I've come to the conclusion that much of my life is one big ball of irony. Not that it's a bad thing, mind you. I mean, irony is a great source for comedy. But the thing is, I don't want to be living in Half-Hour Sit-Com Land all the time……

THE EXPECTATION:
The common housecat sleeps most of the day, eats occasionally, and gives humans love only when it wants something. The housecat is more of a small decorative piece of furniture--such as a hassock--than a pet.

AND THE IRONY:
I spend half my waking hours chasing that goddamn cat around the house with a bottle of Resolve trying to stop her from pissing everywhere. In the corners. On the kitchen floor. On the window sills. Behind my desk. On my cell phone. On my coed softball application, for crying out loud! And to make matters worse, she's on the rag (Yeah, that's a hell of a mental picture of my cell phone, isn't it?) But here's the real kicker: She's not totally a she. She's a he/she. Honestly. My little hermaphroditic feline porn star. I took her to the vet when she was a wee kitten and the vet poked around behind her and said, "Hmm. So you think it's just a girl, huh?" Just my luck. Then the vet said that getting her/him fixed would cost me double. No shit.

THE EXPECTATION:
Max, the Puerto Rican.

THE IRONY:
My best friend Max's knowledge and use of the Spanish language consists of quoting Taco Bell commercials and using the phrase "Hasta su pasta" (until your pasta).

THE EXPECTATION:
I make pretty good money, I get a bonus from work every April, I have a rent-paying roommate, and I always get a refund on my taxes. I haven't bought new clothes in a year, I have a 6-year-old truck, I don't have a girlfriend whining to me about buying her new pumps to match the $140 dress I just bought her, my stereo system still has 8-track capability, a full meal at Burger King is only 5 bucks and some change, I don't do crack, and my last major purchase was a 30-pack of Charmin (on sale of course).

AND THE IRONY:
Where the hell is my money? Am I buying hookers in my sleep? Is this Clinton's fault somehow? Has my Freakshow Cat learned how to use an ATM card and Quicken? I'm 31-frickin-years-old and I pay for 7-11 coffee in nickels sometimes. Sheesh.

THE EXPECTATION:
I have a bachelor's degree in English from the University of Virginia. Do I teach? Do I write?

AND THE IRONY:
"Dear Glenn: Can I get next Sunday the 21st off? I'm going to prom on Saturday night and I'll be tired on Sunday. Also, I need the 24th off ('N Sync concert), the 26th off (cheerleading tryouts), and the 27th off (I start my period). Also, I can only work until 8 at night, not 11. My mom says that's too late on a school night. And I don't want to work at the pharmacy counter anymore. Can I work at the front registers instead? Thanks -Cindy. PS - When am I getting a raise?"

THE EXPECTATION:
My parents were married in 1960 and never looked back. They've risen far above the plateaus of being best friends, soul mates, and all those types of clichés. Jim and Terri Arnold are--in these days of divorce, adultery, and abuse--true revolutionaries in marriage. On Valentine's Day this year they will be celebrating 40 glorious years.

AND THE IRONY:
24 days, baby. I must've set some kind of record.