Some people say they want to be like a celebrity. Or someone famous. Or a billionaire. Or someone who owns a private island in the South Pacific.

Me? I just want to be like my cat.

On second thought, I just want to BE my cat.

How much better can a life get? She's charming and attractive, she sits around all day and waits for people to come and adore her. Other people clean up her crap, she plays only when she wants to, and everything that comes in the door (people, purses, shoelaces, beads) is hers.

And she never, ever, looks in the mirror and think, "Does my fur make my butt look big?"

I love my furball, I have to admit it. She demands worship- not the idolatry type, just the "I am the best damn thing that ever set paw on this planet and you had better believe it!" This is, in fact, quite belied by the fact that she farts. Yes indeed, folks, I have a farting cat. Silent...but deadly. She's too lazy to kill mice (she found one in my parents' house once which she batted around to her heart's content, but eventually the poor little mouse got away), but she could just let loose a good one nearby and whoo boy! Aria's new perfume line: Cyanide by Aria. "It makes people faint in your midst."

She's my little Furry Prozac.

Yes this is shameless self promotion of one of my magazine columns. Deal with it.