weird thoughts and more fun with cats

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

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

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

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

me: oh yeah?

Kevin: she was eating waffles and she said

i'm thinking about weird things

3:49 PM we asked her what kind of things

she said

i was thinking that jenni was peeing in the house

me: what?!

that is indeed very weird

did you probe further?

3:50 PM Kevin: no

mom said, 'that is weird'

me: it is my own fault

for all my toilet humor

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

Kevin: i dunno

she also said 'starfish'

3:52 PM apropos of nothing

me: oh my goodness

what was in those waffles?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

usually i like being right

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

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

I know. I am gross.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But again, I digress.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And tomorrow. Steaks. Yum.

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.

living the dream

Ha, I just realized from the title that you might think I am living the American Dream - of home ownership, that is. But indeed, thank God, I am (so far) not a home owner (or home ower, as my friend Tony used to call himself). Erik's bid was countered and he chose not to play ball. Still, I feel like the house is a looming possibility. It makes me buy cookies and ciders. But whatever. Today's post is not about my financial fears.

Instead, today it is about my dearest niece, miss Zoë herself. As the oldest - sister, niece, soul - Zoë is doomed to suffer all sorts of experiences first. This week's uncharted territory is the terrible break up. Drat that no good six pack ab toting cutie of a rich boy she's been dating for two years. After basking in the glory of her wonderfulness for so long, he finally broke down and has returned to being the serial dating man-whore he was when she found him.

I know. This is bad. This is pints of ice cream in the fridge, crying unconsolably all night bad. It's even had me sobbing, once while on the eliptical machine at the gym thanks to an ill-timed teen-angsty tune on my ipod Shuffle. And I'm not even premenstrual. Weird, huh?

Anyway, Zoë is fortunate to have my best friend as her mother. Jules has kept her daughter from making all the mistakes a broken heart wants to make - crawling back, begging for reconciliation - and instead has made sure she heads off to school each daying looking like the hottie that she is. We are also extra fortunate that Sadie, Zoë's little sister, was admitted to the same private high school so we can get her firsthand perspective on the break up. According to Sadie, her sister has been totally winning the split - she's been looking calm and collected and he's been looking down and dejected.

Until yesterday. Yesterday, after having a good cry in the dark room (a great place to cry, by the way - I used to cry in the dark room at work all too regularly...), Zoë was called off to an assembly. There she discovered her man-whore ex-boyfriend was parading around his newest catch, her former friend (of course). Zoë didn't miss a beat. She walked up to them, slapped him (hard) across the face, and told him to fuck himself. Twice. And then she asked him never to talk to her again.

I know. Awesome, right?

As the day wore on, Zoë's true friend made sure that the rest of the (very small) school knew her side of the story. Walking the halls Zoë found herself receiving high fives and style points. At lunch time, when the man-whore and his new catch tried to join the regular group in the regular place, Zoë got up and left. So did about 30 or 40 other people.

Kinda warms your heart, doesn't it?

easy as abc

My travel day begins in less than 8 hours.  While I'm excited to get to see my man and my cat fishes again, I am sad to be leaving my family.  It feels like I've had very little actual time visiting and yet I've been away for two full weeks.  I know, though, that I've enjoyed much quality time (mainly with the delightful G) and I've added to my collection of notable quotables (my new favorite is Dad's "No time for laughter" and also G's "What?  Pie?" response to They Might Be Giants' tune "Fibber Island"...).  So I should be happy, not blue.  

Um, but, yeah, I haven't posted for a bit have I?  I almost blew you off again tonight but then I actually had two food related thoughts so I figured I ought to share.

