This Post is Not Even Remotely About Syria, Slut-Shaming or Miley Cyrus

There are things you don’t know about me.

Even if you follow me on Facebook, where I seemingly blurt out every random thought that appears in my frizzy little head…yes, there are things you don’t know. And shockingly, things I don’t say.

Proof Point #1: The Boy and I were talking about possibly doing something kind of stupid that possibly involves large predatory wildlife the other night and he mentioned that if we DID it, I couldn’t post it to Facebook. I looked at him in all seriousness and said “If I can’t post it to Facebook, why would we even do it?”

Proof Point #2:  Last week we were watching “Orange is the New Black” and there was a scene where two lovely women were making out in a pretty sexy way and I casually asked him if I ever went to jail if he’d mind if I cheated on him with a woman out of sheer loneliness. His eyes lit up like a kid’s on Christmas morning and he (kinda) shouted “You don’t have to wait for prison!” I totally wanted to make that my Facebook status, but I wasn’t sure my parents would see the humor and it’s possible I’ve horrified them enough already. Also? From his response, I think The Boy thinks a stint in prison is something imminent in my future. (Note: Whatever it is or whenever it happens, clearly I WAS FRAMED.)

So yes, there are things I do and things I say that you know nothing about and would likely be either outrageously entertained by or maybe mortified. Either way, I’m holding out on you. Or at least I was, prior to the two Proof Points above. Now maybe you actually do know everything I think.

Whatever the case, there are also things I DON’T do that I keep from you, and one of these is this tasty little nugget: Despite the fact that both cats in our household are Ogg children (and one of them is a decidedly barfy lil guy), I refuse to clean up cat vomit.

There, it’s out. I REFUSE TO CLEAN UP CAT VOMIT.  And I’m really, really good at it-- and clearly not ashamed to admit it.

I think at first The Boy thought he could just wait me out, thought that surely after a few hours or a day or so I’d give in and just clean it up. But NO. I can studiously avoid cat vomit for WEEKS if I have to. That shit can be close to disintegration and I still do not “see” it there on the carpet. Seriously, it’s a gift. Or maybe an art. Or maybe something totally new: A gart.

Which leads me to one of the reasons that I love The Boy so much: He cleans it up. And usually he does so without fanfare or any expectation that I’ll fawn all over him for it (because, eeeewww gross, he just interacted with cat vomit). As I type this, he has just completed shampooing about a dozen different vomit spots in our living room and bedroom and is actually whistling as he lugs the giant shampooer thingie (that I don’t even know how to operate and am unable to actually lift) down the stairs to start on the basement spots.

Seriously you guys, he’s a keeper. 

And clearly so am I. Just to prove it, here's an artfully composed kitteh photo for your viewing pleasure.

Kip: The barfy lil guy.
What I lack in cat vomit-cleaning skills, I MORE than make up for in cat costuming skills!

An Open Letter to Miley Cyrus

Dear Miley:

I get it. 

You're 20 years old and clearly desperate to prove that you're no longer a child. 

But what I think you'll learn over the next 25 years or so (and likely as the uncomfortable and unfortunate result of a series of poorly-conceived and sloppily-executed cries for attention like your performance on the VMA's last night) is that the best way to prove you are an adult is to make mature decisions about many, many things-- including how you behave in public.

Hey, I was 20 once (and thank God only once because I would not want to have to learn those lessons again). I made really poor decisions. I embarrassed myself frequently in public and even more frequently in private. So I get it Miley, I really do. I did all of those embarrassing things despite having advantages you couldn't dream of, like parents who realized I was a child (not a meal ticket or a brand) and who set appropriate boundaries and expectations on my behavior.

I even did those things in relative anonymity... and yet they haunt me still. Like many people my age I am mortified at some of the poor decisions I made, at how I casually hurt those around me, at how I humiliated myself-- even though there is little to no paper trail of those moments, unlike those you are very publicly creating.

At the time, I couldn't even fathom that the day would come when I'd think the way I do now... and yet here I am, pontificating on my blog about it from the comfort of and with the 20/20 hindsight of my Middle Age (ugh, cringe). And you know what? You'll be doing the same thing-- because that's how the maturation process works.

My advice: Take some time off. Rest your twerking muscles. Do some soul searching. Think about the type of person you'd like the 47-year old YOU to meet. Perhaps even purchase and wear some full-length pants.
Miley, there are so many things you can be: Be fun. Be talented. Be cool. 

Be well-traveled, well-read and well-educated. Be an interesting conversationalist. Be a good friend. Be quick to laugh and slow to anger. Be careful with other people's feelings. Be a philanthropist. Be exceptionally kind to animals and to those less powerful than you. Be outspoken and proud of who you are and all that you've accomplished. But for the love of all that you will EVER be, mostly be AWARE that the 47-year old you is not going to fondly remember the night where in a desperate attempt to prove to the world you are an adult you donned a flesh-colored bikini and simulated masturbation with a giant foam finger in front of millions of people... and in doing so, you proved to the world that you are, in fact, still a child.

Sincerely,
A woman who has been many things... some that she is even proud of