The concept of an arranged marriage has always fascinated me.  I am an optimist, and like to think that if I lived in the days of yore and was important enough to have my marriage chosen for me, I would have made the best of it.  I'm a glass half full kind of gal.  So what if the guy was seventy years older than I was, may or may not have had leprosy, and was missing an eye?  He came with his own castle, enough gold to keep me fashionably dressed, and I'd get my own servants.  There are actually women today who are out looking for that kind of relationship - meanwhile back then, they faced disownment if they didn't marry the geezer.  The whole situation has a very Goldilocks undertone.

In today's society, where you find far fewer parents pimping out their daughter's for advantageous marriages and you find far more daughters choosing husbands that their parents don't approve of, finding a marriage that makes everyone happy is something worth putting a little effort into.

Enter the Green Bay Packers.

Earlier this week my dad and I went up to Lambeau Field.  We claimed it was to see the hall of fame and take a stadium tour, but anyone who knows either of us knows we had far less of an interest in the aforementioned than we did in sitting in Curly's Pub with our faces pressed to the glass in hopes of catching a glimpse of one of the players.  This week, with the playoffs in sight, we figured we had a pretty good shot of seeing players coming and going.  The last time we were up there was four years ago when we'd just blown our shot at the playoffs, so we pretty much just got to see the coaching staff, going.

So already we were off to a better start than last time.  Secretly we were both hoping we'd meet the team, I'd fall in love with one of the players, and we'd thus secure season tickets for the rest of our lives.  Secretly I was hoping it would be one of the better-looking players.

Secretly, there was nothing secretive about it.  We both knew it, my Mom knew it when she waved us off in the morning, and we all made a pretty good effort of hiding our disappointment that night when we came home unsuccessful. 

It did get me thinking, though, about what it would do to a family dynamic if one of the ids ended up marrying someone famous.

Imagine you've married a plumber from Portage, Wisconsin.  As far as plumbers go, he's the best of the best.  Third generation, everyone in town uses him - he's the local celebrity.  Everywhere you go in town, people know you.  You've done well for yourselves.

Then one day your sister casually marries Tony Romo.  Family functions change completely.  You and your plumber show up early for Thanksgiving and while everyone seems genuinely interested in your husband's story about the Keller's recent septic clog, you know they're just being polite.  What they really want to hear about is Tony's playoff hopes, last week's game, what it's like to play against ____, if maybe they can secure tickets to the Pro Bowl and thus fit in a nice little warm weather vacation.

The kitchen dynamics change.  Not only does Tony get to carve the turkey, but before he does so he casually tosses it, in a perfect spiral, from the oven to the platter.  He tells your oldest child to 'go long' for the cranberries.  Your mother would kill you if you tried that, but she just laughs and waves it off.  "Oh don't be silly," she says.  "The cranberries are in good hands."  Then she beams proudly at the man who has obviously become her favorite child, though technically not even her offspring.

Everyone wants to sit next to Tony at the dinner table and thus you get bumped to the kids table.  Your own kids no longer want to play catch with you in the back yard, and why would they, when they can play catch with Tony Romo?  Christmas rolls around, and your husband has gotten everyone an ornament in the shape of a toilet, wrapped in tinfoil - his trademark - which everyone used to find funny, even cute.  Your sister's husband got everyone authentic Cowboys jerseys, signed by every member of the team.  And he's wrapped each of them in a brand new Lexus.  Your sister's marriage secures the family a skybox.  Yours secures them discounts anywhere Kohler appliances are sold.

Though I like to think that these petty differences could be risen above, I'm beginning to see why famous people only marry other famous people.  I'm also beginning to see why there was so much sibling rivalry in the days when these kind of marriages were arranged for people.

I wonder what my cyclops leper husband would have gotten my family at Christmastime?   

In three days I turn 25.  I don't feel old at all.  Well, let me rephrase - I feel ancient.  My hobbies are akin to those of a retirement village, the last project I successfully completed was a jigsaw puzzle, and the CD player in my car currently houses Barry Manilow, Phil Collins, and The Essential Rod Stewart.  I'm 103.  Also I love when CD's are entitled "The Essential ___."  That's a pretty loose application of the word essential.  If my house was on fire and I was told I had one minute to grab only the essentials and get out, I certainly don't think my collection of soft rock favorites would immediately come to mind.

