So I went to the Ellen show today and it was amazing. She even danced with me! But I’m not telling you when it airs in case I look stupid.

(Dancing’s never been a good look for me.)

I should tell you that Operation M.E.O.W. (My dearest Ellen, you Owe me nothing but won’t you please send me a cat With short hair?) was aborted. Yet again. Not to say I didn’t try. In fact, I had the whole audience campaigning for me!

But alas, all I got was a NEW KODAK PRINTER!!!!

Cats are over-rated anyway. I mean, can Morris fax? Can Garfield scan? And Sylvester – HE’S just black and white. Sorry, guys, but I’m all about 4/color multi-tasking machines now. They may not cuddle at night, but they sure make fake ID production a lot easier.

Am I right, ladies? (That’s from Ellen.) Hey, do you think I should try and write a monologue for her? I’ll call it “Ellen’s Sugar Mamalogue.”

I’m doing it. Stay tuned.

It pains me to say this, but Operation M.E.O.W. (“My dearest Ellen, you Owe me nothing, but won’t you please send me a cat With short hair?”) must be re-instated. Our cat, Goody, has left us for good. Last month’s fires turned all of Southern California upside down and she was no exception, I guess. Because when we were finally able to crack open a window, Goody wriggled all four legs out and never returned.

I had resigned myself to the fact that perhaps I had done something so terrible in life, leaving me undeserving of a fluffy friend. A being in my own house that didn’t spill entire jugs of milk my beautiful wood floor. Or a back to scratch that didn’t have freckles or permanent marker all over it. Or even a whisker to tickle whose face wasn’t going through a mid-life crisis.

But I can’t ignore the fact that my life has gone to pot without a cat, leading me to believe that I should get another one in order to resume some sort of order in my house. Because the day after Goody escaped, my five-year-old learned how to burp on command (and hasn’t stopped.) My youngest son has decided that he wants to be a “princess” when he grows up (and I’ve got Cinderella pull-ups to prove it.) And my husband has grown a goatee without the ‘t’ (making it, what, a goat?). Anyway, ba-a-a-d choice.

But it just so happens that I will be visiting Ellen on Thursday as part of her studio audience. Which, I figure, has to be a sign. So I beg you to join me in my effort to convince her to give me a cat via emails, letters, telepathy…. Which is the only way my husband will allow me to have another one, by the way, because he knows how much I love Ellen and how I’d leave him if he ever did anything to make her angry.

ME-OW, lamb chop.

www.ellentv.com

Here’s my Christmas gift to you: whenever you don’t know the words to a carol, simply sing “watermelon, watermelon, watermelon” over and over. You think I’m joking, but it works.

At least for the faster songs, it does. For example: Dashing through the snow, on a one horse open sleigh…’ Sure we all know the first stanza. But after that last ‘ha’ most of us are lost.

Am I right? But this year, you can switcheroo to your new pal, melon, and all will be merry.

This trick can be used for ALL music, by the way. Like, we all should know the national anthem, right? And We are the Champions? These are classic Americana mandates. But somewhere between the hot dogs and peanuts, most of us missed some key words. And it’s too late to ask someone at this stage of the ball game.

I’ll admit I put Dolly Parton’s version of the Star-Spangled Banner on my i-pod in an effort to legitimately nail it. Her 9-5 was so catchy, I figured it had to be her voice. But a year later, I still don’t know it.

Oh, say can you watermelon….?

It’s these small things I pass along to you to make your life easier. My mother thinks I cut corners in life. But you know what I think? It’s a heck of a lot easier to buy seedless.

This year was our first Thanksgiving sans family. Well, without hoards of relatives, re-told jokes and reruns of old home movies. It was time to start our own turkey traditions, I ventured. Starting with the toast.

“Everyone lifts their glass and gives thanks to something that is important to them,” I explained to my two- and five-year olds, “starting with you, Jackson.”

“I’m thankful for daddy who can fix my bike when it breaks.” Awwww, that was sweet. And we all took a sip of champagne.

Then came my husband’s turn. “I’m thankful for you, Jackson, for learning how to ride a two-wheeler today.”

Enough with the bikes, OK? But we continued to round the table, still hopeful for a goosebump moment.

“Benji? What are you thankful for tonight?”

He just stared at all of us. He’s only two, but hey, I’m a Cosby fan. Kids always say the darndest things if you ask the right questions.

“Benji? What makes you the happiest right now? Can you share with us what makes you happy?”

