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I met a group of friends from my last job for happy hour last night. We gathered at a popular Mexican restaurant that is in a well-known flood plain, just as the skies opened and poured buckets of rain. Fortunately the storm was brief and we were able to enjoy our margaritas and tacos without floating away on our barstools.

Tonight my husband is going out of town, so I’ve accepted another invitation to sit around and drink margaritas with a different group of friends. Saturday night I’m going to my sister’s for a cookout with her friends. Sunday night, my husband is back and we’re going to a high school graduation party for one of our car club buddies. I haven’t heard any final word on our Memorial Day plans, but they once included renting a pontoon boat and floating around a lake with yet another set of friends.

Then there’s all the work I need to do over the weekend. Sometimes I wish I could take on an intern. I could give him/her wonderful experience in newsletter creation, website updating, general office work, etc. Maybe it would be easier if I just stopped volunteering for stuff.

Even though Monday is a holiday, I’ll still post a new blog entry. (I’m close to my 100th post and I wouldn’t want to slow down my journey to that milestone.) By then, perhaps I’ll have something to share that’s actually interesting. Keep your fingers crossed!

Last night my husband and I attended a Neighborhood Watch meeting in the gymnasium of a nearby elementary school. We live in a town with about 10,000 residents that’s a suburb of city with a population of about 440,000. Our town has a very low crime rate, but we figured it would be nice to see our Neighborhood Watch program get rolling again. It was fairly active when we moved in 9 years ago, but it has dwindled away since then.

We arrived at the meeting a few minutes early, and we were the only ones there except for four police officers. Eventually four elderly people from the neighborhood near the school arrived. That was it. Out of the 130 fliers the police department distributed, six people showed up.

We ended up having a lot of time to just chat with the police officers, which was kind of nice. We all agreed that one of the biggest problems in our neighborhood is speeders and people running stop signs. One of the officers had once pulled me over for an illegal right turn at a red light, and I hoped she didn’t remember that.

My husband and I have pretty much agreed that we’re staying in this house indefinitely, unless the neighborhood declines. It’s time we acted like permanent residents and made an effort to get to know more people on our street. I’m finally going to register our alarm system with the police department, although I draw the line at licensing the indoor cats. The fact that we have twice as many cats as the city allows is a factor as well.

Sorry this is so deadly boring today. I’m behind on sleep, I’m stiff and sore all over from too much computer time and not enough exercise, and I have so much work to do that I can’t think straight. I’ll make an effort to be more entertaining tomorrow.

Just for the sake of continuity, I thought I’d wrap up a few loose topics from the last week or so that I’d never brought up again.

• The Amazing Puking Cat – I took Chunky to the vet on Saturday morning (not before she managed to yakk on the bed one last time) and, to make a long story short, they gave her an anti-nausea injection and sent me home with a bag of special dry food that’s supposed to be easy to digest. It occurred to me that this would mean feeding all four cats separately. My inner pragmatist took over and I filled the cats’ self-feeder with the special food so everyone could eat it. That was the end of Feline Hurlfest 2004.
• The Stupendously Expensive Car Repair – No word yet, although it must be getting close to completion. Last week the emergency backup car stranded me a couple of blocks from work and had to be towed to the shop, too. I didn’t bring it up at the time because it made my intra-cranial pressure increase to think about it. It turned out to be a relatively minor problem and the tow cost as much as the repair. D’oh!
• The Weekend Road Rally Adventure – I drove someone else’s Porsche Cayenne in a rally the Saturday before last. It was a blast! We didn’t make the top three, but my navigator (the car’s owner) and I had a delightful two-hour run and a lot of laughs.

Finally, here’s something new: the Average Jane Boutique. People seem to like my scribbly alter ego, so I’ve set up a CafePress shop with a few t-shirts and other miscellaneous products featuring Jane. My reasoning on matching designs to products: the girly stuff mostly says “Average Jane” and the manlier stuff says “AverageJane.com.” If you’re just dying to have a particular product with a different variation of the artwork, e-mail me and I’ll make it available. (Oh yeah, I’ve finally added an e-mail address to my profile.)

Tonight we’re going to a Neighborhood Watch meeting, which might provide some interesting column fodder. Have a lovely Wednesday!

