It's 11 in the morning. In my world, that still counts as the morning, especially if it's a Saturday. I just got around to making a big pot of coffee. My plan was to mess around on the internet, write a bit, and then read Never Mind the Pollacks: A Rock and Roll Novel by Neal Pollack, a birthday gift from my darling friend Betsy.

I pulled my favorite coffee mug - a cobalt blue, oversized glass cup embossed with "Starbucks" in glittery script that I bought on my first real trip to Austin 8 years ago - down from the shelf and filled it up. The glass cracked from the heat, shattering on the counter during mid-pour; at least 20 ounces of scalding hot coffee spilled across the counter, under the microwave, down the cabinets, onto my shirt and pants and socks. All in the span of two milliseconds.

At the same moment, Stella and Sasha reacted to my cry of alarm by hissing and clawing at each other two inches away from the hot coffee streaming towards their unprotected paws. With no time to spare, I dropped the coffee pot, ripped ALL of my wet, burning clothes off, grabbed the spray water bottle, and sprayed the hell out of my brawling cats while standing naked in the kitchen.

You're welcome for that mental image. Excuse me while I go lay down.

Lucy loves you |