofa without scratch marks from those little needle-like claws. The houseplants are showing signs of obvious distress. Nevermind the small fortune that's been spent on cat toys... her favorite pastime is climbing the corn plant and romping through the leaves when she gets to the top. A close second is jumping up to dig her claws into a tassel I have hanging from the doorknob on the pantry door. She hangs there for several minutes, swinging and kicking her back claws, then goes limp and gives the "look at me" glance which she tries to pass off as boredom. It's completely, albeit destructively, adorable. I've got to give this cat a name so she can stop showing out and start acting like a real cat: sleeping, purring, bathing... quietly and calmly. But for the name? I still don't know...

Today, I'm thinking "Category 5".

These photos were snapped just minutes after I displayed my awesome cat-snatching moves... and let me say, I was totally duped. We haven't had a moment like this since that first night. Hmmm, come to think of it, I always did fall pretty hard for the naughty ones...

IT'S THE FREAKIN' WEEKEND, BABY, I'M ABOUT TO HAVE ME SOME FUN

"Now, usually i don't do this, but uh... go ahead and break em' off wit' a lil preview of the remix..."

Only kidding. In fact, I can't believe I actually quoted that sleazeball R. Kelly, but I'm particularly excited about the weekend for some reason. I have absolutely nothing planned this weekend... so when I say "I'm about to have me some fun", it loosely translates to "I'm about to be a semi-comatose vegetable for the next 48 hours". Yessss.

I stayed at the office tonight until about 9, then made a quick jog to deliver some kitty comestibles to the funky bunch. I got to see the three siblings of my little Snicklefritz, and the big cats hoovered two cans of food. There was a full moon tonight, so everyone was pretty active. And now that my ministry to the fur-clad is complete, I'm in for the night. And the day. And another night. And another day. I'm all set for a hermit weekend! The 'fridge is stocked and I plan to hole up with a dozen back-to-back bad Lifetime movies and a box of Cheez-Its. I might even get a little crazy and run with scissors or place Ebay bids for things I don't even need.

I'm not sure whether anyone else gets off on these kinds of weekends... maybe it's just me, but I couldn't be happier. After a fast-forward work week, I guess you could say my "remix" is more of a "rewind".

Bounce-Bounce-Bounce-Bounce-Bounce-Bounce.

AN UPDATE ON OL' WHATS-HER-NAME

So the new kitty has been with me for about a week and a half and let me say she has thrown a kink in the domestic harmony at my place. How a tiny speck of a creature can completely take over an entire house is beyond me... she's ruling the roost. The Snark Sisters, who are very much like Si and Am (you know, the two cats from Lady and the Tramp-- "We are Siamese, if you please...") have not fully accepted her into the fold, but we are making gradual strides. Well, let's be honest, Spencer is mad at the world and fervently hoping the past 10 days have just been a terrible dream-- kind of like on Dallas when Pam "woke up" and realized Bobby had never died... except it would technically be the opposite of that. Sydney, on the other hand, has given the kitten a little bit of leeway. I've actually caught them snuggling on two occasions and sharing a food bowl once. It's becoming a little less like Jon & Kate Plus 8 at my house... gratefully... no poop, less howling.

The only snag is the little thing still doesn't have a name.

I was hoping that as her sweet little personality revealed more of itself, a suitable moniker would become obvious. It hasn't. I would like to stick with another S name, but that just makes it more difficult. I've Google'd famous cats, literary cats, cats from movies, cartoon cats, celebrity cat names... none of them seem quite right. And Mark and I have had this long-standing joke about pretentious people and their pets' names, ever since we were hiking over at Pelsor and met a yuppie couple who were running the trail with their labs, Ben and Jerry. Don't get me wrong, I think it's cute; but that's what brought up the topic of wannabe's who give their pets ridiculous vanity tags like Dolce and Gabbana... Beemer... you get the idea. It kinda makes you want to gag. I don't want to be one of those people. (Aw, heck, how could I be, really? I drive a banged up old Accord and have been blogging my fingers off all year about trying to pay off my credit cards... I guess there's not much pretense in that! ha!)

