That's a bad kitty.

The best way to describe me these days is irrational. Don't look at me sideways, don't interrupt Dirty Sexy Money with the Country Music Awards and don't make me turn on the heat in the apartment because I am hot. All the time. I don't like heat. I'd rather wear layers and slippers and blankets and wake up with a sore throat.

Because I'm too hot 100 percent of the time, my morning ritual is more like a pain in my ass. I take a hot shower because I like hot showers. But hot showers heat up the bathroom. The same bathroom I need to be in to blow-dry my hair, also hot, and flatiron my hair.

Hot, all around.

So this morning, like most mornings, I stormed across the living room to whip open the patio door because, oh my GOD, I'm hot. I need air. Fresh, cold air. Because sweating while blow-drying your hair is much like sleeping with the stereo full-blast.

Not going to happen.

So I'm drying my hair. Doing the make-up thing. Generally preparing for my day. And I notice that, yes, the patio door is wide open, but so is the screen door. Everything's wide open.

Eff. You. See. Kay.

I dropped the blow-dryer on the floor, still on, and rushed to the open door in nothing but pants and a bra. And, sure as shit, there's Harley and Chicken, outside. Escaped. Free.

I almost died.

NO! My cats, goddammit, will not be running away. That, right there, is very high on my list of things that will not be happening. Ever. So I panicked. And yelled. And Chicken, because she is a wimp, and also very, very smart, looked at me with terror in her big, blue eyes and bolted straight back into the apartment.

Good kitty. When mama comes screaming at you with nothing but half-dried hair and a bra, you run. Fast. Back into the house.

Harley, on the other hand, also known as naughty! Bad! Bad kitty! was having none of that.

Whee! I'm outside! Look! Freedom! I don't care if you're about to run outside in your bra, crazy!

Because I was about to run outside in my bra to get her. Oh, hell no, she wasn't about to run away from me. She looked at me wildly, tempting fate, as I crawled halfway out the door on my hands and knees toward her, in my bra.

She crouched further, not quite moving, but not quite deciding if she was going to retreat back inside or piss me off. Instead, I attacked like a stealth, grabbed her with both hands and whipped her, me and my bra back inside. And slammed the door shut.

Solved that problem.