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.

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.

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.

happier new year

Wow, um, sorry to start the year with such a downer of a post.

I'm happy to report that things are nearly back to normal in the Princess Parasite household. As for the fight I picked, while I regret that it was ill-timed and uncharacteristically uncomfortable, it looks like it may have actually made a difference. As painful as it was, it seems we needed to flush the wound, remove some dead tissue, and we may be headed towards an actual real life grown up type compromise.

In other words, I'm winning.

It doesn't necessarily feel exactly like winning, but it feels a lot less stressful than when no one was winning. Or when I was maybe losing. And less stress is just what I need these days especially as I have once again resumed my delightfully torturous telephone watching vigil. Oh, Law School in the Bush, is tomorrow the day you will profess your love?

In the meanwhile, I have joined my friend Oprah in her quest to get back on the wagon. I will not, however, join her in posting photos of my current self next to my formerly skinny self. In fact, my new profile picture (like my last one) dates back nearly six years. This particular picture makes me smile most not because I was thin, but because it was taken on a significant seal day for me - my very first day in charge. The circumstances were somewhat scandalous (I was posing with a freshly dead otter all Weekend at Bernie's style) so the photo's been kept under wraps for a while. Now that my retirement is imminent and no one seems to care about otters any more, the picture has finally gone public.

Anyway, back to the wagon stuff. I've been good TWO whole days in a row. Not bad for me lately. Yesterday I went to the gym super bright and early. Everything was fine and dandy until I left. I was dismayed to find my olfactory system accosted by the heavenly scent of Dolly's Donut shop across the way. Morning = donuts, so today I went to the gym in the afternoon. Instead of yummy donuts, I found myself surrounded by the smell of old man. Heavy Cologne Guy was stinking up my favorite cardio machines. Seriously, who wears cologne to the gym? Anyway, so I was forced to kill time doing the resistance circuit with Super Sweaty Hairy Woman. At least today, for once, she was lifting weights before hitting the bike so she was only hirsute, not yet slick. And I am grateful that I found Heavy Cologne Guy already in action. The last time I encountered him I was halfway through my work out and had to decide whether to abandon ship or stay the stink-filled course. A horrible choice. So now I am thinking about setting an alarm for tomorrow as running the donut gauntlet is way preferable to encountering Heavy Cologne Guy and Super Sweaty Hairy Woman...

Anyway, I did have two serious high points to my day. First, my hubby came home from his orthodontist appointment with a present for me - my very own pair of fake teeth wearing real sample "Smart Clip" braces from 3M Unitek. He knew I would love them the minute he first saw them so he asked his doctor for them. Then, of course, he immediately regretted expressing interest for once he was denied he could no longer risk just pocketing them. Well, today he was rewarded for his honesty as the dentist found a spare pair somewhere and so he decided to share. Yay, me.

My second highlight came when I got home from the gym. I had paused on the front stairs to pet OC (who head bonked me with considerable force - very sweet and usually reserved for expressing hunger...). Much to my surprise, I heard a faint meow from the deck above. Ratty Catty was, for the first time ever, drawing deliberate attention to his presence. He is normally a very quiet, if terribly leaky, cat and the only time he'll vocalize is when he is looking for Monkey. Today he was looking for me. Of course, he wouldn't let me touch him or anything, but it's a start. And considering he is on high alert (yesterday he got cornered for flea poisoining), it's a major victory.

Anyway, now I believe I am off to the grocery store. I have waited just long enough that Erik will be getting up to go to work when I come home. Thus he will most certainly want to help me lug all the damned bags up our bazillion stairs. I know, I know, unloading the car is exercise, but I had plenty of that already today...

happy? belated new year

So I always have a lame time on New Year's Eve. Too much build up, I think, not enough planning. Not that I do anything particularly exciting for any holiday, really, but New Year's - New Year's is consistently disappointing.

I am sorry to report that 2009 was no exception.

Except, it kinda was. I did have some serious laughs (singing karaoke and playing Balderdash with the nieces) and I also enjoyed a new-to-me ritual (tossing into a fire things to leave behind and things to look forward to...), but the fun was totally eclipsed by the big fight I picked with my husband first thing this morning.

Since my blog is only popular with folks who actually know me and my husband, I won't say anything more, except it's 3 a.m. and I am still awake cuz I recognize the importance of not going to bed mad.

I think I'm mostly mad at myself. This morning was not a nice time for fight picking, if there even is such a thing as a nice time for fight picking... But more so I am mad at myself because I can't find the solution. This fight I picked is one I've been picking at for months. Each time I discover the same messy wound under the same festering bandage. Every time the pieces look even less and less like they'll ever fit back together. Each time everyone's feelings are a little more tender, the anger a little more raw.

I only wish that "drinking to excess" was not one of the items I said goodbye to in the fire last night. Cuz going to bed drunk is not the same as going to bed mad. It's just the waking up hungover (and extra fat) part I refuse to deal with anymore. But you know, come to think of it, I have a fondness for just about everything I put on my farewell list last night. And all of the things to look forward to are big and scary and grown up. Ugh. 2009, please be gentle with me...

For now all I am looking forward to is scooping the litter box. I'm only hoping that Ratty was watching while Monkey made his recreational visit to the stencherator. That was the whole idea, after all - Ratty always wants to do whatever Monkey does, and Ratty needs to learn to use the cat box - but suddenly the idea seems, well, like it stinks.

Oh, but there has been one bright spot already in this brand new ominous year. While we were away on the two day drama filled road trip from hell, Ratty Catty did not pee on our bed. I am sure it was not from lack of trying. Instead, it is because my brilliant husband battened down the hatches (or in this case, the canopy). I feel like fricking Dorothy discovering that I had the power to go home all along...

Small favors, right?

gross

So, I know I should have something to say for myself. Six weeks without posting, though, and most likely there's no one reading any more anyway. I do have an excuse, sort of. Essentially I've been holding my cyber breath as I wait for news back from law schools. Maybe I'm trying not to jinx anything. Maybe I'm just consumed by the cycle and unable to find something newsworthy in my daily life. Maybe I was just looking for a reason to take a break, as I have been a particularly lazy and uninspired blogger this year.

Whatever the case, I've been able to exhale considerably since being accepted to Berkeley Law this week. Yup. I don't have to live in the snow unless I really really want to. Life is good.

But what's so gross, you ask?

