There is a certain flow to my routines. Since they flow rhythmically and unfettered, I subconsciously repeat the same sequences every day…over and over again…forever. I catch myself sometimes and have a little chat with my reflection on the proper way for sane people to behave. Inevitably, my reflection sasses back during my exhaustive speech that I should shut up because sane people don't talk to themselves, either.

When I arrive home from work, I…

1. Walk to the iPod charging base to plug in my iPod
2. Walk back toward the entrance and place my car keys in the key basket
3. Pull my cell phone out of my bag, take it out of silent mode, and place it on the Power Mat to charge
4. Hang my bag on the door knob of the front door
5. Slip off my shoes on my walk back the other direction
6. Remove my coat and hang it in the closet
7. Feed Sophie

I am sure that if I inked my feet, I would be quite humored at the jumble of steps I would leave. It's probably not the most efficient sequence, but it gets the job done, and I can do it in auto pilot (that last bit is vastly important…can't rely on me to remember anything!).

As you'll note, my little routine involves the cat. My sequence is a Rube Goldberg machine, and feeding Sophie is the marble rolling into the little cup to raise the flag at the end. I did not fully appreciation my routine until today.

I came home, and Sophie was waiting for me at the iPod charger. She was underfoot as she raced to get ahead of me in front of the key basket, then the Power Mat. I hung my bag on the door knob and she pranced over to the closet while I removed my shoes. As soon as my coat was on the hanger, she ran to the kitchen like the devil was on her heels. She looked at me with eager eyes, sitting where I always set her bowl on the floor, and waiting for me to raise that glorious flag.

She was having a lot of fun, I could tell from her eyes. This was a game to her, this figuring out that the Food Giver is crazy—but who cares because it ends with food. At what point did the tides turn? I thought the cat was supposed to entertain me, not the other way around. Maybe it will all make sense after I talk it out with the mirror tomorrow morning.

Soph and I were a bit frazzled with the thunderstorm last night, and blogging was the last thing on our minds.

Nick loves thunderstorms…a lot of people seem to. I hate them, and I always have. I hate that they are loud (I don't like loud things as a rule). I hate that the hard rains make me feel like our fort is under attack. Most of all, I hate that there is electricity randomly missiling through the air (I don't think that "missiling" is actually a word, but it's the best I've got). Electricity should stay corralled in outlets, end of story.

Sophie feels the same…she told me so in her way. When the skies open up, she either hides in a dark corner or becomes excessively loving on my lap. She definitely takes my mind off the madness outside because I worry that she's going to work herself up into a full anxiety attack.

Lighting blares through the window and she looks sharply right to see what's going on. Then thunder crashes and sounds like it's coming from the window at her left. She throws herself dramatically into the blanket in a way that looks as though she would have also sighed "Fiddle-dee-dee!" Oh, our little southern belle.

Sophie's parents got iPhones on Friday. They have been totally absorbed in them, often sitting in silence, hip to hip, as they play. Sophie doesn't understand what is happening, why all eyes are not going to her as she struts into the room. How much cuter does she have to be!? GAH!

Armageddon must be near.

Concerned that these new devices are brainwashing her parents, Sophie has been diligently creating havoc this weekend in effort to break the trance. Nothing seems to work. No matter how many times she jumps on the counter, tries to steal food from between their fingers, or reaches up to knock objects from the coffee table, they remain consumed. She isn't sure what to do or who to call (not that she'd know how to work one of those newfangled phones anyway).

She believes they are a lost cause. She has nothing left to try. Dejected and beaten, she hunkers down to wait for the end of days.

A few weeks ago, we replaced the television in the living room. The last television was a rear-projection model, and the bulb simply wore out. The bulb is affordable and easy to replace at home (you just have your husband do it, duh). I will admit that I wanted a new television, and have for awhile, but I needed a reason. I am rather (make that VERY) particular about images, and I thought the television was a little lacking.

I mean, the picture was vibrant and displayed such high-definition that I could count eyelashes and see dust motes on sitcom sets…but I was disappointed in the blacks. They just weren't…black enough. I love the "true black" of an image. It isn't the absence of light that intrigues me, but the prominence that the contrast gives to the rest of the picture.

Anyway, I saw the bulb burning out as a big thumbs up from above to bring a new television home. (And it's beautiful, but that's not for this post.)



So now we were left with an extra 42-inch, rear-projection, high definition television that would be operational with minimal effort. (There are pictures of the TV in this old post.) What to do with it? It's hard finding random places for a 42-inch television. In the hallway next to the shoe tray? In the kitchen sharing the same outlet with the toaster? In the bathroom under the towel rack? The darn thing did not work anywhere.

Anywhere, that is, until I thought of my revived love affair with exercise DVDs. The big rear-projection beast would totally kick the 19-inch tube's butt. I wasn't concerned with my frustration on the "true black" thing because I know that sweat mellows me…or is it that I am concentrating so hard on just surviving that I can't find the energy to care about inadequate contrast?

I used the new resident in our home gym area last night. I kept debating between Billy and Jillian. I told Nick, "I'd burn a lot more calories with Jillian, but I'd have a lot more fun with Billy." Since I told Nick earlier that I felt a twinge in my low back, he piped in that I should go with Billy.

Ta da! Decision made: I grabbed Jillian's DVD.

Immediately, it was obvious that the DVD was not formatted for a wide screen. When she appeared on the screen, I had to say aloud, "Oh, Jill…you don't look so good." I will admit that I got a kick out of her stretched image for a handful of seconds. This is the woman, after all, that brings me to complete muscle failure every time. Once, she even made me cry because I was just at the end of all the energy I had…no more to give. She could stand a little good-natured distortion. You know what they say: a widescreen TV adds 30 pounds! (I did update the view eventually).

It took me extra long to all asleep last night. I am going to have to get used to life-sized Jillian in my basement, that's all I can say right now.

I still have chills.

I am bringing out an old photo for this one, but it sums up the grudging adoration of this post:



I have decided that Sophie is the toddler that will never "grow out of it." She cannot control her mood swings—playful one moment and taking a nip out of me that next—and she does not take direction well. She does not believe in rules, and she gets a thrill out of fighting us every step of the way.

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She's gives us a lot of sass. She ignores boundaries. She's selfish. She's erratic. She has moments of incredible sweetness that melt our hearts…she showers us with affection when we are least expecting it.

Fortunately, she's never going to grow out of it.