playing possum

So it only counts as a sabbatical if I begin posting regularly again, right? Good thing my life is full of inspiring twists and turns. For example, it seems I have a new mammal in my life. It all started Friday night as I heard a noise beside my chair. I looked down expecting Ratty Catty and found this baby opossum instead. Cute, right? Always lacking a decent flashlight, I used the camera's flash to keep track of his movements.

Monkey was my assistant in the slow motion hunt. I am so grateful that he didn't start a fight with this thing under my bed.

As it turns out, I think the opossum would've left sooner if I weren't taking his photo. Despite the paparazzi, he seemed to have found his way to the open door. It wasn't until this evening, when I saw my laundry basket had sprouted a tail, that I realized I never actually saw him leave the premises. I'm still pretty sure he did leave, actually, or the cats would've been home a lot more today. (I always know there is a visitor in the house when the boys take shifts watching a certain room or corner...) So if he did leave, it's even cuter / more disturbing that he was back again tonight.

Chasing him with the camera once again, I insisted that he did not want to be an "indooropossuminChicagowithMama" and this time I made sure he left.



Just like all the rat tailed creatures who come my way, he left me a present on the carpet. Broken as I am, I felt worse about scaring the pee out of him than I did about having to clean it up. I wasn't sure if Nature's Miracle would work on opossum odors, so I didn't bother using any. Let's face it, it's not like it really works on cat smells anyway. Given the other atrocities I've removed from the carpet recently, this little spot was a breeze. Still, I am so looking forward to not having carpets.

About that. Friday, being eventful as it was, I found out that not only do I not have carpets in my new apartment, I don't actually have an apartment - at least not right away. I knew it wasn't good when my landlord started out our phone conversation by asking me if I had a place to stay when I came to Chicago... The renovation of my unit was delayed, it seems, by a decree from the gas company, which demanded improvements to the gaslines for the entire building. It should be ready by the second week of September, he says, but I get there on the 3rd. So now I'm supposed to move in to another unit in a different building and my landlord will pay to move my stuff into my real place later. I'm far from thrilled about moving twice in two weeks, but I still think my apartment will be worth the wait. And though I know it will freak them out, I almost think the double move could work to my advantage with the kitties. I wasn't really looking forward to having the christen my new place with their bladders. It might be too much to ask, but I'm hoping they get all the pee out of their system at the temporary place. More likely, they'll pee on both places with equal enthusiasm. Joy.

In other Friday news, my brother gave notice at his job - finally. He's been fantasizing about it for a while and I think he will be the happier for it. My mom would've preferred that he found a job before he quit his job, but that's not exactly how we roll in this family. So instead she is getting a puppy. Cuz that totally makes sense. Actually, it does make sense, because she'd like to have a dog but she's not home enough to take care of one. This is no longer a problem, now that she has an unemployed housemate, or a "remonster" as Erik and I called the unemployed Kevin when he lived under our roof, in homage, of course, to the Aqua Teen Hunger Force - season 2, episode 11. And, because I worked so hard to find it, here's a clip from his television debut:

Anyway, I had other sibling news on Friday but I am strictly forbidden from blogging about it. I'm not forbidden, however, from blogging about not blogging about it, or at least I'm not explicitly forbidden. How's that for some convoluted future-lawyer logic? It will make a great story someday (cuz lord knows said sibling can't keep his / her own secrets...), but until then, suffice it to say I was grateful for being trusted with the knowledge and the laughter it inspired.

Oh, and because I totally saw it coming and because I'm so happy with my school choice (and my yummy scholarship), I was not at all crushed to be officially rejected from Harvard on Thursday. In fact, with all the Friday excitement, I nearly forgot it happened.

Friday was also the day a dear friend of mine went under the knife for some exploratory boob biopsying. We'll know on Tuesday if the coast is clear, but in the meanwhile she reports that she is fine and dandy, though her chest hurts like hell. An interesting side effect of the probing, however, is that her offended boob is suddenly perky as all get out, so she's trying to figure out how to market the procedure (like booby botox), though she doesn't recommend it.

I wish that was my only friend / cancer update, but another dear friend is going under the knife next week. He's got skin cancer and so far it's not melanoma, but they've got to check each site individually. So next week it's all about his ear, and, apparently, regardless of which sort of cancer it is, he's most likely going to lose his ear - entirely. He seems in pretty good spirits about it, considering. For one thing, he's much taller than the rest of the world, so no one can really see his ears anyway. Besides, he's a collector of fractional creatures. He's got, I think, three three-legged cats, one of which has poop problems not quite like OC's but arguably equally disgusting... (Like my sister, he works in a vet clinic - so the cats are an occupational hazard.) Still, I was probly pushing it when I decided to get him a Vincent Van Gogh action figure to celebrate. (And though I found it a wee bit cheaper than at Archie McPhee's, I linked to their site cuz I love love love them...)

Which reminds me, oh my god have I been revenge spending. I think it is finally out of my system, and, really, it could've been worse, but still. Did I really need a Darth Vader flash drive instead of a regular flash drive at half the price? For that matter, did I need a flash drive at all? And the couch, for the cats, the same cats who have made sure I can't have a couch at all, really, I needed that? Actually, it is quite cute. And I slept on it, for days. But still, they're just going to pee on it, I know, but I can pretend they won't. And I sure as hell won't be unpacking it until the pee-fest seems to have ended... Anyway, I also bought some clothes, which is silly since I am moving to one of the best shopping cities in our country, but whatever, and a few assorted other goodies (covers for my phone and my ipod, for example). At least I didn't buy the Darth Vader breathing device, which would go nicely with the light saber I picked up at Comic-Con. And I haven't (yet) bought an expensive hand crafted ergonomic desk, though I haven't committed to the $50 crappy desk at Staples, either. If I had any actual cash, I'd just pick up a desk from Craigslist, but I have so much more available credit than I have cash... which is a bad thing, I know.

Anyway, that's enough news for one week. Time to get back to packing (I'm on a roll at last...) or back to bed, whichever.

starting over

So can we call that a sabbatical? I've always wanted to take a sabbatical. It sounds much more important than a vacation. And as an unemployed parasite princess, I can't really take a vacation anyway, can I? And in my absence I have made some important decisions, so that's important, right? Now I find I am just a wee bit terrified because everything in my life is changing.

