So Simon's latest thing is jumping down the laundry chute. He paws open the door and then dives down into the laundry piled in the basket at the bottom. One of these times the laundry basket is going to be empty and the little fucker is going to break his leg.

Once he jumps down, he is stuck in the basement until one of us comes home and discovers he's missing. When we open the basement door, he is sitting there on the top step, patiently waiting. He looks up at us like "Hi!" and then rushes past and heads directly for the damn laundry chute again, flinging his furry body headfirst down the hole before either of us can stop him. He's like a toddler on a slide, running up the ladder and sliding down, running up and sliding down, over and over again. Except he's not a toddler. He's a cat, jumping down the laundry chute. Which is weird. And annoying.

This weekend we installed a latch on the door. So far it seems to be working, but I'm not convinced it will hold for long. One of Maylee's idiosyncrasies is that the door to the bathroom closet (where the laundry chute is) MUST BE OPEN. She will walk into the room, open the closet door, and then walk out. You can imagine how a neurotic person like me feels about doors standing open - they drive me crazy. So I shut the door. And then Maylee opens it. So I shut it. And Maylee opens it. So I shut it. And now Simon opens it, too. So I shut it. For now, the door is staying closed with the latch. But it's making Maylee insane. She keeps trying to pry it open, and sooner or later her persistence is going to pay off. And then I'll be back to closing the damn door every 5 minutes. And Simon will be back to plummeting down the laundry chute.

I swear the universe gave me these particular cats as punishment for not wanting kids.

Yesterday I got my very first cavity filled. It was barely even a cavity. I mean, it was so small that when the hygienist found it several months ago, she wasn't even sure it was a cavity. If they hadn't just purchased some new-fangled Laser Cavity Detection Device, it would not have been categorized as a cavity. But she stuck the laser thingy in my mouth and it gave a reading that indicated the depression in my tooth was (barely) a cavity.

I was devastated. When she told me the bad news, I looked at her desperately and said, "No! No, that can't be!"

"I'm sorry."

"But I've never had a cavity before!"

"Oh, it's okay. You'll be fine. Having it filled doesn't even hurt."

"No, it's not that. I'm not worried about that. It's just...well, it's just that I'm not perfect anymore."

I don't think she quite knew how to respond to that. I was joking, of course. Sort of. Okay, not really. I mean, I know I'm not perfect, obviously. But I've always taken a great deal of pride in certain things about me that are perfect. Like my hearing. Like never having had a cavity. Like.....okay, those are the only ones I can think of.

And so I've really been bumming about this cavity. I feel so ashamed! It is a flaw in my veneer. Indisputable proof that I'm not perfect. (But, you know, just barely.)

What makes this specific case even worse is that I have perhaps been a bit of a braggart when it comes to my dental health. When I married Rob, I switched to his dentist because it was a more convenient location. At this dentist office, they name a Patient of the Week. I don't know how the patient is chosen, but if you are Patient of the Week you get a little card in the mail that everyone on the staff has signed. And they put your name up on the bulletin board in the waiting room. It is totally not a big deal, unless you're like me and enjoy every chance you get to flaunt the fact that you're better than everyone else.

The first time I got Patient of the Week, I was surprised. At my recent visit, I had gotten a mini-lecture about flossing. And so I thought it was odd that they'd chosen me to be Patient of the Week. But I figured they were trying to give me a guilt trip or something. You know, appeal to my ego. Rob said it was probably just their way of welcoming me to the office.

Then I got it again. That time I saw it coming, because at my appointment the hygienist had really praised my "home care." I still wasn't flossing, but I lied and said I was. Hey, if she can't tell, then it must not be that important. When the card came in the mail a few days later, I waved it in front of Rob's face. "Look what I got! Patient of the Week, baby! AGAIN!" He was outraged. He has been going to this dentist for basically his entire life and he has never been named Patient of the Week. Not ever. And I had gotten it twice in as many years. "But you don't even floss!" he protested. Nope. SUCKER.

When I got Patient of the Week a third time, I think Rob might have gotten a little suspicious about just exactly what was going on at these appointments. And I couldn't explain why I was being recognized and he wasn't. I mean, Rob has also never had any cavities, and has nice teeth, and even flosses. But clearly I had something he lacked. I mean, three-time winner, hello!

But now? The reign is surely over, what with the tooth decay and all. I am imperfect. And an embarrassment to Patients of the Week everywhere.

In case you're wondering why I've had nothing to say about Grey's or ER, it's because I'm not actually watching them. I mean, I am watching them, but in a very belated manner. So far this season, every Thursday evening our television has fucked me over. Every single Thursday. Well okay, so one Thursday it wasn't the tv's fault; one Thursday I missed my shows because we had a flirtian party to attend. Rob forwarded the invitation to me at work that day and I replied, "DON'T THESE PEOPLE WATCH TV?!" Um, no, actually. They don't. Unless you count Battlestar Galactica. (Which, I suppose, technically does count, but...NERD ALERT. I'm just saying.)