Anyway, I've started a list of names, but am finding something I don't like about each one. And now I'm beginning to feel weird that this cat has no identity. She will definitely need one before her first vet appointment, otherwise Dr. Amy will have to put her in the computer as "Jane Doe" Mannon. I'm certainly open for suggestions... pretty please. Otherwise, this poor animal is going to be hung with the name Toonces. Geez, I hope she has a high tolerance for old school SNL schtick... and doesn't mind driving a crappy old Honda...

THE VAST VORTEX OF LOST VALUES

I don't mean to sound overly dramatic, but do you ever feel like the world around you is a whirling, spinning vortex that's trying to suck you into its violent, common sense-deprived maelstrom?

I don't normally feel the need to play "King of the Hill" when it comes to the moral high ground. There's room for everyone on the mound, and I'm generally pretty tolerant of each person occupying their own place (wherever that might be) without input or judgment from my end. But events at work and in the world seem to be conspiring to pull me down to base level.

It was just starting to dawn on me, this need to dig-in my toes and try to maintain a firm foothold where I'm comfortable... in fact, it wasn't yet a fully realized posture, but more of a vague "the world's gone crazy" thought in the back of my brain. Then a couple of nights ago, I'm leaving the office and the radio station in the car is announcing the #1 song of the nightly "top seven at 7" and it's that ridiculous "I Kissed a Girl and I Liked It" ditty. I learned later that the singer is Katy Perry, the middle daughter of two pastors (they must be so proud). So as I drive, I'm marveling to myself, "Did the good people of northwest Arkansas really take the time to call in and make sure this song about "the taste of her cherry Chapstick" claimed the #1 spot? And then it dawns on me that the people who call in and vote for songs are teenage girls...

Brittnee and I had just been talking about the glorification of Jamie-Lynn Spears' in the media and how this 17-year old girl has basically pimped her story, photos and privacy to OK Magazine for a cool million. She's quoted as saying she had a "perfect pregnancy and a perfect delivery" and that being a mother "is so much fun... I just want to hug her and kiss her, and I'm happy all the time." That's good to hear, Jamie-Lynn, and I sincerely wish all parents felt like you do, but the simple fact is you are barely old enough to drive and take care of yourself. And the Zoey 101 crowd who looked up to you will probably think that getting pregnant at 16 is a pretty cool thing, because they can get rewarded with millions and magazine covers-- that is, if they aren't too busy calling in for songs about how "it felt so wrong, it felt so right" to kiss a girl and like it.

Laura Ingraham often refers to "the pornification of America" and that phrase kept coming to mind. I think that's a very apt way of describing what's going on in the world and in the media. As a society, we've become very de-sensitized to sexual innuendo and people who use their celebrity to promote all kinds of sleaziness. The media has shaped the cultural fabric of our country, and in fact are ripping it to shreds. You can't turn on the tv without seeing a couple of trashy reality-tv bimbos coming to blows over some unworthy thug or "news" programs that revel in celebrity mishaps, rehab, deaths, incarcerations, divorces and feuds. And the more outrageous the celebrity behavior, the higher the ratings. And this decay is at our fingertips 24/7, rebroadcast in perpetuity on the web. It makes me shudder to think how many kids are being raised without any real parental involvement, their moral codes being shaped by the things they see and hear on television and the internet. And while we're on the subject, commercials have gotten out of hand, too... Several years ago, cigarette ads were banned and Joe Camel came under a lot of scrutiny for the character's magnetism to kids. I think that's for the best. But I'm foggy on why it is now ok for half-naked babes to sell everything from hamburgers to domain-registration sites, while a garage band sings "Viva Viagara" and Smilin' Bob impresses the neighbors with his giant pharmaceutically-enhanced schlong. When did we turn into a nation of 13-year old boys?

