I'm using my online publishing to cover the important stuff, Father

Because there are a few people really close to me who never ever - not ever - read my blog (MOM DAD VINNIE JENNIFER GLYNN) I was pleasantly surprised to read the following email last night: An idea for a column-- What kind of a new year's dog party would Cecilia have? How would Mena behave? I hear rumors you did not answer the phone the other day because I had already called you four times and you were watchig Six Feet Under shocked as I was by this rumor, I was even more shocked by the rumor that you made fun of our visits to williamsburg. And this fun appeared in your blog...mocking your sainted father. I will of course, now that I have learned how to retrieve your blog. begin to read it daily so I can defend myself. The dad

He figured out, apparently, how to get the censor on the link - the one he sees ever day - and view the web page. When I told him that that was all he needed to do - check out that same page, and that I updated it every day, he seemed to get pretty confused, but then got back on track, and asked, "Like even from old emails? It doesn't matter?" and I said, patiently, "Yeah. Yeah, always the same."

And now that I know he's reading, I think he'll be pleased to find I'm writing about important issues, like how The Cheesecake Factory is the demise of America. I just went with friends, enjoyed every bite, and decided to bring home a piece of cheesecake because I TOTALLY NEEDED A PIECE OF CHEESECAKE.

Here's the thing. I got these new sweatpants from Old Navy recently that completely fit me in a baggy-yet-almost-appropriate-to-wear-to-work-if-you're-not-gonna-see-anybody-way and their existence makes things like The Cheesecake Factory, which is exactly the reason Europeans make fun of us, so divulgent and glorious. Because of their forgiving nature.

One time she ate a large portion of a vodka infused watermelon

One of the things J and I like to muse about as we're cuddling on the couch, not watching cable, is parties our large, lovable dog Cecilia would potentially throw on occasion. Like for New Year's, we decided, she probably called her buds Hayden and Raj, boyfriends of hers, and told them to come on over after the owners had left. They'd wear party hats and play with soft chew toys, it would be fun! They'd greet our elderly cat, Teddy, a suave gentleman who'd, no doubt, be sitting in the corner on a pillow or cashmere sweater, slowly sipping on a 12-year-old single malt with his belly hanging out, thinking about the good old days when he used to prowl the town gettin' it on with the ladies while Barry White played in the background. Cecilia, she'd have the noisemakers out, and would be laughing and proud of herself...that is, until Mina, her roommate, her sister, her best friend for Christ's sake, would show up just after midnight, drunk. Mina, small and precious, but full of spit and vinegar as well as smart as the devil, had been invited to, and attended, 8 or 9 parties previous to Cecilia's. Even after the darling had pleaded with her - begged her - just to stay home and drink good, cold water from the tap and have some old-fashioned fun. No, no, Mina was out on the town and stumbled into Cecilia's party late, breath stinking of whiskey, pranced over to the rug, peed, and said in a slurred voice, "Take that, bitches." J and I then reason that Cecilia would slink into the back room and proceed to cry her little heart out.

We imagine too, with all this warm weather hitting us on the east coast, that Cecilia probably recently planned a barbecue for her friends. Mina would listen to the conversations for a while ("Well, I like chasing the squirrels, but not eating them") before sneaking inside to polish off 3 Coronas. She'd then return to the back yard, tip over the grill and eat all the food. Whole hot dogs in a single bite. She'd laugh maniacally and Cecilia, wearing a flowered apron, would dig a hole, get in, and cry and the afternoon would be ruined. I know this sounds mean-spirited - for us to imagine such disastrously sad outcomes for our dog, but, I mean, let's say it really happened, which it wouldn't by the way, because come on, dogs don't throw parties, they'd all be over it in a heartbeat. I know, because when I try to give these animals sweet memories, like, "Look! There's our old house. Remember?" or "Look, it's a photograph of you as a puppy," they cock their heads and give me blank stares, like, "Listen, what do you think we are? Humans? With feelings? How 'bout you put your dinner plate on the floor and then we'll talk about reacting to real things that matter."