But every other Thursday, I've gotten all super-excited about watching The Office. And Grey's. And JOHN STAMOS ON ER! I go through my day all "Woo!! Best day ever! Thursdays ROCK!! Thursdays RULE! Thursdays rock and rule!! Hee." And then I go home and then much later Rob comes home and then we eat dinner and I'm all, "Eat faster! TV starts in 20 minutes!" And then it's 20 minutes later and I'm all, "Wheee, TV!!" And I plop down on the sofa and Rob turns on the tv and it's really fuzzy and black & white but we can still sorta see the actors. I mean, not well enough to recognize them, but it's okay because we can tell who they are by their voices. And so we're watching and laughing, watching and laughing, and then [BLUE SCREEN]. Fucking signal is gone. And we simultaneously groan, but then it's back! And we say, "Yay!" You know, simultaneously. And then five minutes pass with more watching and laughing and then [BLUE SCREEN]. And we groan and wait and then it's back! Yay! But before we can even catch back up with the scene [BLUE SCREEN]. This continues throughout the rest of The Office, our groans soon becoming "FUCK"s and "GODDAMMIT!"s. And then finally the signal doesn't fight back, and the screen casts a lonely blue glow on the walls of our living room. And I stare sadly at the tv, knowing that Grey's is happening without me, knowing that John Stamos is right inside my tv but I can't get to him.

So yeah. I'm behind. No, I don't have anything to say about Grey's. And no, I haven't seen the last two episdoes of ER. Yes, I'm sure John Stamos was sextastic. He's saving the show, so I hear. Wouldn't know it by me, considering I haven't fucking SEEN the show hardly. But no, I don't want to know what happens. And yes, I do think the universe can be a fucking bitch sometimes.

A statue in Old San Juan (and the closest I got to swimming with dolphins).

I had a feeling. I did. That's why in the last post I included this sentence: "Provided the universe doesn't fuck something up, of course." That was my attempt to prevent the inevitable, to appease the universe by acknowledging its omnipotence all the while hoping it might possibly grant me the joy of a dolphin swim.

But, not so much. The dolphin swim was cancelled due to "lack of participation." I had figured it would get cancelled due to weather or some freak dolphin flu or something. But lack of participation? I was incredulous. "Who wouldn't want to swim with dolphins?!" I asked Rob. "Look! It says right here on the excursion descriptions: Dolphin Swim, HIGHLIGHT. It's a freaking highlight!!!! As it should be! Because who wouldn't want to swim with DOLPHINS?!"

I did some hardcore pouting for five minutes and then moved on with my life. (Well, I may have repeated the "WHO WOULDN'T WANT TO SWIM WITH DOLPHINS?!" question multiple times throughout the evening, but just because I never got a sufficient answer. I mean, seriously, who wouldn't want to swim with dolphins? Did I mention it's a freaking HIGHLIGHT?!!)

We switched to an excursion that would take us across the island of St. Maarten to one of the very best beaches. I was more than happy to go to a really nice beach, but I knew it wouldn't compare to swimming with dolphins. However, the promise of unlimited rum persuaded me that this excursion would be an acceptable alternative. I had every intention of drinking a dolphin's weight in rum.

As I settled under an umbrella on my cushioned beach chair with my first rum punch in hand, I started to wonder if perhaps the universe had done me a favor after all. This place was fucking incredible. I'd describe it to you but I would just sound like a vacation pamphlet with the sandy white beach that stretches on forever and the warm aquamarine sea and the rocky cliffs that surround and protect the location. (I'll eventually get some photos posted.) Suffice it to say, it was an enchanted place. If I were a mermaid I would totally live there.

But soon enough I discovered that the universe had, indeed, brought me there for a reason. The beach was located on the French side of the island and, being a French beach, it was also a topless one. That's not, in and of itself, a complaint. I have no problem with folks going topless. Hell, I was half a rum punch away from going topless myself. The thing is, toplessness is just like bikini wearing. There are those who should and those who shouldn't. And let me just say that of those who did, not nearly enough were ones who should have. I actually found myself wishing that these women were wearing bikinis, which is a pretty big accomplishment of the universe.

