Diary of a Housewife

I succumbed.

I like clothes. I do. Every two or three months, I start craving something new -- a fresh pair of shoes or a pretty dress or a soft shirt.

Most of the time when the urge hits me, I'll just add a few things to my Amazon wish list and save a picture of what probably won't fit. I put the pictures in a "sewing" folder on my desktop, so I can find a sewing pattern and make something similar.

Except that I'm really lazy about sewing. I haven't worked on any of my sewing projects since we moved. I guess I'm just afraid that Tiger will chase everything that moves, which includes thread and fabric. He's so silly.

So, no matter how much I hate gifts with cats on them, I love my cat ten times more. Like, ten billion times more. A trillion. Sometimes I look at him and I just kind of melt. He's so fuzzy. I call him handsome, but he's really just plain gorgeous. Clean, healthy, fluffy, and warm. Like a stuffed animal that moves and turns upside down in his sleep. And makes little doo-doos in the litterbox. And makes noise. And eats. And flees.

But other than that? Yeah, just like a stuffed animal. A really cute stuffed animal.

He's sleeping on his back right now with his legs splayed and his tail to the side and a paw over his face and his tongue sticking out a little. ^_^

Oop, he just moved. Now one foot is braced against my arm, his paws are crossed across his chest, and his head is back at a 90 degree angle to his body.

Tiger is always entertaining.

I love Bank of America. You can do so much online. You can even rename your accounts. Like, "Checking #12345678" could become "The Super Hero Fund." Or "Savings #87654321" could become "Tiger's Litterbox."

The possibilities are endless. Endless, I tell you.

I wrote a web comic and sent it out on my mailing list. My brother emailed me back with his version. ^_^ I thought it was too good not to share.

I could tell you that my mom is outgoing and talks to everyone, but this is especially apparent from our shopping trip today.

First, I had to pee because I'd just had a tall cup of Barqs (it has bite!). So we got into the mall and my mom stops this couple and asks them if they know where the ladies' room is. I sit on a bench and wait for her to come over and tell me, "Why don't I ask the Macys people where their bathrooms are?" And I nod, wondering how many people overheard her, and trudge off through the fine china department, which is a silly place for a bathroom because what if a woman with kids pulls them through and they touch or break things?

And then I get back, and Alex is waiting, and mom offers to wait with her coffee in the food court while we go look for shorts to replace Alex's "work shorts" (a particularly disreputable pair of dingy plaid shorts that Alex insists on wearing every day while he works at home).

So when we're finished looking (it's fall, so they're out of shorts, but we thought there might be some on sale), we get back to the food court and aren't particularly surprised to see that mom is sitting with a total stranger, just chatting away.

We were amused, of course. It was a typical "my mom" moment. It earned a shared glance.

Anyway, my mom is as outgoing as I am shy. That's a lot.

My husband thinks he's so clever. He called me the Hindenburg last night -- "It means you're a blimp and have explosive gas."

I'm not and I don't, but it's a trend in my family to come up with the best jab. It started with me and my dad and my brother, and then my husband got in on it, and then I told our friend Tanner that he could call me fat if I went back for more Chinese food (I tend to overeat Chinese food), which Tanner took very literally. He now takes any opportunity to assure me that I'm huge: making whale noises and wisecracks and telling Alex to hide the food from me.

Earlier this summer, my dad had trouble with his eye (bleeding) and had to get surgery. He's had other issues as well -- he has to carry a cane to walk, and he has this kind of painful skin thing. So I called him up and told him "You know, you're just falling apart. First your leg goes out and then your eye -- and your brain hasn't worked for a long time . . ." It was the kind of jab my dad likes best. He repeats his favorites to everyone at church.