The first was a sound bite from my brother this evening.  "Mom, how can your fridge be so full of nothing to eat?"  You would think this was the perspective of a unimaginative cook or a disgruntled teen, but in this case it was a simple statement of fact.  My mom's fridge is packed full of nothing to eat.  In part this is because she has a fancy shallow fridge, designed to fit in with the wall of cabinets.  Mostly, though, it is because she loves to keep aging produce around. So much so that two days ago she put back in the fridge a bunch of ready made salad after telling it, "Oh, you're getting bad."  Only last night did she begrudgingly, bewilderedly shuffle it off to the compost...  She knows she has a produce problem, but she doesn't care.  Mostly I just wish the fridge weren't an avalanche waiting to happen and that there was room for more than one or two Diet Cokes at a time.  But, in fact, tonight Mom made us a very yummy meal (after making a trip to the store for fresh salad).  My inner carnivore even caved as her pork roast seemed so not like dead pig and much more so like food.   But then technically the roast came from the freezer.  And my mom's freezer is actually full of real stuff to eat - it just takes a long time to cook it.

But the real food story on my mind is the sharing of Jelly Belly's Bean Boozled jelly beans. These beans feature identical coatings but distinctly different flavors.   There are some combos I'll risk anytime (such as berry or toothpaste or even plum or pepper) and others that are nasty no matter which way you go (coconut or baby wipes and black licorice or skunk spray).  For whatever reason, disgusting flavored candy is so up my alley.  I split a box with my brother a few days ago and that was just fine and dandy.  We were grown ups, taking chances, and laughing as we could tell what the other must be tasting.  I was disappointed I never encountered the rotten egg and got only one moldy cheese, but all in all it was quite satisfying.

This evening, however, I split a box with my niecelets.  (Well, with Savannah, mostly, and eventually Grace - Madisyn is way too smart to eat gross jelly bellys...) Since the girls were unwilling to even try the definite losers (the aforementioned licorice/skunk or coconut/baby wipes), I was stuck eating all of them. And then I discovered that though they might be game to try other colors, they weren't willing to swallow the gross ones.  And so I became the human garbage disposal, forced to consume the ABC (already been chewed) jelly bellys - much to the delight and disgust of my niecelets.  Some I would've salvaged anyway - no point in letting a good vomit go to waste - but others I could've lived without.  I must say, though, I was really proud when Grace branched out from the safety of the berry/toothpaste realm and encountered her first booger.  She's a trooper, that one.

Anyway, more on the evening with the nieces when I'm back on Californian soil and can process the photos I took of the amazing fort.  I am totally not exaggerating when I call it amazing. Grace told Uncle Kevin it was, "really really really really really really really really really really cool."  Madisyn told me she didn't like it, she "LOVED it."  Meanwhile, Savannah seemed pleased but soon decided it was insufficiently decorated.  She grabbed a roll of toilet paper and a roll of duct tape and the three girls made it spookier.  Sadly, we could only play together for a few hours, but it was a blast.

As for now, it's time for bed.  It's not like I need to be fully rested to hang out in the airport, but it would be nice to be chipper enough in the morning to earn more scorn from my dear dad...

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.  

    

victory never tasted so bittersweet

Not much time for posting today, ironically because I have to make food. I talked myself out of the deviled eggs and in to a nice beet and carrot salad instead. It still takes up room in the fridge, but it lasts longer on the buffet table. So far nothing is prepped - no sangria soaking, no jello shots jelling, no muffins baked - though Erik has the meat marinating. At least the house is fairly clean and the party doesn't technically start until the evening...

Well, technically, everything is clean in the house except the new cat chair. Yup, sure enough, little Ratty Catty peed all over it when I accidentally startled him last night. I had the audacity to walk by with a laundry basket in my hands. I should've known better, I guess. Anyway, at least he likes it. I'm used to cats giving new toys the cold shoulder. Ratty gave this one the warm bladder. And for once it seems the Nature's Miracle has soaked up the stinky pee smell, though it left behind an even bigger stain of its own... Best of all, for the kitties that is, Erik has agreed to only banish the other pee chair to the lesser used room, not entirely outside. So now they have two places to nap and pee.

