This is what happens when I'm giving more attention to the camera than I am to the fuzzy gray thing wrapped around my legs.

…so violent when she doesn't get her way…I think we'll be able to save the foot, thanks for the concern.

So, you all know that Sophie has an unhealthy relationship with food. The good news is that we're winning. Sophie's weight is down, and she moves fluidly with her new, lighter body.

Lest you think the whittle of our cat's girth to be for aesthetic reasons of any kind, you should know that I love snuggling with a chubby cat: Garfield lovers unite!

But Sophie is a Maine Coon. The two main health problems associated with this breed are renal failure (we're already on top of that one) and hip dysplasia. Hip dysplasia can lead to crippling arthritis down the road, and extra weight increases the probability of that future. I don't want her golden years to be painful…I hope we've helped to keep the enemy at bay.

One of the most useful weapons in our little diet war has been the automatic feeder. It has single-handedly redirected Sophie's ire and reduced the likelihood that either Nick or I would break down and sneak her an extra bit of food (she's so damned cute…an admitted weakness on our part).

I often think what the life of a cat is like. Wake, eat, play, use the litter box, drink, groom, sleep, wake, eat, play…an exercise in tedium, really. It should be of little surprise that she has mastered the feeder schedule, but I find it more than a little sad. Once we are within 60 minutes of the disbursement time, she takes her place. Sometimes she rests, sometimes the rolls around, and sometimes she simple stares at the bowl. She revels in the anticipation. Oh, kitty…

I am angry with myself.

I am angry, and I'm frustrated that I can't stop doing or thinking things that make me so angry with myself.

My life has felt stressful ever since I accepted my current position at work two years ago. Stress is a relationship like any other: it takes two. Whatever my worries are, they only follow me home because I do not make them stay when I leave the office. I do not want to be this person, the one who allows unimportant things steer her thoughts. It's the ugly face of perfectionism sneering at me again…the cost is great.

My father has been calling for the last week to get help with his computer. I talked to him last Saturday and walked him through his questions. I fought to keep the patience in my voice as I walked him through the same information that I have walked him through countless times before. It's not so much that I mind helping—my theory is that you are good at this, I am good at that, and together we are good at everything—it's more that I feel like he isn't listening to me. I feel like this is a waste of my time. Nonetheless, I agreed to drive out to his house today to take a look when he called again (and again).

I can readily think of at least five reasons why I should be justified in feeling irritated. Disgustingly, they are all variations of the theme that I'm too busy with work…which is really just a roundabout way of saying that I'm too busy for you. It shames me.

I think of the hurt he inspired when I was young and feeling like I was less important than his work. He started his business when I was in sixth grade, and I remember writing a paper claiming him as my hero…and then he slowly became a stranger in my life. I barely saw him. He would come home after a long day and fall asleep on the couch. He let work take over his life. He did what I am doing now.

Things are different today…he's different, and our roles are reversed. He's reached the point in his life where one learns that work isn't everything. He's reached the point where he wants to slow down and take it all in. Childishly, my subconscious response is, "Too late." I suppose it would be more accurate to whine, "But he started it!"

Harry Chapin was singing to me as I pulled into the garage yesterday. I sat in the car until the song ended and tried to swallow the lump that had lodged in my throat. I may not have started it, but I can finish it.

I am angry with myself because I know and understand the impermanence of a life…I'm playing with fire. It's time to fix this.

I have been in the process of organizing old digital photos to transfer to an image storage site (Flickr), and I have had fun looking through the past few years. A lot of smiles have come from Sophie's first year with us, when she was all round eyes and fluffy tail (she grew into them, let me tell you).

It was August 2006 when a surgeon told me that I was probably unable to have children. I latched onto "probably" quite desperately as I recovered from that series of surgeries. Probably meant there was still a chance.

That next year was dedicated to figuring out the nuances of everything that was wrong with me. Of course, being that I have a very rare genetic disorder sparks a lot of interest from various specialists. I bet that I didn't really need half of those appointments, and I did start to feel like I was a bit of a freak show for the medical community's entertainment.

It was through the course of those appointments that probably turned into a definite no…any slight chance that may have burned was promptly extinguished. Then came Sophie…and so begins the life of the most spoiled cat on the face of the planet.

I haven't always been one to make decisions. In fact, I would say that I've spent most of my life being completely and utterly wishy-washy. It was never about having opinions…it was about the abject fear that I would make the wrong choice.

My behavior changed sometime during my late 20s. I couldn't tell you the catalyst for sure, as the second half of my last decade was like a remodeling project that just wouldn't end. I'm hardly even the same person!

But irony strikes again: I married a waffler.

I am suddenly in the position where I want to violently shake him until a decision falls out. How quickly I forget that I used to be THAT person. Instead, total frustration blinds me.I am not talking about big decisions, obviously. You should spend considerable time deciding on a new life direction, but you can probably flip a coin between Ruffles and Lays without the world ending.

Time is weighted differently in my new perception of life. I would much rather live with a decision that could have been better than waste months trying to figure out what to do. I guarantee that your guest doesn't spend time thinking of the Lays while he stuffs his face with the Ruffles, but those long moments of uncertainty in the snack food aisle are lost to you forever.

Nick has been looking for a new pair of winter boots for months. He has found several that fit the bill, but he has yet to buy any of them. It's like those brides who try on too many dresses and suddenly none of them look right: he's in winter boot overload. He has been asking my opinion on this pair or that as he conducts his extensive online research. I gave him decent feedback in the beginning.

I say decent because I really don't have any sort of opinion on what he puts on his feet. Yet, I gave him my thoughts as if I would be given the credit or blame for his foot wardrobe. Heading into month two of the research, I started giving him a simple thumbs up or thumbs down depending on which one I gave him for the last product he showed me. I threatened him a few hours ago that one day I would just come home with a pair of boots and HE WILL WEAR THEM—even if they're the wrong size…that's just the price you have to pay for not making your own decisions.

This all boiled to the surface today over a series of text messages with my cousin. She sends me a picture of a bare spot in her apartment and asks what she should buy to make that space feel complete. I tell her a bench with storage would be aesthetically pleasing and practical: two birds, one stone. She loves the idea of a bench. Where can she buy an inexpensive bench with storage she wants to know. I confer with Google, and we find the perfect seller.

Upon sending a picture from bench-people's website, she falls head over heels in love with one of their products. I mean, it's almost indecent how much passion she has for this bench. She thinks it's perfect, just perfect. Even better: it's within budget! She confesses that she wasn't thinking of a bench, but now she sees only THAT bench in her empty space. Michelle and the bench sitting in a tree…K-I-S-S-I-N-G…

"Good deal. Are you shopping today? Do you want company?" I question in reply. She does want company, but…only…is this the right choice? She reneges, backtracks. Maybe there is something better out there…maybe…maybe…maybe…

"Oh no," I thought sadly. Et tu Brute?

Reading my silence correctly, she writes, "I need help making decisions. You're THE DECIDER! We're so lucky to have you!" She's just lucky that in my Laura 2.0 revamp I haven't shaken my weakness to flattery. Watch out for 3.0 though—you're not going to want to mess with her.

Meanwhile, I may decide to use "The Decider" as my wrestling stage name: "Meek and Moody" isn't putting the fear in anyone's eyes.