is this thing on...

I dedicate this crazy idea to my more impulsive of sisters, Meredith, whose idea it was to start a blog and who will provide 1/3 of this blogs viewership. The other 2/3's will inevitably belong to my mother, whose sole job in life it is to support whatever reckless fantasy her kids create and whose recent fanatical introduction to the iphone will keep her on hand for running commentary and my unwaveringly dedicated other sister, Alexis, who continues to believe I know what I'm doing as a parent. Lex, this blog may quickly relieve you of that delusion.

Day 1: I am reminded of an email Meredith sent me on the mental ramblings of dogs and cats. The dogs profess their undying enthusiasm to their owners and the schedule they set for the day while the cats take a less than optimistic stance on their position "in captivity":

From a Dog's Diary

8:00 am - Dog food! My favorite thing!
9:30 am - A car ride! My favorite thing!
9:40 am - A walk in the park! My favorite thing!
10:30 am - Got rubbed and petted! My favorite thing!
12:00 pm - Lunch! My favorite thing!
1:00 pm - Played in the yard! My favorite thing!
3:00 pm - Wagged my tail! My favorite thing!
5:00 pm - Milk bones! My favorite thing!
7:00 pm - Got to play ball! My favorite thing!
8:00 pm - Wow! Watched TV with the people! My favorite thing!
11:00 pm - Sleeping on the bed! My favorite thing!


From a Cat's Diary

Day 983 of my captivity. My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects.

They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while the other inmates and I are fed hash or some sort of dry nuggets. Although I make my contempt for the rations perfectly clear, I nevertheless must eat something in order to keep up my strength.

The only thing that keeps me going is my dream of escape. In an attempt to disgust them, I once again vomit on the carpet.

Today I decapitated a mouse and dropped its headless body at their feet. I had hoped this would strike fear into their hearts, since it clearly demonstrates what I am capable of. However, they merely made condescending comments about what a 'good little hunter' I am. Bastards.

There was some sort of assembly of their accomplices tonight. I was placed insolitary confinement for the duration of the event. However, I could hear the noises and smell the food. I overheard that my confinement was due to the power of 'allergies.' I must learn what this means and how to use it to my advantage.

Today I was almost successful in an attempt to assassinate one of my tormentors by weaving around his feet as he was walking. I must try this again tomorrow -- but at the top of the stairs.

I am convinced that the other prisoners here are flunkies and snitches. The dog receives special privileges. He is regularly released - and seems to be more than willing to return. He is obviously retarded.

The bird has got to be an informant. I observe him communicating with the guards regularly. I am certain that he reports my every move. My captors have arranged protective custody for him in an elevated cell, so he is safe. For now...........

MacKenzie, my 4-month old, would be the dog, eager for approval and desirous of only love and affection. Noah, my 4-yr-old son, would be the bird, the informant, whose job it is to keep me abreast of Addison, my 20 month-old, the cat, whose entire existence is dedicated to escape and the necessary plots required to obtain freedom from my rule. She has been close to succeeding on several occasions. Perhaps it was the time she stuck her hand in her "soiled" diaper and presented me with the evidence of her recent grunting efforts or maybe it was the time she carefully plotted to empty her pockets of 6 crayola crayons into the open, waiting-for-the-last-of-the-whites-to-be-loaded door of the dryer. Do you know how many drying cycles it takes to completely clear all the unreachable crevices of a dryer of orange crayola crayon? 6. Hopefully, the last 5 cycles were all darks. I think, though, she came closest to escape (with a "for sale" sign hanging around her neck) this afternoon, when she came to me looking like Krusty the Clown, having managed to open my makeup bag, extract my favorite "chianti" lipstick, apply it to the whole bottom half of her face, her legs, her arms, the bathroom walls and my personally recovered white chair...for the 3rd time in 3 weeks. (Yes, I know, I need to invest in padlocks for my makeup kit. ) You know that moment when you see red and think "be reasonable, Court, she's only one and a half, how could she know?" Well, I missed that last part. All I saw was red and one lipstick-covered toddler who was ever-so-delicately replacing the lid onto the now mangled remains of my favorite lipstick. Oh, she knew, all right...