I think I am behind on my party prep because I have been obsessing on my brother's LSAT score today. I woke up early just like it was Christmas and promptly logged on to his account - nothing. I then logged on every hour on the hour until his results were finally posted (at noon). The good news is: I do not have to suffer a humiliation as he did not beat my score. The bad news is: he didn't beat my score. I really thought he would (he mopped the floor with my SAT score, after all) and I'm sure he could've trounced me had he enjoyed the same freedom to study full time as I had. So yes, the victory is bittersweet, as I knew it would be when I was rooting for both sides. But, really, with scores just 4 points apart, we are both in the 99th percentile and we're bound to have an interesting admissions cycle. I think Kevin is pleased with his performance (it tracks with his average prep scores and was in the range he predicted), but he might've sounded happier about it had Mom not put him on an extra bit of emotional roller coaster. Though she played my voice mail three times, she swears she heard me say he got a 178, which Kevin knew he couldn't have with 8 missed questions. So he then called me, figuring one or the other number had to be wrong, and I had to break the news. Only our mother's poor sense of hearing could make a 172 feel so disappointing.

Anyway, kitchen duty beckons, but I just wanted to share the good news. My smarty pants brother is a confirmed smarty pants. Oh, and I know I didn't go into great detail about the arrest and incarceration of my other brother, but I did learn yesterday that the incident in question happened after he was unknowingly off his meds. That's one very expensive oops, I'd say. Too bad they don't make bipolar medication in a patch like they do birth control...

too stupid to live

Wow. Look. I am not dead. (Though as you can see from the title, I am too stupid to live.) I have not canceled my internets (though I was tempted to when my Charter bill went up) and I do actually have stuff going on that is worth writing about. So where have I been? Here, mostly, but with company at first. While I thoroughly enjoyed the long awaited sister visit (details below), this is also when the trouble started. And by trouble, I mean Ratatouille.

Ratatouille, or Ratty Catty as he is more commonly known, is a stray cat who began living under my back deck right around the time Suz and Grace were in town. He is not nearly as cute as he looks in this picture. Believe me. He is much more raggedy and has a rat like tail (thus the name) and he does not take the time to clean the cat food off of his nose. I guess technically his is a Siamese type tail, which you would think I would like, given the whole Fabian love affair, but Ratty Catty is no Fabian. In fact, he is so tiny I assumed he was a girl. And the miniature version of a Siamese tail looks very ratty.

But whatever. So I began feeding the starving pathetic looking lurker who lived under my deck. How could I not? And obviously I named him. And not surprisingly, I began seeing more and more of him. The trouble is, of course, if you give a cat a cookie, soon he must be neutered. So I worked hard every day to gain his trust - intending to betray it at my earliest opportunity. This opportunity came just this past Friday.

So, hooray for me. I caught my feral cat. I did Bob Barker proud and had him neutered. Fine enough. Only he went home with a prescription for antibiotics. This, I think, was to clear up his head cold as I can't imagine that Clavamox is issued standard to every fixed feral. So now I have to keep him in my possession until his meds are gone. No problem. I can do this, right?

We've had a few carpet incidents. At first he would just pee where ever. And though I showed him the litter box, he assumed I was offering him a place to hide, not a place to pee. It wasn't until we brought in a box of top soil that the carpet soiling came to an end. Sort of. Cuz we found out after two days that the dirt must be changed every day. If not, Ratty Catty will revert to using the carpet as a toilet. A toilet where he leaves his antibiotic fueled diarrhea. Yeah. Hooray for me, indeed.

But at least I am just a renter, right? And I can hire a carpet cleaner when this is all over. And I am doing a good thing. And Ratty Catty and I are bonding. He never bites and sometimes purrs. And my does he love Monkey. So it is almost kinda cute.

Okay, so at 2:45 this morning Monkey wakes up. He wants to go out. But no way, he is an inside at night kitty. He can go out right before dawn, maybe, but not at 2:45. So I let him into Ratty Catty's room to use the cat box. So now Ratty wakes up. And I figure, he loves Monkey, I should let them play. Thus I let Ratty into the main room (which is not his first time, but close).

Fine enough. Only I am getting no sleep while they play. And by play, I mean fight. Cuz Monkey doesn't love Ratty the way Ratty loves Monkey. And both Monkey and OC are starting to wish they had chased Ratty off instead of being the pussies that they literally are.

