STRANGER THAN FICTION: STAR WARS ARE NOTHING COMPARED TO NIGHTLY CAT BATTLES

It's 10 p.m. and I'm already bushed.

Gone are the days of staying up until 1 a.m. to watch the "Late, Late, Late Show" and then rising at 7 a.m. for a shower, blow-dry and makeup application. Now it's shower the night before, finger-style and add a little mascara if there's time.

At first, it seemed like old age. After all, at 28, I'm no spring chicken. Saturday-afternoon naps are starting to look more attractive than Saturday-afternoon delight. And that Latin America idea of daily siestas is looking more like divine inspiration than an excuse to be lazy.

But I think I've found the real problem. It's two furry balls of evil determined to rob me of my desperately needed beauty rest.

Time was that Romy and Bosco were entertained enough by the world around them. A simple catnip toy was enough to keep them busy for hours. A duck walking past the screened-in porch -- how interesting! And a large bowl of cat food ... let's not even go there.

But none of those things are enough anymore. Their new favorite game is to chase each other at top speed through the apartment, detouring over the bed and landing on Mommy and Daddy as they try to sleep.

The only thing more fun than that is crawling inside the box spring and sharpening their claws on the fabric. Whooooeeeee!

As you can imagine, there's a down side to that game. I woke up many a night at about 3 a.m. to the sound of cats moving among springs and foam being shredded. It isn't pleasant. And The Other Half finally had enough. The war was on.

He took every short box, every quilt and every spare pillow we owned and shoved them under the bed. Now we wake up to the sound of cats trying to move plastic boxes. They work a little and then walk around the bed, looking forlorn. If we shut them out, they cry and scrape their license tags against the door. Mr. Half just doesn't understand it.

"Why don't they just find somewhere else to go?" he asked, wide awake for another 3 a.m. clawing session.

"Well, these animals are about 10 in cat years -- " I began.

"There's no such thing as cat years," he said.

"Yes, there is," I said authoritatively. "Anyway, remember when you were 10 years old? You probably took a cardboard refrigerator box, cut a door in it and called it your clubhouse. And when you hung out in there, you felt really cool, like you had a place of your own. Well, that's how those cats felt. And now they feel like when your mom finally came and folded up the refrigerator box and put it out for the garbage men to take."

"Are you insane or just talking in your sleep?"

Let him pooh-pooh my theory if he wants to. If this whole journalism thing doesn't work out, I'm going into pet psychology. That is, if I can get enough sleep to stay awake in class and learn my trade.

And speaking of journalism, it's time for the Idjit Award for Worst Sales Pitch Ever Made.

About a year ago, I interviewed a lady named Alice for a story about uniquely built homes. The story turned out just fine, and I never had any reason to talk to Alice again ... before Monday. She'd read one of my columns and felt moved to call.

"Heidi, this is Alice. Remember me?" she said. "I noticed how in your column you mentioned the local restaurants were so good you'd put on 10 pounds. Well, I looked at my husband John and said, 'Honey, Heidi is a very large woman! She doesn't need to be gaining 10 pounds, she needs to lose at least 10 if not more!' So John said, 'Honey, why don't you call and tell her about your new health club for women that you opened. Being large, she probably doesn't feel comfortable working out in front of men.' So here I am calling you! Would you like to come by and learn about our new programs?"

Instead, Alice, why don't you come by and kiss by cellulite-covered butt?

~Heidi Nieland is a former Southeast Missourian staff writer who now lives in Pensacola, Fla.