Saturday evening, my parents, my husband, and myself enjoyed the simplicity of a summertime drive. After an hour of taking in the scenery at 55mph, and stopping for the mandatory ice cream treat [naturally], Mother and I displayed our musical talents.

You see, over the course of the past month, she and I have built up quite the repertoire. She's not always great at remembering the words, and I can't hold a tune to save my life, but really—we're excellent. We roll down the windows of the cruising car and belt it out...watching the Queen Anne's Lace roll over and play dead as we pass their stretch of ditch.

Last night was no exception as we gave our renditions of the theme songs from The Nanny, The Brady Bunch, and The Golden Girls before diving headlong into Annie's "Tomorrow", Rogers and Hammerstein's "Oklahoma!", Herman's Hermits' "Henry the Eighth" and the McCartney/Wonder hit from bygone days, "Ebony and Ivory".

Exhausted by our performance, silence fell as we took stock of our predominately male audience. Dad pulled to the side of the road and attempted to slam his head in the door. Miles, above, swallowed back his nausea.

I'd say we were a hit.

• He's no Fred...not even close.
• He bites.
• He jumps on counter tops.
• He's kind of ditsy.
• His butt smells like a freshly fertilized field.
• He is fascinated with my bra straps and all other frilly things.
• He's nearly gnawed through my shoelaces.

And yet....I think Clem's growing on me.

Friskey, my beloved 9th birthday present, has gotten sloppy. Her litter box has grown too small for her purposes, apparently. It seems she has difficulty maneuvering within the once adequate perimeter. As such, my mother is faced with a daily offering of litter scattered about her floor.

I suggested a larger litter box in January, but many stores don't carry supplies for plus sized cat clientele. So, the deed has gone undone. Meanwhile, my mother has learned to blow smoke from her ears and nostrils.

Finally, a straw crumbled the great camel just this week. Single-minded purpose consumed her mind as she probed the area for butt-worthy boxes. On a wave of frustration and ultimate inspiration, she snatched up an under-the-bed storage container from the stacked fortress of the aisle. Hot pink plastic? Sure, why not.

And so it came to pass, on that meddlesome day, that Friskey, asleep where she lay, awoke to find a new litter box sized for an ox.

On a clear evening in early July, aboard the S.S. Uff Dah, Miles and I posed for a photograph. My mother behind the lens, Miles hoisted me to his lap and I smiled prettily. Then—

The little mongrel tickled me behind my knees. The camera flashed unconcernedly. The situation all innocence, it appears that I am getting goosed.