I got an email this morning that made my day. It was from a long-lost friend. Well, he isn't really lost, considering I know exactly where he is. But it has been way too LONG since we've seen each other or even emailed.

It's amazing how I can harbor affection for someone I haven't seen in years. Sometimes I just know that there is something special about a particular person, that there's a bond and mutual respect worth hanging onto. And when that is the case, it is remarkably easy to reconnect and step right back into the friendship. I think that's what amazes me most of all.

I've recently come to believe that friendships have logical life cycles. Each of the people I consider a friend brings something different to the table - I've thought about it, and the characteristics I value in each person truly are different from the others. And while I'm not one who believes that everything happens for a reason, I do see that there is purpose behind the friendships we keep and the ways in which we keep them. Some friendships remain steady over time and are ones I depend on, some are too intense to have longevity but they're damn good while they last, and some fade in and out as needed. And I really do think it's as needed. I don't always know what compels me to re-initiate a friendship or what provokes someone to look me up after much time has passed, but I think it's a (perhaps subconscious) reaching out for what that person has to offer. And sometimes it's just the opposite - it's a sense that someone you care about, someone you share a spirit with but maybe haven't seen in awhile, needs you and what you have to offer.

H, my long-lost friend, is the most sincere person I've ever met, the kind of person who truly values the people in his life and uplifts them every way he can. And for me, his timing couldn't have been better.

(And the best part is, he's moving and will be closer to where we are. As in, no longer on the opposite coast but within two hours' driving distance closer. Fuck yeah.)

I didn't do SPD today, because I sorta already did the fitting room thing before. I wanted to do it again with the twist, but I was just too tired this week to do much of anything, what with the non-pregnancy and all. (Heh.)

But here's a portrait I'd prefer to look at anyway. Circus Kelli sent me this. (Thank you, girl!) DO YOU SEE THE SHIRT HE IS WEARING? True love is a beautiful thing.

(I just hope the fact that his hair is a bit rumpled and he has that blissed out expression has nothing to do with the Hooters in the background. I can't compete with that, even in my current boobin' it up (™JessicaRabbit) state.)

I was at my parents' house earlier this week and Dad was flipping through the channels and he came upon Full House. Of course he stopped - my John Stamos obsession is no secret. It was the one where Stephanie is making a video for class. And it was the scene in which Rebecca is trying to entertain the twins and she is singing "Bad Boys" and dancing for them (much like the scene in Friends in which Rachel is singing "Baby Got Back" and shaking her butt to quiet Emma), and unbeknownst to her, Stephanie is taping. And then Uncle Jesse comes in and sees Rebecca dancing (much like Ross walks in on Rachel) and starts teasing her about it. And then, THEN out of nowhere, he breaks out the dance moves himself. And I'm not talking a little butt wiggling. I'm talking extreme pelvis gyrating. I'm talking leaned-back, leading with The Gyrating Pelvis, come rub your body up and down against mine, baby dancing. It was HOT, y'all. I have never wanted so badly to bump and grind against a man like I did at that moment, and if my dad hadn't been sitting there, I would have clung to that tv and rubbed my body all over it.

And then the flood gates opened and the deluge began and there was much rejoicing in the Rob+Kelly household. There was spirited dancing and shouts of jubilation: "We have been spared the blight of pregnancy! Praise be to the almighty powers of contraception! It is a miracle that we can lie together and not beget!"

I didn't really think I was pregnant, but there was just a tiny amount of doubt. The boob thing had me wondering. After all, having enlarged, sore breasts is the equivalent of a neon sign that flashes YOU ARE PREGNANT. I knew I really couldn't be, but I also knew that with the universe against me I could quite possibly be one of the .1% of unlucky women who do everything right and get fucked over anyway.

Because the thing is (brace yourselves), we're not sure we want kids. Ever.