Well, remember that Tootsie Roll commercial with the little boy and the owl? The one where the boy asks, "How many licks does it take to get to the Tootsie Roll center of a Tootsie Pop?" Substitute the word "weeks" for "licks" and "Ratty Catty" for "to the Tootsie Roll center" and "to pee on your bed" for "of a Tootsie Pop" and you have the same answer the owl gave. One, two, three.

Yeah, I may be smart enough to study at Boalt Hall, but I am not smarter than a stray cat. He's been enjoying the run of the house since Thanksgiving and every night has been a gamble. The sad part is he's only been brave enough to get on the bed in the past few days. So really, you might say it takes only three days for him to pee on your bed, or my bed as you will, but it takes him three weeks to get up the courage. Ugh. I wonder if this means we'll be on lock down again? If so, the other kitties will not be pleased. The open door policy has been popular with them.

Meanwhile, I'm trying to convince the kitties that the attic and the laundry room are the coolest places to hang out. Unfortunately they are rather popular locations in the local rodent circles. Erik doesn't believe me, but twice in the past week I have woken up to hear the scritch scratching of little feet in the ceiling above my head. OC heard them too, so I know I am not crazy, but he doesn't make the best witness. At least my hubby has to believe me about the mice in the laundry room. Their droppings are proof positive. Anyway, I am too embarrassed to ask my landlady, who knows I have three cats, to hire a rodent exterminator. And, though I know they end up dead either way, I'd much rather have the mice die at the hands of my felines than in a snap trap. And I'm sure as hell not going to stick them to glue traps and drown them in a bucket. Thanks, Mom, for that indelible image in my brain. Mostly I am hoping that the mere presence of cats will suggest they should move on as the mice have seemed smart enough to avoid our actual living space. Lord knows there's been enough cat pee around to broadcast the dangers to any semi-intelligent rodent.

Which brings me to the silver lining in this morning's rude wake up call. While the bed sits and waits its turn (as it's inevitably a three load process), the stench of it will be suggesting to the laundry room mice that they should maybe think about clearing out. Either that or it will just give them a good chuckle, as even mice are smart enough not to pee where they sleep.

Well, I guess I'd better get started. Last time Ratty Catty peed on the bed Erik was talking feral cat colony. I know he won't believe that I changed the sheets at 5 am just to be sweet, but at least he'll have a clean place to fall asleep and dream of the life he could've had if he hadn't married the crazy cat lady.

out of my hands

I think I am relieved. All of my law school applications are submitted (having met my artificial deadline with the help of way too much soda, cookies, and pizza, and way too little sleep). Quite a few of my applications have even gone "complete" already (which is apparently important). But best of all, my Northwestern interview is behind me. The interview went well enough, I think, though I totally came across as the crazy seal lady. I just couldn't stop myself.

"Tell me about a challenge you've faced." - Seal story.

"Tell me about a project you've managed." - Seal story.

"What do you with you spare time?" - Seal stories.

"I mean, besides seals?" - More seal stories.

Um, did I completely forget that I ran a print shop and used to be a normal person with a very demanding job? Indeed. And could I have clutched my hands together any more actively? Probly not. It's funny to notice how rusty I am, having not had any sort of interview for years. Whatever. Really, I know I didn't bomb it and I should get in on numbers alone, so I have to let it go.

Letting go is not so easy for a control freak like me. So now I think I'll start helping my brother fill out his applications (since I learned so much about the particular pitfalls of each school during my three day push...) - but first he has to give me his work history and so far he won't even give me the time of day.

Anyway, I've got other things to think about as I am smack dab in the middle of birthday season.

For Erik's birthday we got pillows - which we needed after Ratty Catty peed on our old ones while we were out of town for the Northwestern interview. I know, it was foolish to trust him, but he'd been in two nights before and hadn't peed on anything... and we set up armaments around the bed (empty laundry baskets, piles of blankets)... but really, we should've moved the pillows into protective custody. Whatever. Stinking Ratty Catty. I will say he is doing much better with his lap snuggling (once he even seemed genuinely relaxed) and he also survived his first encounter with pill swallowing (that was not fun, and did involve pee, but the pill stayed in and the tapeworms died - so hooray). Now his biggest issue is OC, who has decided to hate the little Rat Fink. And OC learned how to be a horrible roommate from the best of them... Poor Ratty...

Anyway, for my birthday we are getting steaks. I tried to get out of the Birthday Steaks tradition (many of my seal friends are Libras, so we've been hitting all the hot spots year by year) but there was no talking my way out of it. Erik's birthday buddy (and the gal I call my future self) is looking at getting gastric bypass in a couple months and so this is her last chance to enjoy big yummy chunks of cow flesh. (By the way, I am so not getting gastric bypass in the future... nor will I be a Republican... So I guess she isn't really my future self...) Anyway, besides, it's our last birthday season together since I'm all moving away to law school and such. So, having exhausted all the notable steak places in our county, we are headed south to Ruth's Chris in Santa Barbara. Yum.

If not for the cat pee and the poverty issue, we might even make a romantic overnight out of it. But, really, I wouldn't be able to enjoy it...

Though I will be able to enjoy one final expensive hotel room this month. Next Tuesday I get to stay in San Francisco's Huntington Hotel (on Nob Hill). I was invited (first by my seal group, then by a seal friend) to attend our annual fund raising Gala (to be held at the Ritz-Carlton). I was excited enough to be included (which was mostly just in theory, for if not for my friend, I'd be looking at going alone or paying a discounted amount - still big bucks - to drag Erik along with me) but then I was doubly super excited to find a great rate on the Huntington (half price).

The Huntington is the hotel Erik first took me to after researching the best pools of San Francisco. And the pool there is, indeed, divine. Later we went there to hide out after Fabian died. We haven't been back since. So I warned my friend that I might cry, and that she will have to see way more of my skin than anyone should (since we will so be in that pool and spa every moment that we can), and I cautioned her that we may end up sharing a bed (cuz it seems like every time I share a hotel room I end up sharing a bed - surely because I don't want to), but she's game. And she'll be hooked. I told her we'll want to leave the party to get back to the spa...

And perhaps best of all, I found a perfectly cute, if not slightly cheesy, fancy gold sweater dress to wear to the event - and it was 75% off. I wasn't looking forward to feeling totally under dressed and I didn't really want to spend a fortune on an outfit (having overshopped for interview clothes) - and now my problem is solved.

Life is good.

