of famous & feces

I didn't actually make any New Year's resolutions this year, so I can't say I'm disappointed in myself. I auditioned all the standards - exercise more, eat better, drink less, spend sparingly, and write often. My good intentions are apparently dyslexic, however, because instead I find myself exercising less, eating more, drinking better (only top shelf margaritas for me this year), spending often, and writing sparingly. I'm fairly certain I even blew "be a better vegetarian" when I partook in the broccoli salad at a recent potluck (pretty sure that was bacon I tasted...). Oh well.

It took a seal rescue to bring me back to my blog. This super cute recently weaned California sea lion was brought in yesterday on my grandfather's would-be 91st birthday. In honor of Pop (who passed last year, the day before his 90th) we named him Famous. Famous rejected his breakfast (insisting mama taught him never to eat dead fish), so we soon tube fed him and sent him on his way. Though he was only in my life for a few brief hours, he was just what I need to pull myself out of a growing funk. I'm constantly humbled by how young and small these sea-faring animals are (Famous is just 7 months old and 23 pounds) - put in my place by the majesty of nature.

Intellectually I know I have nothing to complain about. By definition, the plight of a princess parasite is pretty darned enviable. Even my semi-dreaded trip to Anaheim went swimmingly. Seeing Disneyland through the eyes of a three year old was nothing short of splendid. My niece's spanking clean karma brought us all kinds of good luck. Costume clad employees were constantly popping out of nowhere, stopping to greet a bewildered Grace. Donald Duck was noticeably stand-offish - but I guess that's consistent with his character. Minnie Mouse was her absolute favorite and accordingly we met her the most. We literally stalked her at breakfast - for which we were rewarded with a balloon...

And then there were the princesses. All day long Grace looked forward to getting to "Eat Ariel" at dinner. (Would she taste like fish, I wondered?) And yet, once we were seated, all she wanted to do was ride the "alligator" up to the second floor and watch the near by roller coaster go upside down. We barely made it back to the table in time for our photo op and even then she was every minute a fussy toddler. It was the only time my father had to use his border voice (first discovered when overzealous Canadian mounties wanted to search our car...) which effectively prevented her from spilling her dessert.

Other than the border voice, which she took in stride, Grace was only truly traumatized a few times. She now thinks whales are scary (thanks, Pinnochio), bugs get you (in fairness, that show was marked with an exclamation point and came with 3D glasses), and she's none too keen on ladybugs (they spin like tea cups). She concluded that dragons are the scariest, however, as even Grandpa was frightened then. In fact, the next day she wouldn't even go close to the Chinese restaurant that was sporting decorative dragons out front. She has no fear of heights, however. I found Dumbo disturbing, she wanted to ride it twice. This will surely come in handy in her future cheerleading career. The only ride she refused to board was the one with Frog & Toad. After riding it, my mother and I agreed she made a sound decision.

The funniest moment happened when my folks and I attended the other exclamation pointed show - "Honey, I Shrunk the Audience." My mother actually believed that our 3D glasses were
"safety glasses" and she was shocked that they effects were all aimed exclusively at her. Shortly thereafter we found ourselves in the audience at the Silver Horseshoe enjoying a live rendition of "The Devil Went Down to Georgia." Dad took the opportunity before the show to sneak in a nap and we all left feeling strangely refreshed. There's something to be said for the fiddle.

My trip to Disneyland confirmed my hubby's conclusion that "girls have ruined pirates." I am now the proud owner of pirate princess mouse ears, pirate princess pants, and, of course, a pirate princess tiara that actually stays in place even in my pathetically wimpy hair. I have a Paul Frank purse that celebrates "skurvy" (particularly appropriate since Grace was sporting a spot of skurvy on her lip the whole trip) and a fancy skull ring that matches the skull necklace my red headed niecelet, Savannah, bought me with her very own money last year.

The most magical thing that accompanied our trip to the magic kingdom happened while "swimming" in the hot tub of my parents' very expensive hotel ($500 a night - don't tell Dad...). Grace commanded that we should "make the bubbles go down" and instantly the timer ran out. Unfazed, Grace continued swimming. My sister and I were totally creeped out.

The minute my family parted ways, however, the magic ended. My sister's plane was delayed and her car seat misplaced. She got home hours later than anticipated - frustrated, frazzled and famished. I drove away from the hotel and realized one exit later that I had left some luggage behind. The challenge of retracing my steps paled in comparison to the 90 minute detour I'd endure later. I left the air mattress I bought for my parents' pending visit (intended to balance out the very expensive hotel stay) at the register and didn't realize it until I got home.

