Cardiogirl: 19% body fat 100% fun

Okay, I think most of my VIPers know I desperately want a cat. And if you know that much, you know I can’t have one anymore since my oldest kid is allergic to cats and has asthma.

*Falls to her knees with her arms outstretched and screams to the sky, “Why Lord? WHY?!”*

However, I’ve recently discovered a loophole. For the last two summers I’ve been pet sitting for my neighbor. He has two dogs and a cat and I let them out twice a day. As you may have guessed, it didn’t take long to win the dogs over. Dogs are so easy they’ll give it up to anyone.

But the cat is one tough monkey. He goes outside and then returns after a while to sit patiently by the back door until I come back to let him in.

It took
almost
two years
but I am
proud to
say that I
finally made my neighbor’s
cat my bitch.

I have been wooing him, on and off, for two years and finally back in September my hard work paid off. I can seriously make him purr on command, gingah. He follows me around the house and will hop up next to me when I sit down so I can pet him. It’s an awesome super power I have acquired and I cherish it. But summer is over so I can no longer see my boyfriend, Boo.

And if you think I’m kidding, you can ask my kids and my husband about my boyfriend.

Anyway, I haven’t had a hook up for about two weeks now and I miss him. So that’s why Emily said, “Your boyfriend is on our porch,” when we getting ready to leave for school yesterday. I was in the middle of making lunches when I dropped the bread and said, “Where is he?!”

“He just left to go next door.”

So I ran outside to the neighbor’s house and got on my hands and knees so I could reach under the bushes to pet him. And he sat there just out of my grasp. I cajoled him, I begged him; I even used my special little cat noise to woo him. Finally, he came out of the bushes and sat on the porch steps while I rubbed his ears and he meowed to go inside.

And then the front door opened and I saw my neighbor’s shoes as the cat scurried inside.

I felt like Jack Tripper getting busted by Mr. Roper as I slowly rose to my feet and raced through my mental Rolodex for something — anything — to say. Finally I said, “Hey, um, those address numbers on your house are really cool. I just thought you should know that.”

Back at my house, I grunted when I opened the cupboard for the peanut butter because I strained a muscle in my lower back trying to reach the cat.

“Seriously, Mom?” Allison said. “You pulled a muscle in your back chasing your boyfriend?”

“Yes. I. Did,” I said full of self righteousness. “I love him.”

And then I realized I had just showed my girls how to be a needy, black sucking hole of a girlfriend.

So I gathered them up in the kitchen, wincing from the pain in my back, while I tried to spin some damage control.

“Hey, you know how I ran out there to see the cat?”

“You mean how you ran out to see your boyfriend?” Katie said.

“Yeah. Don’t do that when you start dating. You should never run after a guy like I just did. It’s really desperate and you shouldn’t do that. Okay?”

They just smiled and Katie said, “Whatever, Mom. We’re gonna be late for school.”

I found an interesting article the other day at msnbc.com while I was trying to find a bio for Keith Morrison. It’s an excerpt of a book called “For Better: The Science of a Good Marriage” by Tara Parker Pope. The premise is that researchers can predict roughly 80% of the time whether a couple will divorce based on how they tell the story of their meeting.

I love trying to understand human behavior. I think that’s why I’m so interested in serial killers and murder mysteries.

My older two kids have picked up on that and ask me, every so often, “Why do you read those kinds of books?” When I’m in a state of pique I tell them, “Because I enjoy the adrenaline rush of the nightmares.”

My 10-year-old has been hip to my sarcasm for a couple years now and will say, in times of frustration, “Why can’t you be like a normal mom?” Because homey is 5.68 miles left of normal, that’s why.

Anyway, as I read the article I was intrigued by the hypothesis: telling the story can accurately predict a divorce more than three-quarters of the time. Whoa, gingah.

Spouses who are in happy marriages often recount the early part of their relationship with laughter, smiles, and nostalgia—even when talking about difficult times like a job loss or financial struggles. Unhappy couples, however, tend to recast their past times together in a decidedly negative light.

For instance, imagine a couple telling the story of the first time a wife visited her future husband’s filthy apartment.

“My goodness, the place was a wreck! Socks everywhere, empty beer bottles. It was definitely a bachelor pad.”

Or she might remember it this way:

“It was disgusting. Even back then, he was a complete slob.”

It’s the same story about the same messy apartment, told two different ways. But it’s clear which wife is happier in her relationship.

Now that someone has pointed it out, it seems so obvious, doesn’t it?

So here’s my challenge to you — fill in that blank up there. In your comment write the sentence with your adjective. If you feel like expounding upon your answer go ahead.

If you want create some mystery just write, “How I met my embittered spouse” and leave the interpretation up to the reader.

Here’s my answer: “How I met my dashing, yet naive, spouse.”

It’s true. I have a crush on all of my readers. Even the lurkers. I want to lavish love on my lurkers, but it can’t happen while they sit in the underbrush watching us dance around the campfire.

I imagine those fine folks are like skittish deer. I try to approach softly and quietly with a handful of succulent corn in my outstretched hand.

I will not tweak your nose deer reader (ba dump bump — couldn’t resist that cheesy pun.) I will not try to pet your head or touch your antlers.

I will simply allow you to nibble at the corn and then walk away. You don’t need to dance around the campfire, should you choose to approach. You can just relax with a marshmallow on a stick and say, “That’s right,” once in a while.

Now onto the kids crowd surfing the mosh pit around the camp fire. Love. You. I love you so much that I’ve finally found the WordPress version of a Hallmark card. Because I really do care enough to send the very best.

There are two ways to peek through the window to see who’s hanging in the VIP Lounge.

Method One: When you get to the homepage you can see who’s been knocking back the most dry martinis in the last six months. Go on, peek through the window. Hover your mouse over that gnome on the bottom right. That’s my buddy strugglingwriter, aka Zeus; he’s left 62 comments in the last six months. You want to meet him? Click on the gnome and you’ll visit his blog.

Now there are some folks who don’t list a corresponding website. I’m looking at you, Solomon and V. You could click all day and you won’t go anywhere. Without a website, there’s nowhere to go.

If you’re competitive I suggest you hover over the first monster on the upper left-hand side. Pop quiz! Who is that and how many comments has he or she left?

Method Two: When you’re reading one post at a time you’ll see the top 12 commenters for that post. I think it’s first-come, first-serve unless you start leaving multiple comments on the same post. That’s how you jump to the head of the line each day, by leaving more than one comment on the same post. I think. I don’t know how it works when you’re using Method Two.

So if you’re the first one commenting on this here post then you’re the first one in the door. You’re going to see the words Today’s Chatty VIP Members, Comment to join the VIP Lounge.

If you see that, congratulations! You’re the first one here, gingah! What’ll it be? A martini shaken or stirred? Extra dry with an olive? You say you’re the designated driver? You’re in luck, I also have non-alcoholic beverages on tap. This is a full-service bar, gingah, I have whatever you’re thirsting for.

Bottoms up!