Oh, and life is also pretty good for my broken-hearted, admittedly rather violent niece. Sounds like her former friend has already dumped her former boyfriend. The friend is now allowed to stand around the group (though no one will talk to her) and the cheating-cheese-smelling-man-boob-having ex remains persona non grata. Except someone has talked to him enough to learn that while in Europe this summer he got himself a tattoo. Um, but it's not a cool tattoo. It's actually a tramp stamp, like for girls. Yeah. Now I actually feel sorry for him. He lost the best girlfriend ever, he smells of cheese, he has dandruff and man boobs, and he has a tramp stamp. Six pack abs only go so far.

nothing says lovin

Nothing says lovin like something in the oven. Today I made the tuna casserole. Even before I read the comment from yesterday's post. Because I do love that house-buying man. Though I still hope he's not buying this house. And in addition to powerlessness, isolation, and financial anxiety, my three years of unemployment have brought me bliss and reconnection, adventure and relaxation. They have been life saving. And I wouldn't have had them without him. I wouldn't have much without him.

So says the tuna.

really

Yesterday he put a bid in on the house. Or rather, I, as his wifely secretary, put the bid in for him. It involved a frustrating stint at the fax machine (abusing my privileges as a volunteer), a trip to the copy center (since the fax no longer felt like copying the multitude of pages), and a stop at the post office. This was followed by a failed attempt to keep my Monday workout date. I drove to the gym but found all I could do was sit in the parking lot and cry.

My gym buddy understood. Her life is so much more colorful than my own. She has surely spent more than her fair share of time sitting in cars and crying. So then I went home and tried to get drunk. That didn't work out all that well either. This was particularly disturbing, because I am usually all too skilled at sucking down the sauce.

Finally I went to bed. Until I woke up. At 3 am. I was not awake because of the cats (miracle?). I did not even have a full bladder (darned failed drinking attempt). I was just awake.

I waited until the sun came up and the gym opened and I did my penance on the elliptical machine. But the rest of the day has been a surreal sleep deprived day of hoping against hope that the bid is rejected. This, apparently, we won't find out until Friday (thanks to a vacationing realtor).

But really, whether he buys the house or not, my world is still rocked. For the first time in our sixteen years together something huge came up. For the first time ever I didn't get my way. This is not to say that's necessarily a bad thing. Truth be told, if he can pull off the payments, the house is probly a great investment. Even so, it hurts. Because now I feel all the things I feared I'd feel when I walked away from my job three years ago - powerless, isolated, and worried about money.

This afternoon he called to see if I wanted him to pick up anything on the way home. I told him I didn't need anything, I was already working on something for dinner. He actually thought this dinner might be for him. Really. You decide to buy a house that I vehemently don't believe in and you think this is the day I will wake up and become domestic? Really?

It's sad to know he checked the fridge and the oven for these fantasy fixins while I pretended to nap in the bed. It's sad because he probly actually deserves to come home to a warm meal (maybe not today, but most days). It's sad because it wouldn't have been all that difficult for me to throw together the batch of Tuna Noodle (the legendary family favorite that ironically started as my mom's way to punish my dad) that I've been talking about for weeks. But mostly it's sad because it proves I really am isolated and he has no idea what I'm feeling.

suddenly september

So I'm surprised I haven't been blogging recently as I have been very actively procrastinating on the law school application process. Like most projects in my life, the vision is there and most of the elements are 90% completed, but still I haven't quite managed to send off a single application. Granted, any application received before Thanksgiving is considered an early application, and applications just became available last week, but the perfectionist in me is disappointed. Personally, I think perfect me should be pleased that procrastinating me has gotten so much laundry done at least.

Anyway, I have to keep this entry brief if I hope to make it to the gym this evening. Yes, I have a gym. And I actually go. I kinda sorta hate my gym - it is stuffy and hot and has not a single water feature - no pool, no hot tub, not even a steam room or sauna - but it does have, well, all the stuff you need to make muscles. I considered joining the sexy gym, of course, but it is almost 20 full miles from my home. I knew I'd never go. So I signed on with the old folks gym. Besides, I'm certain I have more in common with the old folks than the sexy folks, so it's working for me.

Having been a gym rat now for nearly six weeks, I'm kinda bummed that I've only dropped maybe five pounds (depending on what sort of scale voodoo I do and which of the gazillion times I step on the scale each week counts as my official weigh in). Still, I am thrilled to have rediscovered my quads and my pecs, and best of all, my abs. I'm working on making friends with my biceps, especially as it will improve my net throwing stamina, but so far they are still pretty puny. My triceps, on the other hand, are almost not even flabby - though they are still far from their former waitressing glory. Sure, waiting tables was tough on my back and I got blisters from hot plates and I always smelled like food, but, man, were my arms cute. I want them back, my waitress arms. In fact, I have even considered getting a car that lacks power steering (I had one for a few of my peak waitress years), but I drive so infrequently I don't think it would be worth the investment. Oh well.

Anyway, I am tempting fate to go to the gym at all today as today I am in charge of seals. Recently, though, I seem to only get to enjoy other people's sloppy seconds (like the super cutie pie yearling we shipped off yesterday - sorry, no pix until I really get down to business on the great seal story catch up episode). Since I was on call yesterday, there are no seconds to enjoy today, so I am feeling kinda safe. Besides, I am extra overjoyed by an email I just received about a hideously wounded sea lion I sort of attempted to rescue a couple weeks back. Seems he found his way to Santa Cruz where he was rescued by my counterparts at our sister satellite location in Monterey. Too bad he didn't actually survive another 24 hours, but I'm surprised, given his exposed skull and all, that he made it into rehab at all. I could post pictures of him, but I know my graphic photos aren't exactly popular with my reader(s).

Speaking of my reader(s), little miss Wendy celebrated her 37th birthday just this past Tuesday. Her mom posted a fabulous birthday tribute, which made me feel both better and worse for merely thinking good thoughts her way all day. Not sure what happened to my birthday blogs this year, but once I skipped one I decided to skip them all. Anyhow, sounds like Wendy enjoyed her day, which is all that matters...

Personally, I was just pleased to make it through a Labor Day weekend without having any cats go missing. Last year, of course, poor Blackers got himself runned over. And the year before, you'll recall, troublesome OC got himself abducted. I was so proud that I was able to control my paranoia enough not to lock the kitties in all weekend. Little did I know I was due another dose of kitty drama, just a few days later. It was Thursday when once again old OC did not show up for his dinner. I wasn't too worried until I realized he'd missed his 4 am feeding, and then his 7 am breakfast. It wasn't until Friday afternoon that I was able to take what I refer to as the "worry walk" - cruising his turf, calling his name. I was at the far end of his known territory when I finally heard him answer back - from the crawl space of a neighbor's house two blocks away. He was a little freaked out, a little embarrassed, and a lot hungry. For the past couple days he's hardly left my side. It's been nice.