First off, I decided where I am going to school in the fall. Chicago. Um, yeah, where it is very cold and maybe dangerous. I'm as surprised as you are. But I fell in love when I visited - though, to be honest, there was a fair amount of cheap wine involved in the recruitment events. Still, I went there with a chip on my shoulder, at the end of a very long whirlwind tour of fancy pants law schools, and I left with a big fat nerdy grin of excitement. So this, I think, is good. What makes it even better is that they apparently loved me too, as they threw a nice chunk of money my way (presumably to keep me from loving Columbia which also gave me nerdgasms...). A great degree at a considerable discount - it doesn't get better than this.

Harvard, on the other hand, Harvard doesn't love me. They pity waitlisted me, which is fine and all, except for the fact that they got me all hot and bothered with that phone interview back in December. Looking back, I see where I likely failed the phone interview. And ultimately, the waitlisting was in my own best interest as this Chicago deal is nothing short of awesome. Besides, I was so borderline in the first place, I truly have to say it was an honor just to be nominated. But it has taken me some time to get there.

Yale's waitlist offer, in contrast, delighted me. I am much more likely to win the lottery than I am to get in off the Yale waitlist (and I don't even play the lottery), but this pity waitlist was like receiving an honorable mention. You don't win, but you get to know you didn't totally suck.

Anyway, I should fill you in on the rest of my school visits (and my many travels since), but it's all irrelevant now. Mostly I'm glad I got to visit my grandmother as she's not doing her best these days. Her 93 years finally caught up with her, it seems, and now even eating is exhausting. I'm mostly worried about my dad. Though he's very casual about death, I can't imagine he's ready for all this. I can't decide if it was good or bad that he was there when the decline started, but I'm thinking it was good.

Meanwhile, I have caved a bit to the black hole which is Facebook. I've even updated my status once or twice and if you follow me there you may already know that another terrifying development in my life is that my husband is buying a house. In California. A month before I leave for Chicago. I'm finally at a place of surrender with the process (which is good, I suppose, since the deal is set to close next Wednesday or Thursday), and I've been able to maintain a comfortable distance from the actual transaction (as in I got to keep my own savings and investments intact and my name isn't on the loan or deed), so I'm almost genuinely excited for him. This means, of course, that he'll be staying in California while I'm in school (though he's optimistic about catching up with me sooner rather than later), but given that he was flat out planning to be depressed by the snow and he just barely promised not to kill me with an ax (ala The Shining) - mostly because we do not own an ax - it could be for the better that he's not moving to the midwest right away.

The kitties, on the other hand, have no choice. As they have been hearing often, they are going to be "indoorkittiesinChicagowithMama." They are not certain what this means just yet, but they will surely make me suffer accordingly when they discover the truth. The great thing is, my new apartment has no carpet whatsoever. It is sad to know I am actually looking forward to living in the snow if only it means I will not have to attempt to remove bodily fluids from carpets anymore. And the couches? We haven't even considered replacing them. One less bulky item to move, right? That Ratty Catty, he's so thoughtful.

Actually, Ratty isn't even the gross one these days. He's settling into relative normality. I get to pet him on the regular and yesterday he even let me touch him outside. He wants me to pet his belly, I know he does, but he's just not ready to admit it. Of course it's been months since I've written and in the meanwhile he has been expensive as we had his teeth cleaned and his tongue biopsied. While the surgery was pricey enough, we also had to pay to have the carpets cleaned as he had to be indoors to get his antibiotics. It was worth every penny, though I found out I paid $20 too much after initiating service on line. (Good to know for future cleaning, but difficult to hear while paying it...)

Sadly, though, we've had more recent veterinary expenses. I came home Monday after spending most of a week away (going to Comic-Con with my little bro - payback for dragging him to the east coast...) to find poor OC all plugged up again. Apparently Papa did not respect the power of the Miralax and he failed to medicate OC properly at all. Just like that his 22 month health streak ended. It was sad. And disgusting. And to add insult to injury, I responded by overmedicating him in the aftermath. So what was normally a two day process of following around my feline fountain of feces became a three and a half day process, punctuated by four cat showers. Miraculously, only one of these showers resulted in bloodshed - a claw stuck in my boob (my right boob, come to think of it, the same one that inspires doctors to order extra mammograms - damned boob). The saddest part, however, had to be the very end, when an exiled OC spent the night outside on a dirty quilt that was waiting its turn in the laundry. He so very much wanted to snuggle me in bed, but there was this one spot on the underside of his tail that I couldn't get clean in the shower and the bed, the bed has seen enough cat shit for a lifetime. The look on OC's face the next morning, as his body was covered in dew, it said it all. He knew this was all Papa's fault and he was tired of eating his own shit. If he could get his hands on an ax, we know exactly who he would kill.

Anyway, I ought to finish blogging and start, oh, maybe packing. I've got exactly one month before my stuff leaves in a truck. The cats and I leave the next day, headed for LA where the kitties will be pawsengers on Pet Airways. I'm a little nervous for them (as it seems to be more a dog airline than a cat one, and for whatever reason they have to spend the night before I can pick them up...), but it is so much better than the road trip we had planned as the alternative.

Packing still feels overwhelming though, so maybe first I'll have a nap.

third time's a charm?

No time to write, I say as if I still posted regularly. But today I have a good excuse at least. I'm flying to Philly (hopefully - I connect through San Francisco and have not always had the best of luck getting out of there...). My travel day begins in less than an hour.

Checking out schools, checking out cuzens, hoping not to freeze my butt off, looking forward to a nap on the plane.

weird thoughts and more fun with cats

Ay yi yi. I am up at 4 a.m. because the phlegm won't let me sleep. I suppose it is only fair that I should be catching a cold from Erik, since he caught the one I brought home from Washington a few weeks earlier. It is nice, I must say, that I already have some cough drops on hand. Unfortunately, I am finding that tea is a better at doing battle with this particular tickle at the back of my throat and thus I must be upright, despite my desire to be dozing.

I have been meaning to blog anyway and I still have a number of essays and administrative tasks on my plate, so a little lost sleep isn't the worst thing. This irresistible urge to cough, on the other hand, that I could live without. I guess I should be grateful that at least I am not at work, like my poor beloved hubby. He looked like total crap when he left and will likely call out sick tomorrow. At least he looked like total crap with super cute green eyeballs and sexy long eyelashes and crazy big curly '70's hair.

Anyway, so I was already meaning to share a few delightful tidbits about little G's budding sense of humor, but I'll start with the freshest example first. This gem occurred March 1st, while she was chilling with the grandparents after an overnight visit. Because I am lazy, I will just cut and paste from the gmail chat where I first heard of it:

3:48 PM Kevin: grace said the funniest thing yesterday

me: oh yeah?

