Shut the door, will ya?

My eyes are red and watery; I've been sneezing a lot and feeling light-headed and dizzy - ever since mom decided to paint the guest room and expose the whole family to paint fumes.

She got a surge of inspiration after watching a show on HGTV and decided to rehaul the guest room. For two whole days, she stripped the room, prepped it, slapped primer on the walls and painted until 3 a.m., all with the windows tightly shut.

The result: A loud, hideous, unsightly, nauseous shade of yellow called Del sol by Glidden.

Think mango lassi with yellow food coloring in it. Or something I'm an expert on: concentrated urine.

In fact, the only positive thing I can say about the room is that I never ever have to go in there.

Mom, the eternal optimist, views the whole fiasco as a learning experience. She'll stay away from yellow walls, hereafter. Her next ambitious project is to paint the master bedroom a royal red.

I have a feeling she's going to exhaust all the colors of the rainbow to arrive at the conclusion that builder's white is right, after all.

Don't even go there...

The family primped for a party last night. Which essentially means dad took a shower on a weekend and mom spent an hour in front of the bathroom mirror.

She's usually dissatisfied with the way she looks - if she wears Indian clothes, she wonders if she'll be overdressed in a roomful of casual capris and jeans; if she wears jeans, she wonders if all the other women will be dressed to kill. If the dress code's Indian, she has a hard time deciding between a sari and a salwar kameez.

It's happened to her way too many times to count. She'll arrive at a party thinking maybe she's not looking half-bad, when somebody (usually a woman) will burst her bubble by exclaiming, "You look SO tired. What happened? Are you not feeling well?"

Folks, do me a favor ... if you have nothing nice to say, don't say it (yeah, I know, I would do well to take my own advice, sometimes.)

Believe me, mom doesn't need her dark circles and superfluous facial hair pointed out. So, unless she has broccoli in her teeth or her fly's open, or she asks you how she looks, please, just let her continue living in a fool's paradise.

Out, out, damned spot ...

My friends Orbit and Kariba are spending the week here while their humans are away in San Diego. We're all practically the same age and pretty much ignore each other. I mean, just because we're of the same species doesn't mean we need to get along.

I must say, though, that Orbit's habit of ingratiating herself with mom is beginning to annoy me. She follows her everywhere, even to the toilet. Really, the woman's not going to dole out treats while perched on the throne with the latest issue of People magazine. If you want tidbits missy, look under the kitchen table, stick your snout in the sofa, try the backseat of the car, check the carpet in the living room.

Heck, you can eat off the floors in this house.

Kariba the Rhodesian Ridgeback, on the other hand, sleeps all day. She wakes up to yawn and stretch, and then goes right back to sleep. Which is a good thing.

This morning, mom came down to discover a gift one of the dogs (not me, I swear) had left her on the living room carpet. As expected, she went ballistic, and in a fit of PMS-induced rage, threw all of us out into the back yard. Not a good thing.

Later, when she let us back in, Orbit barfed all over the floor, and promptly got thrown out again.

We don't bother dad much. He seems to have an electronic pet that hums and is constantly on his lap. The thing even goes with dad on his trips worldwide. In fact, dad has two of them; he takes one to work every day, and gives the other equal attention whenever he's home.

She went to J-school for this?!!

Whew, I'm finally here! It took me two frustrating days to register and I finally had to swallow my pride and ask my human for help - he had this thing up and running in less time than it takes him to pick his nose.

So much for me trying to be independent. At this rate, I'll have to start asking the kids for cyber-help, soon.

So, why exactly am I here?

It's my mom's fault, really. She's been wanting to do this for a while (and I really wish she would, so she'd stop talking to herself in the bathroom mirror) but she's so darned lazy.

I mean, how difficult is it to spend every moment of the day with a two-year-old and a bored six-year-old on summer break?

The woman does nothing all day but amuse her kids, cook, bake, provide snacks, drive them around to doctor appointments, swim classes, the library, playdates, the grocery store, etc. She might hit the mall sometimes to buy gifts for various birthdays, housewarmings, baby showers, dinner parties and other hostess gifts. She might paint a room or two in the afternoon, look for a job online, start making dinner - or at least open the fridge and stare at its contents for 15 minutes.

If I'm lucky, she'll walk me in the evenings with the kids in tow. Because of little Kuki who hates the stroller, I get to stop and smell every single bush and our 1/2-mile walk takes 1-1/2 hours. By now, everybody's tired, hungry and hot. So, with a cranky toddler clinging to her capris, mom drags her around the kitchen and puts together something barely edible in the name of dinner. What's more, she's ready to call it a night by 8 p.m.

Excuses ... just excuses ... say dad and I.

That's why I'm taking over. So, welcome folks, and sit, stay. Oh, and don't forget to wipe those paws. Otherwise, I'll get in trouble.