Back in 2009 I used to write a What Would Sharon Do column whereby you, the reader, would send in your questions and I would answer.
This was a win/win scenario as it allowed me to write drunk and give you advice at the same time.
Okay, so maybe it was just a win for me.
I'm bringing it back, baby.
All you need to do is email me your questions to [email protected] or leave it in the comments below. It can be anything. Previously I answered questions about how to add spark to a marriage, how to stop a 4-year-old from walking around with her finger up her nose and what would I do if I caught my child stealing. If you wish to remain anonymous, please say so.
Disclaimer: I am the person who has fallen off her off her treadmill not once, not twice, but three times because I keep trying to run with my eyes closed. I also once poured myself a glass of vinegar instead of wine although in my defense, it was a super fancy bottle of vinegar that could have easily been mistaken for a wine bottle. I may or may not have forgotten my anniversary this year.
What I'm trying to say is that most days I don't even follow my own advice. Any and all advice given here should be taken with a grain of salt.
And a shot of tequila.
We have a, uh, fat cat. I mean, she's not newsworthy fat but when she runs, her stomach swings side to side and she expands quite noticeably when she lays down. Also, we never have to worry about her jumping on to our dining room table because she can't really jump. It's actually a little embarrassing to have a cat this fat—people look at us like we're bad cat parents. Then they tell us we should make sure she gets more exercise and reduce her food intake.
I'm not actually sure how you make a cat exercise more. The kids tried to put her on the treadmill once but that didn't end well. When we reduced her food intake, she took to biting ankles. Most notably, mine. These are not little love nips, I'm pretty sure she's trying to eat me. So I feed her.
I'm fighting for my life here, people.
Lately Son No. 1 and Son No. 2 have been wanting to put the cat on a diet. They've come up with a few ideas none of which have worked. Until now...
TA DA!
It's the Anti-Fat Cat Chamber!
It works by blocking the food until the gate is opened.
Then the cat is allowed seven minutes inside the chamber with the food.
It's seven minutes in heaven, the cat version.
Welcome to my house. Please hang your straightjacket beside the door on your right.
I walk past the store and feel my feet turning against my will. The snowy white glow beckons me—it is my siren song.
I. Must. Have. More.
Crew necks, V-necks, long sleeve or short. It doesn't matter. I am dazzled by the brightness, the fresh, pristine blank slate, so I buy one. Or three. I promise myself this time will be different. This time they will stay clean, there will be no stains. But it is not meant to be. Inevitably they get splashed with tomato sauce and thrown in with darks. Sticky fingers tug on the bottom edges.
Why do they want to fingerpaint? Why?
The varying shades of grey and stains that can’t be washed away sicken me. I hide these dull versions of their former selves at the bottom of the drawer wondering where it all went wrong. The detergents don't work, the brightness is never the same no matter what the advertisements might say. Bleach is a dream sold to people like me wanting to believe in the fantasy.
I go the mall to start anew. This time I know it will be different.
Maybe this is what they mean by little white lies.
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