I've always been the type of woman who attracts and hangs out with gay men, but I never thought that quality would apply to pet ownership.

I have a cat, who, in less tolerant households, would have been sent to live here

with him

a long time ago.

I didn't have concrete proof until this past weekend that Linus is the gayest cat on earth, next to Odin, but I'd always had a feeling that he was just a bit less heterosexual than his brother, Milo. I just know these things from experience.

Linus loves to be in the bathroom when I'm getting ready for my day. He watches me apply makeup and blow dry my hair. Sometimes it looks like he's thinking, "Girl, that eyeshadow does NOT go with that lip color. You're a FALL...go with it." I could swear he's Kevin Aucoin reincarnated.

Once when my best friend Amy was living with me, the back door to the house was left wide open. Milo and Ariel went strolling out to the driveway. Fortunately, they were both too friggin' lazy to explore the great outdoors any further. They just sat their asses on the pavement and checked out the world from a sedentary position. Amy returned home before I, and was settling on the sofa to watch television, when Linus began mewing and walking on her. He was, seemingly, trying to get her attention. She followed him into the kitchen and found the back door ajar and the two other cats smack dab in the middle of the driveway. Linus' timely warning that something was amiss is the number one reason Ariel and Milo didn't escape permanently. This story doesn't have anything to do with his gayness, but the next one does.

Last weekend, Linus spent the entire time hitting on Tony. He rubbed all over Tony's legs and face and sat in his lap whenever the opportunity presented itself. Usually when people come over, Linus hides in a bedroom and waits for them to leave before showing his sweet face. Not last weekend. Last weekend, his tail was ALL KINDS of up in the air and he was presenting his ass like a Thanksgiving turkey fresh from the oven. He was making these flirty mew sounds and frequently perched himself on a table or chair with his prissy little paws together as if to say, "I'm so pretty. You know you want me." It was embarrassing! I guess Linus isn't Tony's type, because Tony didn't go for it, even when Linus pulled out the Penthouse poses.

Gay cat. God, I love him.

I lose things constantly.

When I say "lose," I mean I put things down and forget where I've left them. "Finding" "lost" items usually consists of OPENING MY EYES.

Here's the problem. I cannot rest until I've found the misplaced object. Sometimes the misplaced object is a CD or a checkbook. Other times, it's an animal, like, say, a big, gray, bitchy cat.

Said feline enjoys hiding, particularly in the basement. It's cold, damp and rather dirty in my cinderblock cellar, and I don't particularly want her spending the night in that 'ell' ole. Each night before retiring to my bedchamber, I check to make sure the cats haven't gone into the basement. I close and lock the swinging door that separates the kitchen, back hall and basement from the rest of the house. The cats follow me up the stairs and while I brush my teeth, they proceed to curl-up in the exact spot on the bed where I was planning to lay my tired head. This is the usual routine.

This is the usual routine.

Once in a while, Bitchy Cat will hide. Somewhere. Anywhere. Occasionally she becomes the David Copperfield of the household with her little disappearing act. Unfortunately, I can't rest until I see her big bitchy self and I know for a fact that she's not stuck in the cold damp basement developing kitty rheumatism or TB. I check under beds, and in closets whose doors have not been opened for weeks. I revisit hiding spots and call her name. Only when I shake the treat jar (my last resort) does she show her face, with a look that says, "Oh, were you looking for ME? Well, what. evah."

Bitchy cat. God, I love her.

Here's a weird question.

When was the last time you vomited?

I need to know these things about people.

I absolutely hate to vomit. I would rather pull out every hair on my head one strand at a time than throw up.

This is the main reason why I don't drink. I cannot ingest alcohol without vomiting. You can read all about that here.

I spent a good portion of last year throwing up due to a raging infection in my body caused by an endometrial cyst on one of my ovaries. A week in the hospital and a month at home on intravenous antibiotics took care of the infection and the persistent vomiting, thankfully. I can't remember a more miserable time in my life.

Enough about me. Back to you. When was the last time you vomited and why? I just think I'll feel so much closer to you if I know this.

Or, it'll make me puke.

When I was in second or third grade, I remember having the hugest crush on a boy in my class named Andy. I even cried myself to sleep one night just thinking about him.

Friday, a mom came up to me with a big smile on her face and asked, "Which one is Patrick?"

"Patrick's not here yet. Why?"

"Well, yesterday, my daughter came home and said, 'Mom. I think I'm in love. There's a boy in my class named Patrick, and he is so gorgeous to look at.'"