So I watch Spanish soap operas while they come and go. I am happy to see that Mary Elena and Aldo have finally reunited after all these years. Though I figured this was where the story was going, things looked bleak after he was presumed dead on their wedding day after his plane crashed and he was kidnapped and forced to work for a drug cartel in the Amazon and meanwhile she had ended up joining a convent. I am even more thrilled to see that Ratty will come on the bed even when I am in it. I get to touch him once or twice. I am having a good day.

Until I realize there is pee on the comforter. Ratty was flirting with Monkey, I think, when he peed just a bit. Yeah, at 4 am. It was great. I was cold and had to decide between having fewer covers (and exposing the next layer down to more pee) or laying in a bed I knew had cat pee on it. I put on a thermal and ditched the comforter. But that was just a wee bit of pee (though OC reports it is also on the canopy) - no big deal, right?

So Ratty comes out from under the bed shortly after Erik comes home at 8 am. He's in his own room again all safe and sound and gets his morning meds. Great. Interestingly, it's the first time he acts like he'd rather not take them, but whatever. So why, oh why, do I let him out in the main room again? Cuz I am dumb. But I get dumber.

So it is afternoon now and I am thinking that Ratty is due a snuggle session. Only trouble is he is under the bed. Of course. So I try to lure him out with food and with Monkey. No go. So I try to lure him out with a broom. I guess that would not be "luring" so much as "forcing" but it has worked before. So I try.

He won't go. And soon I have scared the pee out of him. Literally. You would think at this point, with pee on my bed and now under it too, that I would let peeing cats lie. But no. I have to clean up the pee, right? I don't own a mop and so I do a shoddy job involving a bar towel and the broom. So I can be finished now, right? And take a shower, of course, cuz I am gross. But I get grosser.

Because now I want Ratty out more than ever. Cuz I was close once. I think I can do it. This time... This time... I can't even say it... This time he poops. Which I know because I hear it gurgling out of him. In the far far dark corner of the bed (under my pillow) where it can never ever be reached.

So now I want to die. Oh and by now Erik is in the bed. Sleeping. And now it smells. And I cannot air out the house or Ratty will escape. Which is starting to sound like a grand solution. But I need to finish his antibiotics. Far be it from me to help those antibiotic resistant bacteria become even more resistant.

So I try to clean the poop. Same method as before, but using paper towels and a broom. I only succeed in smearing it EVERYWHERE. At the same time I am able to chase Ratty out. He pauses on things in his path, leaving poop on them. He hides under the couch. I get him out from under the couch and he goes - to his room? No. That would be too good to be true. He runs to the kitchen sink and across the kitchen counter. Now I want us both to die. I catch him, lift him and toss him in his room (cuz he isn't in to being carried just yet and I am scared and he is covered in poop). But I cannot close the door in time.

So where is he now? Back under the bed, of course, in what will now be known forevermore as pooh corner. He is no longer remotely deterred by any further broom action. He pretends he is not there. At least his bowels are empty. I guess.

I have cleaned the smear (laying face down in a delightful collection of dust bunnies) and in the process I have presumably cleaned the pee. But I cannot reach it all. I know some is on the floor protector under the bed post. I can see it. And I know I can never get that out. And I know it is still all over Ratty. That cat who cannot be bothered to clean his milk mustache will surely not be in a hurry to clean the crap from his entire body. And it is on the brooms. Both of them. Even though I have hosed them off, they still hold pooh in their bristles. So now I need a new broom. And, I think, a mop.

But worst of all, I know I will smell cat poop from now until eternity. Every time I try to sleep I will remember this day. Oh how I used to love to sleep.

And this is why I am too stupid to live. Seriously, how can I outscore 99.6% of the people who want to go to law school and still be this stupid? I am depressed.

On a happier note, I totally enjoyed my visit with Princess Grace and sister Sue. Though we didn't get to all the things on our list, we did do the majority of them. We:

1. Stopped at In-n-Out on the way home from the airport. In fact, we stopped again on the way back to the airport. That visit was less successful and involved the spilling of ketchup and french fries in the car, but really, I blame myself. Ketchup should never be allowed in the car. And also, I don't care. Cuz it is only a car. (Incidentally, it is a car that now has Monkey pee on the front seat, cuz he too went to the vet on Friday to xray his broken-ish tail...)
   