So anyway, I get home (with the tune to "I kissed a girl" still stuck in my head) and flip on a little news. The buzz of the day is all about Reverend Jesse Jackson's off-mic statements about Barack Obama and how he wants to "cut his nuts off". What? I can't believe the Reverend JJ said that. This story got a lot of coverage, and not once did I hear anyone even question that a religious leader, one who has committed the past 40 years to equality and political pursuits, would suggest that kind of physical harm, even metaphorically. I kept trying to imagine other political/religious figures (Mike Huckabee or Martin Luther King, Jr., for example) making such statements. I just couldn't. I tried to envision my own father, an evangelist for the past 33 years, making such a statement... it flies in the face of everything that a spiritual leader embodies. How can you lead other people when that's what's in your heart? I'm not saying that this makes Jackson a terrible person, but it's certainly not befitting a man of his supposed stature.

The next morning, I came into work and the entire office was talking about Matt Jones' arrest. I don't follow football or athletes, but the name is vaguely familiar and apparently Jones, the former U of A quarterback turned NFL pro, was quite respected as a christian and role model for youth in this area. So it shocked and disappointed a great many people to hear of his felony drug arrest. Which leads me to think about rehab... it's become so very fashionable, despite Amy Winehouse's "no-no-no" protests, and I have to think that, for celebrities and people who live their lives in the proverbial fast lane, the prospect of chilling out for a few weeks (without all the pressure, the paparazzi and the constant scrutiny of living under a magnifying glass) has to be pretty appealing. But amid all the speculation about rehab and what will happen with Matt Jones, one thing stands out: there's always something really sad about a fallen hero. Especially one who is caught white-handed with six grams of cocaine.

No one's perfect. But guess what? No one's expected to be. I spent a lot of hours pondering "what I'm supposed to be" last month, before my class reunion. And I realize now that it was such a waste of time. So I guess the whole point of this insanely long rant is that, yes, it sometimes feels like people have lost their grip on good ol' fashioned right and wrong... on integrity and values... and mostly on accountability. The world is an imperfect place. But what we have control of, and in fact all we have control of, is ourselves. And right now, I think my focus needs to be on keeping a tighter grip on the values that the cherry Chapstick-flavored, drug-addled vortex is trying to wrangle from me.

ALERT: CAT BURGLAR IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD

And guess what? The cat burglar is me. I did it... I snatched myself a wild cat!

I was in Fayetteville Saturday night and had about 20 minutes to kill, so I decided to drop in on the feral kitty colony to see how my little friends were faring. And when I pulled up, I saw a new face... a sweet little siamese face that I'd swear was smiling at me as it playfully chased leaves blowing across the sidewalk.

I knew there were kittens on the premises... Mark and I had heard them once or twice, many weeks earlier, but we had never seen them so had decided that either they didn't make it or that the momma cat had moved them elsewhere. So I immediately fired off a couple of quick text messages to let Mark, who was nearby, know of my exciting find. He messaged right back, "BRT!"

So I crept out of the Hoopty and sat down on the sidewalk, near the kitten. It was playing alongside its mother and had laid down beside her, still playing and distracted by the rustling of the leaves. I sat there for several minutes, just cooing at them in my most wheedling of babytalk voices as I gradually inched closer. I couldn't believe they didn't run off immediately! In fact, they let me get really close until a gust of wind noisily blew a bunch of leaves into the air, sending the kitten scurrying under the step of the wooden deck. In an instant, I knew it was just the right time to make my move. I alit to the top of the deck, crawled on all fours to the edge and waited for lil' sweet-face to scamper back out. It did come out a couple of times, but darted back in before I could grab for it. So here I am, on my hands and knees... holding my breath... waiting... stalking... when Mark pulls up, just in time for the big "Gotcha!" moment. He got to witness, firsthand, the comedic pose of my swooping up the sweet little sprite. I don't know who was more stunned-- me, the kitten or Mark!

I'm sorry, ya'll... but I just have to brag a little here. This was a feat of athleticism unparalleled in my absurdly uncoordinated life. I was stealthy, silent and lightning-fast! Like Ted Nugent with french-manicured tips instead of a crossbow! No dogcatcher with a net ever did it any better... and no champion cat-wrapping vet could have exercised more precise technique. I'm pretty much the bomb-diggity of cat-nabbers.

