We met when I was eighteen. The first thing I noticed were his fingernails, trim and neat. Nicer than mine, by far, with my chipped nail polish and acrylic paint underneath them.

Funny, the way life surprises you. I’d always expected to be single for a long time. When I fell in love, I thought it would be with a lean, tall, dark man. Maybe someone who went to raves or had tribal tattoos. Not this guy with a big dorky smile and killer sense of humor and beautiful hands.

Anyway, my life as it is now is mostly the aftermath of that decision: to fall in love at 18, fearlessly, and for good. And not a day goes by when I wish it had gone any differently.

Sorry, gentle reader–this is probably boring for you. Other people’s love always is, isn’t it? But for me, it’s the best thing in the world. Getting to wake up next to him, to spend every day with my best friend.

Also, hey, look, icicles!

Yes, I am one of those people. Those people who take their cats for walks. On leashes. While wearing their pajamas.

(No hair rollers, though.)

Sammy Katz used to be a wild creature, stalking through the Central Florida college town where we lived, beheading lizards and squirrels and, once, a large crow. He was also fond of getting stuck on roofs. And crying. And fighting with his nemesis, the orange cat who lived next door.

Blame it on my husband. He moved in, and convinced me that all these vet trips–for the abscesses, the fleas–weren’t worth it. Also, he wasn’t quite so into our routine, how kitty would wake me up at 3 a.m. to let him out to do cat stuff.

So, compromise! Kitties! On leashes! We wander around the yard, smellin’ stuff and seein’ stuff. But sometimes, he likes to prove to me he’s still a cat. He takes running leaps, claws his way ten, twelve feet up. Sits there meowing for a few minutes until I make kissy sounds and drag him back to the Earth. He doesn’t mind. Just wants me to remember, I guess, that he’s still wild, deep down inside.

You know how I said in my last entry that Rainbow Brite is one of my style inspirations?

Well, my mother got me a sewing machine for my birthday (thanks, Mom!). First order of business? To make myself some obnoxiously loud leggings, inspired by these. But, you know, cheaper.

I’m pretty proud of how they came out. I feel, in fact, a bit like a superhero.

Be warned: I have ordered five yards of rainbow lame. More loud, sparkly stretch pants to come.

Today I cherry bombed my hair. And the tub. And my fingernails. And my neck. And my ears.

Maybe you can blame Rainbow Brite–we were born in the same year, and I grew up thinking that life was not complete without splashes of bright, garish color (also without talking horses). Maybe it’s all my big sister’s fault, because one day when I was eleven, I came home and the whole house smelled like artificial grape, and my sister was soaking the long strands of her hair in a cup of boiling Kool-Aid. Whatever the reason, I’ve always been drawn to blazing pigments. By the time I was fifteen, my best friends and I were staying up late at sleepovers, staining the bathtub Purple Haze and Green Envy.

I decided back then that I never wanted to give it up–if I have my druthers, I’ll be an 80-year-old lady with silver and violet hair. And other than a few ill-fated years spent among the ranks of the business casual, I haven’t. It’s one of the great things about being a writer, about working from home, about living the life I live. I can be myself.

Even if it means I have to spend hours scrubbing pink dye off the bathroom walls.