I laughed and said, "Oh my god, did she really say 'gorgeous to look at'?"

"Yes, and I have no idea where she got that from!"

"Hahahahahahahahahhahahahahahaha!"

During snack, I noticed that this little girl chose to sit right next to Patrick. She gazed at him lovingly over her Teddy Grahams and juice box. She couldn't take her eyes off his gorgeousness.

I'll bet when the class picture arrives, his photo will be the last thing she looks at before she goes to bed. The corners will be dog-eared in a matter of weeks because she'll sleep with it under her pillow.

Patrick, don't break her heart. She's only four.

I realize I am a complete dork, so you don't have to point it out to me. Remember, these are my glasses.

Monday night, my loser level ascended to new heights. I went to a Clay Aiken CD release party.

After a long weekend in Detroit, I stopped at home to kiss my cats and drop off my bags. Then I drove to hell.

I headed over to "The Olive Garden". The meal, fortunately, had ended, so I didn't have to ingest the most repulsive fake Italian food on the planet.

The entire event was organized by a woman I remember seeing at the American Idols concerts in Cleveland and Albany. She�s like the friggin� mayor of Clayaikenland. She trotted around all night looking and acting superior and talking in the loudest voice you�ve ever heard in your entire life. She brought enough stuff to fill the contents of a moving van, including dozens of Krispy Kreme donuts, gift bags for everyone who registered for this disaster of a "party",

Bet my obsession is looking pretty f�n tame right about now, huh?

Around 8pm, the Posse of Freaks moved to Media Play, where the festivities began. Media Play provided watery coffee and cappuccino. Of course, the attendees converged on the free beverages like a pack of vultures on fresh kill and before long, the "empty" sign was taped up. Don�t people realize they use BATHROOM TAP WATER in those machines?

Clay�s American Idol performances played on a television set up on the floor. While thumbing through magazines, I heard the first few notes of "This is the Night". I then saw a grown woman (wearing sweatpants and a fanny pack) RUN AND SLIDE ACROSS THE FLOOR to get up close to the TV screen. What the hell?

The Mayor of Clayaikenland organized a bunch of lame ass games, including "How many words can you make from Clay Aiken�s name", "Clay Aiken Bingo", and "Red thong toss". The latter was by far the most pathetic. A tower of toilet paper stood with a cardboard cutout of Clay�s head at the top. People flung red thongs slingshot style at the tower. Dollar store candles were given as prizes to those who could ring Clay�s head with underwear. Psh.

I could only take so much of this bullshit, so I walked around the store, reading DVD cases, checking out books and CDs and filling my arms with merchandise to make me feel better for attending this train wreck. I found the manager and asked him if he would PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE sell me a CD early so I could escape this torture and go home. He told me he could be fined $5000 for releasing the CD before midnight in a voice reserved for people who believe they hold a very powerful and important position in life. Dude, it�s a Clay Aiken CD release party at Media Play. Get over yourself. When you discover a cure for AIDS, then you can use that attitude with me. Until then, act like a normal person.

The most unsettling part of the evening came when they broke out the karaoke machine. Now, I loves me some karaoke, but this was beyond horrible. First, little kids sang. Shouldn�t they have been at home in bed on a school night? I was so tempted to call Child Protection Services just to make it stop. Next, a guy in his twenties ruined "Build Me Up Buttercup", followed by a tender man in his seventies dressed much like the Crocodile Hunter who butchered "Unchained Melody". I called Tony and held out my cell phone so he could hear what evil sounds like. If I had to endure the agonizing torture of hearing these people blaspheme Clay�s performances with their terrible voices, so did he.

I wore out the soles of my shoes pacing the store and checking my watch every three seconds to see if we were any closer to midnight.

Finally the announcement came over the loudspeaker that we could pick up our CDs at the music kiosk. It was only 11:15, so I still had to wait 45 minutes before I could buy the goddamned thing. To annoy me further, the Media Play asshats put the CD in the store�s sound system. They won�t sell me the friggin� CD early so I can go home and get some sleep, but they�ll blare the thing through the store. That just made me violent. I didn�t have a baseball bat on hand, so I paced instead. In my fury, I found a CD of David Sedaris Live at Carnegie Hall, and I calmed down a little bit.

I made it to midnight without falling asleep, spending a thousand dollars or killing anyone. I�ll never attend one of these CD release parties again in my entire living life, but when I got in the car and popped THIS

in the CD player, the last four hours of my life were sheer bliss and all was right with the world.

Folks I know think it's weird that I've met people online who have become my real life friends.

