63 things I love about my dad

Before I go on and on about my Dad, can I first say how much I love this picture? I love it for so many reasons, not the least of which is that it always gets me humming, "Come on Eileen," as my sister and I are dressed straight out of the not-yet-existent Dexy's Midnight Runners video. Secondly, I love that we are painting in our dress shoes. Mom says that's because we were poor then and we only had one pair of shoes. (By the way, notice how my sister's are black patent leather? Oh, how I envied that black patent leather. Though I now absolutely adore red shoes, I had major issues, particularly a few years later, with a pair of red unscuffable sandals my mom bought for me. I really wanted black patent leather; she told me maybe for my next pair. I then went on a mission, constantly trying to scuff my unscuffable sandals. Darn it, if it wasn't true, I really couldn't scuff those sandals...) Finally, I love this picture because we are painting the garage the same color it already was - brown. Brown, it seemed, was the color of my youth. Brown eyes, brown hair, brown car, brown house, brown swing set, Brownies... We even befriended a neighbor we referred to as "The Brown Car Lady." (We liked her because she would let us stand on her kitchen table while she painted our toenails.) Anyway, ironically, I just bought new sheets. Wanna guess what color? Brown. To match my brown leather couch. Oh, how Erik mocked me, but truly, the ensemble really goes...

Today, however, is not about me, or my shoes, or my sheets. Today is about my Dad. A textbook Daddy's Girl, I adore my Dad. Not only do I look just like him, I act a lot like him. This is not always a good thing, as he is rather eccentric and would have trouble navigating the real world without the help of my down-to-earth Mom. Truth be told, I'm sometimes even sad for my poor Dad as he is trapped in a sort of unfortunate time warp. He is the perfect fifties dad, patiently plugging away at work to provide for his family (in fact, my Mom has often said he will "work until he dies"). All he asks for in exchange is a little respect - some peace and quiet when he gets home, the big piece of fish at dinner, the remote control at night. He does pretty well with the fish and the remote, but man, does he have very little peace. My Dad is in some way at the center of every family drama. I believe this is because he is, like our president, "the Decider." We used to vote on family issues, but whenever he was outvoted, he would declare that he got six votes. Because his vote is omnipotent, he is constantly lobbied by opposing forces. I remember once we asked him who his favorite child was. He very easily answered "Kevin" because at the time, Kevin could barely talk.

In addition to being the most coveted ally, my Dad is a safe place. I feel like I could tell him anything and he wouldn't be fazed. He generally responds to life's calamities with pensive silence and later, his checkbook. Although he is Catholic to his core, he's never once told his children he was "disappointed" in them. In many ways, he epitomizes forgiveness. But it could be denial. Either way, it's very Catholic.

I actually find my Dad both entertaining and inspiring. He's a self made man who is unintentionally hilarious. He can't help but be anything other than himself. And so today, on his 63rd birthday, I give you 63 reasons why I love my Dad:

1. He didn't get mad when I sold all his Cokes for a quarter at my lemonade stand. In fact, he thought it was funny.
   
2. He bites his tongue when he is concentrating.
3. He can't resist a bargain. Just ask the driver of the meat truck who came across my dad washing his own car and changing his own oil filter. That lucky driver sold my dad so many frozen entrees (chicken cordon bleu - yum) that Mom was furious as her freezer was already full.
4. He buys cheap gas. I do too. It's a waste of time and energy, but we both can't bear to pay even a penny more elsewhere.
   
5. He tips 20%, but not because he wants to. This is in honor of the decade I spent waiting tables. He still calculates the tip before tax and rounds down a dollar rather than up, but believe me, this is a big improvement.
   
6. Though he has a reputation for being cheap (an uncle of mine once described him as "tighter than a donkey's asshole facing uphill against the wind"), he's also quite generous. He buys animals through the heifer project and has his church set up on auto pay.
7. He spoils his children. He supports us in whatever harebrained schemes we may propose. I think he secretly wishes he hadn't spoiled his children, as now we are in many ways paralyzed financially, but I don't think he could have been any other kind of Dad.
8. He encourages us to save for the future. Sadly, we rarely do it. I worry about a future without my Dad. It will be an ugly place.
   
9. He once replaced the seven dollars I lost on the Wildwood Boardwalk when, at the age of six, I stashed them down my shirt. I had seen Laverne & Shirley keep their money that way, I just never realized they were sticking it in their bras. This is actually my earliest money memory which, if you believe Suze Orman, set the tone for my life. "Go ahead and be careless," I learned, "Daddy will fix it." Though Suze may find fault with this memory, I treasure it. What I take away from it is that my Dad thinks it's cute when I'm dumb.
   
10. He says he hates the animals but he's often seen napping with the cats and I think he secretly likes them.

11. He enjoys reenacting things he saw on TV. The most hilarious thing I can recall was his acting out a Friends episode. He kept standing from one side to the other and changing voices to represent the different characters.
12. He is equally enthusiastic when reading children's books. He's always quite animated.
13. In fact, he's great with children. He's not afraid to play. I especially enjoyed riding with him on my nieces' see-saw recently.
    
14. He's athletic. Can't wait for that apparently latent gene to kick in. Too bad this athleticism most commonly manifests itself in the form of the Thomas Family Death March. (Cuzen Bob, can you say "Philadelphia in the summertime"?) My Dad is so athletic, he once ran a marathon. His feet turned blue from the dye in his sneakers and his toenails later fell off, but he finished.
    
15. He's quiet, except for when he's not. When pushed over the edge, Dad whips out with what we call "The Border Voice." This voice was born at the Canadian border but has been used in any number of locales (often airports or shopping malls, or on the phone with customer service reps or lawyers...). It's actually quite effective because it is so out of character.
    
16. He also makes really girlie noises, like right before he dives into a cold pool.
    
17. He won't fix his ingrown toenails. I know, as I inherited them, that it is a painful condition with a simple cure. Instead, he prefers to periodically soak and pick at his swollen big toes.
18. He loves his mother. He calls her every night. Never mind that she lives on the East Coast and it is 10 pm by the time she hears from him (she naps in preparation), they both love it. I worry for him, as a world without his mother will be as dark for him as my world will be without my Dad.
    
19. He loves my mother. I love to see them holding hands.
    
20. When my mom is not around to take care of him, he makes jelly sandwiches and peanut butter sandwiches, but seldom peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
21. He whistles. His whistle is part of his vocabulary. When he whistles, that generally means that a patient has died. He longs to write a book about all he has seen with his patients, but I have had trouble communicating to him that the whistle doesn't translate well to the page.
    
22. He's wicked smart. He's got a photographic memory that was apparently on a recessive gene, as none of his children got it.
23. He keeps up on his profession and isn't afraid to try new things. As a result, he's saved a lot of lives and alienated a number of less adequate doctors.
    
24. He is adored by his patients. I used to be jealous of them, particularly because they were so much more lovable than his children. And we were never considered sick because we were never dying. Even the need for stitches was negotiable if my Dad was in charge. Now I finally get it. I realize that as much as my Dad could love his patients because they were good, he still loved his kids, even when they were bad.
    
25. He dresses up at parties for his patients like Big Bird or Santa Claus. The kids are generally young enough that they don't get the connection and they sadly report, "Oh, Dr. Thomas, you just missed Big Bird." Though this past Christmas they did mention that last year's Santa was black...
26. He once met Mr. Rogers. Mr. Rogers is even cooler than you think he is. Just check out this blog.
    
27. He was a good baby. The shape of his head proves it. Below is an illustration I made for an unpublished book I wrote that shows an aerial view of the "good baby head." It is flattened on the back side as he seldom cried and therefore laid flat on his back during his skull's most formative days. (By the way, Bob Barker himself once held up this illustration to his studio audience and announced that I was
    "very talented, ladies and gentlemen.") Take note also of the completely ineffective comb over.





28. He finally cut this comb over off. It happened sometime after a patient of his told him his hair was "pretty" and another commented it was "weird."
29. He loves mountains. And churches. And trees. Anyone who's sat through his vacation photos knows this. He also loves scenic routes. To this day I associate the signs of a squiggly arrow with the motion of food moving backwards up your digestive tract.
    
