Harold and Sprocket are around 11 months old, and it looks like they've pretty much stopped growing lengthwise. However, Harold has continued to get rounder and rounder, while the other cats seem a little trimmer than usual.

Last night he took a nap on my chest, and after a few minutes of being unable to suck in a full breath I realized it was time to put Harold on a diet.

I put out two cups of food twice a day---four cups a day for four cats, which is technically the exact amount of food that they should be eating for their sizes. But while the other cats eat and run, Harold will eat. And eat. And eat.

So we're isolating him. We're measuring out the food and putting him in the bedroom to eat alone. Then we'll hide the rest of the food when he comes out. Until the other cats learn to eat on a schedule instead of grazing, if they want to eat more during the night we'll have to shut Harold up in the room and re-feed them.

Tonight he ate 1/4 of a cup. When he cries for food we'll give him the rest. He is on a strict one cup a day diet.

I think he'll always be a big cat, but there's no doubt that if I ever need to find Harold, all I need to do is look for the food bowl. Where's Harold? Eating!

We'll see. And now it's off to the scale, to start charting his progress.

Today I was thinking about marriage, and what makes one last.
When I think about my parents, two words that come to mind are: separate vacations.
I'm pretty sure that despite all the love and compromise, the real binding glue in the whole equation has been those many little weekend trips far away from each other.

That's also how we're able to tolerate other family members, co-workers and neighbors.

Next time you are thinking of what to give someone you love, why not give the gift of getting the hell out of town?

Spring's changing weather
Releases too much pollen
Hello, puffy face!

I'm at an age where many people I know are going through competitive healthiness.
This is kind of a stark contrast to where I was just a few years ago, where we'd try different shots, brag about who got how wasted, and wake up hungover wondering where our pants were before finding questionable pictures on our cameraphones.

At today's work lunch, the conversation turned to running. As I listened to people talk about how much they ran (or people downplay their running, such as "I only ran four of the six miles...I am soooo not in shape!") I shoveled more mashed potatoes into my face and realized that I couldn't run 25 feet without keeling over like a smoker. I've never been one for endurance. Screw that. Maybe I'd run if I were racing someone to a Denny's. I suppose I ran that time I wanted to watch six episodes of Sex in the City in a row without getting off my ass and I discovered afterwards that I'd had to pee for over an hour. I don't think that really counts.

I also hear a lot of people bragging about how they are alcohol lightweights and get drunk on one drink. Now...ok, I'm not gonna lie, if I drink one really fast, I'm going to get buzzed. But if pace myself and nurse my drinks, I can have several over the course of the evening and not be drunk at all...meanwhile Garvin will be tottering around giggling and yelling "SNAP, LADY!" in my face before turning up the old school rap and prancing around the living room with several cats in his arms.

Of course when I SAY things like "I wouldn't run if you PAID me" or "I had three pounds of sausage yesterday morning!" people assume I'm lying. This is because I'm thin. I'm not thin because I'm a yuppie health freak---I'm thin because 1)I'm 19 (shut up! I am! I'm AT LEAST 19!) 2)I'm an ectomorph and 3)I generally eat three pretty OK meals a day. My processed meat binges are few and far between, and I'm not much for foods with empty calories. Furthermore, it's not like I'm TOTALLY out of shape. I do a gentle lazy calisthenic workout in front of the tv several times a week, and I have to walk several blocks uphill to work, where I always take the stairs. I'm not sedentary. But I'm also not going to be able to run around the block without gasping for breath. I never have been able to, and I've never had the desire to ruin my knees with all that up and down, up and down. I'm more the type to take a long walk with my MP3 player, or to scream at the dog and shake my fist really, really vigorously. Yelling is quite aerobic.

Still---when I hear people downplaying their 13 mile runs, it makes me feel like I'm going to wake up tomorrow in a pair of pink sweatpants and Garvin's t-shirt.

Hm, I already dress like that. I imagine myself in a pair of pink sweatpants and Garvin's t-shirt that have gotten REALLY REALLY TIGHT.

Do you think this fitness craze thing is something people in their late 20s/early 30s go through? Am I going to wake up one day when I am no longer 19 and suddenly decide to take up marathon running? Would I have to give up pizza? I don't think I could do that. Do you think these people who brag about their routines are lying?

Ah well. I might not be able to run a mile, but I'm still a kick-ass arm wrestler, and my leg wrestling is nothing short of inspired.

Last Thursday I got stuck in the middle of a police chase. I was parked at an intersection, and some cars came screaming around the corner, and the next thing I knew there were lights and sirens EVERYWHERE careening around my car. It was a prostitution sting gone wrong in the middle of the dinner hour on a street with lots of restaurants and pedestrians. Go Cleveland!

It was actually kind of exciting, although I was horrified by the fact that peoples' lives were put in danger just because some guy wanted to get off.

Anyway...today, I was allowed to leave work early so I strutted my stuff out the front door at four p.m.----broad daylight. Almost immediately I bumped into two drunks. One started heckling me. "Why are you crying? You look like you're crying! It can't be THAT bad!"

I WASN'T crying. I was experiencing a sinus headache and not wearing any makeup. Naturally I felt quite offended and was just about to tell the heckler to fuck himself when he offered me a job---suggesting that I work with his "associate," a similarly drunk man who was giggling quietly to himself.

This was in no way a job offer that a lady would accept.

Basically my point is that I've had two prostitution related incidents in two weeks. Skipper is probably laughing with delight, rubbing his hands together and shouting "I TOLD you that this was your eventual career!"

I can't wait to see what next week will bring.