Last night we had a big spring storm that caused all of the meteorologists to interrupt the good TV repeatedly throughout the evening to explain how and when the weather might kill us. I’m conditioned by a childhood in the boondocks to start grabbing big armloads of cats and heading down to the basement the second the tornado sirens go off. My husband is stubbornly convinced that tornadoes never hit “in the city” and is destined to someday be a storm-watching casualty statistic.

Unfortunately, the tornado sirens began as we were on our way out to get sandwiches for dinner. The employees at Subway were, as my mother would have said, as nervous as a pregnant fox in a forest fire. It seemed cruel to eat our food there when they clearly wanted to close the restaurant early, so we took it home, ate in front of the TV and watched the weather report.

By then, the first storm had finished threatening our area with tornadoes and hail, but it was raining hard and there was lots of exciting lightning and thunder. The second GIANT! SCARY! storm headed in around 10:00 p.m. and I did what any reasonable person would do: I went to bed. Aside from one last, incredibly noisy lightning strike near the house that briefly woke me up, I had a delightful, relaxing sleep. There’s something about a good thunderstorm that always makes me want to curl up with a blanket and pillow and sleep through the whole thing. This can be awkward at the office…

I have watched “American Idol” exactly once, and I couldn’t make it through to the end. It was just too excruciating, and I’m not talking about listening to the poor, deluded unfortunates who provide the show’s cannon fodder. I can’t watch it because I was once a singer, too.

As a child, I always enjoyed singing. I learned “The B-I-B-L-E” song in bible school at the age of three and sang it incessantly. My mother’s note on the subject in the “Memorization” category of my baby book, “B-I-B-L-E drives us nuts.”

I sang in the choir in school (okay, I mainly just moved my lips and sang under my breath, but I had an interest!), and I sang to myself at home when I didn’t think anyone was listening.

From the time I was in high school until about five or six years ago, I sang in rock bands. Early on, it was “oldies” (at the time that meant ’60s and ’70s covers), then it was hard rock and heavy metal, and finally I sang in an alternative-y band that performed mainly original songs. (Oh, the hairdos I’ve had!)

Would I subject myself to “American Idol”? Absolutely not. Why? I know I’m just not good enough.

Even though I’ve been a professional singer (to the extent that I’ve drawn taxable income from singing), I have a realistic picture of my own abilities. I have had very limited training, I’ve hit plenty of flat notes in my day, my stage presence leaves a lot to be desired, and my range is only so-so. This isn’t false modesty, it’s just the way it is.

I can’t bear to watch people who believe that they’re good singers find out otherwise on national TV. I’ve blown a few auditions, too, but I was lucky enough not to be jeered and humiliated by judges hoping to score points with their audience.

Now there’s another show that’s even more unconscionable: “Superstar USA.” It’s an “American Idol” ripoff where the judges boot out the good singers and tell the awful singers that they’re great. I’m sure at the end everyone will have a big laugh, crushing the bad singers after all and blithely ignoring damage they’ve done to the good singers’ confidence and egos.

I’m disturbed by the casual cruelty that passes for entertainment on TV these days. (Don’t get me started on the plastic surgery shows!) I can’t imagine any sane person agreeing to be on a reality show of any kind these days, knowing the mean “twists” and lies that are perpetrated on most of the contestants. Is that fifteen minutes of fame really so desirable? Not for me, it isn’t.

[Postscript: If you’re wondering why I no longer sing in bands, it’s because I spent too many years spurning hearing protection at the height of the “big stacks of Marshall amps” era. My left ear buzzes unpleasantly at certain frequencies and volumes – even my own singing voice makes it happen – and I just can’t handle loud music anymore.]

Last night, my husband and I went to see “Shrek II,” which was fully as delightful as all the reviews suggest. Since the first “Shrek” (which I’ve seen a zillion times thanks to my four-year-old niece), the animation has gotten better and I think the writers were more comfortable playing to a grownup audience this time around. We saw it at 9:30 p.m., so there were no children present at all. Still, there were plenty of moments when everyone in the audience laughed out loud – and probably not at the same things that would tickle the kiddies’ funnybones.