Kevin: she was eating waffles and she said

i'm thinking about weird things

3:49 PM we asked her what kind of things

she said

i was thinking that jenni was peeing in the house

me: what?!

that is indeed very weird

did you probe further?

3:50 PM Kevin: no

mom said, 'that is weird'

me: it is my own fault

for all my toilet humor

3:51 PM i wonder if Grace will remember if I ask her about it

Kevin: i dunno

she also said 'starfish'

3:52 PM apropos of nothing

me: oh my goodness

what was in those waffles?

So of course I immediately called my sis to get more information on these "weird" thoughts. Grace did, indeed, recall her comment and provided a perfectly good explanation. Apparently she had been dreaming about me the night before. In this dream I was in a park, peeing in public, and I had drawn quite a crowd. The crowd was gathered around saying, "Yuck!" and "Gross!" Grace soon came up and also said, "Yuck! Gross! I would never do that!" And thus, the weird thoughts were born.

Sis, being the good parent that she is, told Grace that she may very well someday pee in public because sometimes you just have to. She then provided an example of her own (this is where I learned that my sis has secretly fertilized my brother's driveway), after which I insisted that she share the end all of all driveway fertilizing tales (the story of The Pooper).

What? You say you haven't heard the story of The Pooper? Oh, c'mon, I know a few of you have. And though it is kind of cruel how much I love to tell it, I swear it is the funniest thing ever.

So a long, long time ago in a land not so far away, my mother once went out to take the trash to the curb. (Cuz, of course, it has always been my mom's job to take the trash out, despite the fact that she has always lived with men... This is a sad fact, I say, and one I was not aware of until that time she busted me for having tossed empty booze bottles in the trash as a teen. I still cannot believe I didn't even think to bury them at all...) Anyway, her driveway is long and thus her trash is on a cart. She begins to roll the cart only to discover that hidden under it is a big old turd. Now my mom had dogs at the time and so she thought to herself, "damn dogs," and she grabbed a shovel and commenced with the removal of the offending feces. She had yet to ponder how the dogs managed to poop under the cart. Hers is not to wonder why, I suppose. While in the process of scooping, however, she did happen to notice that there was corn in this poo. This is when she realized, "This is a people poo!" A brief investigation followed and the source of the people poo was flushed out, so to speak. In fact, I think it is to her credit that she so readily confessed to her crime. Though the perpetrator is forever known in some circles as The Pooper, others call her Mommy or Auntie. I know she would prefer to remain somewhat anonymous, so I will only say that she later married my brother...

Anyway, after my sis initiated little G in the story of The Pooper, I asked her if G had a response. In fact, she was speechless, taking it all in. It was then that my sis relayed that G, who commonly joins her mom in the shower, had just that very morning been found peeing down the drain. When asked about her activity, G replied indignantly, "What? It's not getting on you." When asked why she chose the shower over the toilet, G explained, "It just exploded out of me."

As for the tidbit I had meant to share in the first place, well, it almost pales in comparison. But since I have nothing to do but write an essay that could shape my future, I might as well dig in.

So this story takes place in my sister's car. We were driving along and for whatever reason I was talking about being drunk, or wanting to be drunk, or what have you. Sis, being the good parent that she is, decided to ask G if she knew what we were talking about, if she knew what "drunk" means. At first G didn't have a clue and so we explained that it is when you get all silly and sick from drinking too much beer, to which she replied, "Oh, like Uncle Kevin." Already hilarious. And so we began quizzing her about her various relatives, to see if they drink a lot of beer. Her mommy? No. Her grandma? No. Her grandpa? No. Her daddy? No. No? To the contrary, Daddy likes his beer at least as much as Uncle Kevin, and so we ask again. And again. Until we are beginning to think that maybe he doesn't actually drink much when he is with his G. Just when we were moving on, perplexed, G blurts out, "I was only kidding you!" Oh my goodness, she had us going and she knew it too. Silly little smarty pants.

Anyway, though I'm pretty sure I have more examples of G's priceless sense of humor, I really should move on. First, another pot of tea...

Okay, I'm back. Where were we? Oh, yeah, more fun with cats. First, you will be delighted to know this story has nothing to do with pee. In fact, since banishing the couches, I have been completely free of phantom pee smells and unfortunate mishaps. Granted, I was supplying the spoiled bastards with indoor plumbing, but that experiment ended yesterday, when hubby still had his olfactory senses. Turns out he was at least as bothered by the scent of the Scentsy as it reminded him it was just covering for the smell of cat litter. I was all too ready to oblige and, in fact, I really do need to completely banish the one most popular box for although the litter is expensive and relatively free of debris, the box around it is, shall we say, soiled. Yuck. For now, though, I'm just keeping the door closed.

But I told you this wouldn't be a story of pee and there I go, talking about it anyway. Sorry about that. Let's start over.

So this evening I am sitting there, innocently settling in to enjoy an episode of Lost. My killer cough has not yet fully bloomed. I am still hopeful for a lovely evening. Then in comes Monkey. Usually Monkey brings in sticks from the outside world. Don't ask me why, but that cat loves to bring in sticks. Sometimes he'll chase them if you toss them, mostly he is just proud of his find. He will meow proudly if he's brought in a particularly impressive specimen, as he did last night after bringing in about 3 feet of what I imagine is eucalyptus bark... Anyway, I can tell Monkey's got something and it is clearly not a stick.

The other thing Monkey's good at catching is mice. (In fact, he may have even resolved our mice in the attic problem. At least I haven't heard them for a while. He still likes to go on patrol periodically - he actually asks to be let up there - but he's never come down with anything, dead or alive.) So immediatly I know, this is a mouse.

The next thing to determine is if it is dead (and therefore just a really gross cat toy) or alive (and therefore mine). Um, yeah, it's moving, and hiding, and very much alive. Monkey seems to sense that the living room is not the place for mice. Perhaps this is because I have gotten up (and very few things will actually make me get up) and perhaps it is because I am yelling at him. For whatever reason, he decides to move the party into the office.