30. He would patiently re-teach me to swim each summer when we lived in Virginia. They say swimming is like riding a bike, you never forget, but I was also really slow to figure out the bike riding.
    
31. When we finally moved to California, he took great care of our pool, though it was never easy. We had a tree in the backyard he nicknamed "Old Yosemite" that dropped needles like you wouldn't believe. And then there was the cheap bubble wrap cover that constantly shed its shredded bubbles as they scraped against the flagstone border. But Dad had worked hard for his pool and he would not be denied the pleasure of using it. He had been told it couldn't be built (too small a yard, too narrow an access) but he just hired a smaller bulldozer.
    
32. He's a picky eater. He refers to artichokes and other green things as "poison" and claims he's allergic to curry. Actually, he just hates curry (and root beer) cuz it reminds him of the time he spent on a boat in the service.
33. He dances at weddings.
34. He doesn't mind losing at board games. Especially when playing with the grandkids.
35. He's actually sort of immature. He thinks it's funny to show my mom three fingers and invite her to "read between the lines."
    
36. He used to let me sit on his lap and steer the car up the drive way.
37. He gives A frame hugs. I think they're a little weird and distant, but now I think it'd be wrong if he did anything else.
38. He loves to eat off other people's plates. One of Erik's favorite memories of my Dad took place when they went to a sports bar while my mom and I shopped. Erik ordered a sandwich which he unwittingly shared with my Dad. They also enjoyed the free peanuts, discarding the shells on the ground. My Dad, reportedly, particularly enjoyed crunching them with his feet.
39. He likes chick flicks and he's not ashamed to admit it.
40. He once drove our car through a river. It was probably just a creek, but I remember it seemed impassable and was probably not the wisest path. Still, he went for it.
    
41. He always eats Cheerios with half a banana for breakfast.
42. He loves to point out things he's reading in the newspaper and read them aloud.

43. I love that when he visits other people's houses, he finds a quiet spot, reads their periodicals and falls asleep.
44. He's a strong supporter of his college, Villanova. He still wears his school ring and he's always singing the fight song, "V for Villanova, V for Victory..."
    
45. He was inspired to become a doctor after a house call from a doctor during his childhood. Like his pool, he faced many obstacles on his path to this goal, but he got it done.
46. He can sleep and watch TV at the same time. Anyone who doubts this can just try changing the channel. He will instantly wake up.
    
47. He can nap anywhere. And he does.
48. He wears funky ties to work. He particularly likes his Sponge Bob Square Tie.
    
49. He calls us "sports fans," though none of us are.
50. He has a sense of humor about his insanity. He appreciated it when I referred to him and my brother as "two nuts in a sack."
51. He's a great writer. He doesn't always have the chance to show it. He once wrote Erik a phenomenal letter of recommendation. And he writes a decent family Christmas letter when I am on strike.
    
52. He was an Eagle Scout and an altar boy, which, of course, makes his children major geek spawn.
    
53. And yet, he used to be a rebel. He likes to show us the scars on his knuckles that he claims he got from the angry nuns at his Catholic school. Alternatively, his sisters say the scars are from the time he broke a window with his fist after they'd locked him out. He also fondly recalls smoking cigarettes and reading comic books while his sisters were forced to clean his room.
    
54. In many ways, he still is a rebel. He once refused to pay all the parking tickets he'd racked up at the Naval Base - until the parking authorities scraped off his stickers. This was another incident where I saw the Border Voice in action.
    
55. Like my Mom, he also stop smoking.
56. He has really neat eyes. They're hazel with little flecks of blue and brown in them.
57. He doesn't drink water, I think ever. Certainly not in restaurants, which is great for me as I'm always one glass ahead of the waitress.
58. He's an optimist. I surely didn't inherit that.

59. He likes to coast down hills. It's annoying sometimes (especially when he claims he's saving gas - the poor man's hybrid) but it can also be fun. He used to take us down a particularly steep street in San Diego (B Street, I think) and it felt just like a roller coaster.
    
60. In fact, he loves to drive. This is not always a good thing. He's crashed a rental car in Italy, ran a red light in San Diego, and, of course, whenever he's in charge of family road trips, the bathroom stops are notoriously infrequent. ("Next town," he says. "That wasn't a town," he says, as we finally pass a place with buildings...) But because he likes to drive, I do get to see him and my mother on a fairly regular basis, despite the fact that I live two states away.
61. He hates to wait. He'll take a right at a red light even if it's the wrong way.
62. He loves his little MG. He considers it a classic even though a mouse once considered it home and one of the cats (presumably Ginger) once peed on the gear shift.
    
63. He's always turning off the heat. This actually drives everyone crazy, especially if he accidentally lets Ginger the pee cat into your room at night. I believe it isn't so accidental, this passing of the cat. I wouldn't be surprised if he thinks that people who sleep with the heat on deserve to have their things peed on.
64. Two memorable quotes from Sundays: Either "nobody in this car needs a donut" or "I'm saving you calories" as he takes a big bite out of your donut. Now, whenever I drive past the donut shop, I often hear myself thinking, "nobody in this car needs a donut."

Happy birthday, Dad.

yesterday i sort of did poison my husband

So I know I told you a few months back that I was not trying to poison my husband. I thought, then, you might want to know that last night I did sort of poison my husband, but only accidentally.

While making him dinner, I noticed our microwave was on the fritz. (He had told me a couple nights prior that it would turn on when the door was open, but of course I immediately figured he was doing something wrong. My first thought when it happened to me? Oh, we need a new microwave.) Anyway, despite this phenomenon, I continued to use the machine. (I later learned that the internet says this problem is just a failure of the door switch and it's really just the light and fan that stay on, not the actual microwaves - unless, of course, you feel intense heat. But I can't say I knew that at the time...)

What I found more disturbing was the noxious smell of melting plastic. I figured it pretty much had be coming from the microwave (as the real oven had no plastic in it, on it, or around it), but I couldn't see anything melting. I didn't think for even a moment that the noxious fumes might be settling into Erik's dinner. He tasted them later, the noxious fumes, and abandoned his meal for bed. Still, the damage was done.

It was little surprise to either of us when he ended up projectile vomiting at 3 am.

So today we bought a new microwave.

I will say, however, that Erik blows chunks a lot. I don't know if it is a sensitive constitution and he refuses to consider it might be an ulcer. Still, he's all superstitious about certain foods (like apple juice, spaghetti, and enchiladas) that seem to most commonly inspire his emesis. His gastric dysfunction is most likely a function of his odd schedule - eating large meals before going to bed - but still, it's worrisome. At least when I barf, it's because I am stinking drunk. Not pretty, and again, not proud. But at least it makes sense.

Interestingly, this week's local weekly tabloid featured an article on men with eating disorders titled "Manorexia." I told him I think he has Boylimia.

perhaps an even more disturbing discovery?

So this is something perhaps no grown person should know. As much as Sauvignon Blanc and Apple Jacks do not pair well, apparently Froot Loops and Margaritas are ever so much more palatable.

I'm not saying I'm proud. And, yes, I know why my jeans don't fit.

i hate it when that happens

Whiff is the sound of my ego deflating.

Today I missed (whiffed) for the first time since my rescue net was repaired last fall. Like all my other whiffs, however, this one has an asterisk attached. Today's whiff I blame on my overly eager, dreadfully inexperienced rescue cohort. We were down at Morro Rock (thankfully not on the rock like yesterday, just on the rocks by the rock) looking at an underweight yearling and devising our strategy. While I told her I planned to creep up slowly and quietly with the net, she decided it would be helpful if she were noisy and noticeable. Her efforts to distract the sea lion from my approach only served to inform him that something was seriously up. He was able to take off before I could get close enough to get a good swing in.