But the lesson wasn't over yet. I had melted into my chair, eyes closed, well on my way to a state of nirvana when, without explanation, my eyelids fluttered open. And what did I behold but THE most unattractive couple I've ever seen, utterly naked. Did I mention the nudist resort that was also on this beach? For the most part those folks stayed on their section of sand, but this couple felt the need to strut their stuff down the length of the shore. And by strut their stuff, I mean shock and appall anyone unfortunate enough to glance their way. It was at this point that I surrendered, with a shudder, to the universe. I withdrew my previous skinny bitch bikini snootiness and conceded that, indeed, anyone in the world can wear as skimpy a swimsuit as they so please and, actually, SHOULD wear such a suit given the alternative and, moreover, just because I may happen to own my bikini does not, in fact, make me better than other people and please just please don't make me look at any more Merv-like naked people dear god PLEASE.

It was at this point, as I recall, that I began drinking rum on the rocks. Really, when the rum is flowing and free, why be bothered with mixing it into punch? Soon I had decided that everyone on that beach was beautiful in their own way. I'd like to think this was due to the universe's lesson, but I suspect it was more likely a result of the rum.

The rum also successfully eased the pain of not getting to spend the day with dolphins. In fact, I may have even, while swimming in the sea, declared, "FUCK THE DOLPHINS!" I meant them no personal affront, I assure you. But, the truth is, I was quite content right where I was. And I figure that actually the universe did me a favor after all since the endless pursuit of a dolphin swim provides just cause for taking many more tropical vacations.

There are certain things in life that I look forward to and which contribute significantly to my happiness. Like dinner with my husband. Relaxing weekends. Trips to Target.

There are two such things on Sunday: yoga and Grey's Anatomy. Yoga on Sunday is so much better than when I had yoga on Tuesday because I'm already relaxed when I get there and afterwards I'm able to maintain the mellow mood it puts me in. And honestly, I don't know how I coped with Sunday evenings before Grey's Anatomy. It's the final gift of the weekend.

But yesterday the universe decided to fuck with the things that make my Sunday sacred.

First, we had a substitute yoga instructor. Color me devastated. And can I just say? I Did Not Like This Chick. Granted, I probably didn't really give her much of a chance given my loyalty to my lady of the lotus. But also, for specific reasons, she sucked. She was curt. In yoga, there is no curt. She spoke loudly and imperiously. In yoga, there is no speaking loudly or imperiously. She insisted we breathe through our mouths loudly enough for her to hear us. First of all, technically in yoga there is no breathing through the mouth, although it is of course okay to do whatever you're most comfortable with. Which brings me to my second point - in yoga there is never ever bossing. Ever. I just really didn't like her. At one point, while we were in a pose, she turned to look at us and said bitchily, "The thing with yoga is that you need to Keep Breathing." Alrighty-then. First of all, it's your job to coach us through the breathing, mmmkay? And secondly, it just so happens that we are fucking breathing, but we're breathing through our goddamn noses as is standard yoga practice. Oh, and finally? Don't think I haven't noticed that ever since the sun salutation we've been doing pilates. I don't know if you don't know the difference or if you just suck at yoga and thought you could trick us. But either way, I think you are a complete waste of the cute green pants I wore.

I left yoga thinking that at least I still had Grey's Anatomy. But, not so much. Rob and I turned on the tv at 10pm and it was black and white and very fuzzy. The show was on - we could hear it and we could sorta see it. Sorta. The part where the husband and wife come in and she's got something in her neck? Yeah, it showed a close up shot of that and Rob and I both leaned forward, squinting. "Can you see that?" I asked. "Not a clue," he said. "Huh. This sucks. I wonder what it is?" Rob leaned in closer, squinted harder. "Is it...maybe...a fork?" The thing is, the sky was perfectly clear outside. Usually ABC comes in fine for us unless it's raining or really overcast. But it wasn't. The universe was just fucking with me, like I said. And it got worse. Soon it was going to the Silent Blue Screen of Death which is what happens when it's not getting any reception whatsoever. And, of course, this always happens during the most important parts and never, I might add, during the commercials. Meredith's scene in the elevator with George went something like this: "George, I'm really, truly [Blue Screen]. Sincerely. And [Blue Screen.......]" ::George hurries out of elevator:: The way they tie everything together at the end? I missed all of that. It was all one big Blue Screen. As we were staring sadly at the Blue Screen, I said to Rob, "We're not even going to know if the fork lady survived." And right then the show flashed back and there was the fork lady, lying in bed. I leaned forward, trying to determine if she was alive and then....Blue Screen, followed by the universe's evil laugh.

But today is one of those gifts March occasionally gives - bright sun, blue sky, 80 degrees. The kind of day that makes winter seem like a distant memory, that convinces me spring really will come again this year despite the doubts I've been having since mid-January. I walked down to the ice cream shop this afternoon as an excuse to feel the sun on my shoulders. The flavor of the week is chocolate peanut butter, which just so happens to be my favorite. It seems, for some reason, the universe is making it all up to me today.

