So Brit decided to go bald, what's the big flippin' deal!? Why are people so damn offended? It was her choice. She didn't have alopecia-resulting chemotherapy. She wasn't tortured or made to feel degraded. I don't understand the shock, the seeming horror, that this teen idol turned sex symbol turned happy homemaker turned mom turned party girl should choose to exercise a sort of chameleon image THAT SHE ALWAYS HAS.

Okay, so I have it again.

Rather, it's never left, but I done went and got sick for awhile there and put it all on hold. A friend at work has a Maine Coon, the breed of all breeds, and she turned me on to Petfinder, a humane society site that you can search by breed, gender, age, size, and maybe even preference of canned food to dry, simulated tuna flavoring to beef and gravy. I'm addicted, because I would love to be able to "rescue" a cat, but also because there aren't so many rules with de-clawing this way. I will de-claw any house-cat I own. I am not of the belief that the practice is inhumane. I've observed many de-clawed cats over the years, and none of them treat their front paws gingerly or look any sort of crippled.



It is heartbreaking. I get my hopes up. Puff, the little guy on the top was my first love, and Nick seemed just as taken with him. Quickly, in our eager little minds, we plotted a road trip to Iowa, where Puff was located. When I didn't hear back from my inquiry after awhile (five minutes), I located a number and called the shelter. Puff had been adopted already.

This week, it was Bronx, and I hoped to be in Indiana right about now, getting ready to bring him home...but it was not to be with him either. I looked this morning and found four new Maine Coon males in the system, calico with white undersides: adorable. Disappointment still fresh regarding Bronx, the bottom photo by the way, I just couldn't apply.

But, mornings like this, the air crisp and me feeling poorly, the empty house with the still landscape through the panes, a treasure of purring fleece upon my lap would be so very heavenly. I would speak to him in my natural voice, the one that not many can hear because it is airy and too light, I guess, for human communication...but animals seem to like it. Sitting in the gilded gaze of the sun, we'd close our eyes and simply enjoy.

Last night, we went to a hockey game. We only stayed for two periods, as Nick had to work today and I wasn't feeling so hot anyhow. We got home, after me fighting the chills for a few hours, and I curled up on the couch with a blanket while Nick watched the last part of the game on TV. He went up to bed at some point, and I woke at around 11:30 there on the couch, realizing it was time to go upstairs and crawl under the covers there.

I don't remember much after that, but found it altogether interesting this morning to find all of my discarded clothing folded neatly atop the pile of dirty clothes in my closet. I always do this. I fold my dirty clothes: makes no sense, I know. But anyway, there they were, every layer I wore last night separated and folded crisply in a way that I know the washing machine will appreciate, though it will still agitate.

I am impressed that this bit of orderliness should come so naturally. Too bad I woke up to the apples of my cheeks rained upon by the cascade of old mascara, the aged stench of last night's oyster sauce emitting from between my lips, and my brassier perfectly in place. I guess personal hygiene isn't quite on autopilot yet. But yay for the state of my dirty clothes, eh?

It hasn't been easy, you know. I drink water like it's...water. You know, the substance that covers most of the Earth and fills most of our bodies? I drink so much water that there were a few times under my aunt's gaze wherein she questioned whether I've ever been tested for diabetes. Well, I still haven't, but I'm thinking that with all of the darn blood tests and whatnot they've done, they would have noticed something peculiar.

So it comes to an issue of vessel. My needs are much reduced at work. I require only a straw. I do not like having to sip. It is undignified. And I slurp.

No, I'm a dedicated sucker, and will probably wind up old and gray with smoker's line even though I've never smoked a day in my life nor will I.



So, pretty much any straw-bearing bottle will do in the workplace, and the bigger the better or I'll just have to refill more often. But within reason: a coworker of mine as an 80-ouncer. That's a five pound sloshing trough to have to drag back from the bubbler! I have from from Choose Hope, Inc...for obvious reasons I should hope. I'm all about proceeds going to Cancer research.

What to use at home is a non-issue. I found a lovely specimen last spring, and even had a task force go back to the store to steal a rubber washer from another bottle there when, devastated, I managed to lose my own during the height of my illness last Summer. If you bought that water bottle without the washer, part of me is sorry, but most of me feels that you didn't know what you were missing anyhow and my conscience in clear.

But at the gym, oh boy. I struggle so. Nick has an assortment of those Nalgene bottles, which are great because you can pack like 40 ounces in those suckers if you really smash the water molecules together. This volume is, of course, perfect for those days that I feel like wasting 75 minutes on the treadmill. But I have to drink from them by placing my lips physically on the mouth of the bottle, and drinking. It's uncouth for one, and for the second...well, you try drinking like that, from a brimming 40-oz bottle, while jogging. I NEED STRAWS. I'm convinced I'd have died of thirst by now had they not existed. They say a sucker is born every minute, and I guess I was the one at 9:42p some twenty-five and a half years ago.

But that's not even the worst. The hard plastic clangs against the metal of the cup holder when I display any sort of bounce, vigor, or hitch in my get-along. I find it very distracting and thow darts at the loud thing with my eyes, willing it to shut the heck up. It never does. I look around, realize that everyone else working out can hear my tantrumming bottle, and lord only knows how long it will be before the powers that be throw us both out of the establishment. I turn off my treadmill and cry. This is a big deal. I need a water bottle that will stand up the the challenges I face.

Last week, I found it, THE bottle. It has the look, feel, and singing voice of the Nalgene bottles, BUT WITH A STRAW! I was so giddy that I giggled for a few minutes before stroking the purple one. So, with an adequate water supply and adequate system for delivery, one problem remained. The attention-seeking need to make more noise than the treadmill—I didn't think it was possible either but let me tell you...

Late Sunday night, I ordered sleeves for the bottles (Nick got one too), I'm thinking they will muffle the impact substantially. Until then, I came up with my own little solution, and shortly after my first test run, regretted having ordered anything as the home solution worked fabulously. A sock. Duh. Of course! I wrapped my bottle in the downy insulation I usually only bestow upon my toes, and only sound I could hear over the treadmill was the inner groan of my hips.

Thrilled, I headed home to Nick, who worked late that night and was unable to join me at the gym. Immediately he reached for my bottle, examining my setup. "Jealous, aren't you?" I asked, very full of myself as I recall. He made to answer, but I jumped ahead of him, "Do you want to use the other sock for yours?" He stroked the primary blue sock that I had purchased expecting a long hospital stay last month. It is gaudy and complete with white rubbery marks for traction. "I also have one in pink?" He seemed disincline to accept.

But I'm still content.

He gave me a card that read, in part, "One look at you is all it takes for me to fall in love all over again."

He wrote, in part, "You have my whole heart."

And, inside, were two tickets to see Norah Jones live in concert.

I was tipsy before my lips were wet with dinner's wine.