For the record, I only have three other official whiffs under my belt. The first was against a big male (much larger than Tapia) who I actually had in the net a few times. I just couldn't keep him there as he kept tossing it off his head with his teeth. I blame this whiff on the fact that I was using the heavy net (it weighs 25 pounds dry). At least that whiff was somewhat exciting. My eldest nieces and hubby were watching from shore. They told me they really weren't sure who they were rooting for as it was a pretty even match. I felt further exonerated when the sea lion hauled out again and I handed the net to another volunteer (this one a man) only to watch him whiff too.

My second whiff came at 2 am on the drive on beach. This time, honestly, I wanted to whiff or else I would have taken my friend up on his offer to meet me at the beach. While it isn't always necessary to have two people around for a successful rescue, it's helpful, especially in the dark. Anyway, I didn't even really swing on this guy. Just driving up disturbed him enough that he took off for the water. This was perfectly fine with me. He was no longer in danger of being a speed bump and I could go back to bed.

My final official whiff I actually do feel horribly about. This one was on the jetty at Morro Rock, on the ocean side, of course. This sea lion really needed a rescue (he was dragging his hind end) but I chose a poor approach. I still think if I'd come from the south rather than the north, I might have had a better shot at him. As it was, I didn't have strong enough footing to take a decent swing. Essentially I just harassed him back into the water when what he needed most was rest. I really thought he'd restrand somewhere else but no such luck.

So today makes four. For those who are keeping track, I do not include Brindell among my whiffs because we did ultimately catch him. It's only a whiff if you come back empty handed... And I also don't count that entangled sea lion that I left in Cayucos last year, because I didn't even have the net with me. That's a blown assessment, not a whiff... And, now that I think about it, there was another big male I faced off against with a friend, but she had the big net - I was just the back up. We both came away empty handed, but that whiff goes on her record more than mine.

I really shouldn't be so bummed. Actually, I ought to have more whiffs on my resume. The fact that I have so few is more a testament to my cowardice than any sort of kudos to my accuracy (as I have a tendency to pass off the long shots to my more experienced friends). And besides, today's critter did have some fight left in him. It's not the worst thing to know he's spending another night in the sea.

I think I'm still just really shook up about yesterday's rescue. Though I've seen broken jaws before, there was something about Workout that I found particularly disturbing. In fact, I'm not alone. A member of our stranding staff said his injury pierced her veil of indifference too. And, yes, he has passed on to the big Rock in the sky, but I'm happy as it truly was the best thing for him. Interestingly, vet staff thinks the damage to his jaw was done by a seal bomb (basically an underwater firecracker) which I am amazed to learn is legal under the Marine Mammal Protection Act. Seal bombs are technically only legal when they don't cause bodily harm to marine mammals, but clearly they have the capacity to be devastating.

Anyway, at least the gal that helped me on yesterday's adventure is not burned out by the experience. Gnarly rescues are generally polarizing - they either get people totally addicted to the process or they scare them away forever. She swears she's still on board, so that's a good thing.

So I guess my ego and I shall retire for the evening. There are worse things in the world than whiffing. Like seal bombs.

today i got my workout

I almost didn't post a photo of today's rescue. I usually try to spare you internet friends the uglier side of my hobby. In fact, this picture is actually not as gruesome as I thought it might be. If you didn't know this was an unnatural angle, you might just think he was being particularly vocal. Unfortunately, this sea lion's injury looks much worse in person... At least take comfort in knowing that by the time this photo was taken, he was full of enough Banamine and Butorphanol that he wasn't feeling a thing.

He'd been spotted by a surfer (who also happens to be my pet sitter) just a couple hours earlier. She reported him as skinny and small and on Morro Rock. She couldn't tell his jaw was broken from her spot in the surf line up, but she could see the rock he was resting on was fairly flat and accessible. For those who aren't from these parts, Morro Rock is the giant rock for which my town is named. It's massive and mostly surrounded by open ocean. Usually the animals we get from "the rock" are around or near the rock, or at least on the rocks by the rock. Very seldom are they actually "on" the rock. In fact, this is only the third time I've been out there in five years. It's not exactly fun, but it's always memorable.

Although we couldn't spot him from the parking lot, we figured it was worth the long dusty hike out to determine if he was still there. After all, what's a little poison oak between friends? Besides, only one part of the trail is truly scary - narrow and steep, you have to lean in towards the rock to keep from sliding into the ocean. And we knew we'd responded quickly. My rescue partner and I were both on the beach within fifteen minutes of the first call.

Once we got close enough to see his injury, we were so grateful we'd made the effort to find him. Pausing a moment to soak in the sadness of his situation, we quickly got on with the rescue. The netting was actually easy enough. He saw me coming the whole time; he just didn't feel like going anywhere. Carrying him out across the rocks and through the brush was the real challenge. The fact that he couldn't close his jaw didn't prevent him from trying to bite us. Maneuvering him safely would have been much more difficult if he were fully functioning.

At only 28.8 kg, Workout was extremely underweight. (For comparison, recall that Trolling, last week's skinny 2 year old, was considered emaciated at 37.4 kg...) I would say I'm grateful he didn't weigh more (after all, he was already a Workout), but I'm bummed to think his weight loss is indicative of the amount of time that's passed since he broke his jaw. It's not that we've never repaired a broken jaw, but fresh wounds are always better than old ones.

Though he may soon be headed for the big Rock in the sky, at least he won't have to starve to death to get there. And Butorphanol is a very good thing.

2 regrettable discoveries

Recently I've made two disturbing discoveries.

1. I've had a typo in my profile THIS WHOLE TIME. Not just a run of the mill dyslexic typo or even a finger-too-fast-on-the-keyboard typo, I had entire extra letters in the word "moment." I am such a spelling snob that I would like to think perhaps I was drunk when I set up my profile. Given my known habits, odds are pretty decent I was. Not attractive, I know, but I'd rather be drunk than stupid.

2. Speaking of drunk, for all you budding sommeliers out there, I have learned that Apple Jacks and Sauvignon Blanc are a bad pairing. The combination just might make you throw up a little.

Enough said.

3 seals and a splinter

I love delivery. It's the thing I miss most about living in a city. Urban dwellers can have just about anything delivered anytime. You name it and they can get it - from urgent documents to illicit drugs. You can even have yourself delivered (by cab, of course). Here in Morro Bay, though, the most I can hope for is a pizza and even that I'd better order before 8 pm. This Saturday, however, I got something delivered that no city dweller can dial up. This little yearling sea lion, Carpenter, was scooped off the drive on beach in our south county and delivered to me by my pal who rescued him. His stay was brief (lately we've been keeping these guys overnight just to mellow them out) as I shipped him off immediately after breakfast. I didn't want to trouble the understaffed Sunday rescue crew with the burden of his transport.

Thoughtful as I was to clear the decks on Saturday, Sunday turned out to be a busy day anyway. The weather was glorious and so the beaches were crowded with folks eager to locate (and harass) sick sea lions. The first call came from San Simeon and though I was on the schedule and lived closest, the gal who was in charge tried to spare me the long drive north. (I usually take Sundays off so she knew I was only on call out of pity.) She got sidetracked, though, on her way north by this little yearling, SueAnn, who was hanging around the jetty in Morro Bay (not nearly as far out or as far up as Walls, I must say). So while she went for the sure thing, I grabbed another neighbor friend of mine and headed up north for the long shot.

We were shocked to find Trolling was still there. He was patiently waiting two feet from the surf, actively ignoring the chaos around him. We're told he was even letting people throw rocks at him. He's bigger than our recent run of yearlings (37 kg to everyone else's 16 kg), and too skinny to be a classic Domoic Acid victim. Based on the amount of water he drank at the site, I'd put my money on Leptospirosis.

Leptospirosis is one of the first words we teach our new volunteers. We like it because it's long and intimidating. We use it to encourage people to keep their dogs away from our animals. "He might have Leptospirosis," we say (even when we doubt he does), "which is transmittable to dogs and humans" (which is totally true). This isn't a horrible Lepto year (it runs in 3 or 4 year cycles), but we do see a smattering of them every season.