Tonight we’re considering a trip back to the theater to see “Kill Bill II.” We finally got around to renting “Kill Bill” last weekend and we both enjoyed it a great deal. I wasn’t particularly put off by the violence because it was so over the top and cartoonish (sometimes literally) that it lost any power to disgust (unlike, say, “Pulp Fiction,” which contains several images I wish I’d never witnessed, or “Natural Born Killers,” which gave me a headache). I’m a sucker for cheesy martial arts movies, so I saw “Kill Bill” as the homage to them that it was intended to be.

This is shaping up to be a great summer for movies. The next “Harry Potter” movie comes out soon, as does the “Spiderman” sequel. I still want to see “Van Helsing” despite all the bad reviews, but I may wait for a matinee. Basically, if a movie includes lots of action, comedy or cartoon characters, count me in.

When I started this blog, I vowed to myself that I wasn’t going to discuss my cats. I feel that the Internet is already overflowing with too many stories about people’s precious little kitties, and that only MyCatHatesYou.com really captures the proper spirit of discourse about the beasts. (I even have one of their t-shirts.)

However, because I have four cats that demand a good deal of interaction when I’m home, I can’t help but bring them up now and then. Right now, their special little cat needs are beginning to consume more and more of my time in the morning and evening. Let me introduce you to the cast of feline characters. In the Average Jane spirit of anonymity, I’ll use their nicknames:

• The Possum – 17-year-old female cat. This was the sick cat from a few weeks ago. We inherited her when my husband’s mother died.
• The Weasel – 14-year-old female cat. She used to be an outdoor cat until someone shot her. Now she spends her time picking fights with the other cats and trying to sneak out when people open the door. Her mother was an alley cat, and that explains a lot about her.
• The Boy – 15-year-old male cat. Very good natured and talkative, he was the first cat I got when I moved out on my own.
• Chunky – 12- or 13-year-old female cat. When she was a kitten, she made the news because she was found in a charity donation bin, tied into a pillow case. The experience obviously warped her in many ways. She harbors a bitter hatred for all children and she seems to see things that nobody else can see. We inherited her when my mother died.

Wow, when I read that back it sounds rather Tarantino-esque. Sort of “Kill (Birdie With the Yellow) Bill.” Okay, I’m done now.

Here’s a typical cat-wrangling morning. The Boy needs special food or he gets thin and listless. We shut him in the bathroom to eat so the other cats don’t horn in on his food. The Possum now needs canned food to aid her digestion. I feed her in the kitchen and she dawdles around with her one tablespoon of food seemingly forever while I shout, “Weasel, come here. Weasel, stay in here. Come here, Weasel,” the entire time to give the Possum a fighting chance at her own grub.

Dry food is available at all times from a dispenser in the basement, but of course that’s not nearly as appealing as the special food. Chunky is the only one who doesn’t really care about other cats’ food (although she’ll mug you for your cereal mllk). Unfortunately, Chunky is the one who’s been throwing up all over the house for days. Sigh. Yesterday I made a vet appointment for her, but I couldn’t fit it around my work schedule until Saturday morning. I can tell that our vet’s office staff thinks we are The Worst Pet Owners Ever. Hey, I’m bringing the cat in. What more do you want?

I know I’m making it sound as though there are no advantages to cat ownership whatsoever. Actually they all have good cat temperaments. They’re cuddly, friendly and sociable with people. They love it when we have company. When we watch TV or read, we’ll often have all four cats on the couch next to us or on us. The companionship the cats offer makes the hassles fade into the background, at least for a while. Still, my sister’s predictions to the contrary, I’m in no danger of becoming the Crazy Cat Lady. I definitely know my limits!

I went to bed early and slept poorly, then overslept thanks to a thunderstorm that kept my bedroom from getting to the level of lightness that usually indicates “six o’clock.” That’s right, I try not to use an alarm clock. I sleep lightly enough to be able to hear my husband’s snoring despite all efforts to drown it out, yet I sleep deeply enough that the sound of an alarm clock rockets me to a seated position with a gasp of shock. That can’t be good for my heart.