According to Bridget Jones, the question single women loathe is "Why aren't you married yet?" Well, for a married woman without children, the dreaded question is (said with pitying disbelief), "You don't have any children?" It is just assumed that all women, all people, want children. And just as so many people think single women who prefer being single are either nuts or lying, women who don't want children are considered absolute freaks of nature.

And maybe I am a freak of nature. I don't know why I don't feel strongly about having children. It's at least partly because I'm selfish and prefer to live my life with Rob unburdened and without making sacrifices. At this point in my life anyway, I'd rather buy shoes and travel. And it's partly because I'm not sure I want to be responsible for bringing someone into a world whose future seriously concerns me. And part of it, the tiniest part, is me being antagonistic towards society, because I really hate being expected to do something just because everyone else is.

But there are other times, mostly within the last year or so, when I do think I might want to be a mom someday. Maybe. Or maybe not. See? I can't decide.

I've always been terrible at making decisions. I make good ones, but only because I agonize over them. I often wish I could live more than one life because there are so many things I want to experience and yet most of them aren't compatible with the others.

I think some people (at least some of the people I know here in Redneck Valley) enter into parenthood the same way they practice religion - without truly considering what it means and what it takes to do it well. Rob and I aren't those people. I don't know if us not knowing whether or not we want children means we obviously don't, or if it just means that we think things through thoroughly and appreciate the huge responsibility that is being a parent. I know it would be incredibly fulfilling, and, believe me, I have tremendous respect for people who are parents. And I think Rob and I would make great parents. We just need to figure out if that's what we want for ourselves.

And for now, the answer to that is a resounding no.

Multiple times throughout the day yesterday, I noticed people noticing me. Well, not people. Men.

First, some dude checked me out as I passed him while walking to work. I figured it was because I was wearing a skirt. (I rarely wear skirts; in fact, this is probably the first time all summer I've worn one. I feel more powerful in pants. Cute pants, but pants.)

Then after work as I was walking into the mall, I saw two construction workers on the roof looking down at me. One was even pointing at me. I wasn't convinced the skirt was short enough to be point-worthy, so I decided it must be the boobs that got their attention. (Yes, I am still boobin' it up (™JessicaRabbit). Say the P word and you are dead to me.)

Then at the grocery store I caught an elderly man gazing at me like he'd just popped a Viagra. And I thought to myself, Damn! My attractiveness is age-spanning! My hotness is inter-generational! Men of all sorts want to jump my bones! Then I panicked, thinking maybe everyone was staring because my skirt was tucked into my underwear or something. So I ducked into the bread aisle to do that torso-twist thing one must do to look at one's own ass. No skirt tuckage. Shew.

My body has always been more boyish than buxom. Only in recent years have I come to be in possession of an ass, and only in recent weeks have my boobs become big enough to be visible from a roof. So although I find the attention of strange men more skeevy than flattering, I will admit that I walked into the video store feeling rather proud of my newly-acquired curves. There might have even been a bit of a bounce in my step. You know, to better show off the boobs.

As I was leaving the video store, I came face to face with two teenage boys. This ought to be good, I thought to myself. As I pushed open the door and stepped out, one of them grabbed ahold of the door, looked at me like only a teenage boy can, and said in a flirtatious, faux-deep voice, "Thank you."

And then his buddy looked at me and said, "You have nice teeth."

Oh.

Is there some sort of drive-through (I refuse to spell it "thru" - sorry) banking etiquette to which I am not privy? If not, then can somebody please explain to me why the hell people do not evenly distribute themselves among the multiple drive-through banking lanes? Whenever we arrive at the bank drive-through, there will be a long line of cars waiting for the first drive-through lane while all the other lanes, which also have the green OPEN lights over them, are completely empty. Do the tellers give you an extra 10% if you get your check cashed in the first lane or something?

Rob and I will drive past the cars waiting in line and proceed to one of the empty lanes where we are tended to immediately. We always marvel that, even with our example, none of the waiting cars pull out of line and move into one of the empty lanes. And then Rob always says, "We must be missing something."

Are we? Or are all those other people just complete dumbasses?