Anyway, tucked and dry, skinny and disinterested, his was a pretty easy netting. It barely got my adrenaline flowing. Apparently, he was saving his ferocity until he got back to his pen. There he nearly bit me while not getting his penicillin shot. He ended up wearing the Dual Pen while my hand made a hasty retreat. I actually felt his whiskers brush against my glove - never a good thing. I was able to get him medicated this evening, at least, after he had a few hours of peace and quiet and I devised a safer approach.

As delighted as I am to have conquered my tricky sea lion, the undisputed highlight of my day came at dinner time. Tonight I had the distinct pleasure of extracting from Erik's hand the most gigantic splinter I've ever seen. He got it lodged in there a week ago, when he suffered a puncture wound in the wilderness. He wasn't certain that there was wood left behind (even the doctor wouldn't go digging around after it), until his body slowly worked it to the surface. Such a wonder of science, our immune system is. Anyway, knowing how I dig a good pick (I'm forever freeing his pores of this or that), he saved it for me, like a little treasure.

Such a good day.

it's really over

Yesterday my buddy and long time love, Bob Barker, worked his last day at the Price is Right. I should be really really bummed, perhaps I'm in a state of shock or denial, but all I can feel is happy for him. I've long imagined that the whole hosting thing got old. I've seen it first hand, how a particularly lame audience can really grate on his nerves, always asking about his age and other random stuff they'd already know if they were Loyal Friends and True... I consider how well I know the games and how I flinch when people make poor choices. He must be even more offended by the stupidity of the masses when they make shameful mistakes. I mean, really, people, when playing the Money Game when has it ever not been "El Cheapo"? And can you honestly say it has ever been 90 or 85 dollars? And to those who've played Plinko, where is the sense in dropping your chip to one side or the other? Everyone knows the sweet spot is where the n meets the k. And to those people who have played the Check Game, $2500 is almost always safe. And the Range Game, hello, stop the Range Finder when you're at Bob's eye level, aligned with the green section on the left. And those playing Pathfinder, dude, the path always ends in a corner with either 5 or 0. I've always figured Bob returns to his dressing room after each show, pours a stiff drink, runs his long fingers through his thinning hair and sighs.

All that is easy for me to say, though. Apparently the hard part is bidding your way up on stage, eh? I won't deny that I may be taking some measure of joy in knowing that now I'm not alone in my sad fate. Now no one in the world can play a pricing game with Bob.

Still, it does feel like I'm losing a friend.

Another thing lost today? Erik's shaved off all his long hair. He actually went to a barber a couple days ago to trim the most annoying of his locks. Unfortunately, he came home with bangs. Boys don't have bangs, I mocked him. And so, today, my reward is a pile of two and a half years of hair in the backyard. He didn't even leave anything on top, which was the whole idea that spawned the hair growing experiment so long ago. Like Bob and his show, I can only feel happy for Erik who is finally free.

And, yes, a little bit sad.

5 seals in 4 days

Though I haven't done a lot of rescuing this past week, I've done a bunch of animal handling. This beautiful sea lion yearling has the rather regrettable name Slide-n-Slip, though to me he will forever be Maurice. Maurice, however, was a seal rescued in 2003 and so the name was a no go. Still, Slip-n-Slide should have worked according to the no-repeats-in-10-years rule (last used January 1997), but I agreed to let them flop it around just to be safe.

In any event, little SNS came off a beach in Pismo on Saturday morning, too far south for me as I was stuck in Cayucos with an elephant seal. My ellie later died of Otostrongylus circumlitus, that evil lung worm parasite who has not yet found a way to play nice with the elephant seal population. (While the Marine Mammal Center frowns on diagnosing animals on the beach, I was pretty confident about this one. My suspicions were confirmed when I actually saw the vile worms while collecting post mortem blood samples.) Anyway, SNS proved quite a handful. Though only 16 kg, he was able to break free from one restrainer (but never from me, ha ha) and he was way too stubborn to open his mouth for his tube feedings. Finally we called in the cavalry, our most experienced member with the longest, most dexterous hands, who convinced the little fellow to open up and get fed.

I also didn't get to rescue little Dockit here (he came in on Thursday and I am technically off on Thursdays...). As his name suggests, he was picked up off a dock, right here in my neighborhood. He'd been sitting on the boat launch, minding his own business, very much not minding the people who passed by. Not exactly normal behavior. And he's bony, only 15.4 kg (robust compared to Godfrey's 11.4kg...), but obviously perky enough to be climbing the walls like crazy. No sign of the runny black death poop, either, so I'm optimistic for him. Just another scrawny yearling trying to make his way in the world.

I did have the honor of my very own rescue on Friday. My neighbor friend and I fetched this harbor seal off the beach in Cayucos. She'd checked on it two days earlier on a different, less accessible beach. She'd put it on watch as harbors are so commonly left on the beach while mom forages. Besides, he didn't have an umbi and he did have teeth - more likely a weaner than a dependent pup.

This time, though, little Boone was much dryer around the eyes, and, as you can clearly see, so skinny (only 7.8 kg). The timing couldn't have been better as we had just enough time to feed him and send him off on Dockit's transport. I love it when the seals are so thoughtful as to strand on nearby beaches at convenient times.

And finally came Walls, picked up off the Morro Bay jetty Sunday afternoon near a surf spot called Widow's Walls. I didn't throw the net, but I did help keep him in it and carry him down the rocks. He was pretty bitey, which made him difficult to maneuver across the jetty, but easy to tube feed. I wouldn't call his stranding thoughtful at all. Though it was in my neighborhood, the jetty is a generally treacherous place. And not only was I again, not technically on call, but I was also napping. I do, think, though, that he was mine to catch as we'd had a report on a similar animal on the other side of the jetty on Saturday afternoon. We got half way across the harbor (on Harbor Patrol's boat - always fun) when we were told he'd gone back in the water. At least we hadn't jumped off the boat yet.

And today I will play with no seals. Today marks the 2 year anniversary of my first day as a princess parasite. Erik and I will be celebrating by spending the day together, probably in the sun. So far the only plan that's firm is that we're going to make a killer sandwich. We thought about going to a water park (2 years ago we went to the Schlitterbahn in San Antonio, Texas...), but it's a bit early for the season and most are still open only on the weekends. It does appear our new local water park is set to open in the next week or so that's pretty exciting.

It's funny how quickly two years can pass. I still haven't done so many of the things I thought I'd do and I no longer have the excuse of a round the clock job to blame for my lack of progress. I have done all the big stuff on my list, though. I've seen my husband and my family more, I've taken more naps, and I've rescued more seals. Still, I'm working on a new list for the next couple years. It seems to include taking the LSAT, which is something I've put off now for 14 years. I'm not sure law school would be good for me (is it good for anyone?) but if I score as high as it seems I might, I think it'd be foolish not to go. No promises, though, just exploring the possibilities.

41 things I love about my best friend

Every time I start thinking about the intro to this post, I find myself whistling the theme song to the Courtship of Eddie's Father. ("People let me tell you about my best friend...") It's not such a bad thing to have stuck in your head. I'm a fan of Harry Nilsson's after all (at least since Kevin put him on my ipod), but I do find it somewhat disturbing when it segues into the Golden Girls theme... In any event, we're quite a pair, me and my best friend, Jules. I met her when I was just eighteen, so next year I will have known her half my life. Six years my senior, she was the first "adult" I'd ever known socially and in so many ways she taught me how to be grown up. We also have the luxury not only of being friends, but being relatives as we were dating (and now have married) brothers.

So here you have 41 reasons why I love Jules:

1. She collects eclectic art. She has a can of military issue water.
   
2. She has a green thumb, though she doesn't always use it. We used to enjoy killing orchids together.
   
3. She's thrifty. She can live off eggs and tortillas. Unfortunately, this month I have forced her to do just that by "helping" her set up all her bills to auto-pay. Not a big deal, except I set them up to pay all on the same day, which seemed, at the time, to be very very far away...
   
