The first time I remember making a conscious decision not to have children was in second grade. I was playing at school with Kelli Edwards and Jill Habegger, and they were talking excitedly about the day they would become mommies. I don’t quite know how I knew at such a young age that I didn’t want to become a parent, but I did, and said as much.
Thankfully, my husband didn’t high tail it in the other direction when I told him after we first met. With the exception of about one hour sprinkled in increments over the past seventeen years, I haven’t wavered.
So, I guess it’s not unusual (It happens every day!) that we have cats. Just so you know, we’re not the kind to play favorites, either. Paris is our number one only because we got her first. She’s our Fluff-n-Stuff, Sweet Girl, Birdie, and Princess Buttercup. She is thirteen years old and will probably live to be one hundred. The girl’s one tough cookie!
Paris is mostly sweet and, unlike our other cat Milo, well behaved. She does, on occasion have her fits of kookiness and attacks Gregory. Though, in her defense, he usually eggs her on in some way. You can count on her for lots of tender head nudges, to slink stealthily around the house, be quiet at bed time, and not knock things over. She likes to be near us, but doesn’t usually want us to touch her. When she does want some physical affection, she usually flops on her side and makes cute, short meows until someone, mostly me, rubs her belly. She is the only cat I know that likes this.
Her favorite activities:
Eating. Definitely eating. If you want to bust a gut with laughter, come to our house around meal time and watch her trot around! We put her food in the same spot every time, but she runs around in desperation and worry, like it is a crap shoot. This is what I imagine occurs in her little head: “Here, by the front door? Oh, no, maybe over by the dining room table today, but wait, the kitchen, that’s where it usually goes. I better hurry back. I’m so hungry!”
Growling at Milo. Even though Milo has been a member of our household for nearly ten years, Paris has yet to fully acclimate.
Playing with her toys. Paris makes this kind of high pitched and slightly distressed sounding meow while running around with a toy in her mouth. She will bring it to you and drop it at your feet if you ask and, of course, she’s in the right mood.
Sleeping in boxes. Paris loves boxes of all shapes and sizes. It doesn’t matter if she barely fits and the sides bulge – it’s all good!
If you are like me, and your crafty eyes are sometimes too big for your crafty stomach, and you’ve got more fabric and do-dads than you’ll ever use, and you happen to live in the Portland area, give them to Knittn’ Kitten! It is your local fabric, bead, and craft supply thrift store. 
A sense of humor is very important. Take this photo for instance. I know that I don’t actually look glamorous, but I can pretend that I do, even in this get-up. Get-up, now that’s an expression I’ve never typed before. It looks a little funny. Anyway, I call it my John Travolta outfit. It reminds me of the white suit he wore in Saturday Night Fever, minus the mud stained bottom and paint drips, of course. 
Meet my little friend Hans. I used to think that the only people who owned these were the cute, but a little kooky, old ladies at the grocery that, now that I think about it, may take their make-up tips from guys just like him. Their lips are rosy and they apply a bit too much rouge. And I do mean rouge – ladies of a certain age don’t call it blush.
A funny fact about me: music makes me cry. Every time I listen to Old Blue Eyes sing the song “New York, New York” the tears start ‘a’ flowin’. You see, I’m kind of silly this way. Maybe it was all of that music in the 