(I wrote about costumes awhile back, which is my contribution to this week's Motif Monday. See the post here.)

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Dear felines,

It has been awhile since my last letter to you. Overall things are going well, but there are a few items we need to discuss.

First, let me apologize for the heat. Mommy and Daddy get to go to work in the A/C every day while you all suffer through the hottest part of the day at home. And with your fur, I can only imagine how HOT you must be. I'm so sorry. I would shear you if I thought you'd let me. Simon, laying on the top of the fridge is not the best thing to do to cool off. First of all, heat rises. Second, our fridge is old and not terribly efficient, and the top of the fridge is always warm. Perhaps you should follow Bridget's lead and lay spread-eagled on the floor. Or sit in the open window like Maylee. Just a suggestion.

Now then. On to the things we need to discuss.

Bridget: Mommy is very proud of you. You have made significant improvements since my last letter. Also, thank you for no longer biting Simon or Maylee around the neck and attempting to drag them off to kill them. They look up to you and I appreciate that you are learning to get along with them. However, I do not appreciate you teaching them bad tricks. I am glad that you no longer wake us up early in the morning, but this is only because you have somehow talked Simon into doing it and so now Simon gets yelled at instead of you. Smart kitty. However, notice that when this happens, both you and Simon get put in the Naughty Room. You aren't fooling Mommy - I know that you are the mastermind behind it all.

Still, all in all you are the perfect cat. Whomever said that parents love all their children equally is a liar. You will always be Mommy and Daddy's favorite and we will continue to let you and only you lick our ice cream bowls.

Maylee: I have very few complaints about your behavior. You have never been put in the Naughty Room for a reason - you are never naughty. However, your personality leaves a little to be desired. There is no reason to be so damned stand-offish. In return for us providing food and shelter for you, you are to allow us to pet and cuddle and squeeze you to our hearts' content. This squirming and wriggling and BACK-ARCHING is not acceptable. We are hands-on people - get used to it.

Also, I want to address something sensitive: your body image. I know Mommy used to call you "trailer trash," but that was when you were very young and rather goopy around the eyes. You have since grown into a beautiful little lady. I have noticed that you rarely finish your food and your preference for lettuce perplexes me. Mommy and Daddy love how petite and kittenlike you are, but I want to make sure that you are not attempting to maintain an unrealistic body type based on societal pressures. Do you see how Mommy eats cake and ice cream? Have you seen Mommy eat peanut butter from the jar? Fuck societal pressures, Maylee. No matter how you look on the outside, you will always be beautiful on the inside. Well, once you stop being such a cold bitch, anyway.

Simon: You are Mommy's little buddy and I love you very much. That said, I am going to kick your furry ass if you don't shape up. I have seriously considered appealing to Supernanny for help, because I do not know how to alter your behavior. If she came to our house, she would grab you by the scruff of your neck, shake a pointed finger at you, and say, "Simon! It is
unaseptible to wake Mummy and Daddy at 5:30 in the morning!" And Simon, even more "unaseptible" than waking us at 5:30 is the method you employ. It hurts like fucking hell to wake up to your claw being stuck deeply into the bottom of my foot. It doesn't hurt quite as much as the time you tore my nipple off, but that was an accident and this is an intentional and daily torture, you fucking sadist.

There are other problems we could discuss but this is by far the most heinous. Please, I am begging you. It is ridiculous that Mommy and Daddy have to leave an entire room in the house empty so that it can serve as a Naughty Room for you. Imagine what a nice office for Mommy that room would make!

Simon, let me take this opportunity to remind you that you were not supposed to be part of this household. Daddy agreed only to keeping Maylee; he did NOT want 3 cats. But I went out of my way to convince him, even stuffing you both into a box as a "present" for his birthday so that he was then obligated to keep you both since you were a gift. Simon, your morning wake-up calls are making me doubt my decision. At the very least, stick your claw into Daddy's foot. He's the one who didn't want you, after all.

Love,
Mommy