4. She's also a generous tipper and knows her way around a five star restaurant. In fact, I'm certain she could run one if she wanted to. She got me into waitressing (a blessing and a curse) and so I'm sure my Dad resents her just a tiny bit every time he has to tip 20%.
5. She's raised two phenomenal children, my nieces Zoe and Sadie. It hasn't always been easy, as Jules' world seems plagued by minor inconveniences punctuated by the occasional catastrophe, but she's made sure it's always been fun.
   
6. She introduced me to food. Mexican food. Ethiopian. Thai. Herbal tea. Artichokes. Soyrizo. We could have skipped Carpaccio, though. I should have been suspicious when she wouldn't tell me what is was until after I tried it.
   
7. She wanted to introduce me to my husband, Erik, but she waited until we naturally crossed paths. She knew we'd either love each other or hate each other. She was so right. I'm glad she waited, though, as I was a regular wreck when she and I first knew each other.
   
8. She encouraged me to go to him, when she was 9 months pregnant, though it would mean missing Zoe's birth. Erik and I now call that time our Summer of Love.
9. She loves to read. She introduced me to Charles Bukowski and tawdry science fiction.
   
10. She loves horses. She rediscovered her passion during her (successful) battle against breast cancer. Much as she may sometimes feel guilty for the expense of her herd, I know that Fannie, Roux, and Tuffy saved her life.
    

11. She's spontaneous and sort of silly. She once sent Erik to pick up take out from Max's Opera Cafe in SF with a handwritten note that started, "Please, I am deaf..." We laughed as we watched from the car and noticed that he applauded along with the other customers when the waitress stopped singing. (Erik defended his actions, saying it's only polite to clap when everyone else is clapping....) We laughed even harder when he returned and explained that our sandwiches were on white bread because the waiter, after asking about our unwritten bread preference and remembering Erik was allegedly deaf, sized him up and declared, "White bread. You look like you like white bread." I'm sure this is an appalling politically incorrect story, but it's a family favorite that always makes me smile.
    
12. Until very recently, she owned her own dive bar in SF. Sadie's Flying Elephant was the place to be. She even let me tend bar once, for the first 15 minutes of happy hour. I was a mess - serving frothy beers in soapy glasses and making change out of my pocket after I got the register stuck shut. It isn't as easy as it looks.
    
13. She knows the value of a good Twilight Zone marathon. She was once scolded when caught tuning in at her job at a Sports Bar. (After the manager changed the channel, all her once happy customers left...) She still doesn't have Tivo so she has to enjoy Twilight Zone marathons the old fashioned way, through a haze of sleep deprivation.
    
14. She sings beautifully. She can even sing opera. She's passed the gift on to her girls.
    
15. She's very skittish around ticks. Everyone should be disturbed by some sort of parasite.
    
16. She never has a pen. Ever. And if she has one, it doesn't work.
17. She found Grandpa's bell. It wasn't easy to locate such a tiny trinket in her vast collection of miscellanea. It means so much to Erik to be reunited with this piece of his past and it means possibly even more to me that she went out of her way to find it.
    
18. She's not grossed out by the maggot pitcher. It's a very long story that begins with a dying dog and ends with nearly three years of benign neglect. I love that when I was finally able to speak the unspeakable that she laughed it off and scolded me for being so serious and dorky.
    
19. She's forgiving, about more than just the maggot pitcher and my obsessive hunt for Grandpa's bell. She doesn't make room in her life for grudges and I could learn a lot from that.
    
20. She can cook. Though can she make tortillas seem gourmet, she struggles to follow directions on a package of Noodle Roni. She has to go with her instincts in the kitchen. She also never used to own a microwave, until I bought one as a cancer present. (A very selfish act, as I wanted to have one at my disposal.) I was surprised when, post cancer, they chose to replace the microwave after Zoe burned it down.
    
21. She stopped smoking. A number of times. In fact, the first time I met her she explained that she had quit smoking. I was a bit confused, as she was lighting up at the time. She explained that it didn't count because it wasn't her brand. Most recently, she quit for good. I never fell for tobacco, but I know it isn't easy to give up a bad habit. I am so grateful she went through the hassle as I imagine it will buy us more years to be old ladies together.
    
22. She attracts great friends, if I do say so myself. Seriously, the fact that she had not one, but two dedicated caretakers during her breast cancer battle speaks volumes about her value.
    
23. She dreams. In her dreams sometimes she's a waitress living in a dusty small town, driving a pick up truck with a horse trailer. She lives there alone with her horse(s) and owns a small black and white TV. I'm not even sure they even make black and white TV's anymore, but I love that it is part of her fantasy.
    
24. She let me use her fake ID until I was 21. We rarely got carded when we drank together. In fact, I don't think I ever had the occasion to use it. Still, as a practicing bartender she made sure I had my facts straight. I knew "my" middle name, address, even my sign. I remember being present when she quizzed another adventurous attempted underage drinker in her own bar years later. The girl failed to answer correctly and I razzed her for not being properly prepared.
    
25. She used to let me use her washer and dryer. Anyone whose been to college knows how much that can mean to a person.
    
26. She's a terrible speller. It even says so on her resume.
27. She also has horrible handwriting. As I do. When we used to share notes she'd always have to ask me if that was a "u" or a "v."
28. She's extremely bright. She gives herself no credit for it because she used to ditch high school, but she's the smartest person I know.
    
29. She coined the phrase "penis work." It's a phrase I use often. I last used it two days ago to explain to Erik why I had left a half eaten bird in the bathroom overnight. Cleaning up half eaten dead things is, in my opinion, the epitome of penis work.
    
30. She often gets mistaken for a lesbian. It could be that she lives in the Bay Area but we think there's something more to it than that. A friend of hers recently told her she "presents herself like a lesbian." Whatever that means. I do remember one time, catching a cab outside the Kabuki Hot Springs, when our Islamic cab driver accused us of being homosexual. We tried to explain that we were actually sisters-in-law but he totally didn't believe us. It only got disturbing when he started quoting the Koran and forgiving us our wickedness.
    
31. Her favorite movie is Dodgeball. Not my flavor, I must say, but I love imagining her cracking up. "If you can dodge a wrench, you can dodge a ball..."
    
32. She often has fruit in her purse, in her car, or on her person. It isn't always edible.
    
33. She keeps birds. She especially loved Curry, that fearsome, foul fowl I dreaded so much. I love that she accused me of starting the conflict with the toe biting demon. I also love that in some fundamental way she must be right. I mean, ducks only do what ducks do. She made indoor duck keeping look fun. I especially enjoyed watching the two of them race down the hallway, the sound of webbed feet flapping and Jules' giggling was priceless.
    



34. She gets pregnant whenever her fish die. She no longer keeps fish.
35. She's optimistic. She always assumes the best of people even when they don't deserve it. She's actually sad to see her ghetto neighborhood being gentrified. I look it as a good thing (my car hasn't been broken into in a while), but she feels for the people who are being driven out.
    
36. She's adopted. She looks just like her birth mom. Their hands are identical, just differently weathered.
    
37. She's afraid of hospitals. Yet she was a trooper during childbirth, and especially during chemo.
    
38. She loves the Simpsons. She thinks of herself as Homer but she's far too competent to be Homer.
39. She never answers her phone. Most of the time it's accidental, the phone is distant or buried. But I have also trained her to screen her calls on purpose. In my world, it just isn't mandatory to be available. Unfortunately, she's accepted my lesson with gusto. Now I never get anything but her voice mail.
    
40. She's nicer than me. But then most of my friends are.
41. She's shorter than me. I don't even think I like that in a friend. It makes me feel gigantic at a mere 5'4". Luckily (or unfortunately), our bodies seem to have a pact to remain close in size. I have gained sympathy pregnancy weight, sympathy chemo weight, and, during the years lost to the maggot pitcher, she gained sympathy restless-inland-dweller weight. One of these days we've vowed to scale down together. I'm pretty sure at this point that it's the only way.