And then he stood up in his chair, cleared his throat and paused. As we all braced ourselves for some toddler wisdom, he offered this:

“I’m thankful for my sippy cup.”

And then he threw it and hit Jackson in the head.

As my blessed Thanksgiving turned into just a regular evening at home, I raised my glass and downed it.

Some traditions are simply too sacred to break.

My five-year-old asked me what happens to all of his dreams he can’t remember.

“I go to sleep wanting to dream about working at a train station.” He tells me. “And then I wake up and can’t remember if I ever got there.”

Dreams are difficult concepts, in my opinion, to explain to kids. Some are fantasy, others are goals. The good ones you follow, the bad ones you zap with a monster blaster. And then check under the bed to make sure it worked. 

So in an effort to assure Jackson that he could access his dreams – his goals - anytime he wanted, I consulted a dream expert. He would never call himself that, I realize. He would likely refer to himself as “just a regular guy who likes mosquitoes.” But considering he’s broken bread with kings, queens, presidents and pigs, I knew he was just the frog to impart kid-friendly wisdom on making dreams come true.

Here’s what Kermit has to say on dreams:

You must look deep inside your heart and ask what you really want. If your immediate answer is “dessert,” you probably missed your heart and went directly to your stomach.

“So my heart carries love and dreams?” Jackson asked me.

“Yup. And it’s best friends with your brain who can tell you how to get to the train station.”

“So which body part has my car seat?”

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.  And don’t forget to laugh.

Well, it’s not really a crisis. Nor is it the exact the middle of my life, hopefully.  But I turned 37 this weekend and let’s just say that I’ve made a few changes.

First, the hair. The moment I blew my candles out I wished for a straight part. It’s irresponsible to have lived this long with the zig zag! Rude, even. I mean, for years I watched people’s eyes scan the top of my head, focusing on that one piece of hair, if I could just swing it over to the other side….

Second, the earrings. I’ve worn these same vintage studs in my ears since the day my husband arrived 30 minutes late to our wedding seven years ago. (He claims he was late due to haggling over the earrings.) Anyway, big hoops are my new mantra. And the bigger, the better.

Third, the diet. I went to my annual last week and, to my horror, weighed in at 6.8 pounds over the year before. Which means that I weighed less last year, 12 months closer to the birth of my last baby. So I’m my third day of Jenny Craig today. Hey, if Valerie can do it, so can I. (And I loved Schneider like a father, too, which practically makes us sisters.)

See? I don’t need some shiny Porsche. Nor do I need some young thing on my arm to make me feel young again. I, at 37 years old, simply need to breathe in my jeans again, and to sweep the hair out of my face in order to showcase my dazzling ears to distract you from my deepening crow’s feet.

So I was at celebrity #2’s house yesterday - remember, I know two celebrities (well, three, if you count Santa) – and it occurred to me that I am not one. And probably never will be. I mean, I have been recognized in a lady’s bathroom. And also at a restaurant. But they weren’t like “Oh, my GOD, you’re Sugar Mama! Wait, stay here - my friends will never believe this!” exchanges. More like “Aren’t you in that magazine? And can you pass me a paper towel?”

It’s that certain shmutzpah (schootspa?) that stars have. Or the same quality a diamond has – a sparkle, a gleam…and, quite frankly, the only thing shiny on me is my nose. It’s the sad truth, but I’m OK with it.

But a little celeb treatment would be nice, though. Even if just from my own family. Because I’ll tell you this - if celeb #1 OR #2 called my husband, he would answer. Definitely. If I call him, it’s never a sure thing. Which is pretty funny if you think about it, because I’m pretty much the ONLY sure thing in his life.

Am I allowed to say that?

See? If I were a celebrity, I’d be allowed to. But since I’m a Z-lister, I’ll need to apologize. So from the bottom of my nose, honey, I am sorry. Now pick up your phone.

No, no, no, not an affair. Worse. He just read my Thanksgiving column printed in this month’s Parenting OC magazine. According to him, I didn’t portray him in the best light.

“The thing is, honey, is that I’m not allowed to lie. My editor mandates that I only write the truth. So if you behave yourself, give me money and tell me I’m the most beautiful woman in the world, you’ll be spared. Promise.”

And with a pat on his head, I skipped over to my brand new computer I had just charged on his Amex.

“But that would be a lie…” he managed though a smile.

Just WHO does he think he’s messing with? Doesn’t he know I haven’t turned in December’s column yet?

There’s still time, honey, always time.