Notice: Putting the Baby Down is NOT the Same as Putting the Gerbil Down

The pros and cons of choosing child-less-ness:

Pros:

• My cats don't need me to set a "good example," and if they do, not peeing in the bed qualifies.
• There are no strained (sprained, stained) veggies in my house and there won't be until toothlessness recurs.
• I don't have to kiss boo-boos, explain where babies come from or feign amusement in a solid hour's worth of knock-knock jokes.
• If I want to go somewhere, I go. I don't have to arrange babysitters or try to figure out the intricacies of car seats. I don't need to make sure I have 47 noisy toys and 11 different varieties of mashed former food in an enormous shoulder bag that has fluffy sheep on it.
• The only thing in my home with fluffy sheep on it is my Wallace and Gromit video.
• No diaper shall enter my home until incontinence recurs.
• Teenage angst is something I hear about but will never again have to witness unless I start watching Dawson's Creek or some other equally insipid teenage-angst-soggy television show.
• All the food in the fridge is mine. So is the beer.
• My furniture will never be be-drooled, be-shat or be-teethed on. Except by my cats, and for them, all is forgiven.
• There is no danger that my cats will turn out to vote Republican.
• All the whining in the house is my own.
• My cats are highly unlikely to get pregnant, caught shoplifting, arrested, or in a car accident with my Jetta and some horror Monster-in-a-Mom-Suit driving a Cadillac Escalade that costs more than my mortgage.

Cons:

• I have to go to animated movies by myself or with other adults. On second thought, this really belongs on the "pro" list.
• My cats will probably not take care of me when I'm old. Fortunately, the way the things are going with the current world leadership, I likely won't have a chance to grow old, so this is irrelevant.

Beveled without a Cause

It's 11:06 on a Tuesday morning, and I really want to pop open a bottle of champagne. This is inconvenient, since everyone I care about is at work or otherwise unavailable to share in my celebration, including Toasty, the boyfriend. Getting pissed on your own at 11:07 on a Tuesday morning is pathetic, even if it's on champagne that has a reason for being there.

My reason: I just finished the first edit of the second draft of my second children's book. Most people would likely celebrate finishing the first draft. I do that too, but since editing is infinitely more onerous than actually writing, finishing an edit is much more of a cause for celebration in my world. But there's that Tuesday-at-11:08 factor to consider. So the party's on hold (your accomplishment is important to us. please continue to hold) until further notice. Or until 5-ish.

So at whatever time it's acceptable to celebrate, wherever in the world you might be, raise a glass with me. Honor something worthy in your life: finishing a major project, running that marathon (or Ironman, as my superjock friend Rachel recently did), getting that promotion or not getting that pink slip. Or go the other way and celebrate something totally frivolous, just for the fun of toasting the final healing of a papercut, taking the last cup of coffee from the pot and not making a new pot and not getting blamed for it! or having an unsavory neighbor hauled away by the Feds. My last book was self-published, the first set of books printed had a tendency to shed pages like a mangy dog, and my tepid marketing strategy resulted in sales well into the thousand. But the second one's ready, and hope springs eternal, and now I have to relearn PageMaker, and someone pass me the bottle, 11:17 be damned.

Update on Shady Neighbor

Well, it seems the DEA have taken my neighbor for an indefinite stay at some detention center or other. I remain cautiously gleeful. "Gleeful" because he wasn't nice to my guest cats and because he had unsavory types banging in and out of my building in all of the wee-est of the wee hours. "Cautious" because he might come back. I have since spoken to other people in my building, one of whom went out on the morning of the raid to move his car, and apparently there were some 15 body-armored DEA types surrounding the building. I feel for the guy or two who got stuck with the duty at the back of the building where there is no pavement, only blackberry thickets, a rather sudden drop-off to the highway below, and squelchy raccoon turds in-between.

Since then I have heard several people approach the building and key in the now-obsolete entry code, only to be met with "entry de (wait for it) nied." I keep wanting to sing out a "he's in jail" response to the tune of "Nyah nyah nyah nyah nyah," but so far I've managed to restrain myself. The body armor lingers in my mind: body armor suggests the notion that our guy had weapons. Of the variety that require body armor. Which suggests the possibility that his bosom buddies are also packing heat. I'm not quite brave enough to taunt drug users who are (a) potentially armed, and (b) needing a next hit. There is a crabbiness quotient here reaching into the lethal zone, and I'm really more of a duck-and-covergirl.

So until I know that neighbor Shady McDealsSomeDrugs is truly gone for good, I'm outfitting the guest cats with wee little flak jackets and hunkering down behind my sofa to sing the Nyah Nyah song quietly to myself.