I once told Jules she'd always be 26 to me. This makes her the same age as my brother, Kevin, and younger, now, than me. I knew I couldn't keep this list down to 26, however, as it was woefully short in Kevin's case. Already I have kicked myself for things I forgot to love about him, like the way Kevin and I used to do a "tea dance" (a modification of the twist) to encourage the water to boil faster. And so, Jules, forgive me for acknowledging that time really has passed and have yourself a happy birthday.

26 things I love about my baby brother

Everyone knows I adore my baby brother. As a kid, he was my favorite toy. My sister and I particularly enjoyed doing his hair and make up. (In the photo below, we caught him applying his own eyeliner...) And, of course, he was always up for a swim. He practically lived in the pool. He would also fetch stuff, anything, if you asked him to. It didn't matter if it was all the way upstairs. He would go. (One day he wised up and realized that being the youngest didn't mean he had to be the slave, but it was fun while it lasted...)

As an adult, he's still a good sport. He's always up for a drunk dial (giving or receiving), always good for a laugh. He inspires me to be more of myself, encourages me in my endeavors (be it for good or evil), and holds me accountable when I am lame. He's my head cheerleader and my chief critic. I wouldn't be who I am without him.

So here you have 26 reasons why I love my baby brother:

1. He's well read. Amazingly so.
2. He's clever. He amazes my mother by solving the Jumble in his head before she can do it on paper. In fact, Mom often takes all day and even cheats, consulting the Scrabble word finder (man, is she bummed when the word she's trying to unscramble has more than seven letters...). Kevin is rarely stumped. He also composes haikus while doing manual labor.
3. He filled my iPod. I don't like everything that's on there, but at least I have choices. I thoroughly enjoy much of it, though, and I know full well I am not nearly hip enough to have found bands like the Moldy Peaches on my own.
   
4. He's cute. We both look like our father, which means we both look like boys. Although, ironically, as a kid his long hair often gotten him mistaken for a girl.
   
5. He's corruptible. Despite that fact that I have corrupted him (often), he does not blame me (outwardly) for any wistful feelings he might have towards his lost innocence. One of my favorite tales of corruption involves the time he helped me liberate a happy meal toy from a thrift store. It was one of those mini beanie babies, the turtle to be precise, and it was trapped in a bag of other crap which was not worthy of purchase. I freed it from the bag and asked Kevin to be my mule to get it out of the store. In my defense, I am really not much of a shoplifter. A pen thief, sure, and proud of it, but shoplifting is not my thing. I honestly only roped Kevin into this scheme because he was wearing clothes with pockets. Kevin, apparently, is a natural, however, as he did not even use his pockets during the heist. Too obvious, I guess, and so he slipped my turtle into his waistband and we walked out of the store. Please note that I am not particularly proud of this story. Little brothers should not, in general, be used as shoplifting mules. Also, thrift stores are for charity and I am probably going straight to hell for stealing from one. Stealing anything, in fact, should involve either necessity or ingenuity. This was a crime of opportunity and OCD. I had to have this beanie baby to complete my collection of the series and I was no longer able to acquire it at McDonald's. This was early enough into the beanie-baby-turned-happy-meal-toy craze that I had not yet gotten completely fed up with my local McDonald's employees and decided to resist collecting any of the babies at all. This decision came much later, on the second or third series, when I was stymied in my efforts to amass a perfect collection by one particularly surly and stubborn cashier. Having been a former employee of Mickey D's, I know darned well you can buy the happy meal toy separate from the happy meal. There is a button for it on the cash register. It is on the lower right side. This particular person refused to press said button and I refused to buy a meal which would not make me happy. It was over for me. Ruined... But the turtle came before all that.



6. He always says "I love you" before we get off the phone.
7. He once conspired with my future husband to lure me into the middle of our front yard and surprise me with the sprinklers. He couldn't have been more than 10 at the time. They laughed and laughed while I squealed and ran. I think it's sweet that they both recognize how important they are to me and so they work extra hard to get along.
8. He's talented. He wrote the music for my wedding (and, of course, he wrote and performed the ceremony). I also particularly like the song he wrong for our parents' anniversary. It's called "Opposite Noses" and goes something like this, "you've got a hook, I've got a pug..." something something something "it must be love..."
9. He's funny. We share a sick sense of humor. We often like to end our conversations on a gross note. For example, he likes to remind me about the time I passed gas out of both ends simultaneously in my sleep. Even though this incident obviously scarred him, he still loves me.
10. He has a reputation for being lazy. As our mother says, "He just sits down." He appears to embody that law of physics - a body at rest stays at rest - yet he's often up for a walk. I think he's misunderstood. He's just conservative with his energy.
    
11. He's smart. He scored 1500 on the SAT's (before they added that new third section).
12. He's not afraid to take risks. He once gave a chocolate rose to an older girl in school.
13. He can sleep anywhere. I still remember his neck, crooked at a 90 degree angle, as he slept on a couch in our crowded hotel room in Anaheim.
14. He's nice to animals. Even Rags, the pig dog, whose face we first saw together while not getting a ride home from Pooh corner. It's not like Pooh corner was very far - just a block from home, though it was all uphill - but somehow I felt like Rags was mocking us as he enjoyed our ride home. There he was on Suz's lap, as Mom and Suzanne were smiling, waving, driving up the hill. All I ever dreamed about on those walks home from school was a ride. Any little bit helped. I never forgave Rags for that look (or for chewing my shoe - the cute black one with the bow on it...) but Kevin didn't care. He's even nice to Lucy, the dog that, in the words of our mother, "barks and pees in her sleep."
15. He imitates my father well. It's spooky even. And he does a pretty good Mom.
16. He's afraid of moths. I never knew. Recently he was harassed by one in the Devil's Whore House. I hadn't really thought about it, but they are rather erratic and unpredictable. I find them annoying, more than frightening, but I can see where he's coming from. Ironically, after he shared with me his fear of moths, we went inside and watched Mothra.
    
17. He's not afraid of spiders. He used to keep a pet tarantula.
18. Kevin is a six year old boy whose mother loves him. At least that's what it said about him the "What Not To Name the Baby" book... Even that book couldn't knock his name.
    
19. Yet he once changed his name to "Simon" in elementary school. I always figured it was an homage to Simon LeBon, as my sister and I were devoted Duranies. Instead, it turned out that he had changed his name as a deductive exercise. There was a girl who rode his school bus who was rumored to have a crush on one of the two Kevins on the bus. He figured by changing his name, he could flush out whether or not he was the admired one. I'm not sure if his plan worked, but I do know that by sixth grade he was a quite the hot item and a trendsetter.
20. He's a Gemini. The Libra in me loves Geminis. They're every bit as artsy, with an even stronger pull in two directions. This is why we appear lazy. We are too busy deciding which way to go.
    
21. He saved me. From myself. I don't think I'd realized what a gloomy preteen I had been until he came along and brightened up my world. He gave me something to belong to when I needed it most.
    
22. He's not greedy. For Christmas once he specially selected which Tin Tin books he really wanted because he couldn't fathom getting the whole collection. (Of course, he got them all...)
    
23. Yet he's cunning. He strung out his potty training long enough that Mom was willing to negotiate big time. He began earning He Man figures for each intestinal sculpture he left in the right place. Soon he had the entire collection...
    
24. He's an adventurous eater. Frog's leg, crocodile, cactus... Even decorative soap on a dare.... Erik and I paid him a dollar for his efforts, but sadly we made him use it to buy a soda to wash out the soapy taste in his mouth.
25. He once consulted his penis for directions in San Francisco. I've always suspected that men consider their members to be some sort of built in GPS, but this day he totally proved it. We were wandering, somewhere between the Embarcadero and the Mission District, and he literally stopped, looked down, and, curving his fingers to represent recent turns we'd made, he discussed with himself (correctly) which way to go.



26. He says, regarding marriage, that he'd rather be lonely than annoyed, but I think if the right girl came along he might change his mind. The girl in this picture, however, is taken. Little Maribeth is all grown up and already married as of April 14th. Besides, she's his cousin. I wanted to include this photo for two reasons. One, no offense Maribeth, but did you cut your own bangs? And two, notice the pin on Kevin's shirt? That's right, that's the Fab Five he's sporting. My little brother has always been cool.
    

