It's no fun when your animals get sick. This week, Pugsley decided to express his displeasure with either my housekeeping, his food, or Cliff Robinson's early exit from Survivor, by power-spraying the house with diarrhea. (Sorry, gentle reader, but when I suffer, I want you to suffer with me, even if it's just by reading revolting descriptions of runny cat poop.) Not one for subtlety, he first let loose on the bed. Jason stripped the sheets while I chased the cat into the bathroom and dumped him in the tub. Cats, as you might have heard, don't particularly enjoy water, and before we were done, the walls (and I) were covered with cat hair and smears of poo. This did not bode well for the rest of the evening.

Were Jason and I smart enough to lock the cat out of the bedroom after that first incident? Heck, no. Pugsley jumped right back on the bed and started slinging more mud, looking slightly mortified as he did so. We were up all night, Jason shampooing the carpet, me showering with the cat. Wednesday, in the meantime, was hiding in the basement ceiling to avoid getting splattered herself. She's always been the smarter of the two cats, and in this instance, significantly brighter than the two humans involved. Jason managed to get Pugsley to the vet the next day. The vet thought Pugs might have gotten into something he shouldn't have (and, surprisingly, did not think that the Cliff Robinson Retaliation Theory was plausible). He put the cat on medication . . . which would not take effect for at least 24 hours.

By this point, I was trying hard not to get mad at the cat—after all, I'm sure he would've controlled it if he could—so to amuse myself, I started coming up with hilarious nicknames for him. He quickly graduated from Muddy Waters to something that rhymes with Chitty Chitty Bang Bang (hint: I didn't change the "Bang Bang" portion of that) and found it hilarious when I could actually text Jason to tell him that Chitty Chitty (. . . but not "Chitty;" are you getting it yet? Funny, right?) backfired on the recliner. Maybe you consider this stupid, but honestly, I had to preserve my sanity somehow. It was a looong, excrement-filled night during which Poopsley and I showered four more times and we finally made good use for those aromatic Yankee candles I'd been collecting for years.

Pugsley's feeling better now, though he's lost some weight. The good news is that I started Weight Watchers again this week, and after Pugsley released the Kraken, so to speak, on our kitchen floor (twice) while I was making dinner, I can report that I've lost both my appetite and three pounds.

I can't tell you how many people think that I once had a career as a fashion model. (They never say it out loud, but I can tell they're thinking it.) It must be because I always look like I just walked off of the runway.  Sure, some days it's an airport runway, but hey, I'll take what I can get.

How do I manage my glamorous look? It may surprise you to know I hardly put any effort into it at all. I do have a few golden rules of fashion that I always follow, however.

1. Shop the high-end thrift stores. Just because it was previously owned by a teenager in the 1980s doesn't mean a Benetton shirt won't come back into style again. I personally love Uptown Consignment in South Windsor because you can get brand name clothes really, really cheaply. The bad news is that their dressing rooms don't have locking doors, just curtains. I'm sure the little girl who walked in on me when I was trying on shorts while wearing knee highs still has nightmares.

2. Shop the low-end thrift stores, too.  One thing I really, really love about Savers in Manchester is the locks on their dressing room stalls. The doors are kind of short, though. If you're like me, you're not as diligent about your leg-shaving in the winter as perhaps you should be, and I once got kicked out of the women's dressing room because they thought I was a man based on the view of my ankles.

3. If you see someone leaving the dressing room at the thrift store with their sweater tucked into their underwear, for goodness' sake, tell them. Honestly, is this so much to ask?

4. If you see a one-of-a-kind fashion item you just have to have, indulge. This is why I now own totally awesome KISS leggings. (I am not kidding.) When I saw them, I actually hesitated before buying them because I was so poor I was recycling our toilet paper. But I stole the $10 I'd set aside for Christmas gifts and bought those bad boys. So if you're wondering why you got flour paste for Christmas, you can blame my fashion slavery and my need to have Paul Stanley's face plastered on my thighs.