Suddenly, this is the image going through my mind. This is the last mouse Monkey brought home, an already dead mouse, who is in the process of being flung into the air so it can be swatted at again. I believe I caught this particular moment on camera before Monkey decided the mouse needed to take a bath in the cat fountain. Yeah, the same cat fountain I occasionally clean in my kitchen sink. I knew that water fountain maintenance was gross, I just never knew it was disgusting. Anyway, having witnessed the swimming of the dead mouse I suddenly realized why the mouse that preceded this one had been all wet. We just assumed he'd been caught in the rain. Silly bipeds. Anyway, the mouse I caught on film eventually became a hand-me-down gift to Monkey's paramour, the dreaded Ratty Catty. Ratty then took the mouse into his own room (yes, Ratty has his own room, and yes, it smells horribly) and proceeded to eat its butt. Literally. At least OC knows to eat things head first. Mmm, brains. Ratty does everything wrong...

Anyway, back to the mouse in the house. So I follow Monkey in to the office only to find he is, of course, playing with the rodent very near the water fountain. I begin to wonder just how exactly I plan on catching this mouse. I even contemplate just closing the door and pretending not to know about it. Then I remember the sound of the last mouse I took from Monkey, the one that was outdoors. This "rescue" was easier, for all I had to do was pick up my cat. Unfortunately, mice are dumb and he needed a handful of head starts before he actually began to get away. In the meanwhile, the commotion had attracted the attention of the neighbor cat. And the neighbor cat took over where Monkey left off, killing the mouse despite the rodent's rather vocal protests.

So I know I cannot ignore it, and besides, what if he didn't end up killing it? Then I have a mouse in my house. Unacceptable. I must carry on. First I consider a box, the cat nip box that is way too small for OC but way too big for this mouse. There is no way it will work. And so I think. A cup, I think. Not a glass that I would ever wish to drink from again, I realize, but a plastic cup, that is what I need. Conveniently I know I have one. Not so conveniently, it is on the upper most shelf of the kitchen cabinets - the one where I tend to try to dislodge things using a giant knife because I am way too lazy to get out the stool. After some knife weilding and some counter climbing shenanigans, I return with my cup.

Let's just say my first few attempts were not pretty. Once I convinced the mouse to seek sanctuary in the cup. Surprised at my early success I screamed and frightened him out of it. The next couple times he chose to run along the wall instead. Monkey thought this was great fun. Each time the mouse returned to his corner. Then, I'm still cringing to remember it, the mouse decided to wing it, and make a break for it across the open terrain. The only trouble is he ran right in to my arm. Needless to say, I screamed again. Then I decided to take a break. The mouse, sensing he was down to only one predator, made another attempt at escape - coming right towards me again, sheilding himself with none other than the cat fountain. Forcing myself to man up, I got on my knees and tried to lower the cup over the mouse. I was shocked when this actually worked. Keeping him in the cup (with the help of a postcard) and getting him out of the house (through two doors and one lock) was more difficult. Only then did I wish he were in a glass so the sides would not be so flimsy as I gripped them. Still, I soldiered on. Luckily, Monkey was distracted, checking and rechecking all the nooks and crannies for his catch, and he did not witness the tossing of the cup in to the backyard. He and his devoted Rat boy followed up with some excited searching of all the places that the mouse had been, but I think it is safe to say the mouse lived to poop another day.

As for me, I guess it is back to my essays and financial aid forms. I am certain to finish today as I have knocked down nearly all my distracting tasks. I bought plane tickets ($600 - ouch), I RSVP'd (though I think not to all my schools - hm, will have to check on that - plus I have to solicit travel subsidies...), I even bought clothes (on line, already I worry they won't fit, caught up in a moment of weakness), I made appointments (chiropractor this weekend, booby squishing six month check up when I get back), and I started to research hotels (narrowly avoiding booking a roach motel thanks to sister's sage advice). Today I can only distract myself further by calling the garbage company (to see about disposing of pee couches), and, well, coughing like a maniac all day. Fun fun.

usually i like being right

Um. Yeah. We found it. The phantom pee smell. It was in the same place where everything I am looking for eventually turns up. Under my butt. This would totally explain the worsening of the whiffs in the afternoon. It wasn't the setting sun warming the windowsill, it was my big old butt, warming the couch crack. Oh, the humanity.

But we've agreed that the offense must've occurred while I was out of town. So I have only been sitting on pee for three weeks. I've only had the power to discover it (my olfactory senses) for one of those three weeks. So I am not that gross, right?

I know. I am gross.

This is why I will now tell you the story of the The Trouble With Birthday Cakes. To distract you. And to put my grossness in perspective.

As you know, the pee wars all started when I went out of town. There were skirmishes before, sure, but you know, the carnage. It's recent. And the reason I went out of town? It was a command performance - a request of my youngest niecelet, G. Cuz she was turning five. Something she'd been planning for at least ten months. And she was going to have her party. At Pump It Up - a bounce house where even grown ups can bounce - and I was invited to the party. Ten months ago. Cuz she was turning five. And we could have a sleepover. With her cousins. At her house. Like we did before. (This is exactly how G invited me. In tiny little sentences. With great enthusiasm. This is when I realized she is a bit of an up talker. But on her it is cute, not annoying. Let's face it, on G everything is cute.)

Clearly, I had no choice. I had to go. So I did. And though I am not mentioned in my sister's accounting of the day(s), I was there - sleeping over, pumping it up, heck, I even got to sing with the Olympia Free Choir (which was a total blast, though I was totally grumpy by the end of the long long day cuz my feet were cold and a dog had farted on me and I am pretty sure this is the night I got infected with the sick...). But my sis is not much for the blathering on, and I strictly forbid her from taking my photo, so I cannot really be hurt that I was left out of the tale. But indeed, all that making of the cakes - I have to say that technically I made the cakes. Sis supervised, documented, set timers, removed hot things, did dishes (lots and lots of dishes), and corralled dogs. But the measuring and mixing and pouring and such. That was me. Which is great. I live to follow directions. And I would way rather make cakes than corral dogs. Besides, I was paid handsomely for my efforts. I got to drink my sister's premixed top shelf margaritas. Just like at home. Only free. That is to say, I got to drink the second half of my sister's margaritas. Her ex helped himself to the first half many moons ago. (At least I admit I may have a drinking problem. He's still in denial, though my sister notices her booze disappears rapidly whenever he's been over to help with the dogs...)

Anyway, I digress. So there was the making of the cakes. Purple cakes. Pink cakes. Green cupcakes. Not so bad. Then there was the making of the icing. Like five batches of icing. I fucked up the purple icing - it kinda broke and was runny. I didn't make enough of the orange icing - so they had to use blue. But anyway, there was icing. Five hours had passed by the time we got to the decorating, I kid you not. Thank god for premixed top shelf margaritas, right?