So here's to the next twenty six years of late night phone calls, evil schemes, and genuine laughter. To missing ferries, catching trains, and carpooling with the parents. To the books you'll read and the movies I'll never see. Here's to little adventures in big cities involving pirate dice and pubs with pints and to the death marches that always seem to precede them. To gross notes to end on and, of course, to Algorithms. Happy Birthday, baby brother.

goodbye, godfrey

Given my mood the last two days, I'd say that even though this adorable little sea lion weaner died within hours of his all-too-early-morning rescue, he's the highlight of my week. I retrieved him from behind a dumpster in the Embarcadero at 7:15 this morning. He'd been in the street earlier and was seen seizing, so I suspected he was suffering from domoic acid (in addition to emaciation). But then he released a bunch of runny black feces back at the site. Runny and black is bad, bad, bad and usually indicates some sort of internal bleeding. So I wasn't altogether surprised to find his noon feed canceled on account of death, but still I was sad. At least I got some pictures of him when he was still a bit perky and totally cute.

On another semi-good note, OC's follow up enema was deemed unnecessary today. Apparently, because I caught his problem sooner than usual, he was able to get the job done without sedation. Too bad I starved him all night in preparation for surgery just in case. It was cute at first, all the begging for food, but it soon grew pathetic and frustrating for all involved. Anyway, I was also thrilled when my vet decided not to charge me for the recheck.

Now I'm off to the grocery store, I guess. It's getting too late for take out (Morro Bay rolls up the sidewalks at 8:30) and there's really nothing much in the cupboards. This time I hope I get all the items I desire. You'd think that wouldn't be too difficult, but last time I went shopping, I bought a peach pie only to discover it had turned to apple before I got it home.

Wish me luck...

and today...

And today my stupid orange cat is vet bound (again) after missing just one day of meds. Really makes me wish I'd found that volcano yesterday...

today i...

Today I attended a meeting of my city's council. It made me want to throw myself in a volcano.

41 years ago today

My folks got hitched 41 years ago today. Or yesterday, by the time you're reading this, since I didn't actually start this tribute until nearly midnight... In any event, I was thrilled when I came across this photo of the young newlyweds. The stamp on the back says this shot was taken in September 1966, so they'd only been man and wife for a few months. Even without the date, you can tell they're newlyweds from the smile on my dad's face. That's the grin of a guy who's got God's okay to get laid on a regular basis.

I especially love that the VW bug is in the picture. If it's the bug I've heard so much about, it was Dad's other true love. If this car could talk, it would probly tell you about the time it once rolled into the river when knocked out of gear during a romantic rendezvous. If it could predict the future, it would cringe to know that it would soon be totaled when Mom crashed it into a pole in a parking lot (leaving it there and attempting to work her shift with a concussion...). Though I've never known the bug to have a nickname, I'd guess my folks gave it one. Based on their track record (Brownie, Greenie, and Big Red), I'd have to say that perhaps they called the bug Blackie?

I calculated that my parents have now been married to each other for 65% of their lives and, of course, 115% of mine. They celebrated this anniversary early and often, in their own quiet way. They saw an extra movie, had dinner out, spent some time in the garden (Dad planted all the new plants for Mom in the rain), and, best of all, they finally got a Tivo. They have no idea how much they'll love it because it isn't set up yet, but soon they won't know how they got along without it.

My parents are like my Tivo. I can't imagine a world without them. They provide me with information and entertainment, specially tailored to my personal preferences. They phone in every couple of days, keeping track of what's important to me. They're reliable, if a bit old fashioned (I have an old school Tivo, no dual tuner for me...), and when they are on the fritz, life totally sucks. They are my family's living hard drive - storing and sharing our family history, deleting the bad stuff to make room for the good.

I've learned a lot from my folks over the years. I'd like to think I'm applying their wisdom to my own happy marriage, but I know in my heart that all the credit for that goes to my uberpatient husband. I am spoiled and selfish and easily provoked. He coddles me and humors me and always lets me win. Still, my parents are the yardstick by which I measure my marital success.

Anyway, I'm proud of them. They've taught me that marriage isn't always easy, but it's always worthwhile. Happy anniversary, Mom and Dad.

today i am a man

I've always said it takes a man to catch a man. And by "man" I meant an adult male sea lion, of course. My previous attempts at netting adult males have varied - some spectacular, some pathetic - but all ultimately failed. Today, I have broken my losing streak and proven to myself that I am man enough to catch myself a big boy.

Okay, so Tapia isn't the biggest big boy I've ever seen. He's barely getting his sagittal crest, so he's not much more than five years old. And he probly doesn't weigh much more than 100 kilos (he was too big for our scale, so I can't say for sure), which means he's not much bigger than our average adult female. But still, he has balls (as you can see in this picture) and I took him down.

Now I must admit, I had a lot of help from my crew (three guys, three girls, all new to the sea lion scene). And Tapia himself assisted, by being lethargic and approachable. But he put on quite a show once we had him in the net. It's frightening, boarding back 200 pounds of pissed off muscle. I know, cuz I've done that much before. And I dare say, my girls did way less squealing than I would have. They did suggest perhaps we should let him go, that maybe he was feeling quite healthy after all, but I'd already seen the tell tale signs of domoic acid poisoning - back scratching, butt biting, and, as you can see in his mug shot, the lovely brown slobber. So we kept him.

True to form, I did have one complication. I was unable to free him from the net once I had him safely in the cage. Luckily, we were less than one mile from our triage center so we decided to secure the pole of the net just well enough to make the drive to our facility. It proved interesting, trying to free him from both the cage and the net inside his cramped pen, but that's all part of the fun, right?

The reason I had to catch Tapia myself was that I had already called in a favor from my rescue mentor turned calvary (the same gal who helped me clean up my dock rescue mess earlier this week). I'd asked her to join me on a rescue of a much more pathetic, abscess riddled sea lion pup who'd been sitting on a rock surrounded by ocean. His wounds were so obvious and painful, I just couldn't afford to miss so I begged my ringer to do my dirty work. She, of course, made his rescue look easy. The hardest parts were finding him (my first scout failed to see him and nearly sent me home) and getting him up the steep trail.

I'm happy to report that Popet is now pleasantly zonked out (on butorphanol and lorazepam), though I'm not entirely convinced he'll be alive in the morning. I would share pictures, but seriously, they're gruesome. My alarm is set to wake me obscenely early so I can give him more butorphanol at dawn. So I'm off, then, to sleep. My first night as a man.

patience is not my virtue

Early this morning I was called out to check on a sea lion in my neighborhood. The little yearling was on the skinny side of normal, extremely approachable, and reportedly lethargic. Before I arrived on the scene, however, he had decided to hitch a ride on a passing Harbor Patrol boat. Joy riding is decidedly not normal behavior, so he had me intrigued. When I found him, he'd recently ditched the boat and hauled out on a rather generous dock below a pier.

Now I've only had one dock rescue in my five year career. The opportunity just doesn't come along that often and, whenever it does, I happily extend the net to a more experienced volunteer. I've participated in a handful of others, though, so I know how it's done. It's all about patience, a slow approach, a swift swing of the net. Also, I learned the hard way, it's important to keep them on the dock once you have them in the net. So when my seasoned seal friend (basically my rescue mentor) didn't answer her cell right away, I thought, what the heck. It's worth a try. Though I was stealthy and brave, I really should have waited until he was more settled. He let me get within striking range, but my aim was awful. As you can see here (the wet spot on the empty dock), I got the body but not the head. In other words, I whiffed.

Conveniently, my sea lion soon came up on another, much less accessible dock. In the meanwhile, my rescue mentor had called back and she agreed to come down and check out the situation. She also brought her neighbor, we call him Good Neighbor Tim. Tim is much less experienced (in fact, before today he'd never really thrown the net), but by virtue of his height we decided he should be the one to descend the scary ladder and climb over the fence to access the dock. As you can see, Good Neighbor Tim was able to do what I could not. (Although I must say he too whiffed on his first try. He was given a second chance when the sea lion returned to reclaim his dock. Further evidence he was a good pick up...)