Anyway, swiping a cat will pretty much wipe out your plans for the evening, so I headed right home with my confused little charge. I still had a can or two of Kitten Replacement Milk left over from the baby raccoon last July (it's pure coincidence, I don't know what prompts me to latch onto wayward baby animals this time of the year), so we settled in and got to know each other over a bottle or two for the next several hours.

Come to find out, sweetie-pie is a little girl with an extremely sweet disposition and boundless energy for running, playing and chasing strings. She is quite talkative, mewing constantly in her high-pitched squeak of a meow... has taken to the litter box quickly (thank goodness)... and will most likely tear up my leather furniture with her Gillette-like claws. She leaps, mid-air onto everything in sight, her claws splayed out so they can attach to whatever. My shins look like I've been in a fight with a liger. I'm totally freakin' smitten.

But the cutest thing of all is Mark... he's, like, couch-jumping, tomkat crazy over this beautiful, blue-eyed, 10-ounce furball. Seriously, he will probably be on Oprah next week, pumping his arms in Neil Diamond/Jazz Singer fashion and yelling, "I'm in love!" while jumping on my shredded leather couch and intermittently pounding his fists on the floor. Unlike the Tom Cruise shenanigans, though, this is really sweet and totally un-creepy. Mark's wanted me to get a kitten for a long time, but I've been reluctant-- just not wanting to live up to the Crazy Cat Lady standard (two is cool, three is unbalanced). But Mark keeps encouraging me, thinking it might reinvigorate the Snark Sisters,who are in dire need of reinvigorating.

So much for that theory.

Les Snarks are no longer speaking to me. The only thing it has reinvigorated so far is their ugly side. They are all hissy-catty-spitty-spatty. My pad is like Jon & Kate Plus 8: The Feline Version right now... lots of howling and chaos and poop. But it's ok...we'll get there in time. And until then, the baby needs a name. I'm thinking... Suri?

IT'S HARD TO BE HUMBLE

Yes, she knows she's pretty darn adorable.

PEEK-A-BOO

THE CAT-NAPPER

Being held by the Cat-Nabber

I DON'T EVEN HAVE WORDS...

Suffice it to say that this is one of the funniest things that's happened at work so far this year. I will enthusiastically celebrate McClure Day (by eating copious amounts of chocolate, of course) every year from now on.

THE CRAZY CAT LADY STRIKES AGAIN

Since I blogged about them in my last post, I thought I might include a photo of the kitty darlings. Aren't they sweet? There are seven all together, but only three or four that we see routinely. The little grey one sitting on the bench and the black one on the deck are the two that always run up to the car and allow us to get close. It's my mission to eventually win them over with food... it works with men, so why not cats? :-)

I hear you... I know it's nuts. Gas is four bucks a gallon, and I'm still willing to hop in the car several times a week to check on my feline friends. But get this... over the weekend, I read that the homeless pet population in the U.S. is so overwhelming that every man, woman, child and infant would have to adopt SEVEN animals each to curtail it. Can you believe that? Well, this self-admitted Crazy Cat Lady will just have to visit the homeless and dote on them from afar, because my two fuzzy little snarks at home are all I have room for. Spencer and Sydney are not willing to share the princess bed (not to mention they're so fat it barely contains the two of them). And now that I'm finally sans-dog (oh, yes, Lightning finally went home yesterday! Holla!), there's no way I'm adding any other creatures to the Mannon menagerie anytime soon. Besides, it just doesn't look right for a 37-year old single woman to have too many pets... I'm not that anxious to conform to stereotypes. Next thing you know, I'll be living up to the other one about getting killed by a terrorist, since that's apparently more likely for me than a marriage proposal at this age. Ok, that's enough about me...