2. Went to the beach - often. We only got wet once, though, cuz it was windy and the water was cold. It was hilarious cuz at first Grace did not approve of the kid friendly beach Erik had recommended. The waves were not big enough for her. Until she was in them, up to her arm pits, and then she was pleased.
   
3. Swam in the indoor pool at the hotel Erik picked. I don't think that you can call it warm, though. It might have been comfortable if we could have all swam, but I was the baby holder and I found it very very cold. Grace wouldn't trust Erik to keep her from drowning, which we think has a lot to do with Grandpa's campaign to convince Grace that Erik is a bad driver. Not sure why a bad driver couldn't keep a four year old's head above water, but the two skills seemed to be linked.
   
4. Walked in the March of Dimes / March for Babies. It was fun and worthwhile and together we raised over a thousand bucks, but I am officially calling it the Death March for Babies, because instead of the 6 miles advertised on the website it was 10 miles long, all very urban and often uphill. I kid you not, we crossed the freeway three times. I suddenly understood why our event had fewer people attending than the one in Tacoma. Though they faced rain and sleet in Washington, at least they got to walk around a park. And take shortcuts and stuff.
   
5. Ate giant pizza slices in Pismo. Yum. And Grace and I played inappropriate video games that involved shooting people.
   
6. Ate clam chowder out of sourdough bread bowls. Though I think the better chowder was a few doors down, our restaurant was right on the beach. And I had a killer salad.
   
7. Watched Dora the Explorer - but surprisingly only once. Signing Time (with Alex and Leah) was much more popular, at least with me and Grace. ASL is our thing.
   
8. Played on NickJr.com, but only when Suz wasn't on MySpace, cuz I found my aging iMac just can't handle the strain of all those graphics.
   
9. Played with the kitties - at least Monkey, as OC predictably made himself scarce. Grace loved Monkey and insisted on calling him Gus (the fat mouse from Cinderella).
   
10. Drank Diet Coke. We went through more than 48 cans and I swear I didn't have any.
    

We did not:

1. Stop at the winery that looks like a castle. And I did not make Grace a princess hat. Conveniently, she brought two tiaras of her own and I still have my fabulous crown from my queen costume, so we were all set for make believe...
   
2. Rent a surrey and ride it out the Rock to look at otters. We drove out in our car.
   
3. Stop for cotton candy on the way back, since we were now in our car.
   
4. Swim in the warm outdoor pool at the Inn at Morro Bay. Sadly.
   
5. Pay for parking in Pismo. We just parked at the hotel.
   
6. Have a dance party, though we did have a BBQ.
   
7. Build yet another graham cracker house. We figured it was a bit much for Grace and we really didn't have the space.
   

Anyway, in between having company and neutering Ratty Catty, I also made a trip to Sausalito to work with my elephant seal friends. There I surprisingly sucked, too, having trouble hitting the vein for my two blood draws. I'm pretty sure it is because I was trying in a new (inferior) spot and because I psyched myself out, but whatever. It was still fun.

And I think I am going up to the Center again this weekend, though I just heard a rumor I may not be needed. Which is a bummer cuz I was looking forward to sleeping in a hotel, where there is no cat poop under the bed.

super seal extravaganza

March kept me so busy blogging (almost) every day that I fell way behind on my seal photos. I've finally got them all downloaded and doctored and it seems pup season is indeed in full swing. Before we get into the deluge, though, I'll share my wee bit of family news. Apparently Kevin and my Dad are shaving their heads (this weekend?) as a fund raiser for cancer. Dad doesn't have much hair, as most of you know, so he should be pleased to calculate that he is raising more money per follicle. Still, I can't imagine Kevin without his curly locks. He assures me there will be photos.

