5/14/13. The Little Frying Pan. This is the city: El Centro, California. It was cloudless and hot, the kind of "hot" that makes the sky colorless and opaque. My name is Kathy; I'm not a cop. The boss is Captain Martha the Panda. The case: Get to Tucson, AZ, via mysterious byways (I-8, I-10). Lt. Matilda the Cat and I discussed several approaches and decided to get on I-8 and see what would happen.
   Last night I woke up with my left arm curled around a cat, who'd buried his face in my armpit. We had a suspect: Officer Nelson the Orange Tabby. Damn! No cat! Maybe it was the late Sergeant Willow making a stealth  visit.
  Another note from yesterday, on the hazards of losing weight: I was using my extra-long squeegee to wash my windshield while filling the gas tank, so I literally had my hands full, when I felt something slithering a little below my waist. Then it crept down to my navel but didn't stop there. By the time I had dropped the squeegee and checked my creeping shorts, they had fallen to the top of my pubic bone. That's not supposed to be the public bone, and I hauled the shorts up just in time. Must now tuck shirttails in to add friction and help avert pantsing myself.