Trash to Treasure

I'm just wondering if the fact that my cats are both extraordinarily beautiful makes up for the fact that they're both remarkably dumb. Probably from a theoretical standpoint it doesn't, but they sure keep my feet warm. It's freakin' cold. I plugged in the magnetic oil pan heater on my car tonight so I won't feel so bad if I decide to drive it the four blocks to work in the morning. Walking is lovely, such a beautiful time, but it's below zero, people. Have pity.

Tonight's fourth grade holiday program at school included a sprightly number about the not-so-perfect-anymore Saint of Festivities, Martha Stewart, in which sixty ten-year olds sang about how she can prepare a nine-course meal without breaking a sweat and create beautiful wreaths out of trash. It was hilarious, as it was meant to be, and afterwards my brother-in-law said something very loudly about her maybe still being in solitary confinement, and we laughed even harder. It's like she's addicted to productivity, smuggling contraband baking necessities into her cell. A neurosis involving the inescapable desire for culinary perfection. Honestly, woman, get a grip. And the stock is still going up.

You wouldn't believe how far a few people would go just to hear me say "I like having you around." It scares me, but at the same time it's truly gratifying. Weird.