Last night we had dinner at Allie’s American Grill in the Provo Marriott. We go there exactly once every year to use our 2-for-1 coupon from our Entertainment book. Every other time we’ve gone the place has been half dead and we had a waiter all to ourselves. But last night a scrapbook convention was in town (hello, Provo) and the place was packed.

With women.

Needless to say we didn’t have a waiter all to ourselves. In fact it was a good thing we decided to try the Friday-night buffet so we didn’t have to rely on a waiter to bring us our food. We helped ourselves to prime rib, chicken, salad, and desserts. It was pretty good. The only thing we had to use our waiter for was our drinks, which were included in the price of the buffet.

You have to understand that when eating out John and I are strictly water drinkers. Water is free, you know. But last night I decided to go all out and order a chocolate milk, and John got OJ.

The trouble was that our waiter was nowhere to be found. We finally asked the hostess to please bring us our drinks. My chocolate milk was divine. I don’t drink the stuff that often, so maybe my taste buds were over-sensitive, but it was so rich and creamy it tasted like dessert. Mmmm. When we wanted refills we asked our hostess again and instead of refilling my glass she brought me a pint of chocolate milk in the original packaging.

It wasn’t low-fat chocolate milk. Oh, no. We’re talking full-fledged-full-fat-full-flavor whole milk chocolate milk. No wonder it had tasted so good.

Well, the problem with suddenly knowing exactly what you’re drinking is you know exactly what you’re drinking. Nine grams of fat and 230 calories per serving, to be exact. I have to admit, it was harder to enjoy that second glass. But I managed to anyway.

Our mailman is great. Whenever he delivers a package to our doorstep, he’s always careful to cover the parcel with our doormat, so it’s less noticeable by passerby’s. We appreciate this since our house is on the corner of a much-traveled street, and we both are gone at work during the day.

This past week we received a rather large package in the mail–a factory refurbished weed wacker that John had bought off ebay for $99. It was packaged in a box about 6 feet long and eighteen inches high. Our dear mailman wasn’t fazed by the box’s size, though; he still did his duty and dragged over our doormat to cover it.

Or, tried to cover it.

Here’s how it actually worked:

You know the mailman’s motto: “Neither rain, nor sleet, nor snow, nor wind, nor dead of night, nor huge weed wacker boxes shall deter us from delivering the mail.”

It’s barely 8 a.m. and already my banana is bruised. The entire bottom half of my brand-new banana that I had just purchased last night is now inedible gushiness.

That’s how my day is going so far. I woke up late, and with a headache. One of those annoying ones in the right temple and neck/shoulder area that’s there when you go to sleep at night, is there all night long, and is still lingering when you wake up. And, like I said, I woke up late so I didn’t have time to work out this morning.

But I took a shower and put on makeup and gathered together my lunch like usual. When I opened the garage door to go to work I saw it was raining. Not pleasant spring rain. Cold, icy, it-could-be-February rain.

But at least I had an umbrella, and I went to work. As I tried to get out of the car balancing my umbrella, bag, and plastic lunch sack, my lunch plummeted to the wet pavement with a devastating plop. My first thought was, “The one day I bring a brand-new banana to work in my plastic lunch sack, and look what happens.” As soon as I got inside I pulled out the banana and examined it. The bottom half is inedible gushiness, like I said, but the top half seemed salvageable.

And that’s when I noticed that my plastic container of applesauce had cracked open and spilled everywhere.

Yep, it’s a bruised banana day, all right.

When we got Kyra a year ago, we knew we were about to get a small glimpse of what parenthood would be like. And Kyra hasn’t let us down. I mean, I know a cat’s different from real children . . . but caring for a creature that’s helpless and doesn’t understand the meaning of “no” is pretty close to human kids, right?

On Sunday night John and I vacuumed the area around Kyra’s kitty litter and food dish in the basement so it looks really nice again. Afterward I dumped out the dirt (we have a bagless vacuum cleaner) and washed out the filter. The filter is a grey foam cylinder that takes several hours to dry, so I left it on top of the kitchen sink to dry overnight.

The next day I noticed the filter was missing. Now, Kyra knows she’s not allowed on the countertops, but like I said, cats and kids don’t always remember the meaning of “no.”

I looked all over the first floor and then the second floor. No filter anywhere. I had to go to work, and when John and I were home together last night we checked out the basement. Sure enough, she had dragged the foam filter downstairs to her little habitat. Why? I have no idea. In addition, we noticed that she had learned how to open her cat food bag and had helped herself to a little kitty feast. We rolled up the bag real tight to keep her out, but this morning I noticed she was in it again.

Parenthood? No. But it’s close enough for now.

Tonight it was time to–da da dummmm–give Kyra a bath.

She hates baths. I mean, she’s a cat. They’re hard-wired to love attention and hate water. Especially submersion in water.

But John is a tough man and I’m a good helper, and together we can accomplish the bath without too many scratches on our arms and other unprotected body parts.

John’s job is to catch Kyra and hold her down while I soap her up and rinse her off. Tonight, thankfully, Kyra was somewhat peaceful. John and I both came away wet, but with no blood run-off.

Here’s a couple pictures of Kyra just after her bath.

Looks kind of like a porcupine, huh?

Afterward we took her downstairs and fed and watered her and generally tidied up her kitty living area. While we were doing this, Kyra was off in the shadows licking herself down. She made it very clear she wanted nothing to do with us anymore. If we came near her or tried to turn on the light to find her she meowed in a very distinct, angry way that inferred, “How could you do this to me, you evil cat-haters?!”

So we left her alone. She’ll have all night to dry off and cool down, and maybe tomorrow she’ll feel ready for more attention.

Today I did two unusual things: 1) got a manicure and 2) became an Ebay-monger.

Some guys might wonder why girls feel compelled to pay someone $15+ to paint their nails. Sometimes I wonder that myself. But only until I get into the salon and my hands are soaking in nice, warm water with bubbles on top and therapeutic pebbles at the bottom. Then you forget all about the $15 and think only how lovely everything feels.

And tonight I logged into Ebay (which is rare) and started browsing jewelry (even rarer). I’ve been looking for a solitaire cz pendant necklace to replace one I lost a while ago, and I found one being sold by igem.tv on Ebay. You can see the necklace here, but I assure you I didn’t pay $249. I paid 99 cents, plus about $11 in shipping and insurance. $12.33 for a necklace isn’t bad. And this necklace isn’t cubic zirconium, it’s briolite (synthetic diamond). Most reviewers left positive feedback saying the jewelry was gorgeous, and a few said it looked cheesy fake. So we’ll see how I like it.

The problem with Ebay is that it’s addictive. You start looking at one thing and then you look at another, and suddenly you’re thinking, “I could do with a pair of fourteen-carat white gold cubic zirconium-studded hoop earrings. They’re only $25.” And then you’re thinking, “I could do with a fourteen-carat gold ¼ carat diamond anniversary band ring. It’s only $325.” There is so much beautiful jewelry out there, and it’s frighteningly easy to point and click “BUY.”

I’m happy to say that I restrained myself with the one necklace. And the one manicure. Although I have to admit while I was sitting in the salon getting my nails done, my eyes kept wandering to the hair color charts on the wall. Maybe I could do with highlights in my hair . . .