Now for the rest of you: Don't you people remember what Bob Barker told you every day for 30 years? Get your pets spayed or neutered! If everyone practiced good stewardship, we wouldn't have a bunch of homeless animals running around... and we sure wouldn't have a bunch of Crazy Cat Ladies running around with cases of Iams in their cars! Yep, just so you know, I'm blaming my quirks on you.

LUCKY 777, ARE YOU FOLLOWING ME?

I hate to look a gift horse in the mouth, as the saying goes, but considering the run of ill luck I've had lately (and the nagging feeling that the universe it speaking directly to me through a freakin' bullhorn), I thought I might share the latest oddity here.

Well, you know how Mark and I build "good kitty karma" by looking after the forgotten and neglected felines of the world? Oh, maybe I haven't shared that here... let me back up and tell that story first. Sometime early last fall, we noticed some kittens scampering around in a parking lot at an office building in Fayetteville. Realizing that we'd stumbled upon a colony of feral cats, we instantly "adopted" them. We also look in on two that we call Barnes and Noble, because they hang out in front of the bookstore. Anyway, throughout the fall, all winter and spring, and even now that it's summertime, we go and check on our feline charges one to three times a week. Our two favorites are at the old IBM building, across the street from Walgreens, so we have a habit of trekking over there to buy canned food and Pounce first. We secretly nurture the hope that one day they will let us touch them, but physical contact has been pretty slow-going. They do recognize the car and will run up to it and meow in anticipation; they are generally eager to accept our treats, which we consider an honor (crazy how cat fanciers interpret things that way). Once in a while, we vary the routine and take leftovers from home or buy pouches of tuna. Last night, we had a little picnic there and fed them pieces of shrimp and Canadian bacon from the salad we brought with us. I know it sounds kind of strange, communing with the cats, but we are very attached to these whiskered little sprites. And that's where my tale begins.

We had called Tim's and ordered a super-salad to go, then dropped in at Walgreens for catfood on the way. We stepped up to the register, paid for our items and received $7.77 in change. We joked about it with the clerk, laughing among ourselves that it was our lucky night and that we should point the car toward West Siloam and make tracks over to Cherokee Nation. We didn't though... I mean, it was 9:30 and we hadn't had dinner and that super-salad was beckoning (plus I'm too much of a cheapskate to gamble!) Anyway, we pull up and I hop out to pick up the food. The waitress rings it up and says, "That'll be $7.77." Ooooh-eee-oooh. Isn't that freaky? Back-to-back $7.77 incidents! As soon as I opened the door of the car to get in, I said, "You won't believe what the total was!" Mark thought I was making it up.

Later on, we were driving home along 71-B through Springdale and saw a billboard advertising some sort of gaming, with cards reading "777"on it... I don't really consider that a positive harbinger, since that board has been there a while and had no direct relation to me, personally. It's just something I zero'd in on because of the other two happenings. And by that point, I was also longing for another brush with the ubiquitous triple-sevens.

So I'm wondering if I should've come home and played a few hands on Pokerstars? Am I getting ready to take a trip on a Boeing jet? Should I infer something about the seven days of the week? Seven phases of the moon? Seven seas? Wonders of the world? Colors of the spectrum? I'm not sure... But I'll tell you this, I'm kinda relieved it wasn't 666! Only kidding... I don't actually believe in all that "Mark of the Beast" hocus-pocus, owing to my personal convictions about its biblical misinterpretations. But I'm also not taking any chances! :-)

You know, come to think of it, there are a total of seven cats at that office building... Hmmm... Maybe there's something to building "good kitty karma" afterall...

TRANNY TOILETS... THAT'S FIERCE

In a bold move of political correctness, a high school in Bangkok, Thailand, has taken the concept of the "unisex" restroom to a whole new level. This semester, the school has added a trans-gender toilet for students. The principal had the restroom built in response to a survey revealing that 200 (roughly 8%) of the school's 2,600 students considered themselves trans-gendered. The lavatories are designated with the words "Transvestite Toilet" and bear a symbol of a human figure that's half man/half woman, split down the middle.

Seriously.