Anyway, April has been pleasant. A bit windy for my taste and not enough rain (getting worried about my chance to work with bees this summer), but the sea glassing has been good. I have officially found the Big Dipper (though the Little one lies beyond the horizon?) and I have enjoyed a couple fun walks with the 79 year old Norwegian lady in my neighborhood. Our paths often cross in the evening but usually she's with her German friend, Anna. Anna travels often, and so when I come across my neighbor alone I join her. Anyway, I've enjoyed her tales about her parents (her mother would be appalled that Hillary is running for present - she once freaked out when the person who showed up to repair her washer was female, calling the company and insisting they send someone else, who was not a "voman"...), and her sons (one, I knew, lives across the street and has apparently stopped drinking, the other has moved in with her after suffering multiple strokes, yet he still smokes...). But the story I enjoyed most of all was when she told me I had a very Norwegian looking face. I assured her I was Welsh, maybe Scottish, and also part Irish, to which she replied, "Oh, but you know that the Vikings came over and raped all your women, so you've got some Norwegian in you..." Too funny.

So I've only got three days to clean before Grace and my sister get here. I'm super excited but somehow not very inspired. Perhaps this is because I have been to my sister's house. And she's the first to assure me that with six fewer cats and two fewer dogs, my house is automatically cleaner than hers. I'm a bit concerned about the spider karma, though, because the guest room is also the spider portal. And I have to stock up on Diet Cokes (Suz drinks at least six a day) and I fear that I missed the best sale last week. But I will definitely be making a trip to Costco for blueberries - Grace is so cute with the blueberries... and tonight we are going to try to make hot dog octopi, just like we had at Disneyland, to perfect our technique.

Anyhow, those who really don't care about the seal stories can stop here. Those who like the photos can just skim. For the rest, we'll start with my most recent fun and work our way back...

I was last on call Sunday April 6th, which started at 8 am with the task of feeding and shipping off the sloppy seconds. First was an elephant seal named Chuckles. In addition to being vocal and adorable, I liked Chuckles the most as we had a connection. I'd actually put her on watch the Thursday before. At the time she didn't look quite so dehydrated and she was in a quiet place, though I must admit my first instinct was to pick her up. I was surprised to learn she was only 33 kg - seems we should've scooped her up after all. (The cut off for pick ups is 40 kg.) Still, had we rescued her Thursday I would've missed out on a lunch date with my rescue pals.

The second of my sloppy seconds was Ojo Rojo, apparently so named for the red spot over his right eye. We get lots of calls on elephant seals with alleged eye injuries because of their red third eye lid. I'll admit it's a bit creepy to see (we encounter it at alot as we often wake them up to assess them). Other common "ailments" are labored breathing (they always breathe that way), crying or snot (which both signal hydration), and, funniest of all, their self-awareness that they are dying and thus they are burying themselves (as elephant seals like to flip sand on their backs). I love how people assume a marine mammal would be so courteous as to dig his own grave. Anyway, Ojo Rojo was a little quiet, and a little crummy looking, but he's still in treatment, so that's good.

So we got breakfast into the two elephant seals, but before we could ship them, we got calls on two other animals. I went with one girl to put another ellie on watch (which again I am thinking we could've picked up, he was maybe 37 kg, but with great red gums and a little snot) while the rest of the team checked on Sparta. Sparta was tagged, a suspected victim of long term DA, recently released in our area. I have mixed feelings about the fact that we couldn't catch Sparta. He's only been out for a month, but if he came back in he'd most likely get an EEG during which they'd probly detect subclinical seizure activity, after which he'd most certainly be euthanized. On the one hand, it must be no fun to be an epileptic seal. On the other hand, is it more fun to be dead?

Anyway, while the sloppy seconds were finally in transport, we got to pick up my first chocolate flavored harbor pup, Sneaker. (Though come to think of it, Melissa turned brown as she grew up, still, this was my first black baby...) Sneaker was illegally picked up and moved from a floating oyster bed to a muddy boat launch. By the time we got involved we figured it was too late to reunite her with mom. So we had the pleasure of keeping her overnight and I got to do the whole midnight feed routine. A nice full day of being on call.