While OC was out exploring on Thursday, I went for my first mammogram. It was just to get a baseline reading, so it was no big deal. In fact, I found the most painful part was removing the little metal stickers from my nipples (which they use as landmarks on the xrays). They sent me home with a flower (making it feel more like an awkward date) and all was well.

Until they called me yesterday. Apparently I failed my first mammogram. I have to go back in a couple weeks for a do over. Normally I am a big fan of the do over, and even as they told me not to worry, I wasn't worried. Sure, my best friend has had breast cancer which she got, hmmm, just a couple years older than I am now. And sure, there's now breast cancer on both sides of my gene pool. But I know mammograms are imperfect and big boobs might be the best part about being fat, but they aren't the easiest to xray. But when I suggested we postpone the follow up appointment by a couple more weeks (calculating my likely bloat factor), I was told I couldn't wait the extra couple weeks. Two weeks, apparently, is fine, but four, four weeks is a problem. So which is it, I wonder? Nothing to worry about? Or something that can't wait? Whichever it is, I guess there is no sense in fretting about it. Still, I find myself absent-mindedly poking around the suspected boob to see if I can find anything. All I feel is boob.

Besides, I've got bigger things to worry about than my boobs. Lately my husband has been getting very very close to buying a dumpy little beach cottage we totally can't afford. I've been as supportive as I can - assembling the paperwork, making the phone calls - while being about as passive-aggressive and bitchy as I've ever been. Buying a house would be a great idea if I weren't, oh, I don't know, planning to take on up to $200,000 in student loans starting next year. Buying a house would make perfect sense if I wasn't pulling him away from his great state job in less than twelve months. Buying a house would be fabulous, if we had an extra thousand dollars in the bank each month - the difference between the rent on our awesome rental and the mortgage on his beloved scary crank house. At least he's decided to go for a crappier loan - so he doesn't have to drain my retirement accounts (just his own) to come up with the down payment. Yeah, good times.

The thing is, I don't want to make him trade his dream for mine. It sucks that my taking of the LSAT just for kicks happened to coincide with the bursting of the housing bubble. So who knows? It might happen. But right now I'm "winning." After I assured him that if he took on this debt, I would enroll in the law school that offered me the best financial package even if it wasn't the best school I got in to, he put his plans on hold. Truthfully, I might choose the scholarship over the prestige either way. At my age, that's not the worst strategy. In fact, at any age, it's not a bad choice. And I don't want to get my way through blackmail. So we'll see. I can't believe I am actually considering talking him back in to something I have been so actively talking him out of... I feel like I am on Judge Judy and I am saying too much, and she looks at me and asks if it looks like she needs any help? And I am supposed to say "no" and then shut up and keep winning. But winning doesn't feel like winning when it's in a marriage. I'd much rather find a way for us to agree - as long as we agree with me.

I know. I'm horrible.

careful what you wish for

Tonight's update from home was a grim one.  Apparently Ratty Catty finally decided to test out the waterproof mattress pad I ordered last month.  Though the pad surely did its job, protecting the already peed upon mattress, it seems this was little consolation to Erik who still had to process loads of soiled bedding.  He was particularly bummed that Ratty has now christened the brand new comforter.  (We tossed all the previously peed on ones thinking the smells trapped within might be the primary target.  While we couldn't quite justify tossing out our $80 investment after just one pee, I know we both considered it...)  A man of few words, my beloved made the effort to mention the phrase "feral cat colony," suggesting that I might have to choose "which f*cked up cat" I liked best.  OC is reportedly growing more feral himself, upset as he is with the steeper security measures keeping him from my bed.  He's back to only showing up for meals.  Poor thing.

Instead of contemplating my Sophie's choice (which is really no choice at all - OC wins), I turned to the two things which help me solve most of my problems - the internets and my credit card.  Next month's attempt at regaining my sanity will involve the use of a static charged scat mat (or two, as I bought an extension as well as an AC adapter - I never can just stick my toe in the water, can I?).  I also nearly purchased a tone based cat trainer, but having pulled the batteries from my overzealous smoke detector, I couldn't imagine spending money to hear the same type of noise coming from my bed.

But inside I feel a little bit guilty.  First, for disabling my smoke detector, of course.  I know this is foolish and dangerous but that is a whole other topic...  Second, for spending money I don't have.  Suze Orman would surely tell me I cannot afford my feral cat...  But mostly I feel guilty because each night as I went to sleep on my distinctly less comfortable waterproof mattress, I would grumble to myself, "Damn.  My bed is now sucky and sweaty and for what? No one has even peed on it..." Now I have gotten what I wished for.  My only solace is that I didn't give in to temptation and swap out the mattress pads...  Oh, and obviously I feel guilty that my husband married the crazy cat lady.  Who knew? Well, he probly did.

Speaking of crazy cat ladies, I am forced to realize that it is in my genes as I sit here in my mother's cat pee smelling house.  (Sorry, Mom, but it is true.  Usually I visit in the winter when it is unbearably cold and the only cat pee I notice is the fresh stuff I find.  The heat of this summer has cooked all the latent pee spots and the entire main floor reeks...)  In fact, I was a bit embarrassed today to have to show the cable guy around.  Turns out the smell of the house was the least of my worries.  After the cable guy determined he couldn't make the changes we wanted, I put him on the phone to explain it to my mom.  Wanting to include me in the discussion, he put the phone on speaker.  When my mom heard my voice return she assumed the phone was back in my hands, exclaiming promptly, "that cable guy is crazy."  He smiled and told her that he could hear her.  Good times, indeed.  While my mom's charm didn't succeed in convincing the guy to make any changes, surprisingly enough I was able to get him to give me a signal enhancer.  It may or may not help anything and we've still got extension cords running across doorways, but, heck, that's pretty nice for a crazy guy. 

Anyway, I spent the rest of the day working on a surprise for my absentee niecelets.  It's an arts and crafts project inspired by the tons of cardboard used to package my mom's new propane grill. (Which, by the way, I totally bailed out of assembling.  I helped my brother stage it but ended up wiped out in the process.  Turns out we both have the sense I was born with.  Not taking the time to investigate, we lifted the incredibly hot, heinously heavy grill up two flights of stairs.  Only after our herculean feat did we realize that the grill was holding ten smaller boxes we could've carried up separately...)  So now I am building a fort.  A kick ass fort - complete with stained glass windows made from crayon shavings and wax paper.  (Which bled onto the towel I was using to iron them through.  I was surprised.  My mother was not.  So often I wish I had the sense she was born with...  Looking at her ruined towel, I believe tonight she wished the same thing...)  Tomorrow I've got to work on a few more details (anyone know how to make rolling shades roll up?  It has a retractable roof...), but I also plan to spend the day with G.  I figure she won't mind playing at her cousins' house and she can help me test the fort's fun level...