The principal justified the decision, stating that students should be able to "go" in peace, without being "watched, laughed at or groped." He said that using the girl's room made the female students feel somewhat uncomfortable, while using the boy's room often resulted in harrassment. (Tough crap... haha... ok, sorry.)

So let's see if I can follow this crazy-train of thought... First, we're going to build a "teen queen" hang-out (with good lighting, please, so everyone can pluck their eyebrows between classes). And now, the students who already enjoy harrassing these poor confused boys will know exactly where to find them... plus they'll now be able to kick their tranny butts behind closed doors. Hmmm... Mr. Principal, I don't think we've thought this one through.

I don't know where to start, there are so many angles to this story. I am extremely tolerant of others' lifestyles (perhaps overly so), but even I have to ask is this really solving a problem? How about investing in resources and counseling to help these kids with their gender/identity issues? Might we have attempted to enforce stricter consequences for the kids who harrass the boys who dress like girls? Is building separate restrooms not further segregating the students from their peers? And is this not a validation that could potentially influence other kids to join in trans-gendered activity? And where, oh where, are the parents?

From what I've read, the Thai culture is much more tolerant of alternative lifestyles than we are in the good ol' US of A, but it's unthinkable to me that this would take place in a high school anywhere. High school, folks. Back in the day, all Ferris Bueller wanted was a teeny little day off. And this principal in Thailand? Well, if you ask me, he makes Mr. Rooney look like a real smart guy. And as a homage to the brilliance that was (and is) Ferris Bueller's Day Off, I'll exit with a quasi-quote from the end of the movie: "I bet you never smelled a real tranny toilet before." Nope. And I hope I never do.

SIGNS FROM THE UNIVERSE

Have you ever felt like the universe is giving you a sign?

Like maybe you've deviated from the plan and it's time to get back on track?

I find myself feeling that way, as of late.

It kinda started as a niggling in the recesses of my sub-conscious, about the time of this whole silly business of my 20-year class reunion-- which for some reason seems to have dredged up every twinge of juvenile insecurity I ever felt. I'm not sure why it has consumed my thoughts the way it has. My best friend, Melonie, tells me I should pull out my Prom Queen tiara and don it for the reunion... as if it has some kind of magical Stuart Smalley-esque power. She's convinced that it's ensconced somewhere in glass (like the Hope diamond) in my closet or something. Honestly, I think I threw it away years ago. I'm not really one to form sentimental attachments to gee-gaws from my past... that, to me, just reaffirms how bizarre all of these anxious feelings are, in the first place. I think the universe is trying to tell me something.

Ok, so I'm unsettled about reuniting with my classmates. And as a result, I'm now devoting an inordinate amount of time (it's bordering on a compulsion, I'd say) obsessing about skin care. I'm spending mad money on medi-spa treatments and all manner of topical "snake oils". And I'm constantly Googling to learn more about collagen and peptides and hyaluronic acid and dermal fillers and anything that might possibly restore the dew of youth to my aging face. Ironically, my skin looks worse than it did before that ridiculously expensive bottle of Sonya Dakar (but it sure does smell nice). So I'm all broken out and flaky-- and since I'm avoiding the sun, I look like something from an opening scene of Six Feet Under (you know, that show was always chock full of traumatic deaths and frightfully realistic-looking corpses). Anyway, I shouldn't even be spending my money on this crapola... I'm supposed to be paying off my cards. So now I feel even worse about myself...What in the world am I doing? I think the universe is trying to tell me something.

So then there was the little fender-bender. Ah, yes. A true wake-up call. I'm still not sure exactly what happened, because it all happened so fast. But given my new found fixation on my skin, I wouldn't be surprised to learn that I had the visor pulled down, looking at my face instead of the road and oncoming mailboxes. I gotta tell you, I was rattled by that whole thing. I mean, I can't even keep my 1992 Honda between curbs? Really? Plus I was miffed about having to drop 700 bucks (that's five facials!) for my neighbors' replacement mailbox... not to mention its deep cut into my "get out of debt" initiative, which is really supposed to be the priority here. And it also cut into the joy I felt when the big, glossy, long-anticipated Mercedes catalogue finally arrived. What? No joy from the sporty centerfold? I think the universe is trying to tell me something.