Wasted time and gasoline was nothing compared to the lost sleep I spent capturing OC (who had elected to run away from home the whole time I was in Anaheim, his longest absence since he was abducted). His return home was accompanied by enough resistance that my vet prescribed Progesterone for my black cat. I was expecting Prozac or Paxil, but Progesterone gave me some pause... The violence has decreased notably since OC's emergency enema, however, so I've held off on the hormone therapy.

Yes, I said enema.

In his previous life, OC was known as Thomas, the Buttless Wonder. He came into my life via my sister who was supposed to euthanize him after he collected a mass of impacted feces the size of a golf ball. Instead, she found a generous donor and a skillful surgeon who spared him from his congenital bilateral perineal hernias. My only instruction as his adoptive mother was to be sure he never got backed up again. Imagine the guilt I felt when, after nine days of captivity, he revealed his constipation to me this past Saturday.

My veterinarian, bless her heart, put the blame on OC. While I assigned his lack of bowel movement to his forced sedentary lifestyle and rodent-free diet, she likened it more to a kid at summer camp, unwilling to use the unfamiliar facilities. Though he was going, it wasn't often enough and as a result he ended up backed up.

Unfortunately, I could identify. I am the reluctant victim of vacation constipation. Normally a very regular pooper, on vacation I often find myself dreading the act of excreting. Not an avid traveler, I can only recall a few mortifying occasions where my output has unfortunately exceeded the capacity of the local plumbing. Most notably, I had trouble while visiting my brother in Portland. It was here that my dear sister agreed to dispose of my problem in exchange for the right to pick the restaurant for dinner. Kevin and I exchanged troubled glances as we shared a bowl of tortilla chips that night. Most recently, I visited my dear sweet Yvette. Yvette has been my friend since fifth grade and so she quickly assigned my inconvenience to her insufficient plumbing and her paper happy son. I knew better, though. I have a history. It was at Yvette's that I realized I had never learned to properly plunge (as I usually have a man around and plunging is most definitely penis work...) - my agony and embarrassment prolonged while I puzzled through a personal science lesson.

Speaking of home science, my how I have been enjoying the static electricity lately. In my previous life as an employed person, I used to follow my mentor/coworker into the dark room on a regular basis hoping to catch a glimpse of the static jumping off a newly opened package of OVM (orange vinyl mask). OVM quickly became a dinosaur in the now digital printing industry so after six long years I retired having never seen the mysterious sparks. I learned, however, that orange cats are equally adept at generating static and I've enjoyed petting OC in the dark ever since. And last night even Pequeno (aka Blackers the Attackers) was reluctantly putting on a light show.

So how is it I've been feeling so funky? I've been sipping top shelf margaritas, reminiscing about magical moments, shocking my unsuspecting cats with static electricity. I have enjoyed the regular movement of my bowels and even the emotionally draining emergency enema was free of charge (my sis had to agree to pay all of OC's butt related vet bills before I would adopt such a medically needy cat...). My husband rearranged all the furniture while I was gone (something which is very sexy - just ask Springfield's Apu who garnered great interest in the bachelor auction after announcing that his hobbies included talking about where to place furniture in a room...) so my computer could have an ocean view and a heater. What could be better?

Okay, so I haven't enjoyed being a slave to the litter box. Seriously, it is not my fault if OC finds the facilities sub par. I scoop that thing so regularly that I have even begun doing it in my dreams. And my hormones haven't exactly been friendly to me, an unfortunate byproduct of my dyslexic good intentions... Nothing extraordinary, though. Just the usual bloatation and crankiness. And then there was that one supremely horrible day that started with 3 am caterwauling followed by vitamin-on-an-empty-stomach vomiting that ended with cracking my head on the bathroom countertop. Now that day I know I had a reason to cry. But over all, I figure maybe I really am just disappointed in myself for not resolving something in the New Year. So, here it is.

I resolve to steal more pens.

My employment free lifestyle has left me sorry little access to office supplies. Gone is the joy I find in swiping a fine writing instrument. You know, one that feels heavy in your hand, or writes in purple or green, or lights up or otherwise celebrates itself. God, I love stealing pens. Buying them is a rush too, don't get me wrong, but a stolen pen is a prize for life. I reconnected with this joy at Dr. Wonka's office when left alone for my torturous scratch test. If you've never had one, a scratch test is a modern day torture device where your back is covered with 73 itchy stimulants that you are not allowed to scratch for 20 minutes. It begins with the control stimulant, histamine, which always itches, to ensure maximum discomfort. After about 15 minutes I bored of my gossip mag and began snooping in drawers. It was then I found the wealth of drug rep pens. I chose a lime green one, obviously well loved as the name of the drug is all but worn off. They owed me that pen. And more...

I'm not sure how I will achieve this pen swiping goal (I seriously seldom interact with the real world), but resolutions are not supposed to be easy. At least this is one I haven't already broken.