new hobby.

I've recently taken to spraying random things around the house with catnip spray, and then watching Cricket go to town on them until she's all goofy.

It all started with a toy she used to love, but has avoided like the plague as of late, and then moved to other things.

"Who loves the rug? Who loves the rug? Awwww... You love the rug!"

"Is that your pillow? Do you love that pillow? Aww... The pillow loves you too!"

And so on.

Exciting Times, 2011

1. April 13, Neil Gaiman - One Book, One Chicago @ Rockefeller Chapel
2. April 17, Chris Hardwick @ Zanies Comedy Club
3. July 14, Cibo Matto @ Lincoln Hall
4. Sept 23, They Might Be Giants - Vic Theatre
5. Dec 2, Neil Gaiman (also: Karl Cassell, Peter Sagal, Paula Poundstone, Alonzo Bodden & Nick Hancock) - Wait Wait... Don't Tell Me! BBC America TV Taping @ Chase Auditorium

hooray for boobies, not.

I find it incredibly infuriating that my whole life I had small, extremely manageable breasts, and then I turned 38 and grew cumbersome tits.

I like being flat-chested. Anything more than my handful is a burden, not to mention a complete waste of sweater meat.

The best part of living in the bell jar for a year was that I weighed so little that I was stacked like a scrawny twelve year-old boy.

But these things... they're just so... OUT there. Occupying space, being prominent, succumbing to gravitational forces in new and hideous ways, and generally forcing me to wear a bra with structure and substance.

Nothing that zips up the back will close above mid-back.

When I sleep, drive, or use the computer with the cat sitting next to me on the chair, I have to hike the right one up, and shift it out of the way.

It isn't so bad in summer, because I wear a lot of loose and flowy things that aren't affected by boobage.

But this winter, I am discovering that all of my cooler weather shirts are all 2 inches shorter, which is unacceptable. Suddenly everything is a belly-shirt, which isn't rocking when you're cold and/or sporting a muffin top.

My ribcage and general torso (not counting the mammaries) are small-framed, but everything that fits me won't fasten over the boobs. Which forces me to go up a size or two, and ends up making me look like I live on a farm and am about to go out and slop the hogs in button down tops, or a slovenly hoodlum in tees and knit shirts.

Seriously, I'm considering binding my chest. I miss my teen sports bras, and I cannot abide bending over to pick something up and having my shirt ride up and flash my panties or ass crack at peeps.