Next, I had to get the Hoopty in shape for a weekend trek down to Little Rock. Mom and I had planned our spa day at the Rejuvenation Clinic for weeks (again, I'm getting spiffed up for those classmates!) and I realized that, even though the windshield had been replaced, the car really wasn't road worthy. It needed an oil change, wiper blades, a set of new tires and a brake job. That's a total of over $850, just so I can get in one last round of micro-dermabrasion before Saturday and shop for the perfect reunion outfit. That's freakin' nuts. I'm starting to feel like "Misplaced Priorities" should be my middle name. I think the universe is trying to tell me something.

Before I could get on the road for Little Rock, though, I had a dentist appointment... and though I haven't had a cavity in, like 28 years, I found out that I'm going to have to have an old filling removed and re-filled. Plus, in my quest for a pearly-white smile, I'm also brushing my teeth so hard that I'm damaging my gums. I've never had a periodontal exam before... they rammed a little metal rod into my gums to assess the health of my gums. That made me feel really old. I think the universe is trying to tell me something.

So on Tuesday, I take a quick lunch break to see the doctor. I'm really only needing a refill on a script, so I feel that this office call is a bit of a formality. Until the nurse takes my blood pressure, that is. The first reading is 161 /113. We finally settle on 150/101, which is still serious. Now, I'm really falling apart. I think the universe is trying to tell me something.

So I've had a little time to reflect on the events of the past few weeks. And I think I've figured it out. The universe REALLY IS telling me something. Slow down. Regroup. Stop worrying about superficial stuff like red C350's and making my face look 29 again. It's time to adjust. Adapt. Overcome. Get back to basics. Be healthy. Be organized. Form a new routine. Act like a grown-up. Stick to the goals that will make me a more attractive person on the inside-- not on the outside.

I'm still not sure how much the things going on around me are to be perceived as meaningful... I think time helps us sort it out. Some of us are just worse at interpreting the signs, I suppose. I'm clearly not in tune with discerning these little messages-- mainly because I've become so distracted by the minutia. But ok, universe... you don't have to beat me senseless... I get it! I read you, loud and clear!

WILTED, FADED FLOWERS

So it's Wednesday night and I'm tuned in to O'Reilly to get my weekly "Miller Time" fix, along with a little fair and balanced coverage... when, lo and behold, something happened that threw my whole universe completely off-kilter: Gennifer Flowers and Paula Jones. There ain't nothin' fair about that, let me tell you.

First of all, I wasn't mentally prepared for a plastic invasion of this magnitude... I darn near hit the floor in throes of pain, my retinas starting to smoke. The years may not have been a friend to these two, but it seems that these two are now friends to each other-- friends joined in the common bond of unbridled avarice. The two jilted Clinton cast-offs have teamed up to film "Two Chicks Chatting". Seriously. They have taped an interview together, and are charging $1.99 to view excerpts of them as they swap stories of the slick willie. It's incomprehensible to me that even these two are tacky enough to do this... and that they're honestly trying to make a buck. I visited the site to see if all the hype is true, and unfortunately it is. They even take PayPal!

When you're only real claim to fame is being some bimbo that the president bonked for a dozen years, do you really want to dredge all that up? Apparently so. The whole thing seems really oddly-timed to me-- but then I realized that with Hillary out of the race, these two saw that their window of opportunity was barely cracked and decided to go ahead and throw a little dirty laundry right out (sorry, that conjures up visuals of Lewinsky's stained blue frock, and I think I just threw up in my mouth).

But the foremost question in my mind is what in the Sam Hill happened to Gennifer? Other than Bill, what did she do? I'm the first to say that I don't believe in "growing old gracefully"... I believe in fighting it tooth and nail. But in Gennifer's case, I think the teeth and the nails won.

Who says greed isn't ugly?