So the cakes are done. The cousins are playing amongst themselves. The margaritas are making me warm and fuzzy. Life is pretty darned good. But there are still dogs. Big tall bad dogs. Little tiny yappy dogs. One dog that spins in circles and pees. And there are the cats. Everywhere. Not like at my house. Like my house on crack. Cats everywhere. So the cakes, they are not safe. They must go somewhere.

The spare room is not an option. There is a cat in there too. The visiting cat. (And, I discovered later, Ringo, the inside out butt catt, who had snuck in to terrorize the visiting cat and eat her food...)

So this leaves only the garage. Not a bad option, usually. Unless your garage happens to house your collection of nine unscooped litter boxes. In this case your garage smells like cat poo. Only it smells worse than cat poo. Cuz it smells like fermented cat poo.

But really, there are no other options. And besides, these are not my cakes. This is not my house. And the margaritas have made me all warm and fuzzy. So at first I go along with it.

Until I go to the garage to fetch a juice box for one of the niecelets. This is when I remember a funny story from my little brother's childhood. The one where he and I passed a dead and decaying bird. The one where I told him if you can smell something it is because tiny particles of that thing are actually in your nose. And though the dead bird was not particularly pungent, we decided this was really gross and we ran away.

So there I was, fetching juice boxes, with tiny particles of fermented cat poo in my nose. Looking at the cakes that took five hours to make.

It is already too late. I cannot eat this cake. I will eat plenty of things if I have to or want to. In fact, after this trip I have decided I cannot even pretend I am a vegetarian any more. It started as some sort of survival instinct - scarfing down the chicken at my sister's house and later ignoring the pepperoni on the pizza at the water park - but some of it was nothing other than temptation - the bacon my brother made for breakfast, the hot roast beef sandwiches that looked so good - and tomorrow, well, tomorrow we're celebrating our sortaversary - 5 years of wedded bliss - which we always do over big fat steaks...

But again, I digress.

So the cakes. They are ruined. For me. But to little kids, especially the little kids who had just decorated them, they were still magical butterflies and kick ass caterpillar cupcakes. And so I fetched the aluminum foil and covered them. It was too late, but it was better than nothing. Oh, and big time kudos to my sis for stocking the high end heavy duty foil in her cupboards. This way I could cover the cakes without even smudging them. Though the fact that I was drunk made the task a little more challenging than it should have been and I spent more time in the stinky garage than I might've liked.

Anyway, I still had the chrysalides. Yup, I made up my own cool recipe. The rice krispy treat chrysalis. Make a batch of rice krispy treats. Smoosh it into a shallow pan. Take a pint glass or cookie cutter and spray it with spray. Cut out circles. Take gummy worms and cut them in half. (Or don't. See if I care.) Put the worms in the circles and fold over and smoosh down like you are making a pot sticker. Voila. A rice krispy treat chrysalis. They were made in the kitchen and stayed in the kitchen. So at the party I had two.

(Oh, by the way, if you are going to run out and make rice krispy treat chrysalides right away - cuz you know you are going to make them sometime - be sure to buy generic rice krispies since we are still mad at Kellogg's for kicking Michael Phelps off the box...)

Um, so, yeah, I know my sister likes to encourage folks to read my blog so if you happen to be a person who happened to have been at the Pump It Up party and you happened to have eaten some birthday cake, first of all, I am sorry. I debated not telling this story. But this is my blog and it is already way too dull because I am acutely aware of my audience. (Which is why, by the way, I have actually started a secret blog - but I can't tell you where or it wouldn't be a secret. In fact, I shouldn't have even told you that the secret blog exists at all, cuz it is a secret. But I have always sucked at keeping my own secrets. I will tell you this much. My lack of posting here has nothing to do with my shiny new secret blog. In fact, I have only posted there once. Mostly I like to go there and read other people's secret blogs. Cuz people really tell the truth when they know nobody they know is reading. And they don't have all this post / not post guilt cuz they are all posting as regularly as they will elsewhere. And they comment like crazy. I am so happy to know that at least two other strangers out there on the interwebs can identify with my super secret struggles which are seriously nothing you want to read about. You are not missing a thing. You think this is too much information? You don't even want to go there. So don't start looking for secret blogs. Or at least don't start looking for my secret blog. Hell, I really wish I could tell you about the secret blogs, cuz they are wicked fun to read. But that is too bad. You will find them if you need to. In fact, I can't even reconstruct the trail of links I followed to get there. It was fate. And besides, you are not ready. You can't handle the secret blogs. Admit it, you can barely handle The Trouble With Birthday Cakes.)

Yeah, back to the cakes and the people who may have consumed them. I swear, they were only uncovered for a very brief time. I just have a low tolerance for grossness (my own grossness included - oh how slippery is the slope from normalish person to crazy cat lady) and I happen to have a way with words. And tonight I am avoiding writing my scholarship essays and updating my financial aid forms. And I don't have a couch to sit on. So let's just say for argument's sake that perhaps I have exaggerated. Though I will say, in my own defense, that my mother recently reported having spent significant time in the stinky garage (folding laundry while my sister was sick with the replicating virus) and later she noticed the smell of said garage had come home with her on her own clothing. And this is my mother we are talking about. The woman who has been through two generations of pee cats - Missy Moo (aka Pissy Poo, or Beatrix) and now Blackie (aka Pcat, Ginger, or Snickers, depending on who you ask). This is the woman who might hand you a jacket to put on (cuz god forbid my dad runs the heat) and then you may very well soon smell pee and only later will you realize you are wearing the pee smell. And when you announce your discovery she will be amused, not appalled. Yes, this is the woman whose entire house smells like pee. (Sadly, I thought this was only in the summer time when the pee was warmed by the sun, but I swear I smelled ambient pee during my winter time visit...) So you know this garage stinks.

Hm. I'm not making this much better, am I? Alright, I may have told you that you ate fermented cat poo infected cake, and that is not cool. But really, I was not about to ruin my niecelets long awaited fifth (!) birthday party by dissing her lovingly decorated cakes. I couldn't share. Until now. And you're right. I shouldn't have, even now. But see above, how I mentioned the secret blog. I am not good at keeping secrets. More proof. In fact, I think this will be the most difficult part of becoming an attorney. Wearing a bra, and stockings, and heels. Yeah, that sucks. Waking up every day to an alarm clock and working into the wee hours of the night, that sucks. Eye twitching, you know that's coming back. Feeling like I am married to my work and not my husband, super sucky. But keeping attorney-client privilege - my god, it will be required by law. Which is kinda like following directions. Which I am good at. So I am hoping it will all balance out.