Anyway, there's one thing I thought I'd have mastered by 25 that I haven't yet - and that's follow-through, particularly when it comes to resolutions.

Every New Years I make the same resolution - to be a better person.  This year I got a little more specific - to be more of a lady.  I guess that means perhaps ordering a white wine spritzer instead of that Scotch on the rocks that I love so much.  No promises, though, just an idea.  Still, somewhere between my Green Bay Packer obsession and my affinity for cigar shops, I seem to have lost a little femininity, and I want to get it back.  Doing so will require trying to get a handle on my oh-so-ladylike road rage.

An attempt at this usually comes in the form of a silent repetition of "Don't be an asshole, Melissa," uttered moments before I inevitably ignore it and lay on the horn anyway.

In fact it happened again yesterday as I was following a pedophile onto the highway.  Of course I don't know for sure if he was a pedophile or not, but the only other time I've seen that combination of handlebar mustache and white windowless van was during a news segment on that particular kind of scum.  So, I deduced that that's what he was.  And this one, in all honesty, was merging onto the highway at the speed of 25 mph.  It was strange to me that someone who clearly has such a blatant disregard for the laws of humanity would be so concerned about the laws of traffic.

It was also strange, if not infuriating, that I was about to get killed by one.  

If I'm going to get killed by a criminal, I want it to be because I'm an integral cog in the justice machine that's in the process bringing him down.  I want to be wearing a bullet-proof vest and diving in front of my partner in a very dramatic and heroic fashion.  I don't want to be tailing his abduction van and end up getting picked off by a Ford Focus who just didn't know how to avoid the car that had come to a standstill in the middle of the highway.  

And that's exactly the situation I found myself in yesterday.  This man in front of me had slowed to 9 mph and was clearly involved in some kind of real life game of Frogger.  To my left, semi's were flying past me at what I considered acceptable, although deadly, highway speed.  Twenty more feet and we would officially be on the highway, moving at a pace too slow for the Lazy River.  So, I made a command decision - I swerved across four lanes of traffic and gunned it.  

This morning I got to thinking about what this man must have seen as I pulled past him.  Fist waving, hair flying, head shaking so quickly that I could feel my jowls moving independent of my face, obscenities spewing uncontrollably from my mouth...

I'm sure I looked every inch the lady.

Ladies also probably don't go labeling strangers as pedophiles, either.  But hey, it was his choice to wake up yesterday and put on a multi-colored wind-suit, not mine.  I call it like I see it.  

That resolution lasted all of 7 days.  But that's the good thing about having a birthday in early January - My "new year" will start all over again on the 10th.  Even if I am turning 103. 

I've long suspected that I neglect my feet in the winter months when they're permanently housed in boots.  The extent to which I do so, however, didn't sink in until the other morning when a wayward toenail, who clearly felt he had been ignored long enough, gouged a hole in my finger while I was attempting to put on a pair of socks.  A sensible woman would have come to this conclusion much earlier, like the time I clawed through 3 pairs of tights in one afternoon.  But no, it took drawing my own blood.

The real loss in a podiatric nightmare like this one belongs to the poor souls who work in airline security and have to see feet like mine on a daily basis, as passengers kick off their shoes to go through the metal detectors.

I was reminded of this the other night as I watched the news and learned of the newest restrictions to airline travel, thanks to the man they're now calling the Panty Bomber.  That's a pretty demeaning title, which I happen to like - he deserves ever syllable of it.  Still, why not go with something like the 'Boxer Bomber' or the 'Briefs Bomber'?  Not only does all that alliteration roll off the tongue nicely, but it has to be more in line with what a man like that would wear.  I for one would be shocked to discover that a man with the gall to try and blow up an airplane prefers a pair of pink lacies to Hanes boxer briefs.  

It also leaves me confused as to why that particular incident has people talking about banning carry-on luggage.  If this attempt came from the nether-regions of the culprit himself, the real answer is to start asking all travelers to fly commando.  Talk about a twofer - safety and comfort. 

Another multifaceted solution to this latest threat would be simply sedating all passengers immediately after boarding.  It would require adding a staff of anesthesiologists to the friendly skies, but think of the safety!  No one can attempt anything at all when they're out cold.  Plus, this takes care of all the nervous flyers out there, thus saving them the necessity of drinking heavily before flights.  Everybody wins.  

