People need to be pickier.

This is my best friend, Bubbles, and my ex-cat, Maorou. They're both beautiful, complicated mammals. They are not to be taken advantage of, although in the past, I've taken advantage of both of them.

Folks ought to be pickier, in so many ways. We need to be pickier, choosier, about the people for whom we vote to represent our interests in government; about how we get our news; about how we find our information; about the books we read and the people we date and the food we eat. My dear friend Gina suggested recently that we (meaning she and I and our other friends) are "niche people" which means, to her at least, that we are not representative of women and men of our generation in the United States. I am resistant to this idea! I am not an artist or an intellectual or someone with lots of money or someone who doesn't know where her next meal is coming from. I am not an victim or survivor of abuse or serious physical illness or disability. I'm grateful and bratty every day. I want the same things millions of women in this country want: I want more money, more time, more physical stamina, more athletic ability, fewer chores, better sleep, better skin...I am not seeking fame, but rather, a way to restore my teeth and boobs to their sixteen-year-old loveliness.

Oh, to be Picky-Picky Quimby: old and tired, with clear memories of a toddler Ramona yanking on his tail; distrustful of the grade-school aged, gentler Ramona; disdainful of the discount cat chow the Quimby family feeds him due to their reduced circumstances. Remember when Picky-Picky meets his inevitable yet still untimely end? Beezus gets blisters on her hands from digging his grave.