5.  Never, ever shop when you're feeling fat. You'll just wind up grabbing a size that should be two sizes
too big, but of course, on this particular day when you're already feeling huge, they'll be too small. This is a no-brainer. If you're feeling fat, you shop for books. Clothes can wait for another day. (Side note: Don't go food shopping on fat days, either. You'll wind up with a refrigerator full of rotting vegetables.)

6.  Need a wardrobe boost? Go through all of those clothes you don't wear any more and try them all on . . . at once. Then, leave the house. I once went to my friend Kathy's house wearing a sparkly gray prom dress, a pink and black hoodie, and my KISS leggings (see remarkably sexy photo below). That's the kind of sacrifice I make to put a smile on my friend's face. She laughed so hard she wet her pants. Then her dog wet the floor. Then I sneezed and passed gas at the same time. It was a big mess, but totally worth it.

I hope these tips have helped you with your fashion choices.  So many times people have asked to take my picture for their fashion "dos  and don'ts" files. Just shop the bargains, untuck your sweater from your underwear, and flaunt those KISS pants, and you'll be fine!

I love to read.
This should come as a surprise to exactly nobody. I think all writers should have an innate passion for the written word (and if you're a writer, and don't love to read, I'd recommend a new career, like accounting). My first word--scratch that, my fourth word, after "mama," "dada," and "doublestuforeo"--was "book." Early classics of my life as a reader include such fine tomes as Big Dog, Little Dog and One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish. And who could forget that fine literary masterpiece found in only the most expensive and elite of preschools, Hop on Pop? Yes, even from my youngest, diapered days, I was something of a book snob.
As I got older, I became acquainted with an unpleasant sensation that would stay with me my whole life. As a kid, I first chalked up this unpleasantness to spoiled milk or an especially sour pickle. Eventually, I recognized it for what it really was: book envy. Why did the other third grade class get to read Freckle Juice while I was stuck slogging through the uberdepressing Bridge to Terabithia? How was THAT fair? Why did my cousin Lori have more comic books than I did? And in fifth grade, I had it on good authority that Miss Bennett's class sometimes got to go to the library twice a week, while those of us stuck in the dregs of Mrs. Gustafson's class were only allowed one precious library visit a week, and only if we didn't throw a temper tantrum about how Miss Bennett's class got to go more than us. It felt like I never got to go!
I formed friendships based on book-swapping potential. In our younger years, the Bouchard twins had a fine selection of Sweet Pickles stories; as I headed to middle school, it was Carrie down the road who had an impressive collection of Sweet Valley High books. (My mother thought they were not worth the paper they were printed on, which made the adventures of the Wakefield twins all the more precious to get my hands on.) (Update: Mom was right.) Laura had a formidable stash of Dean Koontz, Meghan had an impressive true crime library, and if my friends were mad at me (fights that arose sometimes when they suspected I was using them for their books--fights I ignored because I was too busy reading) I could always raid my sister's stash of Stephen King. Hey, these friendships weren't all one-sided: I held the distinct honor of being the gal to go to if you were hankering for some steamy Harold Robbins. Even then, though, I was a terrible snob. If you wanted to read The Adventurers or A Stone for Danny Fisher, I'd hook you up, but if you wanted something dumb, like The Lonely Lady, I had no time for you. It's a good thing I had books, because I went through a lot of friends during those years.
As an adult, I decided it was time to refine my interests: you know, select just a few authors or series or genres to call my favorite. So I finally announced it to the world: I did not care for sci-fi or fantasy. Except Harry Potter. Oh, and the first few Outlander series books weren't bad. Plus, I really enjoyed books 1 -32 of the Star Wars novelizations. But that's it. Otherwise, I won't touch it. Except Neil Gaiman. Ooh, and the Dune series. But otherwise, sci-fi leaves me clammy.
It turns out there's nothing I won't read (including cereal boxes, ketchup packets, and mattress tags). Sure, I have my favorites: I tend to devour anything about any member of the Kennedy family; anything by Wally Lamb, John Irving, Stephen King, Thomas Harris, or Michael Crichton; true crime in small doses (I wept when I heard Joe McGinniss passed away earlier this week) and anything about Manson; English history and historical fiction; and anything and everything by Erma Bombeck or Berkley Breathed (both conveniently located in the humor section). And yes, I've even been known to pick up a romance or two, but remember, I'm a book snob: I won't read a romance novel unless it has a bare-chested Scotsman in a kilt on the front. I have my standards, after all, and objectified Scotsmen are de rigueur.
I once met a man who told me he loved to read, but never had the time. I knew he was a liar--he didn't love to read. True readers know you make the time, even if it means you wind up asleep with inkprint on your cheek, your slack face marking the page where you left off. I dumped that guy. Then I met one who took me out on romantic dates to used book stores and library book sales. I married him.