Oh, yeah, and to distract you from the distracting story which was meant to distract you from the disgusting story, here's what we are thinking about the never-ending fight. First, a little refresher. He wants to buy a house. Fine enough, right? I want to go to school. Okay, so we are both taking on six figures of debt. Tit for tat. No stress there. Um, but he wants to come with me to school, leaving behind the job he had - the one that helped him qualify to buy his house. But that's not a problem, for him, cuz he can rent the house - to his little brother. And no one but his little brother. Cuz that's his plan. The part of it I trust the least. (No offense to the little brother, but he knows I have this issue. I have told him to his face. And besides, he doesn't have the internets at home. Cuz he is broke like we were when we were his age. Like we are now, really. And he doesn't know about the blog anyway. Either of them. So there...) Um, so we've been fighting. I call his plan the "Stupid Plan." This is disrespectful, I know, but he doesn't disagree. But I think this is cuz my husband is afraid of me. Cuz he thinks I once tried to kill him with a rock. But that was nearly 17 years ago. And the rock was not that big.

But again, I digress. This is what happens when you haven't blogged for a while, I guess. The floodgates open. And tangents are made.

So the compromise. Funny enough, the compromise - which is now being offered by my hubby - was actually my idea in the first place. Ages and ages ago. When I first started taking this law school thing seriously. And, funny enough, the compromise is what many many people have assumed we were doing all along. The compromise is that we do both. I go to school. He buys a house. Only he stays here so he can work to pay for his house.

It's just, now that the compromise is his idea it seems like it sucks. I am not sure if this is cuz my default opinion is to reject his ideas, or if it is because I love him dearly and I cannot imagine living apart from him. I think it is cuz I know I would miss all the foot rubbing. And because I am deathly afraid of infidelity. (Can you say, Daddy Issues?) And because we would probly split up the kitties (he would keep the bad one and the Monkey and OC would go with me to live like a king, albeit an exiled indoor king...) and this is horribly sad to me. Cuz three years may be nothing in a marriage, but it is a lifetime to a kitty.

It also sucks cuz the more we fill in the details, the more it makes sense. He would now live in his own house, a cheaper house. A house which would be very close to his work, since he would give me the car. (We are a one car family since a deer used our truck to commit suicide while I was out of town. Sucks for the deer, but if Erik had been in his own car instead of my truck it might've sucked for Erik too. And it would've sucked for the opossum that tried to commit suicide earlier in his commute, only the truck is nice and tall. The Toaster - our Scion - would've smooshed him for sure. Anyway, we were likely going to sell the aging truck, when we were both still planning to move to the city, so this actually worked out well. In fact, we are well insured so we got top dollar for it from our insurance company. I tried not to sound too excited when they told me how much the settlement would be, especially since this is the second aging car Erik has miraculously totaled right before it would've become a money pit. I swear, he doesn't do it on purpose, but he is really talented apparently. The only thing that sucks is that I had to prematurely part with my beloved rescue net, seeing as how I don't have a vehicle for hauling around seals anymore. I stashed the net in a shed at the site, though, cuz I am still not emotionally ready to let just anybody use her... Oh, crap, I'm off on another tangent, a tangent within a tangent... sorry...) Where was I? Oh yeah, cheaper house, no brother factor, keeping the income, no pee cat in the city. What else? I get a sweet apartment near campus instead of heading out to the boonies (are there boonies in the Bay Area?) where we could rent a house big enough for all of us. Oh, and I get to store all my stuff here with my hubby. No garage sale. Major plus. He presumably makes a profit on the house someday. I presumably have to take out fewer loans since he is still making real money. Shit, we can even save money on cat food since the black cats can eat dry food while OC stays on his life saving Fancy Feast... He swears he would take the train up often, it costs just a little more than gas and he could sleep and I wouldn't have to worry about him crashing cars. (As he does often. Look at me, tying in the tangents. You go, girl...) I think that it won't be as often as either of us would like. And I think that's about it on the pro side.

Cons. I go to school lonely. He lives here lonely. First person to cheat dies. Well, he dies if he cheats. Cuz I kill him. He claims he wouldn't kill me, that he would just let me go on my merry way, cuz he just wants me to be happy. But if I cheated on him, well, I might as well kill myself cuz that would be a horrible thing to do to the sweetest guy I have ever known. Thank goodness I still haven't gotten around to that getting in shape business. I won't even be remotely milfy. I already know I will be the crazy old lady who everyone is nice to only so they can borrow her notes. Then they will all curse me behind my back as I ruin the curve on tests. Muhahahaha. Oh yeah, I plan to kick ass in school.

Um, yeah, back to cons. Other than the sucky lonely part, I don't see any. So that's what sucks the most.

My only out is to fall in love with one of my other choices. The logical sucky compromise plan only works if I go to nearby Berkeley. We aren't even considering the cross country long distance thing. And so I am going to check them out, or at least the ones I could love - NYU (highly ranked), U of Penn (near the cousins), U of Chicago (they offered me $ and have great clerkship placements and heck, Obama taught there), and Northwestern (who should, by all accounts, offer me big $ and if they don't, well, they are still the only school that bothers to train lawyers as business people and not just academics...). I may also visit Columbia - I still have a pretty serious crush on them, but they are "holding" me (not waitlisted, yet, and thus the need to write them a love letter) - but I must confess, I am a wee bit afraid of NYC. I know it will be big and scary and expensive. But that is not what frightens me most. It is the fact that the kitties would surely be indoor kitties there. And the fact that we might fall in love and never leave. Or worse, we will want to leave and be trapped there by my shiny new golden handcuffs. So I will see if visiting NYU makes me feel as if I visited Columbia. Or I will arrange to visit on my own, since I am not (yet) invited to the Admitted Students events (which will be going on all around me). Ugh. Oh, yeah, and everything goes out the door if Law School in the Bush calls. And, whatever, I told you about my secret blog, so I might as well name the School Which Must Not Be Named. It's not really a secret anyway, since I let my dad put it in the Christmas letter. It's fricking Harvard tugging at my heart strings, getting my stupid old lady hopes up. I have decided it's not that I have given up, it's more that I have surrendered to my fate. You know, I wasn't really surprised when I was singled out to be graced with the coveted phone interview. The one you can't get admitted without. But I never really considered that I could be one of the unlucky 20% who get the call and who don't get in. I agree with Meryl Streep, it isn't always nice just to be nominated. It is torturous. Delightful. Then torturous.