I also heard that one idea is to not allow passengers to use the restroom an hour before landing.  Well, at least they've finally found a second purpose for the barf-bag.  Or they could add catheters, right alongside the oxygen masks, for those passengers who simply could not make it.  Yet another reason to add a full-time medical staff to the long list of airline employees.

And, if all else fails, there's always a chance that the wagon train could make a comeback, though it would require one hell of a PR campaign to boost its appeal to the point where people would choose this over other modes of transportations.  Luckily, I've solved that problem - make a reality show out of it.  The Jones family vs. the Smith family.  Will they make it to California before winter sets in?  Stay tuned to find out.  Another option would be removing the oxen entirely from the equation and replacing them with:

a) Body-builders looking for a new record

b) Biggest Loser-esque contestants looking for a new and exciting way to lose weight.

At the very least, it would encourage travelers to care for their feet.  I for one, would not want to be walking behind my Conestoga Wagon with toenails threatening to tear through my boots at any moment.  

There's a certain kind of dysfunctional relationship that includes giving a great deal of gifts.  I hear about them all the time - boyfriends who shower their girlfriend with expensive gifts as sparkly apologies for their many indiscretions.  Mothers who buy their teenage daughters only the finest Juicy Couture to make up for time spent lunching or golfing with friends instead of attending school performances.  Parents who throw new toys at their children before handing them off to the babysitter, instead of taking them to the zoo, or a ball game.  

I myself am involved in one of these relationships - with my parent's cat.  

Towards the end of her life, my grandma got a cat, whom she promptly named Gato.  What the name lacks in originality it makes up for in its succinct and direct nature, which fits the cat perfectly.  When she passed away in 2005, my parents acquired Gato, and he has since become one of my very favorite animals.  He has exactly one facial expression: a mix of boredom, confusion, and sense of being above it all.  He wears a Burberry collar, dreams of someday owning his own yacht, and has an ongoing love affair with four things - a white and gold pipe cleaner, butter, cheese and Party Mix, his favorite kind of cat treat.  I deny him the first three - the pipe cleaner because it's a danger to the dogs, the butter because aside from cooking with it or thoroughly melting it on toast I don't like it myself, and the cheese because that is one food I don't share.  

Still, I found that I so loved Gato that I wanted him to love me back the same way.  That is how, on accident, I became his Party Mix dealer.  I snuck it to him in dark corners of the back hall, stealthily put a few pieces in my pocket to take upstairs, fed his addiction in any way possible.  I wasn't alone in this - my sister has served as his other hookup, sometimes even leaving trails of Party Mix for him to follow from one room to another.  He paid us with his love and attention, and for a few wonderful years we got by.

Unfortunately, lately this incessant gifting has led to an unhealthy, codependent relationship in which Gato's sole concern seems to be "What are you going to do for me?"  And lately, all he wants is Party Mix.  It's concerning, and I think I may need to have a discussion with my family about some sort of intervention and subsequent rehab program.  

I think Gato is an emotional eater, and, like me, eats when he's bored.  Which I would assume for a cat is at least 93% of the time - any time not otherwise occupied by chasing flies and shadows.  So I understand it - his Party Mix is my Cheetos.  The difference is, I don't use Cheetos as a bargaining chip with loved ones.  I don't withhold my affection until said food is in my hands.  Gato does, and it's downright hurtful.

It's gotten to the point where he spends most of his day meowing at me.  This gets old pretty fast.  He'll sit on the counter and meow, until I finally give him attention, at which point he promptly beelines it for the back hall and the drawer containing the party mix.  He follows me around and meows.  Last night he sat outside my bedroom door and meowed late into the night.  When that hasn't been working, he's started trying something else.  For some reason when I'm home I set up shop in the guest bathroom, which is across from the Mudroom, which is where the cat food and litter box is.  There is a child-gate set up across the Mudroom door to keep the dogs from getting in there, and for the last few nights in a row, I've left the bathroom after washing my face to find Gato, with his face smashed right up against the gate, staring at me in a silent plea.  Two weeks in a row, I've found him in this exact position.  Sometimes he actually sticks a paw through the "bars" and reaches slowly towards me.    

I think he wants me to think he's in some sort of prison and invoke my pity, then use it to leverage his way to more treats.  He's like a needy girlfriend who won't quit until she gets what she wants.  I'm starting to see what my guy friends have been complaining about.

At this point I think I really just have one option: it's time to stop showering Gato with treats, and take him to a ball game.