It's a blessing that I have a play date with G at all.  It's only thanks to her dad.  As suspected, my sis still thinks I am a loser and is not exactly talking to (or even texting) me.  She's just begun a string of four consecutive graveyard shifts (which end the day my plane leaves), so I understand why she was bummed when I flaked out on her last available night off.  But I've got to be me. And I am a flake. Through and through.  Give me a glass of wine and a comfy couch over a crowded room and live music any day.  Especially when I am exhausted from being on vacation.

Speaking of exhausted, it's off to bed with me.  With arts and crafts and child care on the agenda, I've got to recharge my batteries.  

    

i love it because it's trash

I've never really questioned before why I feel such a fondness towards Oscar the Grouch's theme song, "I Love Trash" (it's even on my iPod), but after spending nine days going through my own stored stuff, I realize that I apparently share Oscar's love of trash. "Anything dirty or dingy or dusty, anything ragged or rotten or rusty...", it was all there in my precious storage tubs. I am embarrassed to admit how much refuse and recycling I have generated by finally getting rid of things such as used wrapping paper, raggedy clothes, and old utility bills. I parted with half finished crafts - my pine cone flowers, some papier mache possibilities, and crusty glow-in-the-dark paint (though the papier mache penguin has earned a temporary reprieve). I've tossed greeting cards and bank statements, shoe boxes and bubble wrap, worn out rubber bands and dried up balloons, spiral notebooks, empty gift baskets, my fat clothes, my skinny clothes, and, of course, old magazines. I wouldn't be my mother's daughter without a bunch of magazines around. I wish I could feel free of my stuff after all the hours spent purging, but since much of it hasn't actually left the premises yet, I just feel more weighed down than ever. Despite using the absentee neighbor's trash cans last week and starting the purge the night before trash pick up, we still have quite a backlog. Thank goodness trash day is on its way around again. Monday's pick up won't bring us back to zero, but any breathing room will be welcome.

My reward? I found lots of treasures. Like the comic above. Notice how I used white out to create my Dad's former comb over? And how I wrote "Just kidding!" on the bottom? I wasn't really kidding.

My favorite, though, is this gem, the note Jules and I gave Erik to order take out for us from Max's Opera Cafe. Why he had to be deaf, I don't know. But it sure was cute watching him go along with the gag and then giving him flack for clapping when the singing stopped. And the quote from the waiter, "White bread, you look like you like white bread," is forever precious.

Anyway, I hope never to amass quite as much crap again. To remove temptation, I went paperless on almost all my bills last year. I even have hippie grocery bags now, though I have yet to use them. (They are actually just my collection of tote bags, pulled one by one from the storage tubs and made useful all of a sudden.) Clearly I am not a true hippie, however, as I still resist flushing my flushable cat litter. This choice then necessitates the presence of shopping bags, a vicious cycle I haven't quite figured out yet... Anyhow, I do think I have gotten a handle on my spending so I shouldn't be bringing new stuff in. I don't cruise thrift stores or garage sales (okay, so the thrift stores here all suck, and, yes, I did buy an air hockey table at a garage sale last year but that was just down the street and I only stopped cuz I saw the table...) and I don't visit eBay. Erik isn't as optimistic as I am, but I don't blame him.

In addition to shedding stuff, I'm working seriously on shedding pounds. I'm still trying to figure out how to lose weight and drink alcohol at the same time. It's working, but I know it would be working better without the booze. I think I will give myself through the Super Bowl with the bottle and then try to put it away until my wedding anniversary on Leap Day (for which I have already bought champagne). Baby steps, right?

Erik was laughing at me because I found it interesting that many of my favorite bloggers are also trying to shed clutter and weight. Erik pointed out that it may be the type of personality that wants to blog also collects crap and calories. Smart fellow, that one.

Though the purge was physically and emotionally grueling, now that it is mostly done, I can say it was worth it. Erik will be happy to get to reclaim some garage space at long last. I remember he was so pleased when he first set it up as his home away from home. All he had was two recliners, a stereo, his surf boards and his tools. Then the construction started and my stuff (which used to be in the laundry room) came down to the garage. I'm pretty sure it was breeding there in the dark of the laundry room cuz it seemed to have multiplied. Anyway, I am trying to respect Erik's "man space" especially since I was touched by a recent episode of Snoop Dogg's Fatherhood. Apparently even Snoop Dogg is reduced to hanging with his homies in a shed in his yard. Poor men. What a price to pay for the ability to pee standing up.

Anyway, I haven't been completely without seal action. Usually a good rescue story inspires me to blog, but I guess not this time. Maybe cuz I didn't do much? On January 26th I got to help pick up Stocky, a 50 kg sea lion, from the rocks of the jetty. I didn't bother to go down and get photos of him with my own camera so thanks to my good neighbor rescue pal for this shot. Notice how he's hard to find? They'd already called off the search before I got there. They'd been soaked by the crashing waves (larger than usual - it's been stormy) and had been told the animal was farther down the jetty than he was. Someone in the parking lot saw us putting away the net, though, and pointed us in the right direction, so I didn't miss a thing. Anyway, sadly Stocky is already toast, suffering uncontrollable seizures up in Sausalito.

On a happier note, I learned that they released Castelanetta and Jiffy. Jiffy's bit of good news came as a shock to me cuz he really needed his eye removed and he was most likely a long term domoic acid victim too. When I was told they probly wouldn't do the surgery, I figured they probly wouldn't do anything, if you know what I mean. And it's such a difficult call - whether or not a sea lion with brain damage can really thrive in the wild - I thought they'd err on the side of euthanasia. Glad he got a second chance, though I wouldn't be surprised if he shows up again.

I was bummed to find out that I missed the first ever (to my knowledge) stellar sea lion brought in from our county. Poor thing was super skinny and just a pup (though he was already the same size as Stocky). After seeing the pictures, it was no surprise to learn he died soon after making it to Sausalito. It made me a little less jealous that I missed getting to work with him.