There is some etiquette involved in working in a cubicle. Believe it or not, this is my first cubicle experience, having worked in the past in my own office; a shared, open office; or behind a cash register. The cubicle is a whole new experience for me. I’ve decorated it with pictures and magnets, trinkets and toiletries. Apparently, toiletries are inappropriate, and my mouthwash and makeup were banished on Day Three. But I do get to keep my all-seeing Truman up ( a photo of Capote from Gerald Clarke's biography of him, with eyes that follow you wherever you are in the office) so I’m happy. My officemates are a little creeped out (honestly, he’s always watching) but if they don’t like it, they can stay out of my cube.

I have some cubicle neighbors. To my left is a woman I’ve spotted once or twice. She’s super-quiet and moves like a snake slithering through sand. Honestly, she makes me incredibly paranoid about my own noisemaking activities (like typing, or breathing). I never hear her, which is weird, because the whole floor is like a library. I ought to hear her burp or sigh once in a while. Not like my neighbor on the other side, whom I like to call “Sneezy.” Sneezy had a cold this week, which I can empathize with, but I was so grateful, because her hacking and coughing covered up all of my boisterous activities (honestly, there’s got to be a quieter way to click a mouse button).

I’ve learned the importance of quiet food. On my first day, I bought a bag of chips from the vending machine. When I opened the bag, it sounded like a shuttle was launching from my cubicle. My neighbor, the silent wraith, quietly rose, glared at me with murderous intent, and slunk off to the bathroom until I was finished with my snack. Never again. I stopped at the grocery store after work to find some more restrained munchies.

I quickly realized that a lot of quiet food was also healthy. Score! Maybe I could lose a few pounds while being respectful of my neighbors. Bananas, grapes, marshmallows (hey, they're low calorie) . . . all silent snacks. I embarked on my new, healthier lifestyle the next day. I felt smug. Truman seemed to approve. All was well until lunchtime. Guess what? Salad is decidedly NOT quiet. The wraith drew a silent slice across her neck after my first bite. Plus, by 2 p.m., I was so hungry I was licking what I thought was a chocolate stain off of my lunch bag. (It turned out to be soy sauce. I didnt care.) I gave up my diet and contributed to the Pop Tart™ fund. It turns out Pop Tarts™ are very quiet, so everyone was happy.

Phone etiquette is pretty important, too. My new company apparently has no problem with making personal phone calls during the day, as long as you get your work done. I found this out by eavesdropping on everyone else’s (hey, it’s like a tomb in that office. I can’t impress enough upon you how deathly silent it is.) The woman three cubicles down had problems on Tuesday because the school nurse called to say her kid was sick. The Wraith is having an issue with her satellite dish company; Sneezy’s doctor won’t call in a prescription unless she goes in to see the nurse. Feeling emboldened, I called Jason from my desk phone.

“Hey, what’s up?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I admitted.
“Why’re you calling during the work day? Is something wrong?”
“I just wanted to talk to someone,” I said. “Never mind. Truman’s staring at me; I gotta go.”

The office cubicle: it can be a lonely place.