Irregular, but Heartfelt.

1. Taking care of a sick baby - feeling competent and appreciated

2. Signing up for a Woman's Workshop

3. Vodka on the rocks

4. Budget-thingy working out fine so far.

5. Krishna Das

It's all in the Attitude.

Don't be fooled! I've been grateful almost every day, even if I don't write about it here.

1. Beatles radio on ITunes

2. Craig reading and cracking up in the other room

3. Getting the spare room (optimistically called 'the office' around here) back into shape

4. Walking in the crisp, cold winter air

5. Trusty old Honda, handling great in the ice and snow

More Gratitude.

1. My husband.

2. My husband.

3. My husband.

4. My husband.

5. Doing yoga breaths together at 5 am when nerves are all jangled.

Yes We Did.

A Maybe-Daily Excercise in Being Happy with What Is.

1. Soft down comforters

2. A job filled with sloppy baby kisses

3. The library

4. Yoga and unexpected moments of self-love

5. Asparagus-stuffed ravioli and olives

In Which I Post An Old Online Conversation Between Craig and Myself. And You Wonder Why We Fell In Love and Got Married!

Tanya:

Everybody always picks on Tonya Harding! Oh, well, I suppose it's rough when you reach a certain level of elegance and class - people are aaaalways jealous of you then!

Mucky:

Yeah, RIGHT!

'Scuse me. I'm going out to the barn to milk the chickens.

Tanya:

Okay, but wash them first!

Mucky:

Oh, of course. Warm wash, little bleach. Tumble dry. I always throw a little fabric softener in, too, to keep the chickens cuddly and smelling fresh.

Tanya:

Do you use those little fabric sheets for the dryer - you know, to keep them chickens from clinging to your sweater?

Mucky:

Yes, I use Smuggle(TM) fabric softening sheets.

Tanya:

Soooo...they make your other clothes look like you're smuggling chickens under them? Or do you just take on an air of pure superiority and smugness? Tiring minds want to know.

Mucky:

Well, if you must know, my chickens are all illegal aliens from Mexico. No green cards, so I pay them under the table. Like this: (Paying chickens the under table) See?

Tanya:

Fascinating concept. Can you pay them behind the sofa, too? Or does that get too crampy? Trying minds continue in their quest for knowledge (or the next best thing: speculation based on other people's opinions)

Mucky:

I can't pay them behind the sofa, because there are federal agents back there. They're behind the fridge, too. Been there. I also tried paying the poor dears under a pile of clothes in my room. Wasn't long before I could see the binoculars and badges under there. (sigh)

Tanya:

Oh no! The empty coffee cups and donut boxes in my bathroom...you don't THINK...?

Mucky:

Yes. Yes, I DO think. Get your chickens out of the bathroom right away and spray some Lysol in there.

It's the scent. Federales have that smell of beans and chiles and paperwork and more beans. Plus, the Lysol makes them tear up when it gets in their eyes, so you can move your chickens out while the agents are crying. Spray behind the shower curtain, under the toilet lid, in the hamper. Anywhere agents can hide.

Yay!

I have a grand total of three people stalking, I mean...following my blog now! Pretty soon I can give up my day job, because you know it's only a matter of time until someone discovers my witty ramblings and offers me a rocking book deal. Yayyyyy! Trouble's over.

She Is Beautiful.

Me and Billie do some healing.

Last week, I reached down to pet my cat Billie and discovered a big-ish lump on her shoulder. Being the responsible-bordering-on-obsessed kitty parents that we are, we called the vet on the same day. Dr. Duffus (pronounced like Homer Simpson's favorite beer: Duff-us, NOT like this: Doof-us) told us to bring her on in. About 3 minutes later, we were contemplating $600 surgery and what can you do? The lump was likely to keep on growing.

So Dr. Duffus cut her open, took out the lump and stitched her back together. I was shocked at the size of the cut - about two inches long. To keep her from scratching the wound with her hind legs, they told us to either put a tube sock or a baby t-shirt on her. The fucking tube sock was a disaster. We got it on her, but it seemed so tight and looked terribly uncomfortable. Billie howled, growled and shrieked as she lurched around the apartment, still drunk from the anesthesia. Our other cat Sheldon howled and shrieked along with her. I cried a little. The sock kept rolling back over her shoulder, exposing the stitches and rendering the whole exercise useless, so we cut the damn thing off of her again. The baby t-shirt works much better, but Billie hates it. From Craig's recent online forum entry: "She hates this shirt, though we haven't established yet if she hates it because she can't scratch or because of the lavendar and the pleated sleeves, or because of the stupid baby saying on the front. " The stupid baby saying? 'My Daddy knows a lot, but my Mommy knows EVERYTHING!' Heh heh heh.

For this, I will poop in your shoes and drink out of your water glass when you're not looking. Oh wait, I do that already.

She slinks around the apartment like she's subjected to regular whippings, but the wound is healing nicely, so she's going to have to live with it. I was home sick for a couple of days and we convalesced on the couch together for many, many hours:

Billie and I glom on to each other, basking in each other's love and germs.