I believe I mentioned that I played on Thursday April 3rd, helping to ship off Bait, another sea lion (from the drive on beach) who'd been seen apparently swallowing fishing line. We were surprised to see she'd barfed up a bird in the morning. Very interesting, not the usual sea lion fare. It was then that I noticed Bait most likely used to have a flipper tag (again, possibly a chronic DA). You'd have to be a bit brain damaged to eat a bird instead of a fish... Anyway, according to the medical updates, Bait had no fishhooks inside but she was the victim of gunshot and sadly, she didn't make it. That's the problem with writing my rescue stories up late - I can't just leave you with the happy possibility that a bird barfing seal is now in perfect health. Well, I guess I could. But I don't. Sorry about that.

Anyway, after we shipped off Bait, we captured Loggerhead, a sea lion hanging on a dog beach that should not have been easy to catch. Loggerhead was right in the tide line and well aware of our approach. She let us catch her, I swear. Turns out, though it wasn't obvious at the time, that she is also listed as a gunshot victim. We were kinda hoping with no salmon season this year that we wouldn't have a shot sea lion season either. Guess we were wrong. Anyway, after leaving Loggerhead to rest, we went and checked on the would-be Chuckles, marking her with a yellow S (which was for Sharron, or Super, depending on how you look at it) and had the aforementioned lunch.

Tuesday the 1st was when I caused big trouble. I was minding my own business collecting sea glass on my local beach when I came across a skinny little (32.2 kg) elephant seal on watch. I called the gal that was in charge of rescues that day and in my apparently less than tactful way I made a strong case for a pick up. At first she seemed pleased with my intervention (having felt bad leaving him on watch) but she soon called me back to scold me for second-guessing her. I later got a second scolding from the chick who is in charge everyday for allegedly "not following protocol" (though I had followed protocol) which I assume was also just because she didn't appreciate feeling second guessed. Whatever. I'm happy, as I'd get in trouble everyday if it was what's best for the animal. Anyway, I rescued the poor thing with the help of a local gal who was on schedule, but I let the usual crew treat it. We named it Ray Sugar (for Rachael, the little girl who helped me watch it, and Sugar, her off leash dog...) but I have no photos as I don't take my camera sea glassing and I didn't feel very welcome to cruise by the next day.

From here we have to go back to Sunday night, March 30th, for my next seal action. Sunday I had the pleasure of putting Mandella, another harbor seal, on watch. She looked okay then, was alert, and was in a rookery with adults nearby (within earshot, but not line of sight). No sign of an umbilicus (meaning, like Sneaker, she was at least ten days old), and spots on her fur (so no preemie lanugo coat). All this added up to no automatic pick up. Anyway, my friend and I checked on her the next morning (actually, I was lazy and sent my friend first, sure she would be back with mom) and we picked her up on Monday the 31st. It was tough to hand her over to the Monday crew, though we did get to come back for the midnight feed. Good old midnight feeds. I can always count on those.

Also on the 30th we picked up McLovin, a scrawny critter from San Simeon who waited patiently for us for nearly four hours while we went to the drive on beach to fetch a sea lion. Too bad McLovin is a girl, as we were intending to use the name on a boy. Anyway, here McLovin is looking a bit fierce, but in reality she was pretty sweet. A bit barfy, but that's usually our fault when we tube them too quickly...

The sea lion on the drive on beach (that we abandoned McLovin for) was poor old Subprime. We named her that as we could tell, like the real estate industry, she was destined to crash. She was bony, barely responsive, and just plain sad. No interest in water (as the lepto animals usually have), no true Stevie Wonder head bobbing (as the DA animals have) and no fight against her sub Q (as sea lions always have). Anyway, she did show seizure spikes on her EEG and also had serious parasites, so she has crossed over the Rainbow Bridge, as they like to say...

Anyway, the day before, on Saturday the 29th, I had the pleasure of picking up Chunky, from Olde Port Beach, a dog beach in Avila. He was being harassed by a big white poodle and pretty much couldn't care less. Being too tired for either fight or flight is a good sign that it's time for a pick up. Though he was far from Chunky, that's what the folks on the beach were calling him, so we went with it. We had a bit of misadventure on this rescue as a gal got our 4WD truck stuck in the sand (cuz she didn't put it in 4WD), but we got unstuck fast. Much quicker than the time I got my own 2WD truck stuck on the same beach (with one seizing animal in the back, and one on the beach...). At least I wasn't driving then and it wasn't my idea, but I shouldn't have handed over my keys... The sad / funny thing is, as we were leaving with Chunky, yet another 2WD truck was stuck in the same soft sand (loaded down with bonfire goodies)... They really ought to post a warning there, or perhaps just a camera for YouTube.

