I Love Cats – Especially With General Tso’s Sauce

That’s a line I am borrowing from my husband, because honestly, I don’t care what you do to them, I am not a cat person.  I believe that cats, while they are living, are in a constant state of planning your demise.  They are hoping in silence that you are one of those crazy cat people who has left all of your worldly possessions to them in your will, and at whatever chance they find, they will trip you as you are going down the steps, smother you in your sleep, or sneak hairballs into your spaghetti so you choke to death.

And then there was Snowball.

I asked Bill, one of my lab partners, not to do it.  Please don’t name this cat that we are going to be required to dissect something that will endear it to our hearts.  Give it a name like Dexter – TVs infamous serial killer/forensics investigator.  Call it Garbage, and then we won’t mind so much when it gets tossed back into it’s clear, plastic trash bag home – permanently.

Not only does he give the cat a warm and fuzzy name like Snowball, so I can’t look it in the hermetically sealed eyes, but I also can’t ever watch the Simpsons again.  How could I watch as Lisa tosses a ball of string to their little cat, Snowball, and not get misty eyed over our Snowball?

If I have learned anything at all in my return to the world of academia, I have learned that I still do not like cats.

But I feel pretty darned awful for Snowball.

This is not the actual Snowball, may he rest in pieces.

Is It Just Me? Breastfeeding Baby Doll? Seriously?

I don’t think of myself as a prude by any means.  I am a staunch supporter of breastfeeding babies, and have done so with two of my three daughters.  Breastfeeders?  More power to you.

But do I want to watch my six year old breastfeeding a baby doll?  I’m not so sure.  There is a poster hanging above my desk that my husband – in one of his more “idiot husband” moves – purchased while on vacation.  In the poster, he is Hercules, and Granuaile – age 2 or 3 – is whoever the female Hercules counterpart is (Xena? Wonder Woman? Hootie McBoobs?).  The poster disturbs me on many levels, not the least of which is the fact that my seriously balding husband has a head of long, thick, ponytail-able hair.  But the thing that bothers me most is that every time I glance up, my three year old is staring at me over the top of her D cup boobs.

So, while I certainly think children should know about breastfeeding, and how it’s mommy’s job to make sure the baby has everything they need, I’m not sure I’m ready to carry on a conversation with my little girl about engorgement; leaking breasts; or the inevitable saggy boobs.

Or am I taking this too far?

You decide.  I think I like it better when baby doll milk comes from the little plastic bottles, where the milk disappears when you tip it upside down.