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I went to the pool a few nights ago. One of the pool rules is, "No unattended solo bathing permitted."
I don't know if that's a nice way of saying "No skinny dipping" or if I'm not supposed to be there by myself.
If it's the latter, I think it'd be funny if some moron caught me and said something moronic like, "You're not supposed to be swimming alone." Because then I could narrow my eyes and say, "Well, I'm not swimming alone now since you're here, right?"

ZING

I love when there's no one at the pool, though. It's been especially delightful now that all the children have homework to do at night. It gives me freedom to play with the toy boats that they leave behind.

Mike: Is there such thing as drinking too much water?
Me: Yeah, it's called drowning.

Cats are mysterious creatures.

You know how they ask to go outside, and then you let them outside. Then they want to come back inside, then they want to go back outside, but when you open the door they kind of look out as if wondering, "Do I really want to go out there? Didn't I come in last time? Why do I want to be out here?"
So then you kick them outside, and then they want to come inside, but when you open the door they kind of look in as if wondering, "Do I really want to go in? Didn't I go out last time? Why do I want to be in there?"

It's a maddening cycle for any cat owner.

But yesterday, it was nice enough to open the windows. Sam watched in awe from outside while I did this. Then he started sticking his claws in the screen like a bad kitty, so I went outside to bring him in. As soon as I come out of the house, he runs as fast as he can to the back edge of the fence like he's got somewhere to be. I catch up with him, and he tears around to the basil patch. Then to the hot tub. Then finally, his big butt gets tired, and I bring him in.

I just think he got so excited about open windows. And I think he likes weird things like being chased and smacked on the head.
Mike and I were talking about this last night. Almost every day, Sam will stretch and reach his big claws on the corner of the bed and start scratching. I will reach down and smack him with my hand, a pillow, book, curling iron, etc. Then he runs away. It's like he forgets every day that it's a bad thing. And he has to relearn this every day.
But it doesn't make sense that he can't learn not to do it. It's not like the bed is changing every day, so he must enjoy getting the bejeezus smacked out of his skull.

Or maybe he has no neurons and just goes through one, painless life like the big hunk of fur that he is. Maybe I should try psychological manipulation.

"You don't want to scratch the bed..."

Just kidding about the curling iron, though.

I walk in my neighborhood about the same time each day. I think it kind of makes people think they're in a Truman Show situation.

For example, there's this guy near the cul de sac who is always putting stuff in his truck like he's going to the gym, but he smells nice like he just showered. I don't understand why you would go to the gym after taking a shower.
And then there's the people who are always on their front porch when it's really miserable outside. But then when it's nice outside, like yesterday, they weren't there. There's also like 40 people that live in that house.
There's a rotund dog owner that walk his rotund dog.

Mike and I talk about doing neighborhood shenanigans. It's something I would never do, but it's fun to imagine.
For example, we walked by this car one time. No one was around, and the trunk was open which revealed a big ol' bag of red mulch. We could've started some neighbor wars by taking that bag and putting it all around the house beside the owner's.
And there are always bikes and things strewn on people's driveways. Like, what if we just moved it one driveway over? People would think they're losing their minds.

It's like Woodstock, but with a greater emphasis on vans,
TWS