Guess who is the #6 MSN search result for John Stamos? NILBO. Yeah, the man who hates John Stamos, the man who embraces every possible opportunity to sacrilegiously mock His Heinieness. Number 6!!! (And he doesn't even mention John Stamos in his motherfucking post! What the fuckity fuck fuck is going on?!)

You can just imagine how completely pleased Nilbo was to share this news with me. Dude is the king of giddy gloating, I can tell you that. But seriously, how am I supposed to believe that there is still good in the world when seriously fucked up shit like this happens?! I mean, if this isn't a bitch slap from the universe then I DON'T KNOW WHAT IS.

Last night Rob and I rang in the new year by having a very late dinner at a very nice restaurant. We got all gussied up and had a lovely 5-course meal with champagne and very intimate conversation (because it just so happened that the person Rob wanted to tell me a story about, a story he had specifically waited until dinner to tell me, was sitting at the next table! What are the chances?! And so we both leaned in so that our heads were almost touching and we spoke in hushed whispers and I'm sure everyone around us thought, "Oh, look how in love they are!" when actually we were just gossiping).

Anyway. I ordered goose and Rob ordered the loin of lamb. Yes, LOIN! I know, right? LOIN!! I mean, tenderloin would have been one thing, but loin by itself is funny, right? Or maybe I just have the maturity of a 7th grade boy, because I thought it was a HOOT but Rob just sorta looked at me strangely. LOIN of lamb! And then of course he decided that's what he wanted, the loin of lamb. And of course when the waiter took our orders, Rob didn't say "I'd like the lamb." Oh no. He said, "I'd like the loin of lamb." And it was all I could do not to laugh in both their faces. I chortled a bit, I'll admit. But honestly, who actually says "loin of lamb"? I mean, I ordered the honey glazed goose breast, but I didn't say "breast." I said, "I'd like the honey glazed goose, please." Dude knew what I meant. Let's keep the loins and breasts out of it, is all I'm saying.

ANYWAY. The meal was great (which means expensive - $200 - which I am only telling you because it is relevant later and also let me add that we had a gift certificate because I just don't want you getting the wrong idea, not that there is anything wrong with paying $200 for a meal because I don't think there is but nonetheless for some reason I want you all to know that we didn't). We toasted to 2005, which at the time I found to be quite lovely but now think was perhaps a mistake, and then we left the restaurant and walked downtown a few blocks just in time to see the fireworks. And we kissed and I clapped and it was all very Happy New Year.

Or so it seemed. But I was soon to learn that the new year had it out for me.

I came to bed 20 minutes after Rob because while men can just GO to bed, women have this whole pre-bed routine which I find extremely unfair but that is another post entirely. So I crawled into bed 20 minutes after Rob and found him to be very much asleep. So I cozied up to him all sexily and he responded with "Uhhh." So I cozied up even more sexily and he muttered, "Can't. Stuffed. Too much meat. Might get sick. Morning." Yeah, dude totally Not Tonight, Dear-ed me! Although I can't say I was terribly upset since I've played that card a few times myself. But I just didn't get it because I, personally, felt GREAT. Not too stuffed, not at all sick. FABULOUS, really.

And then I woke up at 4:45 to the rumbling in my stomach. You know the rumbling. The rumbling that is so formidable that you are afraid to move even a centimeter for fear that the rumbling will erupt. And so you clench your jaw and break out into a sweat and when it gets really bad you make teeny tiny mouse moans because anything more than that would require you to part your lips and everyone knows that breaking that seal is the biggest mistake you can make. And so I lay there in agony until eventually Rob sensed my discomfort and woke up and said, "Honey? You okay? What's wrong? Can I get-"

"Shhh. Sounds make it worse," I mumbled, careful to keep my jaw firmly clamped and my lips pressed tightly together.

And so we lay there in silence. At some point I realized that really nothing could be more miserable than the rumbling and the clenching and the occasional uncontrollable writhing and so I went into the bathroom and eased myself down onto the floor. My hope was that maybe, just by being near the toilet, my body would realize what was inevitable and snap the fuck out of it already. Alas, that didn't happen. The new year had deprived me of sex and given me the toilet to cling to instead. (Although I will say that Rob came in, very concerned, in the middle of it all and although I shooed him away, his offer to be with me totally made up for the Not Tonight, Dear thing.)

Awhile later I came back into the bedroom, slowly sipping soda. "I just threw up one hundred dollars into the toilet."

Rob chuckled. "Well now you can say you've been purged of all your mistakes from 2005." The thing is, and I know this will make me sound very George W. Bush, but I can't really think of any mistakes from 2005. It was a really good year. So good that we toasted to it when we probably should have toasted to 2006 instead.

Y'all, I fear the new year is a jealous, grudge-holding bitch.