Holy moly. I have been blogging non stop for more than three hours now. Sadly, you are now very caught up with the big stuff in my life. I still have fun stories from my visit and months and months of seal stories, so we have places to go from here. Oh, and I didn't even tell you that my beloved chiropractor has breast cancer now. All I can say is WTF? I go out of town for less than two weeks and my doctor gets cancer, my truck gets totaled, my couch gets peed on, and my hubby starts getting all freakishly logical on me. Happily, I ran into her (my chiropractor) this afternoon so I could give her a hug and an update and an empty promise of helpfulness. She still looks good but she's only had her first round of chemo yet. Which reminds me, depending on how you count them, I'm about due for my follow up booby smashing session. More fun with cysts. See, plenty of blogging fodder.

But for now. Bed. Cuz I have no couch. I am gross like that.

And tomorrow. Steaks. Yum.

gahhhh

I'm pretty sure I have officially broken my own record for the most consecutive days of not posting. It's not that I haven't had anything to say - for one, I haven't even begun to tell the tale of the Curse of the Dolphin (that's in my drafts folder from months ago) - it just that I think I've been holding my cyberbreath, waiting for news from that pesky Law School in the Bush. In fact, I've put many things in my life on hold. My desk is a mess. My laundry is unfolded. I have letters to write, forms to submit, plane tickets to buy... Most days all I have managed to do is run the dishwasher. There is just something really zen about running the dishwasher - even though it is WAY too loud. I swear the first thing I will buy with my grown up lawyer paycheck will be a silent dishwasher like my mom has.

But I digress.

So we're 72 days out now since I received the coveted phone interview from Law School in the Bush. According to my obsessive internet researching, I have been passed over by at least five separate waves of acceptances. No one at all has been accepted for the last couple weeks. Rejections and waitlists won't be handed out until April, so I'm not willing to give up all hope (despite my mother's and brother's efforts to sap it out of me... lovingly, of course...), but it's time to go on living, right?

Besides, I've got to update you on Ratty Catty. Last you heard, Ratty had begun flirting with me in the great outdoors while Barack Obama was settling in to his big old white house. Great, right? I mean, sure, we'd just had that whole flying pee on the couch belly scratch incident (from which I still have a bit of a scar), but whatever, we were making progress...

You may recall that when I was still optimistic about my chances with Law School in the Bush (and therefore feeling like I'd end up living in the snow), I had decided to step up my efforts to domesticate Ratty Catty. I secretly made available the two household litter boxes and I waited to see what would happen. One rainy afternoon, not long after the flying pee incident, he finally took the bait and peed in the box. He was super satisfied with himself and I was so proud that I sang his praises to the only other biped around - my poor sweet hubby, who totally objects to allowing outdoor kitties access to indoor plumbing. As you might imagine, Erik wasn't as excited as I was about my so-called victory. He was, in fact, appalled, pointing out in his annoyingly logical way that the kitties would soon come to expect this scooping service and he was not in any way, shape, or form going to provide while I went to Washington to visit the folks.

Sure enough, after I tried to wean the kitties off their boxes the peeing wars began. So many pees happened while I was gone Erik won't even list them all for me but the last one, I know, took place on the bed, right in front of his very eyes, on the day I was coming home. But Erik blames himself, cuz he thought maybe, just maybe, it wouldn't happen this time and he actually let Ratty on to the bed. When will we learn? So whatever. We got a new bath mat, a new rug by the front door. We stocked up on floor cleaner. We died a little inside. Nothing new, right?

Besides, I knew I'd be coming home from my visit with this fancy new cat lady present from my sister, queen of all cat ladies. It is an air freshening wax melting night light from Scentsy. It is the perfect gift for people who allowed their spoiled ass cats to pee indoors. What I didn't know is that I would also be coming home with a horrible cold. This distracted me for two of the weeks which I have spent not blogging and not getting admitted anywhere. It was great, actually, except for all the painful post nasal drip and the nagging coughing fits. Anyway, I was in no mood for resuming the litterbox experiment (and, I believe, I was specifically banned from doing so by the aforementioned husband...). So the war waged on.

One trouble with sinus issues is that you really can't smell much. So as my cold started clearing up I started smelling the carnage. Only I couldn't place it. I just get these horrific whiffs of pee and then - nothing. I bury my nose into blankets - nothing, sheets - nothing, cushions - nothing. I plug in the Scentsy. Better, but, no offense to Scentsy, not perfect. Again with the phantom pee. I begin to think maybe I am crazy. Erik and I go on a cleaning spree. We wipe every surface in the known universe (and by "we" I mean, of course, "he"...). We wash the entire bed again, for good measure. Still with the whiffs.

One day I think I have found it. The windowsill by my side of the couch, the one I use as a side table (cuz my actual side table is not enough to hold all the clutter I feel I must suffocate myself with) - perhaps it is the windowsill. It is wood. Wood is porous. It gets afternoon sun - just about the same time I get most of my phantom whiffs. It has to be the windowsill. So we scrub it better. But still with the whiffs.

Then tonight, tonight I think, now I know. How do I know? I have seen it with my very own eyes.

So tonight, much like the evening of the Inauguration, Ratty Catty was being especially sweet to me. For the first time since I left on my trip, he is offering himself to be pet right here in the computer room. And he is purring up a storm. "Yay," I think, "I am not a crazy person to give this ill mannered cat a home. Inside he is a real kitty. He just needs love and patience." Yeah, right.

Soon after our love fest peters out I hear the familiar sound of "scritch, scritch, scritch" coming from the living room. I know this cannot be good. Quickly I run through Ratty's rules of warfare - checking for violations. Is there a rug on the floor? No. Any clothes on the couch? Negative. Something plastic out of place? Nope. Is anyone chasing him or cornering him? Again, no. Is OC giving him dirty looks? No. OC is asleep in his too tiny cat nip box. Is there bedding anywhere, even in a laundry basket? No. Geez, what do you think I am, stupid? So I am stumped. I decide to investigate.

Ratty Catty is on the spare couch (not the couch which was violated by the flying pee incident) and he has peed - right into the crack of between the cushions.

All I can think is - Gahhh.