And of course the 25th, the day before Stocky's rescue, was my 3rd sadiversary of Fabe's death. I've actually been more emotional about Blackers lately, having found his baby picture while sifting through my stuff. And tonight, as if to remind me of the horrors of the outdoor kitty, OC caught up with me on the tail end of my walk and cut in front of two cars in the process. I'm sure I looked like an ass, walking down the middle of the street trying to block for him, but I didn't want my cat to get run over (again) and I wasn't sure they could see him. Ay yi yi. But he really is so happy outside. Sigh.

And a couple days after my seal action, on the 28th, Grace had her fourth birthday and Billy had his 33rd. Apparently I haven't come up with a birthday tribute idea for this year (having also skipped my sister's in November). I'm lame like that, I guess. So Grace had a party at the zoo and rode the carousel there a whole bunch. She loves a carousel, that girl. She called and told me all about it. It's so awesome that she calls, even though I still can't understand all of what she says and she often tries to show me things over the phone.

In the meanwhile, I've made some decent progress on my law school efforts. I have secured two solid letters of recommendation. A friend offered to write one last year and I finally approached my former boss this week. I was sweating his response because the company has a no recommendation policy, but I preemptively argued that this was a different sort of recommendation. It's for school, not work, and besides, I don't even get a copy of the letter (unless he wants to give me one). So I'm just about ready to pop the question to my third and final potential recommender, my former TA. He actually inadvertently started this whole purge cuz I knew I had saved my midterms from his class - somewhere. (I found them early on in the process but continued cuz I was on a roll.) In the letter I haven't sent him yet I told him that I hope the archived midterms speak more to my resourcefulness than to my hoarding disorder, but I fear the truth is closer to the latter.

And, as if I haven't been productive enough, this morning I got our taxes done. This year I took the time to pay attention and realized I probly overpaid a bit the past few years. I'm always in a rush to file so I have a tendency to make the calculations before I have all the pieces of the puzzle. This year I waited and realized I could take an extra deduction or two. Of course soon after I mailed off our returns, I realized I could've taken yet another deduction for Erik's union dues. Whatever. Next year. I freak out about having to pay an extra 2 cents for gas, but somehow I can't let myself obsess on giving the government more than its due. So the extra time I spent was worth $71 and I was surprised to see we are getting a total of 8 grand back. And I know I say this every year, but we really do have the potential to be free of credit card debt by the end of 2008.

Yay.

lazy day

Today was unseasonably warm, a perfect excuse for a lazy day. Since the construction we've endured for the past six weeks is a major impediment to getting fresh air, it was sort of an uncomfortable lazy day. Too loud and too hot to sleep, too crowded to walk around half dressed. Monkey hid out in the bathroom. OC was wherever OC goes. Erik and I took turns either cruising the internet or trying to nap on the not sunny side of the couch.

Finally came sunset, blessed sunset. Erik and I watched the earth turn from the deck. OC rolled around in the sawdust while Monkey checked out the wildlife (under strict supervision, of course). He got particularly excited over a bee and a butterfly, but he really loves the hummingbirds. I love how the hummingbirds spend more energy chasing each other off than they do feeding. Until that magic moment where they realize it's getting dark and they decide to get along. I think that's why I like hummingbirds so much - they only share when they have to.

So tonight I am grateful for sunsets and fresh air and off shore winds. And for two kitties. And for the walk I'm about to take.

37 things I love about my husband

I remember the first day I met Erik. It was August, first semester of my junior year at college. I was coming home from school on my little red ten speed - tearing downhill through my ghetto neighborhood, not really in control, trusting my life to my luck and an ill-fitting styrofoam helmet. As I passed through the final blind intersection in my path, I heard a voice call my name. It was Sean, my neighbor and my best friend's boyfriend, sitting on their porch with someone I instinctively knew was his brother. It's not that they looked a lot alike. Unlike my family where there are clearly just two molds, Erik's siblings are each a distinct blend of their parents' features. It was more that they were sitting like family - closer than acquaintances might, but with a sort of awkwardness between them that indicated they weren't exactly friends.

I stopped across the street, but refused to get off my bike. It was a struggle to mount and dismount the darned thing and though it was only a few houses away, I really didn't want to have to walk my bike home. After a few minutes of casual chatting / shouting (chouting?), I told them I'd drop off my things and be right back. My momentum gone, getting started was actually a more difficult feat than I'd like to admit. I felt like such a dork trying to align the pedals just so and pushing off from the curb. Once home I hurriedly changed into an outfit I liked (that I later learned Erik hated, an A frame sleeveless frock we now affectionately refer to as the "pear dress") and I tucked a half-smoked joint behind my ear. (Funny enough, I'd quite uncharacteristically brought that joint to school in the morning intending to make a friend - to spark up a conversation, you might say. I abandoned my mission by mid-afternoon and found a quiet place to entertain myself. Little did I know I would make a friend that day - just not on campus...)

That evening Sean took me and Erik out to dinner. Our first date, technically. We still laugh when we recall how I unwittingly sat on a brown bag of neglected figs in the backseat of their car. We laugh mostly because this wouldn't be the last time we encountered abandoned fruit in their car... On the other hand, it was quite strange that we ended up in some anonymous greasy spoon that night, as Sean and Jules have introduced me to countless fabulous restaurants and never, other than this one time, have we dined somewhere so ordinary. Somehow, though, it was just right, the three of us crammed into a booth, making small talk over bland mashed potatoes. Deliciously awkward.

The next day I suggested Erik should sleep on my couch instead of their floor. The dogs had chewed up the guest mattress, after all, and I had a creepy landlord whose unwelcome visits were deterred by Erik's presence... And the rest, as they say, is history. I do remember telling Wendy early on that Erik was fun to play with, but not the sort of guy I'd see myself marrying. I've never been so happy to be wrong.

It's hard to believe more than 16 years have passed since that day. I constantly marvel at how fortunate I was to meet him, how glad I am that he was born.

So today, in honor of his birthday, I offer you 37 reasons I love my husband:

1. It's shallow, I know, but I love that he is so tall. And cute, if I do say so myself. Not only is it useful - he can reach things I can't - but he makes me feel small - in the good way.
   
2. His size is also wonderful when it comes time to move the furniture around, something I think we do more than most couples. He has an amazing knack for shuffling our stuff. Never once have we decided to move things back and always we find ourselves infinitely more comfortable.
3. In fact, he is all about being comfortable. I've learned a lot from him - the importance of socks and slippers, the proper way to tuck a blanket. Still, I struggle to relax. Two and a half years into my early early retirement and still my eye twitches... He finds it frustrating, I think, because taking it easy is so easy for him.
   