One of the cats has thrown up on our bed every single day for the last four days. I am running out of patience and clean bedding. She seems fine except when she’s reenacting scenes from “The Exorcist,” but I suppose I’ll have to take her to the vet anyway. This isn’t the sick cat from a couple of weeks ago, by the way, it’s another one. I think it’s safe to say that when the number of cats in our household begins to eventually dwindle, we will not be restoring the population to its current level ever again. Then again, I’m feeling rather crabby this morning.

I saw the “What Not To Wear” gals on “Oprah” last night, and now I feel even more frumpy and unstylish than ever. Of course, if someone took me to Nordstrom’s and spent hundreds of dollars dressing me and fixing my hair and makeup, I’d look a lot better, too. Makeover shows never take their contestants to Marshall’s or Target and show them how to improve their look for $150. With $1,000 to spend on a new wardrobe, I think anybody’d look pretty darned improved. Okay, I feel better now.

Have a lovely Wednesday and don’t eat any cicadas.

With no supporting evidence whatsoever, I usually tend to think of myself as being “in pretty good shape.” Really, though, I’ve never been much of an exerciser. Oh, I’ll faithfully do yoga or Jazzercise or weights n’ aerobics for a year or so, then something will come up and I’ll never quite manage to get back to my workouts. I’m still foolishly paying $40 a month for aerobics classes I stopped attending months ago. Note to self: write letter today and cancel that payment…

Late last year I did a part-time merchandising job that was physical enough that I actually gained some exercise benefits from it. I’ve now been desk-bound for about six months and it’s starting to show. Weight gain? Check. Sore muscles from even the smallest bit of exertion? Check. Excessive panting after climbing more than two short flights of stairs? Check.

I woke up this morning experiencing Day Two of sore hamstrings from several hours of gardening I did on Sunday. Even in my overweening laziness, I recognized that this would only get worse if I were to painfully get dressed and then plant myself in an office chair again all day. Thus, I put on my only passable pair of athletic shoes (actually saying aloud, “Ow! Ow! Ow!” as I bent to tie them) and took a 30-minute walk through our very hilly neighborhood.

You know what? It helped! I think this “exercise” thing could actually catch on! I hate to try to speculate about my chances of making it part of what passes for my morning routine, but it certainly wouldn’t hurt. It gave me the chance to admire my neighbors’ landscaping, ready my mind for the day ahead, and – bonus! – I found a dime on the ground. Everything’s going my way today! So far…

I come from a long line of people with too much education to sit idly by and watch language standards deteriorate. Both my grandfather and my mother used to write letters signed “The Mad Grammarian” to editors and others, pointing out egregious grammar errors and giving little usage lessons. I believe this may be my calling as well.

Last week I stumbled across a hilarious blog entry listing three recent, separate instances on Salon where the word “grizzly” was used instead of “grisly.” I had noticed at least one of those myself, but the Mad Grammarian had not begun to rouse herself fully. Coincidentally, the edition of “Lady Chatterley’s Lover” I read recently had the same homophone error referring to a “grizzly skeleton.” I don’t know if the error originated with Lawrence or the editor of that edition, but it gave me a fleeting mental picture of a bear’s bones.

Yesterday I passed a sign that said “These premises monitored with close circuit television.” How is the circuit close? Is it nearby? Extremely chummy with other circuits? No, it’s a closed circuit. Think! Think!

That’s akin to my other pet peeve, “first come, first serve.” What, do they hand you a volleyball and let you lob it over a net? No, if you get there first, you shall be served first.

A lot of grammar errors stem from failure to consider what the words mean. Children do it all the time, even making up elaborate rationales for their misheard phrases. I remember the Beverly Cleary character Ramona and her conviction that the national anthem was about some kind of lamp called a “dawnzer” that gave a “lee light.” Grownups should be expected to think things through a little more, though.

I worked at Sears all through college and stood underneath a gigantic sign that read, “Lay-A-Way.” Aaaghh! Yet another term ripped apart and divorced from its meaning. There’s nothing difficult to comprehend about the idea of having the store “lay a purchase away” until you finish paying for it. I guess it’s just not “catchy” enough.

Now that my inner Mad Grammarian has been awakened, I vow to no longer sit idly by when I spot these kinds of errors. Sloppy editors and illiterate sign-makers beware! The War of the Apostrophe is at hand! Dictionary.com is there for a reason. Use it!