I know the couch is trash, but I still have to clean it. I grab some paper towels and begin to stick them in the crack. My hand is wet on the top and the bottom. I gag, perhaps throwing up just a little. I continue changing out paper towels. I believe I am cursing. By now I have woken up my sleeping husband. I know he is cursing. I make with the couch wipes but just as a courtesy. Soon my hubby is shoving the violated couch out the door. Again, cursing.

Did I mention that on this day 17 years ago Erik first asked me to be his girlfriend? It was confusing then, seeing as how we were already living together, but still, romantic just the same. My how times have changed...

Anyway, I give up. The pee cats have won. I turn around the boxes. If they are going to pee inside, please Lord, let us keep it in the boxes. I take a shower. My hand does not feel clean.

Of course, when I sit down on the remaining couch again I smell the phantom smell. A sad little lightbulb goes on in my head. Had I not been home to hear the scritching scratching, I would have never known about this evening's couch pee. The cushions are so perfectly designed to ferret away the evidence... I am now 90% certain this same ritual has been practiced on our primary couch. But my hubby has to go to work so it will have to be investigated and evicted tomorrow.

Good thing we are moving in four months cuz it looks like I am about to bring the patio chairs into the living room. Maybe it will motivate me to spend less time indoors.

Anyway, more on the moving later. We may have found a creative, if not still horrible, compromise to the never-ending fight I was picking at over New Year's. Neither of us like it, but we both get what we want. That's how a compromise works, right? But we'll see.

I also have to tell you the story of how we recently became a one car family. Oh, and of course there are a bazillion snippets to share from my trip home - G's budding sense of humor, the tale of the indoor waterpark and the broken thumbnail, and the horrible truth about birthday cake all come to mind... And I owe you about a bazillion seal stories. I've had a couple cute sea lions and even a couple of harbor seals (I know, already...), not to mention a bunch of run of the mill animals from last fall. Whew. I am getting tired just thinking about it. Maybe feeling overwhelmed with my blogger back up will motivate me to finish my financial aid tasks...

For now, though, it is off to bed with me.

a new day

Okay, so I know the big news today is our brand new shiny president. It is, indeed, fancy and historic and gosh, just downright refreshing to have a bonafide smarty pants in the White House (it's been a while...), but my own news is just as exciting, at least for me.

Today was the first day Ratty Catty let me pet him outside.

This is big, people, especially considering I thought he'd still be mad about the forced belly session we had this afternoon. (I trapped his trusting little napping self in the office. That'll teach him to be all cute while snuggling Monkey...)

Believe it or not, I think we began to turn this most recent corner last week after Ratty and I survived a horrible incident. I had just happened to catch him (more by accident and instinct than anything else) and thought, heck, let's try a lap snuggle session. He's actually gotten pretty good at lap snuggles, when they are available. It's the holding while walking that seems to freak him out most. (This lesson, the walking, is most important because if I go anywhere other than Berkeley for school he will have to be walked through an airport metal detector...) And then there is the litter box lesson, but Erik made me abandon that experiment as it is too gross and too soon...

Anyway, much to my chagrin, I hadn't noticed that Ratty had already begun peeing shortly after I caught him. It's been a while since I scared the pee out of him, so this alone should have convinced me to call the whole thing off. But instead, when I did notice I figured, whatever, I'm already peed on, right? Only, the trouble is, he was still freaked out, so he started in with the bunny kicking. He won't bite me and he won't scratch me with his front claws, but man will he bunny kick. So once he got me bleeding pretty good (on my poor fleshy belly parts), I decided it was time to abandon the plan. He then launched out of my lap, peeing in mid air as he left.

Now in case you were wondering, you know you have become a crazy cat lady when you look down and see that 66% of your couch is peed on and all you are thinking is what interesting splash patterns the flying pee has left.

Anyway, I cleaned up and I fully expected to see very little of Ratty for a few days. Instead, he came up to me that very same evening (and the next one as well), offering me his head to pet while I sat in front of my computer (not blogging). A couple days later he met me on the landing by the cat nip garden, where the normal cats greet me. Of course, he didn't let me touch him but he was very distinctly there to see me. Shortly after he followed me into the laundry room. Laundry supervision is definitely not his thing. Then two days ago he followed me down the driveway to my car - again, completely unprecedented. And then, tonight, the highlight. A little timid head scratching in the driveway. I'm so happy.

Which is great, cuz, well, I could use some happy as I'm still anxiously waiting to hear from the Law School in the Bush and my tolerance for suspense is extremely low. Each day I waffle between optimism and disappointment, heavy on the disappointment. And this has not been so great for the wagon riding, if you know what I mean.

Mostly I just feel like a big dork because thanks to my obsession I can scarcely enjoy the acceptances I already have (oh, though I did get my first rejection, thank you, Stanford...) and I know that even being considered by Law School in the Bush is a big fat honor. And if and when I do get in, it's not like my life becomes a rose garden or anything. Then everything is super duper extra complicated because I'll have to choose between the place I already call home and the freezing cold far away place with more prestige and a higher price tag. It's just, I really really want to get in. And I know I have borderline numbers and they know I will come whenever they call me, and so I am forced to wait. I just so suck at waiting.

So though my presence on the wagon has been spotty lately (there is ice cream and soda in my fridge!), I believe I am off to the gym now, cuz I do find exercise is a great therapy. I must say, though, that it makes me strangely weepy, which is, I'm sure, part hormones, but I think it's mostly cuz all my fatty fatness is filled with sad thoughts of inadequacy. And so when I make those million little fat cells burst open they remind me of how they got there in the first place... I mean, seriously, a Tarzan cartoon nearly had me in tears the other day and don't even get me started on that awesome pilot who did not kill all his passengers in the Hudson...

Oh, and I do recognize it is mean and petty to have nicknamed my fellow gym members (you know, Heavy Cologne Guy and Super Sweaty Hairy Woman), so in the spirit of fairness, if I had to nickname myself, I would be either Red Faced Woman Who Needs to Brush Her Hair Better or maybe Red Faced Woman Who Really Shouldn't Wear That.

Anyway, I know I have all but abandoned my seal stories, but I had my first rescue of the new year this Sunday - a juvenile male otter, just 6 kgs, who, of course, died in transport like they all do. He sure was a cutie, though. It's gross, I know, but if I had been allowed to keep the pelts of all the otters I've "rescued" through the years, I'd have a pretty damn fine jacket or something. I think I'd make it into a pillow case actually. But then, of course, the cats would just pee on it and that would be depressing.