4. He's also really smart. He ditched a ton of school so he doesn't always think he's smart, but really he is. He married me, didn't he? (Ha ha. Just kidding. That could actually be considered evidence to the contrary, eh?) Sure, he's got some swiss cheese in his basics thanks to a change in his elementary school curriculum (don't ask him to define an adverb, for example) and sometimes he mispronounces words he recognizes from reading but hasn't heard aloud, but he's got a keen eye for urban development, he understands physics, and, though he'd probly not admit it, he's a bit of a history buff.
   
5. He's loyal, so much so that early on, at his Aunt's house one Thanksgiving, I drunkenly compared him to a dog. It sort of came out wrong but everyone knew what I meant.
6. He embraces the canine analogy so much, in fact, that he even promised to "fetch" in our wedding vows, following that up with a "woof." And indeed he does fetch, often. Take out, warm socks, cold water, an extra blanket, things from the car, a toothbrush... I am so super spoiled.
7. He's also my pack mule and my sherpa. This comes in particularly handy at water parks when dealing with unwieldy innertubes.
   
8. He's adventurous and outdoorsy. He likes to explore and he looks so much happier surrounded by nature. One of his all time favorite memories is climbing Half Dome. And, of course, we spent our first summer together camping, our Summer of Love. That may have been when he did his earliest fetching - he rode miles into town on my three speed cruiser to fetch me chocolate cuz I finally convinced him I really needed it. I didn't even give him instructions on what kind to get. I only told him chocolate. I didn't warn him I prefer milk chocolate to dark, or that I can do without any nuts... Much to my delight, he came back with Twix, the perfect fix, which we now call the Chocolate of Love.
   

9. He lives in his own world - you know, the one where fruit is salty, hormones don't exist, and I am a princess. I call it the World According to Erik. He insists that everyone lives in their own world, but I swear, not like his. Other features of the World According to Erik? There are only five states of America - California, New York, Florida, Texas, and Chicago (formerly known as the M state) - and only one country in Africa (Nigeriwanda). Indeed, our worlds are so different that we are somewhat convinced we grew up in parallel universes. For example, he never played Kick the Can, and I never heard these clever playground retorts: "So? Sew buttons on your underwear." and "F@cking A? F@ck an O, it's easier."
   
10. He loves the ocean and he's not afraid to go in it. I consider the ocean his mistress, but really, she had him first, so I am the other woman. And though he has no fear, he isn't stupid. I know that I can trust that while he often pushes his limits, he never does anything purposefully perilous. I also love that he totally respects the fact that I am afraid to go in the ocean. He agrees that sharks would find me especially tasty.
11. Though he loves the ocean, he's not really into the seal rescuing. He always says he'd rather be the one calling them in than the one picking them up. Still, he helps me with the really gnarly rescues. I know I can count on him if I really need him.
    
12. He's a horrible driver, but then he didn't start until he was 30. I guess since I taught him to drive it is my fault he has totaled two of our cars? In any event, everyone walked away from both accidents unscathed, so I guess you could say he's a great driver.
    
13. He's also a great cook. He frequently makes elaborate meals for company (my family, or his). It delights my folks, but sometimes annoys his - as they'd rather have time to socialize with him. I honestly don't think the cooking is a form of escape for him, though. Really, he just likes to see me relaxing and we've always had kitchens that are too small for more than one person to function in them.
    
14. On the other hand, he is kind of aloof. I think that makes his affection all the more precious. This is the same reason I prefer cats to dogs, because they dole out their attention much more selectively. Still, even I could handle a little more conversation. He recently asked what I would have him do, "Talk all the time or something?" Well, yeah, some people do talk all the time, at least to their spouses. It's unthinkable to him.
    
15. He gives great rubs, particularly of the feet. He did, however, roundly reject my suggestion that he should consider going to massage school. Then I proposed that perhaps I should go to massage school, but he knew, since I don't particularly like touching people, that my matriculation would just be to gather information on how to give him pointers. The truth? I really want to buy a massage table (I think that leverage makes all the difference) and I can't justify the expense without truly knowing how to use it. On the other hand, Erik rightly points out that there is no space in our home to put said massage table.
    
16. Massage table or not, he takes great care of me. He tucks me in at night and sometimes even reads me bedtime stories. He's particularly sweet to me when I am drunk - a real enabler, you might say - bringing me a pot to puke in, a toothbrush if I can handle it, peeling me off the floor... And the next morning, he always fetches my hangover breakfast - a half order of french toast and a potato pancake...
    
17. Though he's the sweetest thing to me, at his core he's a little mean. We both have a bit of a mean streak, in fact. It's one of the things we have in common - that we're judgmental. I already often feel unworthy of him, so it's nice to be reminded he's human. And besides, we're never mean to each other...
18. He does like to make fun of his friends. His childhood friends all have disparaging nicknames - like Cow, Toad, and Head - and his current friends never get to live down their legal issues. One friend, who was facing house arrest, was assured that Erik would bring him Chicken in a Biscuit if he actually had to go to jail, insisting the snack food would make great jail house currency. Another friend, who goes to jail on weekends for a domestic dispute involving an altercation with a pot of potatoes, is constantly reminded that he "boiled his wife."
19. Erik doesn't want children, but he's better with them than he thinks. I remember the first time he ever had to hold Zoe. She was an infant and he held her out as far as his arms could reach, as if she might explode. It was hilarious. Fast forward a couple years, and here they are building a fence together. In truth, he's a great uncle. Granted, he lives in my fabulous Anti shadow. For example, the girls used to refer to him as "Uncle Him" as they never thought of him enough to know his name...
    
20. Although they had a rough start, both essentially being my housebound city pets, Erik ultimately came to love Fabe and even unofficially adopted half of him. The specific half varied, depending on which end was spewing whatever needed to be cleaned up... Anyway, I particularly love the story of the time Fabe discovered the lemon meringue pie I'd made for Erik. Apparently Fabe had a thing for meringue and he began devouring it lick by little lick. He'd silently consumed a good portion of it before he got sloppy and started making slurping noises. Erik came across the scene and was not so much appalled as amused. I love that he let Fabe finish his treat.
    
21. Erik also loved Blackers, the Attackers. He told me he regretted not adopting half of him after he died. Still, Blackers never knew he was a bastard child. He loved Erik and would be glad to know he was his pallbearer. Erik was my rock through that whole horrible experience. I couldn't have done it without him.
    