Anyway, on Wednesday the 26th, far from my usual day, I helped with more sloppy seconds. First was Carne Asada, a very stale left over who'd been picked up the 24th. Apparently Carne Asada was scheduled for relocation by Monday crew, but Tuesday crew made the case to keep him since he was the same size as the others they were rescuing that day (and under the 40 kg cut off). Here she is giving that adorable coy, over the shoulder look. Definitely not the skinniest animal of the season, but far from fat and sassy.

The Tuesday sloppy seconds also included Elicious, who seemed very down and crusty. She was easy enough to work with, but clearly not all that photogenic.

They also picked up Slime, who was pretty cute, other than the injured eye (which is not very evident in this picture, you're welcome). I didn't really work with Slime much, and don't know how he got such a disparaging name, but he was much more active than Elicious, which is, of course, a good thing.

Best of all, of course, and the reason I was out to play on a Wednesday, was Stello, the harbor seal I mentioned ditching my husband for. Having done her 8 pm and midnight feeds the night before, how could I not show up for breakfast and to see her off? Unfortunately, Stello was pretty active, so all the photos I've got of her are pretty fuzzy. This is the only one which is entirely in focus. Makes it look like we snuggle up with these cuties, but really she was just being moved from one place to another.

My last legitimate shift before Stello was Friday March 21st when I picked up Brystyn off Moonstone Drive in Cambria. We were supposed to name him Rystyn, but realizing we had a Rustin on site already, we added the B. Brystyn was borderline (alert, good gum color, freshly hauled out) but was destined to be harassed (busy beach) and so I'm glad we abducted him. Besides, he may have been the animal that had been called in the night before on a beach right around the corner. There we found only flipper tracks. And if so, he really wasn't getting very far.

Later that same Friday, on a third trip to Cambria, I got to pick up Hookis, at sunset. It was an easyish rescue and a glorious, purple sunset. Here I must give photo credits to my friend (who went to see her the next morning? or used a flash?) cuz the only shot I have of Hookis was in the pen that evening and my night shots look like crap. Anyway, we nearly left Hookis on watch, as she was pretty short for her weight, but we decided we didn't come all that way just to leave empty handed. Besides, when we went to fetch the carrier, she looked at us with her big bewildered eyes and all too visible neck, seemingly feeling abandoned. I'm extra glad we picked her up as we got to name her for another rescue buddy's sick niece. She's a good specimen for a special name, being on the healthier side of a pick up.

So I believe this leads us back to ... Valet, Hangemhi, Roo and Repo. I think Valet is scheduled for release soon. Hangemhi is still on site. Roo, unfortunately, didn't make it. The only good part about that is that we hadn't named him "Hookis" - something we'd considered as it was the last rescue the gal with the sick niece had gone on... And Repo, well, Repo showed up again the next day, but didn't stick around long enough to be taken back to Monterey. I suspect we'll be seeing him again soonish.

Also, stay tuned for more kitty drama. I just saw a black cat that wasn't my own (no thumbs) in my living room and again under my back deck. And my own black cat just met Rusty, the neighbor cat, in Rusty's yard. Erik reports Monkey was confused that Rusty followed Monkey over to our house for a bit of a chat. Poor Monkey has so much to learn about the real world. And hopefully Wendy has not made it this far, but I'm pretty sure Monkey has also tasted first blood. We found a bird under the bed last week and since it was all of a bird, not just bowel and wing, we figured it couldn't have been OC's catch. In fact, Monkey seemed nonplussed when we showed it to him, so I'm pretty sure that meant, "been there, done that, it's broken, Mom, it doesn't move any more." The gross thing is it was right by Erik's slippers, which is a favorite place for Monkey to hide his cat toys. I'm fairly certain this means the bird has been in the slippers, but Erik would like to believe otherwise.