Here's a shot of Brindell, named for Good Neighbor Tim's granny, back at the site after a bit of breakfast. At 18.4 kg (that's 40.5 pounds, America) he was a handful to restrain. At least then I felt like I'd had a hand in helping him, though I know all the credit goes to my calvary. In any case, Brindell brightened what would have otherwise been an ordinary day.

cause for celebration

Today I had a moment of panic when I saw that my favorite harbor seal, Melissa, was no longer listed among the patients at the Marine Mammal Center. Suddenly dropping off the list without being included on a release notice is a very, very bad thing. Cursing myself for getting so attached to the first harbor seal of the season (a tough seal to be, just ask last year's Ree Ree, who, funny enough, came from the same naked beach, though not as early as February...), I typed up a brief but brave email to the professionals inquiring about her whereabouts. I was delighted to learn she actually had been released just this past Saturday, along with her boyfriend, Nigel.

While I was on the web confusing myself about Melissa's outcome, I was also on the phone learning that today my sister was finally offered a full time gig at her preferred place of employment, the animal ER. Working there exclusively will require some creative child care arrangements, but will ultimately reduce her days spent at work each month from 23 to 12. Beside the obvious financial benefits, Dr. Suz's skills and confidence will grow considerably as she's exposed to more and more bizarre cases. Not only will she become the kick ass doctor she has the potential to be (and, in many ways, already is), but her stories should prove ever more interesting as she unloads them on me via Verizon on her drive home. Of course, now that drive home will be happening at 2 am, so it may be that my voicemail gets to enjoy them first, but I don't mind sharing.

On the home front, today was sweltering hot and Erik decided to add a coat of water sealant to our deck. This was the perfect excuse to do what I probly would've done anyway - sit around sipping margaritas and not doing laundry. Happily, OC decided to join me, avoiding sticky foot and his evil brother, Blackers (whose newest disparaging nickname is Teste, as in Testosterone...). The black one, normally the home body, seemed to make a point of walking across the wet deck and going in and out of the cat window sans stairs.

As far as parasites go, I have found no definitive evidence that I've been infected. Of course I am still following an aggressive treatment protocol just in case. I did, however, find the cutest louse on a web site that sells giant microbes. I have not yet convinced myself that I can't live without him, but he's definitely on my list of things I should own someday. In fact, I suppose I could sell giant microbes at Big Y Small, as they are both big and small at the same time. Of course, if Texas is anywhere near as hot as today was, I can't imagine getting anything done at all.

feeling lousy

I'm feeling lousy. Literally. I keep scratching at the nape of my neck and behind my ears because I'm told that's where the lice go. I have no way of knowing if my itches are phantom or genuine. All I know is I've been exposed.

I thought this entry, this long overdue catch up entry, would be all about my fabulous experiences on the boat release last Friday. Instead all I can think about is the possibility that pesky parasites might be breeding in my hair. For once I am grateful for my mother's pathetic stringy locks. It is infinitely easier to work a tiny comb through my puny ponytail than it is for my nieces to police their luxurious manes. And though I know they didn't mean to expose me to this menace, I can't help but feel I've been wronged. The child-free should never have to buy a Nix kit or a Rid comb. Seriously, the directions on the comb suggest you should distract your child with a book or a video game. Even the manufacturers cannot imagine that a bona fide adult might be in need of their product.

The sad thing? I know if I share my possible parasites with Erik, it will be the end of his long hair. He's been threatening to get a haircut for months now. In fact, he even got a trim recently. Funny enough, it was from a barber who also had (and hated) his own long hair. They commiserated about the power of girlfriends during Erik's brief visit...

Although I am obsessed with my suspected scalp squatters, I must say my visit to the Farallon Islands remains the most significant aspect of my recent travels. I was delighted in so many ways. For one, I didn't puke. I didn't even lose it when someone else hurled over the side of the boat only to have the boat pitch, forcing his vomit to land on deck, very near my feet.

I was also thrilled to learn that I did know a few of the animals on the boat. I had been bummed when all my babies were released on earlier trips and then I saw that Woodco, my most recent fur seal, was on her way back to freedom. (Monahan, by the way, is also feeling much better. Hard to believe after the condition she'd been in. Sadly, the two fur seals that came from our area the day after Woodco and Monahan came in did not make it. Just goes to show how crucial early care is in the battle against domoic acid toxicity...) In addition to Woodco, Spanokopita, the only sea lion on the trip, had also earned his wings.

And, perhaps best of all, I got to witness the re-release of Astro, the oh-so-rare steller sea lion. Astro had been released in Santa Cruz just a couple days before, after spending 10 of his 11 months of life at the Center. His habituation to humans proved troublesome, however, as he shied from the ocean and chased researchers around. We hoped that dragging him out 34 miles to sea would remind him he was a marine mammal, not a puppy. Still, leaving him there to face the world alone seemed cruel... especially when he refused to leave his carrier.

Sadly, my photos of the event are sorely lacking. I knew my digital camera was woefully slow but even when my subjects were still, the ocean was not. I have plenty of pictures of anonymous waves, but very few of seals. Luckily, there were actual professionals on the boat and you can see their pictures here and there. I especially dig the photo from the Chronicle of Astro's eye peeking out of his carrier. He did that a bunch (in between naps), though I never caught the moment myself. Here's a shot of the North Island, and Astro's new friends. There's no beach on this island (or any of the Farallones, really), just this rocky approach. What I found most amazing (beside the simple fact the seals can get up on the islands at all) is how high they'll go. I got an almost great shot of a half a sea lion who had made it to the island's peak.

Unfortunately, I found that I, too, could nap on the boat. I have long bragged that I can sleep through anything. On the way out I was avoiding nausea. On the way back, I escaped boredom (we were 3 hours out to sea and once the seals were gone there was little else to do...). I'm sure my rest was mostly chemically induced (I had three forms of antiemitics working for me and drowsiness was a side effect of two...), so I can't take all the credit. Still, I am proud. And I am permanently contorted as the left side of my neck will not stop cursing me for using a fish sink as a pillow.

Even so, a pain in the neck and a possible parasite load are small prices to pay for a once in a lifetime experience. Notice I say once in a lifetime. Not because I couldn't go again, just because I probly won't.

Besides, it seems I may never again go anywhere for any length of time for my absence once again upset my orange cat's fragile fecal balance. Although my hubby saw him at least once a day while I was gone (he lured him with Fancy Feast, aka Kitty Crack...), apparently it was not enough to keep him hydrated on the inside. When I finally laid eyes on my poor OC, he was looking haggard and uncomfortable. Again I was fortunate to get a late afternoon vet appointment and even more fortunate that my vet was willing to sedate him for a proper roto-rooting. It meant he had to spend the night (in fact, I barely got him back before close of business the next day) but it was what he needed. I'm bummed I didn't get him back all fresh from sedation as I really did enjoy the affectionate side effects of his pain meds the last time. Really, though, I'm happy he's here at all. As suspected, my sister (his medical benefactor) has begun hinting that I should get a job to pay for his treatments. And Erik (my very supportive husband) has begun suggesting we look for a suitable alternative home for him. When I was unresponsive, fighting off tears, he assumed my cell phone dropped his call... Some conversations are best left unfinished. Honestly, if I did think there was an ideal home for a medically needy small animal killing machine, I might consider it. He's clearly second in command, literally the red headed step child. Still, he's my cat.

As if he knew I'd need a distraction (and a pseudo apology), I came home to discover that on his own way home Erik had picked up roses at the farmer's market (lots of them, actually). He later got us take out from the Mexican place down the street and he didn't complain as I monopolized the remote control to get caught up on my soap opera. A few margaritas later, I actually forgot to itch my head (though the mountain of lice laundry reminded me of my possible predicament...). Maybe there is hope for me yet.