22. He's also been a really good sport about OC - especially considering the vet bills. His assistance was crucial in helping me find him last year, after his abduction and he was around to take him to the vet while I sat for the LSAT last week. I think we've both become more fond of that feline, if for no other reason than out of admiration for his will to survive. (By the way, I'm happy to report he's doing great on his new diet... Sure, it's only been a week, but it's been a good one...)
    
23. Really, though, Erik is not a cat person. Growing up he had a series of manly boy dogs. The only one I got to meet was the wonder dog, Jesse. In his prime, Jesse would climb trees. Jesse would wander his neighborhood unattended - he refused to be chained - and even when he was more than half blind, he'd venture out on to mossy rocks just to smell the ocean. I remember once I lost track of him while walking West Cliff and later panicked that he was gone. I was relieved to find he had just ditched me, of course, and taken himself home. Jesse knew I wasn't a dog person, but he convinced me that he wasn't just any old dog. We bonded once, on a beach with a stick, and the mystery vomit he consumed may have indeed been mine, but still I regret not embracing Jesse more fully. He was a really good dog.
    
24. Erik's got a great family. And he loves them so much. He particularly enjoys meeting his mom for nature walks in Big Sur and he is delighted she's finally agreed to let him trim the trees that so relentlessly clutter up her view. He's also been enjoying the company of his youngest brother, who recently moved into town. Six years apart, they didn't move in the same circles as children and it's nice to see them finding common ground as adults.
    
25. Most of all, though, he loved his Grandpa Nelson and his cousin (and birthday buddy) Kate. It's nothing short of tragic that they have both since moved on. Though I wasn't there to see Erik enjoying so many meals with his Grandpa - always served on TV trays and reportedly washed down with strawberry milk - I was fortunate to share one of his most treasured evenings with Kate. It was at her sister's wedding in Las Vegas that Kate and Erik finally got to hang out like adults. As adults are prone to do, especially in Vegas, they got stinking drunk on Tequila and shared countless stories, confessions, and big belly laughs. In particular, we all found it quite amusing that he accidentally dropped Kate on her head in the casino while trying to hold her upside down. At least it was in a carpeted area. We'd spent the majority of the night on concrete by the pool... I also remember how funny it was, at least for us, when Kate accidentally locked herself out of her hotel room. She'd come out just after we'd dropped her off to tell us not to laugh at her. We hadn't been laughing at her, really, but we sure did then, as she had to wake her roommate for reentry. Kate got the last laugh, however, as she looked fresh as a daisy the next morning while Erik was leaving an extra large tip for the maid who would have to contend with the barf-filled bathroom. Kate's absence makes every birthday season a little bittersweet. If I could give Erik just one gift, it would be another day to spend in the company of his cousin.
    
26. Even though he loves his family, he once told his mom when he grew up he wanted to be a pirate. She tried to discourage this ambition by pointing out that pirates had to go away and live on ships and that they never got to see their families. I'm sure he didn't mean to hurt her feelings, but he recalls she was crushed when he told her that'd be okay.
27. On the other hand, I think he did intend to hurt her the time she came to his aid when he suddenly began crying. She asked why he was so upset and he told her to put her hand in the drawer nearby. He then promptly slammed the drawer shut, thus sharing with his mom in a rather evil sort of way just what had made him cry.
28. Erik also loves my family. He has a secret desire to be my brother Billy's neighbor. It's actually really precious to me, the way the two of them get along, although they've spent precious little time together. Equally precious is how Erik appreciates my baby brother, Kevin. I love that he let Kevin move in with us, sharing our too small home, for the first ten months of our married life. It wasn't always easy, but it's a time I still cherish.
29. He finds simple ways to express his affection. For example, he once wrote sweet nothings all over my wall in permanent marker. Luckily, my grow light bleached it out before I moved so we didn't have to paint. Still, I wish I'd taken a picture to preserve the sentiment. He also makes fantastic bouquets out of wildflowers to show me he was thinking of me while he was out hiking.
30. He has great hair. I've mentioned before my envy of his fabulous afro experiment and his long, girlie eye lashes. Also, unlike me, he had hair as a baby. As if trying to find its most perfect shade, Erik's childhood hair auditioned all the colors - red, blonde, brunette, even black - before settling on his current impressionable sandy brown.
31. Despite my pathetic hair, he honestly seems to think I'm beautiful. Like all the time - fresh out of bed, sick with the flu, crying my eyes out. It's crazy, I know. They do say love is blind...
32. He's incredibly picky. He'd rather do without than settle. This often poses a problem (he has very few possessions) but it also reassures me that he genuinely adores me. After all, I know he'd sooner be alone...
33. He's very well trained and prepared to win. At least that's what he told the producers at the Price is Right that fateful day so many years ago when I became a Contestant Not Appearing on Stage. And believe me, it was true. If he had gotten to play a pricing game, he would have won. He knew where to stop the Range Finder, what to guess in Cliff Hangers, what to write on the check in Check Game, and where to place his Plinko chips. I even think that if he were to play Check Out that he might have tried my controversial (now outdated) strategy of guessing $10 for the first item and 1 penny for the rest... I love that the producers wished him luck. I always thought that luck was offered in case he got on stage, but now that I know they had no intention of picking him, I wonder if they meant he needed luck to go on living with me?
    
34. He bought me a giant diamond for my wedding ring. I didn't think I needed a giant diamond, really, but then I sort of went with it. The gem is way out of our price range but I'm so happy we went for it. Just as Erik's size makes me feel small, my rock makes my fingers look dainty. And it makes awesome rainbows in the afternoon.
    
35. He also gave me this big white teddy bear years before that. I had fantasized that a cute boy would give me just such a teddy bear ever since 6th grade. I remember the smile on his face when he first saw it while we were buying socks of all things... Sometimes I think the bear is the reason we accidentally moved to Ukiah. It's certainly the best thing that came out of the whole inland experience.
    
36. Though Erik thinks I've tried to kill him multiple times, he sort of doesn't mind. He fully blames himself for the incident involving the bike and the lawn mower and I think he finds the rock and the tent story a tad romantic. In fact, if I do ever accidentally kill him, he's said he'd want me to get away with it.
37. And the newest thing I love about him, that I just learned yesterday while watching "Are You Smarter Than a 5th Grader?", for years he believed the Star Spangled Banner started out, "Jose, can you see... " Such a California boy.
    

As you can see, I am one lucky girl. This list is in no way exhaustive (although thanks to procrastination, it has been exhausting). Suffice it to say that I am so grateful to have Erik in my life and I hope that this is just one of many many birthdays we get to spend together.

Happy birthday, boyfriend.