The truth about (domesti)cats and dogs

I have to confess. I watched The Truth About Cats And Dogs for something like the zillionth time on television last night. For the zillionth time, it put that hangdog “awwwwww!” look on my face, and when it was over, I had this irresistible urge to cuddle my cats.

I don’t know what it is about this movie that does it to me every time. Maybe because I project waaaaay too much of myself onto the Janeane Garofalo/Quasimodo character. You know the type all too well—the person whose agility with words is almost enough to make anything—even wild passionate luuuuuuv with sexy brunette British men—possible.

I probably need psychiatric help for this, don’t I?

Edmund, the larger of the two übercats, is glaring at me while I type this. I’m not paying attention to him…and we can’t have THAT, now can we? He’s being a cranky little furbeast. He doesn’t want me to pet him, but if I’m going to be in front of my computer, he’s going to sit on top of the computer desk and watch every move I make.

I’m headed to New Orleans on Friday morning for a three-day weekend. I’m planning on using the quiet time in my hotel room to work on a character study I’m just getting started on. I’ve been joking about my idea of writing “the great amerikanski novel” for several years now, but I’ve kinda been hit over the head with an idea for a character study and I think it’s worth sitting down and putting on paper. So, Margaret, this is your introduction to the world. Let’s see how you like it.

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