They've worried that the people with whom I've traveled in recent months might be axe murderers or serial killers with tiny little Yorkie dogs named "Precious" and "Spike."

I'm writing this entry now, so obviously, they're not.

In fact, We Who Spend Inordinate Amounts Of Time Online are connected by a common disdain for and fear of dolls.

Gluttons for punishment, we scour google for images of the most disturbing and revolting dolls we can find, in the hopes of causing the other members of our elite clique to release the contents of their bladders into their clean undergarments.

The links we send each other have evoked such responses as, "ACK!" and "GAH!" This has been sufficiently satisfying. Until two weeks ago.

Images of dolls found in cyberspace no longer make the grade. Now, pictures of dolls that will cause previously unheard guttural sounds to rise from the depths of the larynx of the viewer MUST be located IN PERSON.

It all began in New York City. On our way to the site of the World Trade Center, we saw THESE in a storefront.

I don't think I need to explain why this is so scary. It just is.

Last weekend, I visited my friends in Detroit. We saw THIS in a window on a quaint street in Ferndale.

Pretty disturbing, huh?

However, nothing...NOTHING...could prepare us for the sick, twisted and utterly terrifying site we would see the following evening. THIS is the backyard of someone's home in a quaint neighborhood nestled in the suburbs of the Motor City.

Go scrub your eyes with bleach, now.

Sweet dreams.

I didn't really need another reason to despise Yoko Ono, but she's decided to give me one, nonetheless.

Yoko sells out her dead husband once again

Oh, wait. Two.

Giant f'n sellout

Wow. Yoko's 70 years old, and she still has that voice that makes dogs wish they had opposable thumbs so they could plug their ears.

"Clay Aiken With A Twist" is on hiatus.

I have no snark left in me because I'm so deliriously happy due to THIS:

I don't know when I'm going to come down from this happy place. Maybe never. Probably never.

Thanks for reading.

Adieu,

Marie

I went to New York City this weekend for the first time in three years.

On Sunday, I visited the site of the World Trade Center. I was overcome with emotion when I saw the size and magnitude of the site itself. As I looked up at the surrounding buildings, questioning their height, I couldn't fathom the horror of two buildings twice the height of those I craned my neck to see collapsing and crumbling.

I've heard people say things like, "I'll never forget where I was when Kennedy was shot." I didn't fully understand what that meant until September 11. I stood in the corridor of my school in a circle with my colleagues, listening to my principal deliver the news. I began to sob. Few things have made me sob. The events of September 11 caused my body to heave.

As I approached Ground Zero, I imagined the street on which I walked teeming with human beings, running from the flying debris and ducking into nearby doorways to avoid inhaling the dust clouds chasing them. Any one of those survivors could have been my brother, my colleague, my friend. I looked down. This is what I saw.

I took a few more steps and saw this.

I wondered when these words and images were etched into the concrete. Was it a few days after the tragedy occurred or a few days before my feet touched that very block of pavement?

Standing before the fence that separated me from this enormous gravesite, I skimmed the historical retrospectives and the plaques naming each victim which hung above my eye level. I glanced at the faces of the people around me. Some were crying, some were staring blankly, some were awestruck. It was remarkably quiet. People spoke in hushed voices. Bouquets of flowers and roses with grapevines were entwined in the steel of the fence. A journal was left at the base of the fence on this year�s anniversary.

I looked up and noticed that the building behind the site, still under construction and repair, was shrouded in a black veil.

A man I barely knew in college perished in the collapse of the twin towers. He dated a very good friend of mine and wasn�t the kindest of souls as an undergraduate. I looked at his name on the plaque. There it was. Etched. I felt the same way I did when I learned of his death. I would never wish such a horrible end of existence on anyone, but I felt more grief and remorse for people I�d never met, whose stories I�d never heard. It was the first time I�d ever experienced such a reaction, and it�s a bizarre feeling.

On the corner section of the fence hung this sign forbidding the sale or distribution of merchandise less than twenty feet from the fence:

Not twenty feet from the sign, I saw this:

This sickened me to the pit of my stomach. Vendors called to the tourists, beckoning them with promises of the best and cheapest souvenirs. FDNY tee shirts, baseball caps and plexiglas models of the twin towers stood on portable tables spanning an entire city block. Restauranteurs took the opportunity to lure hungry tourists by hanging posters advertising their establishments.

I�m glad I saw the remains of the plaza on which the tallest buildings in New York once stood. And I understand why native New Yorkers don�t go.